Not To Mention Camels

by R. A. Lafferty

  The ariel had had the wings pulled off her somewhere, possibly at “the Camel’s Eye.” There was a smoky memory of an encounter at a narrow place named the Camel’s Eye. There had been a dismal child or a fury-child that tried to revenge itself for its own murder. There had been a body-smith or knacker with a new passion for unshaping bodies. There had been hot iron ledges that hung over the mouths of pits, and there had been utter destruction below. There had been other prodigies. There had been a clarified man (“Possibly myself,” Polder said); there had been a madman named Wut.

  “But all those were things that happened to other people, not to me or mine,” Polder protested, and he made, for practice, an old and eloquent gesture with his hands.

  “But there are no other people!” he cried then. “There are a dozen or so people. That is all. And they are repeated billions and billions of times.”

  The Nine Worlds to La Spezia, whether or not he had experienced them, left no memory in Polder Dossman. Only things that are in past time can leave memories, and the Nine Worlds were outside time.

  The unwinged ariel looked very much like a girl of the ordinary sort. She was a freckled, rusty-haired, fair-sized girl in unworried confusion. And she had flat eyes. Hadn’t her eyes once been live-sculpted in high relief?

  “Why don’t you send the Hand of Heaven away?” she asked Polder. “The people here aren’t likely to be impressed by it. And the manifestation must use a lot of power.”

  “Of course the people here will be impressed by it,” Polder said. “I don’t remember what sort of contract I made for the Hand, or with whom. I’ll not send the Hand away, for I intend to use it again and again. But I’ll put it on standby for now.”

  Polder ordered the Hand onto standby. The light went out of it, so that it could hardly be seen. It was like trying to see a close-orbiting planet in the daytime. It could still be seen, barely, if one knew where to look. But it wasn’t effective.

  Polder found heavy gold in every pocket. It pleased him that he had remembered to bring it. Gold will sometimes work like a real charm on a strange world; and then again it will often cost one his life if he divulges its possession too soon and too openly. But it is better to have it than not to have it.

  “Look how sharp every line is here,” Polder exclaimed. “There’s no texture to things here; there’s no deep pile to confuse us. It’s as though it were all drawn with straightedge and French curve. It’s sharp-lined in perspective and sharp-lined face on. Notice how clear and sharp are the hills, the trees, the stones!”

  “Bloody sharp,” the dog grumbled. The dog had a witless way about him. Someone had scrambled his brains forever. He had dog eyes. He had dog whiskers. He was a young man, though, of willing but slow ways; he was a dog only in a fancy manner of speaking. And previously he had been a dog in only one special instance.

  The young man had cut his foot on a marvelously sharp stone and was bleeding freely. Polder noticed that the blood was expressed in fine, sharp, black, parallel and very-close-together lines. The fine lines gave good contrast with the white-base world background. The name of this visual aspect of the blood was red, of course; but red should have meant a deeper quality of which the lines were only a token.

  And anywhere else than here the lines would have been less sharp; they would have made up a shading or hatching. But there was a missing quality in it all. The name of the missing element was red, just as the name of the token lines was red; but what was that quality really? One who has really seen red, whether in this context or in some other, cannot be flubbed off by even the finest lines or shadings. There were worlds that had color, and there were worlds that only said that they had color. Polder could not quite recall the quality of color to his mind, and the absence of it depressed him.

  The girl, who was still an ariel internally perhaps but not in present outward appearance, was named Moira Mara. The other kids must have jazzed her about so odd a name when she was younger. The wan-wit young man, he who had had his brains scrambled while he was still a dog in that dog-passage, was named Jake Mara, and he was brother to Moira.

  “We have to watch over you and take care of you,” Moira Mara told Polder. “We must do this with utter devotion and complete self-denial. We don’t really want to do this, but we are compelled to.”

  “Who compels you?” Polder asked.

  “We don’t know,” Moira said. “We’d like to get out of it but we can’t.”

  Polder and his two young companions went down the hill to the sharp-line world, to the simple world, to the easy-to-take-advantage-of world. They came to the edge of a little town at the bottom of the hill. People were lounging about; or they were gazing out of their heads; or they were talking to each other. Some of them were working. It seemed to be easy and archaic work, and it had to do with cultivating the land.

  But all these people were of sharp and simple and single outlines. They were clearly people who had never traveled, people who had never balked or mutated, people who had never jumped at all—in body or in shape or in world. They were people who had never realized their concentric aspects, who hadn’t mutualized or enriched their personalities, who had not pluralized themselves at all. Further than that, they were so sharp-line that they might have been cartoon characters inked by an open-faced folk artist who himself had never traveled or mutualized or enriched or pluralized.

  And yet they were skeptical-looking lads at the bottom of the hill there. To impress them, Polder activated the Hand from Heaven pointing down at him from the sky. Polder was surprised that he knew how to activate it. And the lads were impressed.

  “It’d cost more to run that for one minute than I’d make in a lifetime,” a live-brained young man said. “Would it cost much extra to fly the wording ‘This is My Beloved Son’ in daylight flame above it?”

  “Yes. It would almost double the cost,” Polder said. “I decided against that.” He was surprised at the accurate understanding that the young man had for the cost of the meteorological manipulation. He was rather proud of the giant Hand pointing him out.

  “What is the name of this village?” Polder asked that brightest-looking of the lads, the one who had admired the Hand from Heaven.

  “This is Camel Town. It is the second-best town in the world in every way.” The young fellow spoke the words with a grin on every one of them. Was he joking?

  “Make a note to find out whether there is humor on this world,” Polder told Moira. “Make a permanent note to find that out, almost the first thing, on every new world that we come to. Knowing a little thing like that can often make a difference.”

  And then he spoke to the young lad again. “If Camel Town is the second-best town in this world, which is the best? And why has a bright lad like you not gone to the best town?”

  “There is no one town that is the best in everything,” the lad said. “There are ten thousand different towns (actually there are one hundred and five towns on this world, but ten thousand is a more resounding number), each of them the best in the world at some one thing. But Camel Town, best in nothing, is second-best in everything. It reminds me of people. Now of all creatures, people—”

  “Oh?” Polder asked. “Camel Town is second in everything? What a humpbacked idea!”

  “Yes, like the camel. The camel is second-best at everything.”

  “Impossible, lad.”

  “Everything, sir, absolutely. As a steed, the camel is second-best to the horse. As a pack animal, it is second-best to the jenny-ass. As a draft animal, it is a close competitor to the ox. As a canal-tow animal, it is mighty near as efficient as the Urdu water buffalo. As a plow animal, it gives place only to the mule. As a treadmill animal, it is right behind the hinny.”

  “Invest in hinnies, Moira,” Polder ordered. “A million piasters or so. We’ve been neglecting hinnies.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said.

  “As a threshing floor animal, the camel is not quite equal to the zebu-ox,” the lad went on. “
At night-song, it’s but a shade inferior to the Moroccan jackass. As a companion, the dog alone is in better accord with man.”

  “Are these certified ratings?” Polder asked.

  “Oh, no. We wouldn’t even know how to go about certifying them,” the lad said. “And then consider the products and by-products of the holy camel! For the making of bagpipes, the stomach of the camel is but slightly inferior to that of the Irish elk.”

  “Invest in bagpipes, Moira,” Polder ordered.

  “All right,” she said. “We’ll blow a bit on bagpipes.”

  “At butter, the camel is rated right after the yak,” the lad told them. “And from the bones of no other animal except the caribou can better buttons be made. A whistle made from a camel’s thorax has a tone that is second only to that from the thorax of the bull moose. The buttermilk of the cow-zebu is superior to a camel’s, but it’s a close contest. Hard cheese from the mountain goats and soft cheese from Cappadocian ewes are the best in the world, but in each case our friendly camel comes near after. The camel’s eyeball will ward off the evil eye nearly as well as will that of Wanwanker’s wildebeest. Felt from the hair and the fur of the castor-beaver is only a slight bit better than that from the camel. Fleece! Only that of the right ram surpasses that of the camel!”

  “Procure me a mantle of right ram fleece, Moira,” Polder ordered. “It will always look good, and I bet it gets cold here in the evenings.”

  “All right. I’ll get one with a purple trim,” Moira said. “That goes well with a holy or royal image.”

  “Gelatin from the Bushman gnu, glue from the horse stallion, they are nonpareil,” the lad said challengingly. “But in each case the camel product is but a fraction behind. Hair from the musk ox is unequaled for its fineness; but you must remember that camel’s hair was used for the original camel’s hair brushes when the musk ox was still hardly known. The hide of the cape buffalo is tougher than slate shingles and more flexible than water; but we all know who is number two. Lamp oil? No, the camel can’t compete with the whale there, but no other creature on earth can compete with the camel. And as to flesh-meat, the mutton-type meat from the haunches and legs of the camel is outranked only by the flesh of the tup-sheep; the fine, beef-type cuts from the camel’s rib cage and trunk are bested, by only one rib-width, by the meat of the yearling steer. The juicy, pork-taste roasts from the camel’s hump are out-tasted by the flesh of the fat hog, and by nothing else. Foal’s liver is best of all, but everybody knows that camel’s liver comes next. For marrow-soup, the bones of the red elk are always best-of-show, but your friendly camel wins place.”

  “Moira, before I forget it,” Polder ordered, “go rent a good grotto for a cult place. And find out what is the leading cult here, besides my own. Discover, if you can, what name my vestigial cult travels under here, and make contact with whatever members of my cult you can discover. This is a patsy world, I suspect, and it is coming onto patsy-picking time. Here I will hang my hat; here I will wage commerce, here on this world. Take enough gold, Moira. Buy anything that looks promising.”

  “All right,” said Moira Mara.

  “Cow milk is better than camel milk?” the lad asked rhetorically. “Yes, it is. But really there’s no more than a drop-in-a-bucket difference between them. For mohair and angora there is no beating goats; but remember that it takes twelve angora goats to equal one camel in quantity. Neat’s-foot oil? Well, the camel must give way to the neat there, but old second-place camel oil is my own soothing favorite.

  “Parchment! Fine split lambskin is paramount for good writing parchment, but camel parchment has served for the writings of some of the holiest prophets of them all. For rawhide, there is nothing so raw as a good Cactus County steer; but after this steer, the camel is the rawest animal on earth. For the best rennet, housewives go direct to the cow-calf’s stomach; but try to get one to switch who has gotten used to the camel. Shammy skin from the chamois-antelope will put a shine on the whole world, but men were shining with the pliant belly-skin of the young camel before the first chamois was knocked off the first alp. The Cordovan kid produces the best cordovan leather; but, excepting in color, camel-cordovan is absolutely equal to it. Best vellum is from the female kid of the Arcadian goat; second-best is from the camel that has suffered from, but not died of, the mange.”

  “Jake, go see if you can locate a good umbrella merchant,” Polder told Jake Mara, whom he sometimes thought of as a dog. “I always feel better when I know there’s one around.”

  “Yes, I know where to find one,” Jake said. “I believe he already has you under survey. He’s quite near.”

  “Yogurt, in strength and authority, is best from the milk of the khudi-cow,” the local lad was saying. “And second-best is yogurt from the milk of a camel. Sea lion ribs are most apt of all for tent pegs, but next after them are camel ribs. For the scapula, the shoulder blade bones on which ritual formulas and recipes may be written, the giraffe is in first place by virtue of the sheer length of his bones. But talk to a quality scapula man, and he will talk camel quality. And as to fuel, why, camel manure is a very close second to elephant hokey. For human friendship, the camel averages nearly as high as does man. I could demonstrate my points further.”

  “What do you do for a living, lad?” Polder asked this youngling.

  “I sell camels,” the lad said.

  “Come work for me.”

  “Buy my last camel and I will.”

  “Give him a camel’s worth of gold, Moira,” Polder ordered. And she did so.

  “You remind me of somebody else, of an older man,” Polder said.

  “Perhaps I’ve been renovated,” the lad answered him. “Most likely I’ve been an older man at some time or other.”

  Yes, there was a duplicity of outline about this lad, though it hadn’t been apparent before. He had traveled: not so much as Polder had, of course, not so much as a really seasoned traveler, but the lad had traveled.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, you know,” the lad said.

  “What? Waiting for me today?” Polder asked him.

  “Waiting for you for many days, for a year, for three. You’ve been outside of time, so it may be that you haven’t realized how much time has passed. I will have to look out for you and to intervene for you.”

  “My brother and I will do that for Mr. Dossman,” Moira said reproachfully.

  “You two, yes,” the lad agreed. “But myself also. This man requires a lot of looking after and intervening for. I must hold the shield over him, the schirm, the breastplate, the lorica, the umbrella. He needs protection, though he doesn’t deserve it. The Hand from Heaven that is visible over him is a meteorological manipulation paid for with gold. But there is a genuine and invisible Hand from Heaven pointing to him, and the cloudy subscript of it says, ‘Protect this least of mine.’ The subscript is written for me. I wish it were for somebody else. I never wanted the job.”

  “It’s your talk that is cloudy, lad,” Polder said sourly. “What is your name?”

  “Oak.”

  “Yes? Like the tree?”

  “Like the oak tree, like the Og tree, like the tree that was the pole ridge, for it’s there that I get my name. Like the roof ridge, perhaps the roof ridge of a sluggish-riding old boat.”

  “And your family name?” Polder asked.

  “Scath,” the lad said. But Polder didn’t recognize it.

  Polder Dossman had all the gestures for a cult figure. They were studied, they were sweeping, they were grand. The way he raised his head like a full-maned but still young lion, the way he compassed a whole world with that comprehensive and hunting look, the way he spread his dripping hands—these were gestures that few could withstand. And lately he had adopted the Hand from Heaven gesture, the pointing outward and downward that was both a legacy and a blessing. Polder, by the regal tossing of his head, gave the impression of incredible strength and swiftness and strategy. He looked to be the man who had no fear in him at all.
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  “Paper camel! Paper camel!” children were calling at him now. How did they know that his totem animal was the camel? And what did they mean by calling him paper?

  “Hot-air camel! Hot-air camel!” they called at him. Well, he would have to have some of those children killed as an example, though he hated to do that in his first week on a world.

  “Paint-picture camel! Paint-picture camel!” the kids were gibing at him. He would have those kids done away with quickly enough; but perhaps he could charm their elders to avoid exterminating many of them also. He did have charm, and he began to spread it about in the world.

  The way Polder spoke, with that far-carrying power in his voice, with the softness and confidence of edged steel sheathed in velvet, both stunned and soothed his listeners. The central bronze tone and the whispering edges of it shook the very earth with their harmonics; they set small animals and small people to tumbling out of their burrows and dens and strong houses. Polder trumpeted with his rich call, and all the walls fell down before him.

  “Pasteboard pig! Ballyhoo boar!” the damnable young of the damnable local humans were bantering. How did they know that the boar had become his secondary totem animal? How did they know that Adonis had become his secondary totem person? And what could they have against such holy things as paper (the first and still the best of the miracle communicators), against such things as hot air (electronic ether), against such things as paint-picture or visual portrayal? In one legendary, man had been made out of the slime of the earth. But now men, and especially transcending men, were made out of winged words, out of contrived and multidimensional portraits, out of the dripping charisma of the gifted, and out of the emotional miasma that floats just above the many-monstered interior ocean. But had not Polder himself now become a monster (a monstrum, a showpiece) in that interior ocean? Was he not an archetypical manifestation? He was on the inside of the head of every person on every world; he was there in his own person.

  Polder’s long and fair hair billowed and flowed even when the air moved not at all. This was by special dispensation or arrangement. His eyebrows were like bushy gold fire over the blue fire-ice of his eyes, and they were gently hypnotic in their effect. His slanting grin was like primordial cliffs, and it made his fat jaw line seem indomitable rather than hoggish. His dispensing hands scattered manna and fishhooks, and the latter hooked into the finny vulnerability of every person who encountered him.