Gods of Green Mountain

by V. C. Andrews®

  Why he could be happy right this minute, if he didn’t have this plaguing concern that had nagged at him all day: the strange reports about Bari-Bar.

  As if in response to his thoughts, a rapping sounded on his office door, just as he was about to leave and change his clothes for dinner. The three city officials of Brail-Lee were ushered into his office, preceded by his minister of state, Gar-Rab. “As you requested, sire, I brought the three investigators here, so you can hear firsthand their report.”

  Though Ras-Far considered himself an ordinary, average man, he was far from that. He had the innate ability to immediately read a person’s secret self, with eyes so keenly observant of the least detail, he could intuitively guess phrases before they were spoken. The controlled expressions of shock and grief on the three faces from Brail-Lee warned him in advance that he was about to hear of some horror unprecedented. Fatigue lifted from his shoulders, and alertly he leaned forward and acknowledged the introductions. “We have met before, Fawn-El,” he said, in the easy way that made all his subjects respect and admire him for never forgetting a face, and giving it the correct name and title. “About a year go, you married my kitchen steward’s daughter. As I recall, her name was Ha-Lan, and a very pretty girl too.”

  Imagine that! Fawn-El was amazed and thrilled that the king could recall him after only one previous meeting, and that had been an accidental one. The king had come upon him with Ha-Lan when they had stolen a kiss in a darkened back hall. With all the polite amenities over, as spokesman, Fawn-El told his tale of horror with respectful reticence, stumbling over the most hideous details, and skipping entirely over some he thought too ugly to speak of aloud, and when the film was shown, the king would see for himself.

  When the film was done, a long silence followed, while the three officials of Brail-Lee, and the minister of state waited respectfully for the king to respond.

  Ras-Far stared out over their heads, his eyes fixed on the distant green mountain. Looking, but not seeing. So, this was the way it would begin, what had been forecast—and how now could he prevent the ending? If only that wise man on the highest pinnacle had foreseen more, had been more explicit, then perhaps this tragedy could have been prevented. His aching head bowed down into his waiting hands. He drew in a deep breath that was almost a sigh. Only for a second did he allow himself a private moment of withdrawal, before his head lifted and he asked, “Were there no clues at all, to suggest how this terrible thing started?”

  “There was nothing,” said Fawn-El in a voice that tried to stay strong. “Only murder and death everywhere. All the buildings were destroyed by fire, though the basements and deepest cellars came through in rather good shape—but the people who hid down there died from the inhaled smoke. However, those people untouched by the flames didn’t escape wanton mutilation. I expect tonight when I go to sleep, I will dream of the sickening things I saw done to those dead bodies. It was like a wild pack of savage animals had been turned loose. We thought of ‘outsiders’ who might have stolen in, and sought some revenge, for as you know, the natives of Bari-Bar are not generally well thought of. They were so wealthy, and they did nothing with their wealth except construct that gigantic wall news-reflector in the most elegant tavern in both El Dorraines. However, there were at least a hundred bodies so burned they weren’t recognizable, so the possibility still exists that some band of outlaws could have started the slaughter in order to steal the money most people believe is kept there in secret safes.”

  The king shook his head. “The people of Bari-Bar weren’t fools. They realized they weren’t well liked, so their main wealth is stored right here in Far-Awndra, where it is well protected and insured. And I don’t believe any of our people are murderers—or that insane, not even the bands of outlaws that live outside the domes. No, there must be a logical cause for this horrendous tragedy! And we will find it!” cried out the king vehemently.

  The king’s dinner was quickly eaten in his office, not in the state dining room. Plans for the theater and late supper were canceled so a delegation of scientists, physicians, and notable mind probers could be assembled in the king’s office. Ras-Far told them exactly what he wanted done. “In every hurricane, there is an eye. Find that eye: where the slaughter started. Bring back bodies so we can have them analyzed, the contents of their stomachs tested. Take samples of the earth. Make a map of the most devastated area, where there was a concentration of murder…don’t overlook the slightest detail.”

  Once again, a sky-flitter was sent forth to Bari-Bar; this time, four others followed, filled with some of the greatest minds in all El Dorraine, Upper and Lower. In the last flitter rode the three officials of Brail-Lee.

  They rode in the night, this cavalcade seeking the truth behind madness. Those inside the small airships were not comforted by the artificial lights inside the bright highway tubes. They were still too close to their old heritage to feel anything but uneasy so far from home during the dark hours.

  One hour before the first sun’s dawning, they reached Brail-Lee and quickly snatched a light meal before they hurried on toward Bari-Bar. Brail-Lee was but minutes behind them, when the highway shuddered violently, rocking the air around them! Then came an ear-rending explosion! The forward propulsion of their cars halted momentarily before they were all hurled backward! Spinning, the ships headed toward the walls, and toward each other. The pilots of the flitters frantically sought ways from colliding with each other, or into the rock-hard transparent walls. It was skill only that kept all those important men from dying and adding to the tragedy of Bari-Bar.

  After the explosion, the highway pulsated as a giant ribbon shaken by a giant hand! Surely it would crack and break! The flitters, now under control, rested inches above the concave floor, waiting for the trembling to cease. Enin-Sti, Upper Dorraine’s most noted inventor and scientist, stated quietly into a speaker that kept him in contact with the king, “Your majesty, it is a certainty now, that none of our questions will be answered. Bari-Bar is gone.”

  Still they had to be sure, so they flew on. The covered highway ended abruptly. Here it had broken! That the hardness of their manufactured, shimmering bygar material could be assaulted and defeated was a disquieting thought.

  Out of the shattered highway and into the hot dry air the five small airships flew. This was a far different type of flying. Gone was the smooth, even glide on cushioned air. Now air currents caught their light little ships and tossed them about like balloons roughly handled, for the flitters were not constructed for use outside of the glass tubes. However, it was not the nature of a Dorrainian, Upper or Lower, to turn back from what had been started.

  Bouncing as rubber balls, the flitters struggled ahead, following the trail of the far-flung pieces of shimmering bygar, once a highway, until they came upon a large splotch of blackened ground that told them this once was the place of a small city called Bari-Bar.

  In entirety, the city was gone now. Nothing left.

  The mystery and horror of Bari-Bar’s demise struck those on El Dorraine as nothing ever had before. They were children of the suns; the lovers of light and life; every form of life was as precious to them as their own. Not one could step on an ant, or swat a fly on the table, or brush a gnat from an arm, without an unhappy twinge of conscience.

  There were crimes in their history, a few, the exception, not the rule. They were fiery people, with passions unlimited for loving and learning and working. When one struck out in the hot-white heat of anger against another, it was in retaliation for some believed injustice, never in considered, deliberate murder. As a rule, they were very much in control of themselves, and strove to suppress violence of a physical nature, preferring to lash out with words instead of weapons. Even a condemned murderer was not put to death—he was sentenced to live outside of their city domes, an exile, to live and survive, if he could, alone in the wilds of the unshielded areas. “Let nature and the ruthless Gods of the mountain wield the hand of justice.”

  I
t was known the condemned murderers banded together and often raided some small city to steal supplies, to steal wives for themselves. It was considered by many of the young, romantic girls as the most intriguing thing that could possibly happen to them: to be so kidnapped and carried away on a white horshet, into the unknown, to face life as their foreparents had known it.

  Even the Princess Sharita, in her very early youth, had done some dreaming along these lines. For her it grew dull and tiresome to always be so well guarded, so protected, so regimented, with her life divided up into small portions to give to this, to that, with nothing unexpected interrupting to relieve the monotony of it all.

  And now something terrible had happened to relieve the monotony of it all. “How could that happen, Father? For people to turn upon themselves, and slaughter even their sleeping babies, and their trusting animals? How can we lay this massacre at the feet of the Gods and say it is their fault?”

  Ras-Far took his shivering daughter in his arms and turned his eyes toward the mountain. “This time, Sharita, we must put the blame where it is: with us. This infamous deed is man’s alone. The Gods would punish with gigantic fists that don’t aim at one small city. They would flail their arms at every city! They would torture the wildlands as much as our domes.”

  In the streets and private homes of those who lived in Far-Awndra, it was openly voiced that it must have been those troublemakers from the lower borderlands who brought upon them this horror! They were malcontents, never satisfied, however much bounty was bestowed upon them. They were no doubt responsible for that final and devastating debate in Bari-Bar! “Why, my wife had a cousin who lived there, and she wrote that her neighbor, a roughneck Lower, was always thieving the clothes from her line.”

  Those in the lowerlands, rumbled against the smug superiority and high-handedness of those who lived above. Surely it was those Uppers who stomped just one time too many with their patronizing condescension! “You know, it is us that they blame for everything that goes wrong. If a bolt is loose, they look for one of us to accuse. We are square cubes in their world of round holes. We don’t fit in, and never will, unless we carve off our edges of difference. And I happen to like what I am! I don’t know about you. By the Gods, I don’t want to work from suns up, to suns down, the way they do! If we like subsisting in the easiest possible way, what’s wrong with that?”

  The whispered, private conjectures grew into loud, overt accusations when an Upper and a Lower met publicly. Eventually, raging words were not enough; hands clenched into fists that were smashed into noses and jaws. Mobs formed to watch, and some to join in the fray. Someone picked up a stone and hurled it at a shop window belonging to an Upper. Then another someone picked up a larger stone and smashed store windows belonging to a Lower. Then someone drew a secreted knife and heedlessly slashed out with it. For the first time, blood spilled on the smooth pavements of the cities.

  High above the now bloody avenues of Far-Awndra, in his crystal palace surrounded and protected by a greatly enlarged army of palace guards, Ras-Far watched the news-reflector with increasing anxiety and concern. He could hardly believe his eyes, or his ears. What was happening to his people? To his nation? What new road were they on? “This is unbelievable,” he muttered aloud, so his wife tore her eyes from the screen and looked at him with tears on her cheeks.

  “Ras-Far, you’ve got to stop it!” La Bara complained. “My mother called today and said someone broke all the windows in her home, and she is part of the royal family! Next, they’ll be coming here, and breaking our windows!”

  “You speak to me of broken windows, La Bara? Look on that screen! People are killing each other in our streets!”

  “But my mother, my father,” cried the queen, “I care about them! I don’t want them to die, and that could come next!”

  “Yes, it could come next,” Ras-Far scowled darkly. “I’ll see to it that they are brought here, so forget that concern, dear,” he said more kindly.

  That very day, the king’s mother- and father-in-law were installed in the palace, and royal guards were stationed outside of their empty home to see that it wasn’t looted or burned to the ground.

  Ras-Far rode the uplifting shaft to his daughter’s apartment, to find her watching the news-reflector too. All her small pets were loose from their cages and sat near her on the floor, or the birds perched somewhere on her person. “Good light to you, Father,” she greeted, and smiled at him warmly. “I have been watching what is going on in the city—and it seems more like a nightmare than reality.”

  “It’s not just going on here,” the king said wearily, “it’s happening wherever Uppers and Lowers meet…in all our cities.”

  “What are we to do to stop it?” she asked, getting to her feet to come and sit at his side.

  That was indeed the question appropriate. It would be nice if they could return to the days before the death of Bari-Bar, and wipe that bloody stain from all living memories, but that was only wishful thinking. If the mystery of Bari-Bar could be solved, that would help console his nation in their grief. As it was, only time could salve the wound, and no one was willing to wait for time to heal. Every day created newer and fresher wounds, and more to come, he feared. They seemed to be on a path from which there was no turning—unless, somehow, a way could be found to divert them onto a brighter road.

  Ras-Far mused aloud to his daughter, who curled up close at his side, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and reading of our history books. Our first ancestors evolved from rooted plants. We became dirt-dobbers in the mud, farmers who tilled the soil, and from that we made a leap into golden homes and crystal palaces.

  “Maybe it was too great a jump forward. We skipped right over the pure animal life of struggling one against the other, like the animals not domesticated do. Perhaps, in all of us, we that call ourselves human, there lies deep within, dormant and unused, a great deal of the warfar, longing to use its teeth and fangs, and that is what we are going through at this very moment. We are filling in the gap, from primitive peoples, into creatures near godlike.”

  Sharita met his eyes, delving deep into his, wondering if he could be serious. “Father, that is a very frightening theory, and are we near Gods?”

  Could he tell her? “No! Definitely not yet!” Ras-Far thought; someday when she was older, he would tell her all he feared, and hoped wasn’t true. Tenderly he brushed her satin-smooth cheek. He would give his everlasting soul to make everything perfect for this girl that was dearer to him than his life. He kissed her cheek and said good night, and told her not to dream, except perhaps of romance in the garden with some handsome young man—she did have a handsome young man to dream about, didn’t she?

  Color flooded her cheeks before she hugged him tight. “Good night to you, Father, and don’t you dream at all. You looked so tired, and so worried. Go to bed and forget all your troubles. Haven’t you always told me that tangled yarn has a way of unknotting itself if you just shake it up a bit?”

  Shake it up a bit? Ras-Far smiled. Oh, she did have a way with her, better than ten sons! The exact solution!

  He would shake up the whole of Upper and Lower Dorraine and give them something new to think about!

  Book Three

  The Journey

  Prologue

  There was a man, older than the hills, perhaps as old as the Green Mountain itself. He lived alone, the life of a hermit, on the topmost pinnacle of the crystal palace, just a wee bit taller than that of the Princess Sharita. Occasionally, when she was on her terrace balcony, and he was on his, they could just faintly see each other. The princess would always lift her hand and wave, just as he always did. Sometimes she blew him a kiss, and he would pretend to catch it and send it back to her. Sometimes if this old, old man listened most keenly, he could hear her voice as she called to him a greeting, but his voice was too small to reach her ears. The hand he lifted to wave to her was twisted and gnarled with age, with ugly raised veins, like a relief map of his life.<
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  He was known to everyone as Es-Trall, the Star Drinker. For he was wise, as if he had drunk heavily of the wisdom of the stars. Once he had stood tall, in his youth; now he was small and wizened, with a white beard that almost touched his feet. But his eyes were as young and bright as the stars he studied and noted upon in his huge black book.