The Eyes of the Overworld

by Jack Vance

  Cugel stared into the night, his throat aching with a sorrow he had never known before. To his surprise he found himself standing at the edge of the water. Nearby were Subucule, Garstang and Casmyre. All gazed at each other through the dark, but exchanged no words. All returned up the beach where presently they fell asleep in the sand.

  Throughout the next day there was little conversation, and even a mutual avoidance, as if each of the four wished to be alone with his thoughts. From time to time one or the other looked half-heartedly toward the south, but no one seemed in a mood to leave the spot, and no one spoke of departure.

  The day passed while the pilgrims rested in a half-torpor. Sunset came, and night; but none of the group sought to sleep.

  During the middle evening the ghost city reappeared, and tonight a fête was in progress. Fireworks of a wonderful intricacy bloomed in the sky: laces, nets, starbursts of red and green and blue and silver. Along the promenade came a parade, with ghost-maidens dressed in iridescent garments, ghost-musicians in voluminous garments of red and orange and capering ghost-harlequins. For hours the sound of revelry drifted across the water, and Cugel went out to stand knee-deep, and here he watched until the fête quieted and the city dimmed. As he turned away, the others followed him back up the shore.

  On the following day all were weak from hunger and thirst. In a croaking voice Cugel muttered that they must proceed. Garstang nodded and said huskily: “To the fane, the fane of Gilfig!”

  Subucule nodded. The cheeks of his once plump face were haggard; his eyes were filmed and clouded. “Yes,” he wheezed. “We have rested; on we must go!”

  Casmyre nodded dully. “To the fane!”

  But none set forth to the south. Cugel wandered up the fore-shore and seated himself to wait for nightfall. Looking to his right he saw a human skeleton resting in a posture not dissimilar to his own. Shuddering, Cugel turned to the left and here was a second skeleton, this one broken by time and the seasons, and beyond yet another, this a mere heap of bones.

  Cugel rose to his feet and ran tottering to the others. “Quick!” he called. “While strength yet remains to us! To the south! Come, before we die, like those others whose bones rest above!”

  “Yes, yes,” mumbled Garstang. “To the fane.” And he heaved himself to his feet. “Come!” he called to the others. “We fare south!”

  Subucule raised himself erect, but Casmyre, after a listless attempt, fell back. “Here I stay,” he said. “When you reach the fane, intercede for me with Gilfig; explain that the entrancement overcame the strength of my body.”

  Garstang wished to remain and plead, but Cugel pointed to the setting sun. “If we wait till darkness, we are lost! Tomorrow our strength will be gone!”

  Subucule took Garstang’s arm. “We must be away, before nightfall.”

  Garstang made a final plea to Casmyre. “My friend and fellow, gather your strength. Together we have come, from far Pholgus Valley, by raft down the Scamander, and across the dreadful desert! Must we part before attaining the fane?”

  “Come, to the fane!” croaked Cugel.

  But Casmyre turned his face away. Cugel and Subucule led Garstang away, with tears coursing down his withered cheeks; and they staggered south along the beach, averting their eyes from the clear smooth face of the sea.

  The old sun set and cast up a fan of color. A high scatter of cloud-flakes glowed halcyon yellow on a strange bronze-brown sky. The city now appeared, and never had it seemed more magnificent, with spires catching the light of sunset. Along the promenade walked youths and maidens with flowers in their hair, and sometimes they paused to stare at the three who walked along the beach. Sunset faded; white lights shone from the city, and music wafted across the water. For a long time it followed the three pilgrims, at last fading into the distance and dying. The sea lay blank to the west, reflecting a few last umber and orange glimmers.

  About this time the pilgrims found a stream of fresh water, with berries and wild plums growing nearby, and here they rested the night. In the morning Cugel trapped a fish and caught crabs along the beach. Strengthened, the three continued south, always seeking ahead for the fane, which now Cugel had almost come to expect, so intense was the feeling of Garstang and Subucule. Indeed, as the days passed, it was the devout Subucule who began to despair, to question the sincerity of Gilfig’s command, to doubt the essential virtue of Gilfig himself. “What is gained by this agonizing pilgrimage? Does Gilfig doubt our devotion? Surely we proved ourselves by attendance at the Lustral Rite; why has he sent us so far?”

  “The ways of Gilfig are inscrutable,” said Garstang. “We have come so far; we must seek on and on and on!”

  Subucule stopped short, to look back the way they had come. “Here is my proposal. At this spot let us erect an altar of stones, which becomes our fane; let us then perform a rite. With Gilfig’s requirement satisfied, we may turn our faces to the north, to the village where our fellows reside. Here, happily we may recapture the pack-beasts, replenish our stores, and set forth across the desert, perhaps to arrive once more at Erze Damath.”

  Garstang hesitated. “There is much to recommend your proposal. And yet —”

  “A boat!” cried Cugel. He pointed to the sea where a half-mile offshore floated a fishing boat propelled by a square sail hanging from a long limber yard. It passed behind a headland which rose a mile south of where the pilgrims stood, and now Cugel indicated a village along the shore.

  “Excellent!” declared Garstang. “These folk may be fellow Gilfigites, and this village the site of the fane! Let us proceed!”

  Subucule still was reluctant. “Could knowledge of the sacred texts have penetrated so far?”

  “Caution is the watchword,” said Cugel. “We must reconnoiter with great care.” And he led the way through a forest of tamarisk and larch, to where they could look down into the village. The huts were rudely constructed of black stone and housed a folk of ferocious aspect. Black hair in spikes surrounded the round clay-colored faces; coarse black bristles grew off the burly shoulders like epaulettes. Fangs protruded from the mouths of male and female alike and all spoke in harsh growling shouts. Cugel, Garstang and Subucule drew back with the utmost caution, and hidden among the trees, conferred in low voices. Garstang at last was discouraged and found nothing more to hope for. “I am exhausted, spiritually as well as physically; perhaps here is where I die.”

  Subucule looked to the north. “I return to take my chances on the Silver Desert. If all goes well, I will arrive once more at Erze Damath, or even Pholgus Valley.”

  Garstang turned to Cugel. “And what of you, since the fane of Gilfig is nowhere to be found?”

  Cugel pointed to a dock at which a number of boats were moored. “My destination is Almery, across the Songan Sea. I propose to commandeer a boat and sail to the west.”

  “I then bid you farewell,” said Subucule. “Garstang, will you come?”

  Garstang shook his head. “It is too far. I would surely die on the desert. I will cross the sea with Cugel and take the Word of Gilfig to the folk of Almery.”

  “Farewell then, to you as well,” and Subucule turned swiftly to hide the emotion on his face and started north. Cugel and Garstang watched the sturdy form recede into the distance and disappear. Then they turned to a consideration of the dock. Garstang was dubious. “The boats seem seaworthy enough, but to ‘commandeer’ is to ‘steal’: an act specifically discountenanced by Gilfig.”

  “No difficulty exists,” said Cugel. “I will place gold coins upon the dock, to a fair valuation of the boat.”

  Garstang gave a dubious assent. “What then of food and water?”

  “After securing the boat, we will proceed along the coast until we are able to secure supplies, after which we sail due west.”

  To this Garstang assented and the two fell to examining the boats, comparing one against the other. The final selection was a staunch craft some ten or twelve paces long, of ample beam, with a small cabin.

/>   At dusk they stole down to the dock. All was quiet: the fishermen had returned to the village. Garstang boarded the craft and reported all in good order. Cugel began casting off the lines, when from the end of the dock came a savage outcry and a dozen of the burly villagers came lumbering forth.

  “We are lost!” cried Cugel. “Run for your life, or better, swim!”

  “Impossible,” declared Garstang. “If this is death, I will meet it with what dignity I am able!” And he climbed up on the dock. In short order they were surrounded by folk of all ages, attracted by the commotion. One, an elder of the village, inquired in a stern voice: “What do you here, skulking on our dock, and preparing to steal a boat?”

  “Our motive is simplicity itself,” said Cugel. “We wish to cross the sea.”

  “What?” roared the elder. “How is that possible? The boat carries neither food nor water, and is poorly equipped. Why did you not approach us and make your needs known?”

  Cugel blinked and exchanged a glance with Garstang. He shrugged. “I will be candid. Your appearance caused us such alarm that we did not dare.”

  The remark evoked mingled amusement and surprise in the crowd. The spokesman said: “All of us are puzzled; explain if you will.”

  “Very well,” said Cugel. “May I be absolutely frank?”

  “By all means!”

  “Certain aspects of your appearance impress us as feral and barbarous: your protruding fangs, the black mane which surrounds your faces, the cacophony of your speech — to name only a few items.”

  The villagers laughed incredulously. “What nonsense!” they cried. “Our teeth are long that we may tear the coarse fish on which we subsist. We wear our hair thus to repel a certain noxious insect, and since we are all rather deaf, we possibly tend to shout. Essentially we are a gentle and kindly folk.”

  “Exactly,” said the elder, “and in order to demonstrate this, tomorrow we shall provision our best boat and send you forth with hopes and good wishes. Tonight there shall be a feast in your honor!”

  “Here is a village of true saintliness,” declared Garstang. “Are you by chance worshippers of Gilfig?”

  “No; we prostrate ourselves before the fish-god Yob, who seems as efficacious as any. But come, let us ascend to the village. We must make preparations for the feast.”

  They climbed steps hewn in the rock of the cliff, which gave upon an area illuminated by a dozen flaring torches. The elder indicated a hut more commodious than the others: “This is where you shall rest the night; I will sleep elsewhere.”

  Garstang again was moved to comment upon the benevolence of the fisher-folk, at which the elder bowed his head. “We try to achieve a spiritual unity. Indeed we symbolize this ideal in the main dish of our ceremonial feasts.” He turned, clapped his hands. “Let us prepare!”

  A great cauldron was hung over a tripod; a block and a cleaver were arranged, and now each of the villagers, marching past the block, chopped off a finger and cast it into the pot.

  The elder explained: “By this simple rite, which naturally you are expected to join, we demonstrate our common heritage and our mutual dependence. Come, let us step into the line.”And Cugel and Garstang had no choice but to excise fingers and cast them into the pot with the others.

  The feast continued long into the night. In the morning the villagers were as good as their word. An especially seaworthy boat was provided and loaded with stores, including food left over from the previous night’s feast.

  The villagers gathered on the dock. Cugel and Garstang voiced their gratitude, then Cugel hoisted the sail and Garstang threw off the mooring lines. A wind filled the sail, the boat moved out on the face of the Songan Sea. Gradually the shore became one with the murk of distance, and the two were alone, with only the black metallic shimmer of the water to all sides.

  Noon came, and the boat moved in an elemental emptiness: water below, air above; silence in all directions. The afternoon was long and torpid, unreal as a dream; and the melancholy grandeur of sunset was followed by a dusk the color of watered wine.

  The wind seemed to freshen and all night they steered west. At dawn the wind died and with sails flapping idly both Cugel and Garstang slept.

  Eight times the cycle was repeated. On the morning of the ninth day a low coast-line was sighted ahead. During the middle afternoon they drove the prow of their boat through gentle surf up on a wide white beach. “This then is Almery?” asked Garstang.

  “So I believe,” said Cugel, “but which quarter I am uncertain. Azenomei may lie to north, west or south. If the forest yonder is that which shrouds East Almery, we would do well to pass to the side, as it bears an evil reputation.”

  Garstang pointed down the shore. “Notice: another village. If the folk here are like those across the sea, they will help us on our way. Come, let us make our wants known.”

  Cugel hung back. “It might be wise to reconnoiter, as before.”

  “To what end?” asked Garstang. “On that occasion we were only misled and confused.” He led the way down the beach toward the village. As they approached they could see folk moving across the central plaza: a graceful golden-haired people, who spoke to each other in voices like music. Garstang advanced joyfully, expecting a welcome even more expansive than that they had received on the other shore; but the villagers ran forward and caught them under nets. “Why do you do this?” called Garstang. “We are strangers and intend no harm!”

  “You are strangers; just so,” spoke the tallest of the golden-haired villagers. “We worship that inexorable god known as Dangott. Strangers are automatically heretics, and so are fed to the sacred apes.” With that they began to drag Cugel and Garstang over the sharp stones of the fore-shore while the beautiful children of the village danced joyously to either side.

  Cugel managed to bring forth the tube he had secured from Voynod and expelled blue concentrate at the villagers. Aghast, they toppled to the ground and Cugel was able to extricate himself from the net. Drawing his sword he leapt forward to cut Garstang free, but now the villagers rallied. Cugel once more employed his tube, and the villagers fled in dismal agony.

  “Go, Cugel,” spoke Garstang. “I am an old man, of little vitality. Take to your heels; seek safety, with all my good wishes.”

  “This normally would be my impulse,” Cugel conceded. “But these people have stimulated me to quixotic folly; so clamber from the net; we retreat together.” Once more he wrought dismay with the blue projection, while Garstang freed himself, and the two fled along the beach.

  The villagers pursued with harpoons. Their first cast pierced Garstang through the back. He fell without a sound. Cugel swung about, aimed the tube, but the spell was exhausted, and only a limpid exudation appeared. The villagers drew back their arms to hurl a second volley; Cugel shouted a curse, dodged and ducked, and the harpoons plunged past him into the sand of the beach. Cugel shook his fist a final time, then took to his heels and fled into the forest.

  Chapter VI

  The Cave in the Forest

  Through the Old Forest came Cugel, step by furtive step, pausing often to listen for breaking twig or quiet footfall or even the exhalation of a breath. His caution, though it made for slow progress, was neither theoretical nor impractical; others wandered the forest with anxieties and yearnings greatly at odds to his own. All one terrible dusk he had fled and finally outdistanced a pair of deodands; on another occasion he had stopped short at the very brink of a glade where a leucomorph stood musing: whereupon Cugel became more diffident and furtive than ever, skulking from tree to tree, peering and listening, darting across open spaces with an extravagantly delicate gait, as if contact with the ground pained his feet.

  During a middle afternoon he came upon a small dank glade surrounded by black mandouars, tall and portentous as hooded monks. A few red rays slanting into the glade illumined a single twisted quince tree, where hung a strip of parchment. Standing back in the shadows Cugel studied the glade at length, then stepping for
ward took the parchment. In crabbed characters a message was indicated:

  Zaraides the Sage makes a generous offer! He who finds this message may request and obtain an hour of judicious counsel at no charge. Into a nearby hillock opens a cave; the Sage will be found within.

  Cugel studied the parchment with puzzlement. A large question hung in the air: why should Zaraides give forth his lore with such casual largesse? The purportedly free was seldom as represented; in one guise or another the Law of Equivalence must prevail. If Zaraides offered counsel — dismissing the premise of absolute altruism — he expected some commodity in return: at minimum an inflation of self-esteem, or knowledge regarding distant events, or polite attention at a recitation of odes, or some such service. And Cugel re-read the message, his skepticism, if anything, augmented. He would have flung the parchment aside had not he felt a real and urgent need for information: specifically knowledge regarding the most secure route to the manse of Iucounu, together with a method for rendering the Laughing Magician helpless.

  Cugel looked all about, seeking the hillock to which Zaraides referred. Across the glade the ground seemed to rise, and lifting his eyes Cugel noticed gnarled limbs and clotted foliage on high, as if a number of daobados grew on lofty ground.

  With maximum vigilance Cugel proceeded through the forest, and presently was halted by a sudden upthrust of gray rock crowned with trees and vines: undoubtedly the hillock in question.