We could have sailed up the coast to Volos. We could have skimmed to Volos -or almost anywhere else, for that matter. Myshtigo wanted to hike from Lamia, though, to hike and enjoy the refreshment of legend and alien scenery. This is why we left the Skimmers at Lamia. This is why we hiked to Volos.
This is why we encountered legend.
I bade Jason goodbye in Athens. He was sailing up the coast. Wise.
Phil had insisted on enduring the hike, rather than skimming ahead and meeting us up further along the line. Good thing, too, maybe, in a way, sort of…
The road to Volos wanders through the thick and the sparse in the way of vegetation. It passes huge boulders, occasional clusters of shacks, fields of poppies; it crosses small streams, winds about hills, sometimes crosses over hills, widens and narrows without apparent cause.
It was still early morning. The sky was somehow a blue mirror, because the sunlight seemed to be coming from everywhere. In places of shade some moisture still clung to the grasses and the lower leaves of the trees.
It was in an interesting glade along the road to Volos that I met a half-namesake.
The place had once been a shrine of some sort, back in the Real Old Days. I came to it quite often in my youth because I liked the quality of-I guess you'd call it "peace"-that it contained. Sometimes I'd meet the half-people or the no-people there, or dream good dreams, or find old pottery or the heads of statues, or things like that, which I could sell down in Lamia or in Athens.
There is no trail that leads to it. You just have to know where it is. I wouldn't have taken them there, except for the fact that Phil was along and I knew that he liked anything which smacks of an adytum, a sequestered significance, a sliding-panel view onto dim things past, etcetera.
About half a mile off the road, through a small forest, self-content in its disarray of green and shade and its haphazard heaps of stone, you suddenly go downhill, find the way blocked by a thick thicket, push on through, then discover a blank wall of rock. If you crouch, keep close to that wall, and bear to the right, you then come upon a glade where it is often well to pause before proceeding further.
There is a short, sharp drop, and down below is an egg-shaped clearing, about fifty meters long, twenty across, and the small end of the egg butting into a bitten-out place in the rock; there is a shallow cave at the extreme end, usually empty. A few half-sunken, almost square stones stand about in a seemingly random way. Wild grapevines grow around the perimeter of the place, and in the center is an enormous and ancient tree whose branches act as an umbrella over almost the entire area, keeping it dusky throughout the day. Because of this, it is hard to see into the place, even from the glade.
But we could see a satyr in the middle, picking his nose.
I saw George's hand go to the mercy-gun he carried. I caught his shoulder, his eyes, shook my head. He shrugged, and nodded, dropping his hand.
I withdrew from my belt the shepherd's pipes I had asked Jason to give me. I motioned to the others to crouch and remain where they were. I moved a few steps further ahead and raised the syrinx to my lips.
My first notes were quite tentative. It had been too long since I'd played the pipes.
His ears pricked forward and he looked all about him. He made rapid moves in three different directions-like a startled squirrel, uncertain as to which tree to make for.
Then he stood there quivering as I caught up an old tune and nailed it to the air.
I kept playing, remembering, remembering the pipes, the tunes, and the bitter, the sweet, and the drunken things I've really always known. It all came back to me as I stood there playing for the little guy in the shaggy leggings: the fingering and the control of the air, the little runs, the thorns of sound, the things only the pipes can really say. I can't play in the cities, but suddenly I was me again, and I saw faces in the leaves and I heard the sound of hooves.
I moved forward.
Like in a dream, I noticed I was standing with my back against the tree, and they were all about me. They shifted from hoof to hoof, never staying still, and I played for them as I had so often before, years ago, not knowing whether they were really the same ones who'd heard me then-or caring, actually. They cavorted about me. They laughed through white, white teeth and their eyes danced, and they circled, jabbing at the air with their horns, kicking their goat legs high off the ground, bending far forward, springing into the air, stamping the earth.
I stopped, and lowered the pipes.
It was not an human intelligence that regarded me from those wild, dark eyes, as they all froze into statues, just standing there, staring at me.
I raised the pipes once more, slowly. This time I played the last song I'd ever made. I remembered it so well. It was a dirge-like thing I had played on the night I'd decided Karaghiosis should die.
I had seen the fallacy of Return. They would not come back, would never come back. The Earth would die. I had gone down into the Gardens and played this one last tune I'd learned from the wind and maybe even the stars. The next day, Karaghiosis' big blazeboat had broken up in the bay at Piraeus.
They seated themselves on the grass. Occasionally, one would dab at his eye with an elaborate gesture. They were all about me, listening.
How long I played, I do not know. When I had finished, I lowered the pipes and sat there. After a time, one of them reached out and touched the pipes and drew his hand back quickly. He looked up at me.
"Go," I said, but they did not seem to understand.
So I raised the syrinx and played the last few bars over again.
The Earth is dying, dying. Soon it will be dead… Go home, the party's over. It's late, it's late, so late…
The biggest one shook his head.
Go away, go away, go away now. Appreciate the silence. After life's most ridiculous gambit, appreciate the silence. What did the gods hope to gain, to gain? Nothing. 'Twas all but a game. Go away, go away, go away now. It's late, it's late, so late…
They still sat there, so I stood up and clapped my hands, yelled "Go!" and walked away quickly.
I gathered my companions and headed back for the road.
It is about sixty-five kilometers from Lamia to Volos, including the detour around the Hot Spot. We covered maybe a fifth of that distance on the first day. That evening, we pitched our camp in a clearing off to the side of the road, and Diane came up beside me and said, "Well?"
"'Well' what?"
"I just called Athens. Blank. The Radpol is silent. I want your decision now."
"You are very determined. Why can't we wait some more?"
"We've waited too long as it is. Supposing he decides to end the tour ahead of schedule?-This countryside is perfect. So many accidents could come so easily here… You know what the Radpol will say-the same as before-and it will signify the same as before: Kill."
"My answer is also the same as before: No."
She blinked rapidly, lowered her head.
"Please reconsider."
"No."
"Then do this much," she said. "Forget it. The whole thing. Wash your hands of the affair. Take Lorel up on his offer and get us a new guide. You can skim out of here in the morning."
"No."
"Are you really serious, then-about protecting Myshtigo?"
"Yes."
"I don't want you hurt, or worse."
"I'm not particularly fond of the idea myself. So you can save us both a lot of trouble by calling it off."
"I can't do that."
"Dos Santos does as you tell him."
"The problem is not an administrative one!-Damn it! I wish I'd never met you!"
"I'm sorry."
"The Earth is at stake and you're on the wrong side."
"I think you are."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I can't convince you, so I'll just have to stop you."
"You couldn't turn in the Secretary of the Radpol and his consort without evidence. We're too ticklish politically "
"I know that."
"So you couldn't hurt Don, and I don't believe you'd hurt me."
"You're right."
"That leaves Hasan."
"Right again."
"And Hasan is-Hasan. What will you do?"
"Why don't you give him his walking papers right now and save me some trouble?"
"I won't do that."
"I didn't think you would."
She looked up again. Her eyes were moist, but her face and voice were unchanged.
"If it should turn out that you were right and we were wrong," she said, "I am sorry."
"Me too," I said. "Very, very."
That night I dozed within knifing distance of Myshtigo, but nothing happened or tried to. The following morning was uneventful, as was most of the afternoon.
"Myshtigo," I said, as soon as we paused for purposes of photographing a hillside, "why don't you go home? Go back to Taler? Go anywhere? Walk away from it? Write some other book? The further we get from civilization, the less is my power to protect you."
"You gave me an automatic, remember?" he said.
He made a shooting motion with his right hand.
"All right-just thought I'd give it another try."
"That's a goat standing on the lower limb of that tree, isn't it?"
"Yeah; they like to eat those little green shoots that come up off the branches."
"I want a picture of that too. Olive tree, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Good. I wanted to know what to call the picture. 'Goat eating green shoots in olive tree,'" he dictated; "that will be the caption."
"Great. Shoot while you have the chance."
If only he weren't so uncommunicative, so alien, so unconcerned about his welfare! I hated him. I couldn't understand him. He wouldn't speak, unless it was to request information or to answer a question. Whenever he did answer questions, he was terse, elusive, insulting, or all three at once. He was smug, conceited, blue, and overbearing. It really made me wonder about the Shtigo-gens' tradition of philosophy, philanthropy and enlightened journalism. I just didn't like him.
But I spoke to Hasan that evening, after having kept an eye (the blue one) on him all day.
He was sitting beside the fire, looking like a sketch by Delacroix. Ellen and Dos Santos sat nearby, drinking coffee, so I dusted off my Arabic and approached.
"Greetings."
"Greetings."
"You did not try to kill him today."
"No."
"Tomorrow, perhaps?"
He shrugged.
"Hasan-look at me."
He did.
"You were hired to kill the blue one."
He shrugged again.
"You needn't deny it, or admit it. I already know. I cannot allow you to do this thing. Give back the money Dos Santos has paid you and go your way. I can get you a Skimmer by morning. It will take you anywhere in the world you wish to go."
"But I am happy here, Karagee."
"You will quickly cease being happy if any harm comes to the blue one."
"I am a bodyguard, Karagee."
"No, Hasan. You are the son of a dyspeptic camel."
"What is 'dyspeptic,' Karagee?"
"I do not know the Arabic word, and you would not know the Greek one. Wait, I'll find another insult.-You are a coward and a carrion-eater and a skulker up alleyways, because you are half jackal and half ape."
"This may be true, Karagee, because my father told me that I was born to be flayed alive and torn into quarters."
"Why was that?"
"I was disrespectful to the Devil."
"Oh?"
"Yes.-Were those devils that you played music for yesterday? They had the horns, the hooves…"
"No, they were not devils. They were the Hot-born children of unfortunate parents who left them to die in the wilderness. They lived, though, because the wilderness is their real home."
"Ah! And I had hoped that they were devils. I still think they were, because one smiled at me as I prayed to them for forgiveness."
"Forgiveness? For what?"
A faraway look came into his eyes.
"My father was a very good and kind and religious man," he said. "He worshipped Malak Tawus, whom the benighted Shi'ites" (he spat here) "call Iblis-or Shaitan, or Satan-and he always paid his respects to Hallaj and the others of the Sandjaq. He was well-known for his piety, his many kindnesses.
"I loved him, but as a boy I had an imp within me. I was an atheist. I did not believe in the Devil. And I was an evil child, for I took me a dead chicken and mounted it on a stick and called it the Peacock Angel, and I mocked it with stones and pulled its feathers. One of the other boys grew frightened and told my father of this. My father flogged me then, in the streets, and he told me I was born to be flayed alive and torn into quarters for my blasphemies. He made me go to Mount Sindjar and pray for forgiveness, and I went there-but the imp was still within me, despite the flogging, and I did not really believe as I prayed.
"Now that I am older the imp has fled, but my father too, is gone-these many years-and I cannot tell him: I am sorry that I mocked the Peacock Angel. As I grow older I feel the need for religion. I hope that the Devil, in his great wisdom and mercy, understands this and forgives me."
"Hasan, it is difficult to insult you properly," I said. "But I warn you-the blue one must not be harmed."
"I am but a humble bodyguard."
"Ha! Yours is the cunning and the venom of the serpent. You are deceitful and treacherous. Vicious, too."
"No, Karagee. Thank you, but it is not true. I take pride in always meeting my commitments. That is all. This is the law I live by. Also, you cannot insult me so that I will challenge you to a duel, permitting you to choose bare hands or daggers or sabers. No. I take no offense."
"Then beware," I told him. "Your first move toward the Vegan will be your last."
"If it is so written, Karagee…"
"And call me Conrad!"
I stalked away, thinking bad thoughts.
The following day, all of us still being alive, we broke camp and pushed on, making about eight kilometers before the next interruption occurred.
"That sounded like a child crying," said Phil.
"You're right."
"Where is it coming from?"
"Off to the left, down there."
We moved through some shrubbery, came upon a dry stream bed, and followed it around a bend.
The baby lay among the rocks, partly wrapped in a dirty blanket. Its face and hands were already burnt red from the sun, so it must have been there much of the day before, also. The bite-marks of many insects were upon its tiny, wet face.
I knelt, adjusting the blanket to cover it better.
Ellen cried a little cry as the blanket fell open in front and she saw the baby.
There was a natural fistula in the child's chest, and something was moving inside.
Red Wig screamed, turned away, began to weep.
"What is it?" asked Myshtigo.
"One of the abandoned," I said. "One of the marked ones."
"How awful!" said Red Wig.
"Its appearance? Or the fact that it was abandoned?" I asked.
"'Both!"
"Give it to me," said Ellen.
"Don't touch it," said George, stooping. "Call for a Skimmer," he ordered. "We have to get it to a hospital right away. I don't have the equipment to operate on it here.-Ellen, help me."
She was at his side then, and they went through his med-kit together.
"You write what I do and pin the note onto a clean blanket-so the doctors in Athens will know."
Dos Santos was phoning Lamia by then, to pick up on one of our Skimmers.
And then Ellen was filling hypos for George and swabbing the cuts and painting the burns with unguents and writing it all down. They shot the baby full of vitamins, antibiotics, general adaptives, and half a dozen other things. I lost count after awhile. They covered its chest with gauze, spraye
d it with something, wrapped it in a clean blanket, and pinned the note to it.
"What a dreadful thing!" said Dos Santos. "Abandoning a deformed child, leaving it to die in such a manner!"
"It's done here all the time," I told him, "especially about the Hot Places. In Greece there has always been a tradition of infanticide. I myself was exposed on a hilltop on the day I was born. Spent the night there, too."
He was lighting a cigarette, but he stopped and stared at me.
"You? Why?"
I laughed, glanced down at my foot.
"Complicated story. I wear a special shoe because this leg is shorter than the other. Also, I understand I was a very hairy baby-and then, my eyes don't match. I suppose I might have gotten by if that had been all, but then I went and got born on Christmas and that sort of clinched things."
"What is wrong with being born on Christmas?"
"The gods, according to local beliefs, deem it a bit presumptuous. For this reason, children born at that time are not of human blood. They are of the brood of destroyers, the creators of havoc, the panickers of man. They are called the kallikanzaroi. Ideally, they look something like those guys with horns and hooves and all, but they don't have to. They could look like me, my parents decided-if they were my parents. So they left me on a hilltop, to be returned."
"What happened then?"
"There was an old Orthodox priest in the village. He heard of it and went to them. He told them that it was a mortal sin to do such a thing, and they had better get the baby back, quick, and have it ready for baptism the following day."
"Ah! And that is how you were saved, and baptised?"
"Well, sort of." I took one of his cigarettes. "They came back with me, all right, but they insisted I wasn't the same baby they'd left there. They'd left a dubious mutant and collected an even more doubtful changeling, they said. Uglier too, they claimed, and they got another Christmas child in return. Their baby had been a satyr, they said, and they figured that perhaps some Hot creature had had a sort of human child and had abandoned it in the same way we do them-making a swap, actually. Nobody had seen me before then, so their story couldn't be checked. The priest would have none of this, though, and he told them they were stuck with me. But they were very kind, once they were reconciled to the fact. I grew fairly large fairly young, and I was strong for my age. They liked that."
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