“Later on, they started to discover thought-shape makers in other places too. That was when they began to understand how fortunate they had been; they found that even in places where physical deviations don’t count for much people who have think-together are usually persecuted.
“For a long time nothing could be done to help the same kind of people in other places—though some tried to sail to Zealand in canoes, and sometimes they got there—but later, when we had machines again, we were able to fetch some of them to safety. Now we try to do that whenever we make contact, but we have never before made contact at anything like this distance. It is still a strain for me to reach you. It will get easier, but I shall have to stop now. Look after the little girl. She is unique and tremendously important. Protect her at all costs.”
The thought patterns faded away, leaving nothing for a moment. Then Petra came in. Whatever she may have failed to make of the rest, she had caught the last part all right. “That’s me,” she proclaimed? with satisfaction and totally unnecessary vigor.
We rocked, and recovered.
“Beware, odious smug child. We haven’t met Hairy Jack yet,” Rosalind told her, with subduing effect. “Michael,” she added, “did all that reach you, too?”
“Yes,” Michael responded with a touch of reserve. “Condescending, I thought. Sounded as if she were lecturing to children. Still coming from a devil of a long way away, too. I don’t see how they can come fast enough to be any help at all. We shall be starting after you in a few minutes now.”
The greathorses clumped steadily on. The landscape was disturbing and alarming to one brought up in respect for the property of forms. Certainly, few things were as fantastic as the growths that Uncle Axel had told of in the South; on the other hand, practically nothing was comfortably familiar, or even orthodox. There was so much confusion that it did not seem to matter any more whether a particular tree was an aberrate or just a miscegenate, but it was a relief to get away from trees and out into open country for a bit, though even there the bushes weren’t homogeneal or identifiable, and the grass was pretty queer, too.
We stopped only once for food and drink, and for no more than half an hour before we were on our way again. Two hours or so later, after several more stretches of woodlands, we reached a medium-sized river. On our side the level ground descended in a sharp, steep bank to the water; on the other stood a line of low, reddish cliffs.
We turned downstream, keeping along the top of the bank. A quarter of a mile along, at a place marked by a grossly deviational tree shaped like a huge wooden pear, and with all its branches growing in one big tuft at the top, a runnel cut well back into the bank and made a way for the horses to get down. We forded the river obliquely, making for a gap in the opposite cliffs. When we reached it, it turned out to be little more than a cleft, so narrow in some places that the panniers scraped both walls, and we could scarcely squeeze through. There was quite a hundred yards of it before the way widened and began to slope up to normal ground level.
Where the sides diminished to mere banks, seven or eight men stood with bows in their hands. They gaped incredulously at the greathorses, and looked half-inclined to run. Abreast of them, we stopped.
The man in the other pannier scrambled on to the saddle and leaned down to cut the cord on my wrists with a long knife.
“Down you get, boy,” he told me.
Petra and Rosalind were already climbing down from the leading greathorse. As I reached the ground the driver gave a thump and both greathorses moved on with stately ponderousness. Petra clasped my hand nervously, but for the moment all the ragged, unkempt bowmen were still more interested in the horses than in us.
There was nothing immediately alarming about the group. One of the hands which held a bow had six fingers; one man displayed a head like a polished brown egg, without a hair on it, or on his face; another had immensely large feet and hands; but whatever was wrong with the rest was hidden under their rags.
Rosalind and I shared a feeling of relief at not being confronted with the kinds of grotesquerie we had half-expected. Petra, too, was encouraged to find that none of them fulfilled the traditional description of Hairy Jack. Presently, when they had watched the horses out of sight up a track that disappeared among trees, they turned their attention to us. A couple of them told us to come along, the rest remained where they were.
A well-used path led downward through woods for a few hundred yards, and then gave on to a clearing. On the right ran a wall of the reddish cliffs again, not more than forty feet high. They appeared to be the reverse side of the ridge which retained the river, and the whole face was pocked by numerous holes, with ladders, roughly made of branches, leading to the higher openings.
The level ground in front was littered with crude huts and tents. One or two small cooking fires smoked among them. A few tattered men and a rather larger number of slatternly-looking women moved around with no great activity.
We wound our way among hovels and refuse-heaps until we reached the largest of the tents. It appeared to be an old rick-coyer—the loot, presumably, of some raid—fastened over a framework of lashed poles. A figure seated on a stool just inside the entrance looked up as we approached. The sight of his face jolted me with panic for a moment—it was so like my father’s. Then I recognized him—the same “spider-man” I had seen as a captive at Waknuk, seven or eight years before.
The two men who had brought us pushed us forward, in front of him. He looked the three of us over. His eyes traveled up and down Rosalind’s slim straight figure in a way I did not care for—nor she, either. Then he studied me more carefully, and nodded to himself, as if satisfied over something.
“Remember me?” he asked.
“Yes,” I told him.
He shifted his gaze from my face. He let it stray over the conglomeration of hutches and shacks, and then back again to me.
“Not much like Waknuk,” he said.
“Not much,” I agreed.
He paused quite lengthily, in contemplation. Then:
“Know who I am?” he inquired.
“I think so. I think I found out,” I told him.
He raised an eyebrow, questioningly.
“My father had an elder brother,” I said. “He was thought to be normal until he was about three or four years old. Then his certificate was revoked, and he was sent away.”
He nodded slowly.
“But not quite right,” he said. “His mother loved him. His nurse was fond of him, too. So when they came to take him away he was already missing—but they’d hush that up, of course. They’d hush the whole thing up, pretend it never happened.” He paused again, reflectively. Presently he added, “The eldest son. The heir. Waknuk should be mine. It would be, except for this.” He stretched out his long arm, and regarded it for a moment. Then he dropped it and looked at me again.
“Do you know what the length of a man’s arm should be?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Nor do I. But somebody in Rigo does, some expert on the true image. So, no Waknuk, and I must live like a savage among savages. Are you the eldest son?”
“The only son,” I told him. “There was a younger one, but—”
“No certificate, eh?”
I nodded.
“So you, too, have lost Waknuk!”
That aspect of things had never troubled me. I do not think I had ever had any real expectation of inheriting Waknuk. There had always been the sense of insecurity, the expectation, almost the certainty, that one day I should be discovered. I had lived too long with that expectation to feel the resentment that embittered him. Now that it was resolved, I was glad to be safely away, and I told him so. It did not please him. He looked at me thoughtfully.
“You’ve not the guts to fight for what’s yours by right?” he suggested.
“If it’s yours by right, it can’t be mine by right,” I pointed out. “But my meaning was that I’ve had more than enough of living in hiding.”
“Maybe,” I told him. “But you can be your own selves. You don’t have to live a pretense. You don’t have to watch yourselves every moment, and think twice whenever you open your mouths.”
He nodded slowly.
“We heard about you. We have our ways,” he said. “What I don’t understand is why they are after you in such strength.”
“We think,” I explained, “that we worry them more than the usual deviants because they’ve no way of identifying us. I fancy they must be suspecting that there are a lot more of us that they haven’t discovered, and they want to get hold of us to make us tell.”
“An even more than usually good reason for not being caught,” he said.
I was aware that Michael had come in and that Rosalind was answering him, but I could not attend to two conversations at once, so I left that to her.
“So they are coming right into the Fringes after you? Hew many of them?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said, considering how to play our hand to the best advantage.
“From what I’ve heard, you should have ways of finding out,” he said.
I wondered how much he did know about us, and whether he knew about Michael, too, but that seemed unlikely. With his eyes a little narrowed, he went on:
“It’ll be better not to fool with us, boy, It’s you they’re after, and you’ve brought trouble this way with you. Why should we care what happens to you? Quite easy to put one of you where they’d find you.”
Petra caught the implication of that, and panicked.
“More than a hundred men,” she said.
He turned a thoughtful eye on her for a moment.
“So there is one of you with them—I rather thought there might be,” he observed, and nodded again. “A hundred men is a great many to send after just you three. Too many . . . I see . . .” He turned back to me. “There will have been rumors lately about trouble working up in the Fringes?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
He grinned.
“So it comes in handy. For the first time they decide that they will take the initiative, and invade us—and pick you up, too, of course. They’ll be following your trail, naturally. How far have they got?”
I consulted Michael, and learned that the main body had still some miles to go before they would join the party that had fired on us and bolted the greathorses. The difficulty then was to find a way of conveying the position intelligently to the man in front of me. He appreciated that, and did not seem greatly perturbed.
“Is your father with them?” he asked.
That was a question which I had been careful not to put to Michael before. I did not put it now. I simply paused for a moment, and then told him “No.” Out of the comer of my eye I noticed Petra about to speak and felt Rosalind pounce on her.
“A pity,” said the spidery man. “It’s quite a time now I’ve been hoping that one day I’d meet your father on equal terms. From what I’ve heard I should have thought he’d be there. Maybe he’s not such a valiant champion of the true image as they say.” He went on looking at me with a steady, penetrating gaze. I could feel Rosalind’s sympathy, her understanding why I had not put the question to Michael, like a handclasp.
Then, quite suddenly, the man dismissed me from his attention and turned to consider Rosalind. She looked back at him. She stood with her straight, confident air, eyeing him levelly and coldly for long seconds. Then, suddenly, to my astonishment, she broke. Her eyes dropped. She flushed. He smiled slightly.
But he was wrong. It was not surrender to the stronger character, the conqueror. It was loathing, a horror which broke her defenses from within. I had a glimpse of him from her mind, hideously exaggerated. The fears she hid so well burst up and she was terrified; not as a woman weakened by a man, but as a child in terror of a monstrosity. Petra, too, caught the involuntary shape, and it shocked her into a scream.
I jumped full at the man, overturning the stool and sending him sprawling. The two men behind us leaped after me, but I got in at least one good blow before they could drag me off.
The spider-man sat up, and rubbed his jaw. He grinned at me, but not with any amusement.
“Does you credit,” he conceded, “but not much more.” He got up on his gangling legs. “Not seen much of the women around here, have you, boy? Take a look at ’em as you go. Maybe you’ll understand a bit more. Besides, this one can have children. I’ve had a fancy for some children a long time now, even if they do happen to take after their father a bit.” He grinned briefly again, and then frowned at us. “Better take it the way it is, boy. Be a sensible fellow. I don’t give second chances.”
He looked from me to the men who were holding me.
“Chuck him out,” he told them. “And if he doesn’t seem to understand that that means stay out, shoot him.”
The two of them jerked me round and marched me off. At the edge of the clearing one of them helped me along a path with his boot.
“Keep on going,” he said.
I got up and turned around, but one of them had an arrow trained on me, He gave a shake of his head to urge me on. So I did what I was told, kept on going—for a few yards, until the trees hid me. Then I doubled back under cover.
Just what they were expecting. But they didn’t shoot me; they just beat me up and slung me back among the undergrowth. I remember flying through the air, but I don’t remember landing . . .
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I was being dragged along. There were hands under my shoulders. Small branches were whipping back and slapping me in the face.
“What—?” I began.
“Sh!” whispered a voice behind me.
“Give me a minute. I’ll be all right,” I whispered back.
The dragging stopped. I lay pulling myself together for a moment, and then rolled over. A woman, a young woman, was sitting back on her heels, looking at me.
The sun was low now, and it was dim under the trees. I could not see her well. There was dark hair hanging down on each side of a sunburnt face, and the glint of dark eyes regarding me earnestly. The bodice of her dress was ragged, a nondescript tawny color, with stains on it. There were no sleeves, but what struck me most was that it bore no cross. I had never before been face to face with a woman who wore no protective cross stitched to her dress. It looked queer, almost indecent. We faced one another for some seconds.
“You don’t know me, David,” she said sadly.
Until then I had not. It was the way she said “David” that suddenly told me.
“Sophie!” I said, “Oh, Sophie!”
She smiled.
“Dear David,” she said. “Have they hurt you badly, David?”
I tried moving my arms and legs. They were stiff and they ached in several places, so did my body and my head. I felt some blood caked on my left cheek, but there seemed to be nothing broken. I started to get up, but she stretched out a hand and put it on my arm.
“No, not yet. Wait a little, till it’s dark.” She went on looking at me. “I saw them bring you in. You and the little girl, and the other girl. Who is she, David?”
That brought me fully round, with a jolt. Frantically I sought for Rosalind and Petra, and could not reach them, Michael felt my panic and came in steadyingly. Relieved, too.
“Thank goodness for that. We’ve been worried stiff about you. Take it easy. They’re all right, both of them tired out and exhausted; they’ve fallen asleep,”
“Is Rosalind—?”
“She’s all right, I tell you. What’s been happening to you?” I told him. The whole exchange only took a few seconds, but long enough for Sophie to be regarding me curiously,
“Who is she David?” she repeated.
I explained that Rosalind was my cousin. She watched me as I spoke, and then nodded slowly.
“He wants her, doesn’t he?” she asked.
“That’s what he said,” I admitted, grimly,
&nb
sp; “She could give him babies?” she persisted.
“What are you trying to do to me?” I asked her.
“So, you’re in love with her?” she went on.
A word again . . . When the minds have learned to mingle, when no thought is wholly one’s own, and each has taken too much of the other ever to be entirely himself alone; when one has reached the beginning of seeing with a single eye, loving with a single heart, enjoying with a single joy; when there can be moments of identity and nothing is separate save bodies that long for one another . . . When there is that, where is the word? There is only the inadequacy of the word that exists.
“We love one another,” I said.
Sophie nodded. She picked up a few twigs, and watched her brown fingers break them. She said:
“He’s gone away—where the fighting is. She’s safe just now.”
“She’s asleep,” I told her. “They’re both asleep.”
Her eyes came back to mine, puzzled.
“How do you know?”
I told her briefly, as simply as I could. She went on breaking twigs as she listened. Then she nodded.
“I remember. My mother said there was something . . . something about the way you sometimes seemed to understand her before she spoke. Was that it?”
“I think so. I think our mother had a little of it, without knowing she had it,” I said.
“It must be a very wonderful thing to have,” she said, half wistfully. “Like more eyes, inside you.”
“Something like,” I admitted. “It’s difficult to explain. But it isn’t all wonderful. It can hurt a lot sometimes.”
“To be any kind of deviant is to be hurt—always,” she said. She continued to sit back on her heels, looking at her hands in her lap, seeing nothing.
A Treasury of Great Science Fiction 1 Page 17