Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  Neju instinctively dropped flat to the ground. In following his lead, the hunter coughed once, a projectile catching him in the chest even as he was dropping. Blood gurgled in his throat.

  “That’s one, by God!” one of the god-men cried in elation, and after another barrage of increased violence, they began to withdraw, nervously, darting glances at the quiet trees around them.

  Neju remained motionless. Then, leaving his dead comrade, lie set off at a lope in the direction of the makeshift camp.

  When he arrived the villagers were still huddled fearfully together.

  Neju walked to the circle of young hunters. “They killed Whenj just now,” he said without preamble.

  He sat down:

  “Come here!” he said. “I want you all to come here!”

  Slowly the natives gathered around him.

  “Sit down.”

  They sat down, and Neju waited until they quieted. There was fear and uncertainty in the air; mothers darted anxious glances in the direction of their sons.

  NEJU began to speak. He spoke slowly. “I have just seen the god-men chase and kill. They are controlled by demons that cannot be appeased. One has only to hear them—the hate in their voices—to know.” He swallowed and looked around at the green brilliant foliage and listened to the life movements in the trees. “I said that we should move away into the forest . . . But now . . . I cannot think like a demon, but I somehow see that . . . unlike the Old Gods . . . the demons will not leave us to the world in peace. They are creatures of hate, who will hunt us out, little by little, and destroy us all . . .” He looked around at the frightened faces. “They will build more and bigger villages for their servants, the god-men. They will strip away our forests and burn our grasses. They will kill our food and destroy our homes wherever they find them. They will trample our gardens. They will force us back and ever further back until we have no place left to go . . . And only after they have killed us all, only then, will the demons be satisfied and leave our world . . . That is what I see.”

  The rest, terrified, waited.

  “I am your Chieftain while the Father is ill. Yet, I cannot command you in this. What shall we do? Shall we flee to live in fear, or . . .?”

  There was a sad little moan from the women.

  “One demon,” Neju said, “we might have killed. But I do not know how many demons there are.”

  The men moved nervously.

  Finally one said, very softly, “If there are a hundred, we must not flee.”

  Assent muttered among them.

  “Very well,” Neju said. He stood up. “I will go see the Father. He must guide me in my actions now. Perhaps he can recall a weapon to fight demons with. Perhaps the destruction of the village will help him to think.”

  From the distance there was the great beat of demon wings on the air.

  Neju went to the old one. He frowned at the woman who had been assigned to care for him. She stood, bowed, and withdrew.

  Neju sat down beside the Father.

  “Father,” he said softly. “Father, can you hear me?”

  The Chieftain moved his head wearily; his lips opened slowly. “Yes,” he whispered.

  “We must destroy great demons. We must have the help of the Old Gods. What must we do, Father? You could not remember when Zoee asked you. Can you remember now?”

  The Chieftain lay silent for a long time. A tiny insect crawled unnoticed over one wrinkled arm. He had heard the question. But somehow the sense had gone out of the words. The Old Gods—did he believe in Old Gods? Was that the question?

  HE tried to remember: Old Gods had come from the sky—but that had been long ago. His father had seen them—no, no—grandfather, wasn’t it? Or even further back than that? The Chieftain imagined the stars, which were bright souls in the sky, and had the Old Gods really come down from the sky at all? Maybe no one had ever seen them: maybe it was a dream, there were so many dreams. Here he was dreaming that he was old, and only yesterday his mother had whipped him for going too near the yeama Zaptl had staked out over at the base of the hill. Or was it yesterday?

  “We must have the Old Gods’ help,” Neju repeated quietly.

  The Old Gods’ help? He tried to remember. There had been something—a dance—a ritual—a chant, hadn’t there?

  “For the killing of demons.”

  The Chieftain was tired. It seemed that there was something important to remember. Hadn’t . . . What was it?

  “Please, Father.”

  The old one wished the voice would go away because he was sleepy. Wasn’t that the moonlight on his face?

  “Pray,” he said, dying.

  After a time, Neju stood up. The Chieftain was very quiet.

  He left the side of the dead and turned to the female waiting a short distance away. “After the moon has taken his soul tonight, prepare him for the funeral. His soul is very quiet as it waits. And there is no need to disturb him.”

  PRAY, the old one had said. The moon came down full, splintering beams on a tangle of branches overhead. The old Chieftain was covered with the ceremonial cloak of fur and by his side the formal mourner buried her head in her hands, rocked back and forth intoning musically, “Ah, ahhhhha, ah, ah.”

  “Old Gods,” Neju said, standing in the middle of the villagers, “. . . Old Gods, I do not know how to talk to you the way I should.” His voice was small and embarrassed. “I hope you do not mind too much. I’m trying to get it right. Old Gods, legends tell how you controlled mighty demons when you came to our world. Now there have come to our world some demons who control god-men.” He wrinkled his brow, trying to state the case as clearly as possible.

  “These demons are very bad. They kill our people.” He paused a moment. “We want you to help us kill these demons so the god-men will be free and we can live without fear.”

  Neju waited. The ground did not tremble. The moon did not darken. The Old Gods did not answer.

  “Maybe we haven’t any right to ask, for ourselves,” Neju said. “But for the god-men, who are your brothers from the sky. Help us to free them, Old Gods. They want to be free, like all things want to be free.”

  Still the Old Gods did not answer.

  Slowly, from mouth to mouth, a moan passed among the villagers.

  “Answer us, Old Gods,” Neju pleaded.

  The moan grew louder and louder.

  “Answer us, Old Gods,” Neju repeated. “Please answer us.”

  And still no answer; only a vagrant breeze in the leaves; no sound, no voice, no sign that the Old Gods had heard.

  And the moan died helplessly.

  Neju stood, head bowed until silence came.

  “I cannot talk to the Gods,” he said. “I am no Chieftain. I am not worthy to talk to Gods.”

  “We prayed too,” a female said. “We all prayed with you. And still they did not answer.”

  Neju smiled twistedly. “We do not know how to pray. Or the Gods do not know how to listen.”

  The female said, “They came long ago. Perhaps they have forgotten us.”

  Silence fell.

  Neju looked toward the dead Chieftain. “How can I lead you, unless They make a sign?”

  MORNING. A corlieu dropped into the clearing to beg for food. A fire sputtered wetly. The mourners came back from the Chieftain’s grave (only they knew its location, and the autumn leaves hid the spot).

  The hunters slowly came to Neju. They stood awkwardly in a circle around him. Finally one spoke.

  “We talked among ourselves, last night, after you went away.”

  “Yes?” Neju said.

  The native shifted on his feet. “You say we must destroy the demons. As you say, we cannot run, only to run again and again.”

  “The Old Gods did not make a sign to me,” Neju said wearily.

  “The Father said only to pray. He did not say that They would answer.”

  Neju considered this gravely.

  “We must give the god-men heart,” the native
continued. “They must take courage from us. Together with the god-men, we can defeat the demons. If the Old Gods do not help us, the god-men must.”

  Neju still listened; only his arms moved, restlessly.

  “First we must show the god-men that we are not afraid of demons.”

  Neju waited.

  “All of us, children, females, the old, all, must go toward their village, beating drums, crying encouragement. We must show no fear. The god-men will take heart.”

  Neju stirred.

  “They will see that we are not afraid, and they will lose their fear. Together we will turn on the evil demons and destroy them. And you must lead us.”

  “Leave me,” Neju said. “I must think about it.”

  * * *

  Neju stood for the hour preceding the heat. The sun moved to a position directly overhead. Then he arose stiffly.

  “People!” he called.

  The villagers stopped their work. They turned to face him.

  “Come to me!” he called.

  They came.

  “You have heard the plan of the hunters?” he asked when they were quiet.

  One by one they nodded their heads.

  “And you are not afraid?”

  They were silent. Finally, one said, “We are afraid. But we will do what must be done.”

  “. . . Very well,” Neju said. “If it is what you wish, I will lead you.”

  “We only do what we must,” one said.

  Neju looked them over carefully. “We will eat, and then we will leave. We will travel to the village of the god-men. Each of you will bring an instrument upon which to make noise to frighten the demons and hearten the god-men.”

  They nodded, silently, and began to drift away.

  Neju named three hunters to remain with him.

  “Before we do this,” he told them when the others had gone, “we must try once more to slip beyond the wall and slay the demons.”

  “They will guard each other,” a hunter protested. “We cannot overcome them without the help of the god-men.”

  “We must try,” Neju said.

  The three hunters looked at each other.

  “We will leave the party at the edge of the clearing when the moon is high and try as we did before. And if we fail then they must follow us crying encouragement to the god-men. But we must try first.”

  The hunters, one by one, said, “We will obey you.”

  THEY gathered, all of them. And they began to move: a slow, twisting line, hesitating now and again to help the older members. A baby cried and its mother shushed it. The forest was alive with movement and chattering. There was fear and resolve on the natives’ faces.

  Neju and the three hunters led them. They scouted the territory ahead.

  The column rested frequently and the aged clucked to themselves, confused, uncertain. And the others tried to reassure them and make them comfortable. The children ranged, but not far. The tame corlieu followed them in the tree tops, chattering down, from time to time, bewildered.

  On they moved and the sun fell and the first forest shadows came out to welcome the night. The sunset shower came, unusually heavy, silencing the forest sounds by its patter on the leaves. The air smelled new and crisp.

  A group of birds huddled together, chirping sleepily, in a century old conje tree.

  “We must hurry,” Neju said.

  And the column moved faster, its sounds of movement being hushed by the. damp foliage. Vines and branches parted before it and folded into place after it, swishing softly. The children huddled in, and the column hurried.

  When twilight was full upon the forest, and the first bright hero souls were in the sky, Neju slipped back from the advance of the column to whisper, “We are almost there. Be very still.”

  Neju gestured that they should spread out, and when their positions suited him, he motioned for them to advance.

  And finally they came to the edge of the forest.

  There lay the stockade, asparkle with electric lights. The females drew in sharp breaths at the sight of such a magnificent structure—Ah, what the demons build for their servants! they seemed to say. And the helicopter, coming in from a long flight of exploration settled inside the stockade, its blades sparkling in the new moon.

  The natives shuddered in superstitious awe; they clutched their noise makers closer to their bodies as if for protection.

  NEJU and the three hunters were at the edge of the grasses; the stockade was silent except for the pound of sentry boots.

  Neju motioned for the three to remain. He hunched his body and ran to the base of the wall, breaking the almost invisible wire without noticing.

  On the wall a red light blinked three times. But Neju did not notice it. Frantically his hands sought holds in the trunks of the wall.

  “Here’s one of them!” someone cried above, “Over here!”

  “They didn’t catch us asleep this time!” another voice said.

  “I toldja they’d be back!”

  There was swearing, and Neju froze, terrified.

  Above him, the pounding of many boots.

  “What’s wrong with this light? . . . Ah, there!”

  And the light came on.

  It cut a path across the grasses. A weapon hissed in the direction of a shadow.

  “They’re out there somewhere!”

  “I don’t see ’em!”

  A weapon hissed again.

  “See something?”

  “Nah. Thought I did’s all.”

  Neju pressed in against the wall. The light put him in full view but still they did not look down. Neju glanced toward his comrades. As yet those on the wall had not seen them.

  “Hey! Look!” a god-man screamed. “There’s one!”

  Neju looked up.

  “Right there!”

  And Neju tensed, waiting.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  Neju was looking into two of their faces; the faces were demon controled, contorted with fear and hate. He saw one of the god-men bring up a weapon. He stared unbelieving into it.

  It spurted flame.

  In his left side he felt a hot searing arrow of fire. His hands relaxed and he was falling. He fell a long time, through sickness and unreality. Then he was not falling. In the distance he heard the drum beats and cries from his people. He wanted to tell them something. He twitched in pain trying to cry out.

  “Look!” the god-men cried.

  THE natives burst from the forest crying encouragement to the god-men. “Take heart! Turn on the demons! We will free you! Join us!”

  “Like sitting ducks!” someone on the wall screamed in elation. “Look at ’em come! Crazy! Chatterin’ like monkeys!”

  The natives were nearer, shaking their noise makers, screaming.

  Someone on the wall smiled and fired and one of the natives stumbled and fell.

  “Like sitting ducks!” he screamed.

  The other god-men began swiveling their most powerful weapons, focusing the natives in their sights.

  And still the natives came, crying that the god-men take heart.

  And then the ground trembled!

  The forest behind the natives began to crackle; trees came apart in all directions flying like matchwood.

  A giant being trampled aside all obstructions with invincible power.

  Then the metal monster was clear of the forest. It hovered carefully over, around, between the natives.

  The stockade light swung, halted.

  And a concerted gasp went up from the wall; then curses of terror.

  There it stood. A shining colossus. Huge. And serene beyond imagining. It was facing the stockade.

  It had traveled far: from the deep, sheltered cave in the far north—where it had rested in silence until, upon its vastly complex and sensitive electronic brain it had received the commands of its owners. After many, many years, as the little child master had thought, they had need of it.

  It moved again.

&
nbsp; Stockade weapons swiveled; all the hellish energy that they were capable of spewed in its direction.

  In its way, it smiled.

  Then, very methodically, it began to take the stockade apart, cracking the conje trunks like toothpicks.

  It noticed one of its masters, Neju, lying wounded by the base of the stockade. It bent and carefully scooped him up. It placed him tenderly in the shoulder pocket, out of harm’s way, observing the seriousness of his wound and automatically remembering the proper treatment.

  The helicopter took off and headed east.

  Absently the toy of a child of the Old Gods swatted the helicopter out of the air, knocking it nearly a quarter of a mile before it crashed into the conje trunks of the forest . . .

  THE END

  1953

  THE MAN WITH THE FINE MIND

  THIS being only the first drink, he was still tense and ill at ease, and the room and the people were still sharply in focus. He had no desire to scream at the discreet group of husbands surrounding Malvernen—an odd name for a woman, he thought detachedly—and call them the idiots they were. He had no desire to collar the first person that passed and cry: “Why don’t you let me alone!” He had no intention of cussing out the hostess for inviting him. Things like that had not yet occurred to him.

  The colors were unusually bright, and his ears picked up scraps of conversation even as he listened to Malvernen.

  One would imagine, he thought, if one did not know her, that she was not flirting with the husbands, each in turn. That the smile was distant and impersonal and the attentive way she listened was merely polite.

  Malvernen, talking now, had dreamed, she said, that it was necessary to prove she owned a butcher knife before she was permitted to buy groceries in the super market.

  Looking at her sprawled over the purple chair, her white legs draped over the arm rest, some of the lower thigh of the right one, fringed by the green lace of her slip, showing seductively, he thought of frog legs on a wine-stained platter garnished with parsley. And thinking of frog legs, he thought especially of the way they kicked and quivered in the frying pan and seemed to quiver in the throat as they were being swallowed.

  He rolled the warming brandy in the glass. He wanted to interrupt her monologue and explain the meaning of the dream, so that she might better understand herself and so that the company would realize the depth of his own insight and turn to listen to him as they were not listening to her.