Gods of Green Mountain

by V. C. Andrews®

  “That woman just wasted one half hour of my valuable time with silly talk of colors—when she knew all along just which gown she would wear!”

  “I know just how you feel, sire. My wife often plays the same sort of games with me.”

  Ras-Far looked at his minister with a sudden feeling of kinship—then he laughed. Of necessity, Gar-Rab was forced to laugh too. “There is one more thing, sire. Since the princess will not attend any ball but the one honoring her birthday, her majesty thought having a ball in the palace would force the princess to be more sociable. It was I, sire, who suggested that we make this a ball to introduce the bakaret’s son to our nobility. The princess cannot very well ignore a ball held in her own home, can she, sire?”

  “By the gods! It would be of some small consideration if you would inform me of your plans! The princess made arrangements for us to do something together this evening—I can’t recall what. You know of course, my daughter is going to be furious when she learns of her mother’s and your contrived plans.” Ras-Far stood up and began to pace his office, arms behind his back. “Nevertheless, it is a good idea. Clever of you, Gar-Rab, for we do need to stretch out our hands to those of Lower Dorraine, and make a greater effort to be friendlier.” The king looked at his minister with a great deal more respect.

  Gar-Rab smiled widely in appreciation for winning the king’s approval, which was not often his. This gave him the determination to speak further, and very honestly. “I am sure, sire, that your noble powers of persuasion will convince the princess of the importance of this particular ball.” Hesitating noticeably, Gar-Rab hurried on while he had the confidence, though he still had the tact to speak cautiously. “I do hope the Princess Sharita will be pleasant to this young son of “Ron Ka, for he has expressed a special desire to meet her.”

  Ras-Far darkly scowled, his thick red brows meeting. “Are you implying, Minister Gar-Rab, that my daughter is not always pleasant? Are you presuming to inform me that my daughter doesn’t have social tact?”

  “Oh, no, your majesty! I would not dare to infer, or presume to criticize her conduct. I am merely saying that sometimes the princess can be distant, high-handed, perhaps too cool and detached.” With this, the wary minister quickly backed toward the door as the king opened his mouth to speak angry, hot words. Temper that was expertly smothered. The office door closed quietly behind Gar-Rab.

  Distant indeed! High-handed! A bit too cool and detached! His daughter could be anything she wanted to be! She was a princess. If she was arrogant, that was her right! Dislike for Gar-Rab came again as Ras-Far fell in a chair and sprawled out his long legs. Then, thinking in greater consideration and with more objectivity, Ras-Far knew Gar-Rab was correct in his opinion of Sharita’s behavior. She was his only child, the third of three daughters, the first two having died in an accident. And he had passed a law that only three children were allowed a married couple. He would never have a son. The most he could hope for now was a grandson and a son-in-law he could respect and like as a son. It was time Sharita took a husband.

  Ras-Far strode through the shimmering long halls, passing sentinels in blue-and-violet uniforms, trimmed with gold. When he reached his daughter’s apartment, situated on the loftiest, terraced pinnacle of the crystal palace, the first sun was almost directly overhead, while the second sun was only dawning. Sunbeams from the double suns refracted through the transparent dome high above, scattering thousands of miniature rainbows throughout the avenues and gardens below. Colored lights that turned the most ordinary of objects into visual treats of rare beauty.

  But there was no beauty man-made that could compare to that of his daughter as she sat on a low velvet cushion, idly strumming a musical instrument, with a small pet bird perched on her shoulder. Her perfect beauty caught at his heart, as always, twanging it with a chord of bittersweet sadness, as if sounding a warning that loveliness such as hers was too transient to hold for long.

  Her hair was waist length of a color not silver or gold, but something in between, and shadowed in the depths with amber-rose. She turned his way as he neared, so the dome-scattered rainbows caught in her hair, and etched the creamy perfection of her exquisite face. She shone on him such a devastating smile of sweetness that again, his chord of sadness twanged, already aching for her loss.

  “Good light to you, Father,” she called out gaily, in a voice like music winging. “I was hoping you would find time to come and visit me today.” Her large violet-blue eyes, dark and luxuriantly fringed with long lashes lifted to his. “Why is it you always look at me in such a sad way?” Gracefully she rose to her feet, laying aside the musical instrument, and came to kiss his cheek.

  “And why should I look at you sadly, my all-seeing, all-knowing, daughter?”

  “You fear I may suddenly vaporize and disappear. I see that suspicion in your eyes. My two sisters were killed because they flitted around so much. I intend to keep myself safe, so always you can climb the stairs to my tower and find me here waiting.” She kissed him again, as if to reassure him of this. “Father, you are stuck with me, now and forever!” She tilted her head sideways, in a manner Ras-Far found charming, and eyed him quizzically.

  “Now and forever?” he said mockingly light. “You say that to me, when already this morning, seven young men have pleaded for you in marriage.”

  “And what answers did you give for me?” she teased, knowing very well what answers he would give.

  “I give them all the standard reply: that their proposals will be given due consideration.”

  She laughed, then sobered. “But Father, your tact is without consideration. You know what I will decide, and it is not fair for you to keep them hoping.”

  He said it, though he wished longingly that he didn’t have to: “Someday soon, Sharita, whether you believe it or not, you will of necessity have to say yes to one of them.”

  “Father, someday I will say yes. Someday when I find a very special someone to love. And it will be only love that I respond to, not political convenience. I will not have you use me as a tool.” There was a warning in her voice, a show of strong character that wouldn’t easily bend from outside pressure, even his. Then she smiled on him with warmth and chattered on of the activities and details that filled her day. And he was charmed, as always, for she could make the most mundane things seem exciting, whereas from lips other than hers, he would be bored. But he hadn’t come just to be entertained, so he drew her with him to a padded bench that was near the balcony balustrade, and fixed his eyes on the city far below. He told her of the governor and his son, and the purpose of their trip. He spoke matter-of-factly, as if there was no possible way in which she could dodge the issue.

  Sharita pulled away from him, to the far end of the bench, her beautiful eyes wide with shocked amazement. “Is not this bakaret the one named Ron Ka, from the province of Rai-Caitin? Are they not the very ones who violate our national laws for the protection of our animals? Are they not the ones who set the puhlets loose on the wildlands, and then hunt them for sport? Are they not the very same people who eat the puhlets, and wear their furs and hides for clothing, like we used to do in the old days? Of all of the provinces, they are the worst offenders! Do you think I don’t keep up on these things? The inhabitants of Rai-Caitin break every law, they defy your authority at every opportunity, as if deliberately seeking to undermine our society!”

  She glared at him, her customarily soft eyes gone hard and defiant. “And now you come to me and demand that I attend a ball given in their honor! I can guess their purpose—they want a look at me, so I can be examined and considered for marriage to a barbarian! Why, it is an insult to even have them housed in our palace!” Sharita jumped to her feet, and walked far from her father, her agitation leaving her pale and trembling.

  Ras-Far leaned on the balcony railing, drumming his fingertips. “Daughter, you are being overly dramatic,” he said quietly, well accustomed to her sudden flashes of simmering temper. She looked as delicate as a s
lender flower bending in a summer breeze, but she was underneath as tough as any burran tree. “Keep in mind, this is only a presentation ball; he will be introduced to you, and you will be introduced to him. Marriage has not been mentioned.”

  “There is never a mention of marriage until the official proposal,” she flared hotly.

  “If a marriage offer is presented, it will be put aside with all the others, to await my due consideration.” Ras-Far got up and walked to her side and spoke in his most persuading tones, and he was noted for his oratory. “Your appearance at this ball is required, Sharita, only to establish a friendly and cooperative atmosphere. Consider the results if you insult Ron Ka’s son by not showing up at the ball. Don’t you realize we must establish some affable ground on which to build a better mutual understanding?”

  “Is it your habit now, Father, to appease criminals?” she said with scorn, looking him directly in the eyes. “Is it now going to be your custom to use your daughter as a lure to enmesh your political enemies? They won’t like anything about me. So you give me too much credit. You think I am exquisitely beautiful because you love me. They will think I am strange-looking, pale and weak, with odd coloring. Upper Dorrainians admire me, yes, because they recall my great-grandfather, and to them he was the epitome of everything beautiful and noble, but the Lowers have never had the same respect for our Founder, you know that. I am ashamed of you, and your conniving schemes, Father.”

  As usual, Sharita had aimed her arrows straight and true. Her words wounded Ras-Far’s conscience with guilt. He did intend to use the power of her beauty, perhaps only subconsciously, but the thought had been there nevertheless. And how ridiculous that she could think anyone alive could fail to find her less than perfection! Every other maneuver had failed to pacify the flaunting opposition into at least a compromise. He had thought to delay an open confrontation with anticipations long on marriage between the Upper and Lower Dorraines, but short on fulfillment. Could he be that desperate?

  “Sharita, I am ashamed to admit your accusations are true,” he said in a sad way. “I must be desperate indeed to consider using my only daughter as a pawn, in hopes of achieving harmony. So, have it your way. Don’t go to the ball. I will struggle to find some other way to please Ron Ka. For one thing, I could introduce him to your cousin, Lor-Ann. Next to you, she is the prettiest girl in our lands, and very charming, and wealthy, and her father is a nobleman.”

  “But Lor-Ann is a silly, lightweight, shallow fool,” Sharita objected. “She is very pretty, yes, and charming too—as long as she talks of the weather, of clothes, and the games she likes to play. But give her a subject with any depth and she will stare blankly and giggle. But of course, most men like that type of woman; it boosts their male egos to outthink a mere female. And a man who would want someone like Lor-Ann would curl my toes into the ground!”

  Ras-Far half-smiled but quickly he saddened his expression. “But what am I to do then, Sharita? Every other method of reconciliation has been tried with Lower Dorraine and proven fruitless. They will not sit down and reason with us. Our disciplinary actions have brought about even stronger rebellion. We can’t allow civil disobedience to our laws…yet, it seems to me, leniency is the sole remaining path to follow. It very well could lead to an understanding, a willingness on their part to admit we have tried, even if we haven’t succeeded.”

  “In my opinion, this leniency you speak of will be interpreted as weakness,” said Sharita shrewdly. “And if there is one thing I know about those people down there, they have no respect at all for weakness. Give in to them one more time, and Ron Ka will be sitting on your throne!”

  Ras-Far sighed, turning away to stride to a distant balustrade. The city of Far-Awndra spread below him, a glistening bright jewel in the suns. The rounded domes and layered spirals and high-rise buildings glowed with a soft luster. The lush green and violet lawns were backgrounds for mazes of intricate, intertwining flower beds and meandering trails for those who liked to stroll in the moonlight. The burran trees, and all the other varieties developed from them, grew straight and strong. No longer were there strong winds to buffet them into twisted, gnarled, and pleading pitiful forms. The spiraling highways, and lowways soared through the city, joining eventually with the covered ones that spun out over the countryside, connecting one city to another with transparent tubes. Peace, beauty, and dignity were all here—or was it only a facade? Once they had been drones, burrowing in the earth, and now they were educated and cultured. So far in their climb to the top, they hadn’t experienced the pure bestial animal life. They had skipped over violence, battle, one man against another, blood, rape and plunder.

  Ras-Far walked again on the long terrace, looking now in another direction. Through the transparent dome, he could look now beyond the city, out over the vast wild spaces still untamed and uncivilized. El Sod-a-Por still lived out there. It was still the same arid and barren, sterile rocky land that had beaten down his ancestors, so they fell in exhaustion at the first darkness. No time, and no energy left over from the struggle for daily existence to think of wars, of coveting what your neighbor had. They had shed some blood in sacrificial offerings to the Gods in the beginning, but that had been done in good faith, reluctantly, not in joy, or sensual pleasure in giving pain.

  He stared now at the same Scarlet Mountains, jagged and rough, and that same single Green Mountain was there, so rounded and smooth. The home of Gods. Wonder who had dreamed that up? Perhaps he should pray more, have more faith, really believe Gods lived there. In every folklore tale there was some grain of truth hidden beneath all the nonsense.

  Out there the burran trees still groveled to the ground; the sparse growth of the vegetation wouldn’t cover his dinner plate. Could anyone, in all truth, really desire to return to that? True, the storms had abated and withdrawn somewhat. But that could be just an illusion, because they were shielded and so well protected, and the fierceness of the storms couldn’t easily be determined when one sat comfortably ensconced watching the wall-reflectors’ colorful entertainment.

  A small delicate hand covered his that rested on the railing, twining her slim fingers in between his thick blunt ones. Sharita asked in a soft voice, “Where did we go wrong, Father? Why do they hate us so much?”

  These same questions haunted his nights, and prowled his feet restlessly through the long palace corridors, seeking answers for riddles of the past. He had his own private theory that he had discussed with his cabinet ministers a few days ago. They had nodded, depressingly agreeing that his hypothesis could be the correct one.

  It began way back, in the time after the Founder Far-Awn first discovered the miraculous pufars. Caught up in the exhilarating momentum of the event, and all that followed, not one person on Upper Sod-a-Por had thought to crawl through those long and dark maze of tortuous tunnels to reach the lower borderlands. It had been so many years since the last killing journey had been made by either side, the lower people seemed unreal and shadowed in memory. Always it had been a treacherous journey, risking one’s life with the dangers of the dim-despairs that were lurking, always ready to creep upon one who stayed too long underground.

  When the trip was finally made—a courier sent by Far-Awn—he carried with him a torch made of the star-flower seeds that couldn’t be extinguished by the cold sweeping drafts that constantly whistled through the eerie tunnels. This news bearer had taken with him as much of the pufar fruit as possible, and many packets of seeds.

  While those of the lower regions were only starting their first crops of pufars, already those on the upper borderlands were living in villages protected from the storms.

  The fruit and the seeds had been accepted gratefully. Quickly the crops of pufars produced fruit, and soon all down there were delighted to be well fed at last. No one there had questioned why the seeds and fruit had not been brought sooner; they seemed to understand they had been only overlooked in the thrill and excitement of so much good luck all at once. Never could those o
f the lowerlands catch up with the advances made by the first planters. What discoveries they made were only a repeat of what had been discovered before. What uses they found for the pufars were already surpassed by the first innovators. The Lower Dorrainians didn’t have the thrill of inventing, the excitement of originally creating. They were not the explorers; they were only the tag-alongs.

  Their cities never reached the magnificent splendor of those on the upperlands. Through the years an attitude developed: “The younger son would never reach the goals of achievement set by the elder, for he had a head start.” Readily they gave into their own pronouncement, their own judgment, and accepted the role of the follower, not the leader. Upper Dorraine happily, confidently led the way, and not selfishly. Each and every success they shared with their less adventuresome brothers. The people of Lower Dorraine did not have to expend their intellectual capacities and physical energies devising methods to do things better and more efficiently. Upper Dorraine did that for them.

  So Upper Dorraine became the working and thinking machine, and Lower Dorraine became the pleasure-seeking beneficiary. In the pursuit of self-gratification, however, Lower Dorraine became the acknowledged leader. Its cities took on a holiday design and a carnival atmosphere. The people stopped trying to compete with the upperlands in science, manufacturing, agriculture, but they developed instead thousands of ways to be entertained while being indolent. In their joyful, carefree pursuit of pleasure, they didn’t have the time or inclination to keep their homes and buildings in repair. Their once rich and bright cities declined into a kind of slovenly, garish, former grandeur.

  Each year that passed added to the differences between the two halves of the same whole. Between them a strained, annoyed relationship developed, like a once happy family split by bitter quarrels over minor issues. To be regarded with good-humored indulgence, however brotherly concerned, was considered by the Lowers as patronizing condescension. The recipients became bitter, angry; the bestower became bewildered, wondering why generosity had become a thing to cause animosity.