by John Norman
“Return to the Dorna,” I said.
“She is restless,” he said. “Her ram and shearing blades thirst for blood.”
“The larl and sleen are patient,” I said. “They bide their time.”
“What, for the morrow?” he said.
“The Tesephone departs with the tide,” I said.
“To what end?” he asked.
“To seek an island,” I said.
“What island?” he asked.
“One such that it appears on no chart,” I said.
Chapter Sixteen
The Isle of Seleukos; Cuy; I Depart from the Isle of Seleukos, More Informed than when I Landed
“There!” cried Thurnock, pointing.
We had been three days at sea.
“Good,” I said, joining him at the bow.
“At last we have found it,” said Thurnock.
“Or one such,” I said.
“I do not understand your interest here,” said Thurnock. “Why do you want to see such a thing, so empty, so small, so flat, and barren?”
“I am curious,” I said.
“Are there not more important matters with which to concern ourselves?” asked Thurnock.
“Possibly,” I said.
“Of what interest can such a thing, or things, be?” asked Thurnock.
“Perhaps of considerable interest,” I said.
“They have seen us,” said Thurnock.
“Approach, at leisure, alarm no one,” I called back to Clitus, who communicated this to the helmsmen.
“There are more than some men there,” said Thurnock. “There are also some women, festively garbed, young women.”
“Bring us alongside,” I called back to Clitus.
“Stand off,” said Thurnock. “There may be reefs, unseen rocks.”
“I do not think so,” I said. “I have not thought so, for days.”
“Take soundings,” said Thurnock.
“Here, so far at sea,” I said, “we need not do so.”
“You are not so far at sea,” said Thurnock. “You are on the brink of land, an island, though one tiny and inauspicious.”
“No ordinary island,” I said.
“Proceed with care,” said Thurnock.
“The inhabitants are few and unarmed,” I said.
“I speak not of denizens, of natives, of villagers,” said Thurnock. “I speak of rocks, of stones that jut and tear.”
The Tesephone’s port side rocked gently against a rounded surface which seemed to curve back, and descend, for several feet, and was then lost from sight, under the water. Interestingly, when the Tesephone had touched the shore, one sensed, that the shore had drawn back a little, almost imperceptibly, as though reacting to the pressure of the Tesephone’s hull.
“Tal,” I called to those on shore, my right hand lifted, palm toward the side of my head.
“Tal!” called some of the men, returning the gesture. “You are one of several. We have been waiting for you. Regard the belts of our girls. They are still light. There is still room upon them.”
Several of the gaudily clad young women smiled, and laughed, and waved.
“What are they talking about?” asked Thurnock.
“I have no idea,” I said.
I noted some of the men in pairs, carrying heavy, drilled stones to the shore.
“Mooring ropes,” I said to the port-side oarsmen, who, standing, leaving their benches, had joined Thurnock and myself at the rail.
Ropes from the Tesephone were cast ashore and secured to the stones. Others from the shore, fastened to the stones, were cast over the rail of the Tesephone, which were then secured on board.
“No!” cried Thurnock.
But I had already vaulted over the rail and, catching my balance, unsteady for a moment, stood upright on the shore.
“Follow me, friend,” I called back to him.
“Welcome,” said one of the men on shore.
Thurnock eased himself over the rail, had his feet on shore, gained his balance, and was beside me.
“This is not soil, not rock,” he said, disbelievingly.
We stood on a gray, coarse surface, the texture of which reminded me of the hide of the common, nine-gilled Gorean shark. But it was hide or skin, which I conjectured might be a foot or more thick. At first, I was much aware that the object on which I stood was not still, not anchored in place, was not like an island, but was responsive to the water, that it rested in the water, that it floated. Shortly thereafter, however, I was no longer attentive to this, nor even cognizant of it. It was more like being afoot on a large vessel, platform, or raft.
“Ai!” cried Thurnock, drawing back.
Several yards away, to my left, where the object narrowed somewhat, a previously submerged portion of the object had suddenly reared upward, shedding water, and, simultaneously, roaring and hissing, there was towering expellation of hot, moist air and water. This phenomenon lasted for ten or fifteen Ihn, creating a towering mist, which then, slowly, dissipated, descending in a cascade of droplets.
We had seen such a thing from far away once, but had misinterpreted what we had seen.
“Ah, Thurnock,” I said, “it is not gas, nor fumes, not evidence of volcanic activity.”
“Islands cannot breathe,” said Thurnock.
“This one does,” I said.
There was then a lengthy, auditory intake of breath which lasted several Ihn. It was hard to guess at the volume of oxygen that the creature had drawn within its body, but it must have been considerable.
“How often does the island breathe?” I asked.
“When it wishes,” said a villager.
“It can go more than a day,” said another.
“It has its breathing door,” said another. “It closes the door when it puts its head under water. It does not wish to drown.”
“Why does it put its head under water?” I asked.
“It must eat,” said a man.
One of the fellows laughed.
“I saw no eyes,” I said.
“The eyes are underneath,” said a man, “like the paddles, the beak, and tentacles, where it finds its food. I do not know if it could see in air or not.”
“I have never seen anything like this before,” I said.
“Perhaps you are unfamiliar with these waters,” said a fellow.
I did not think it judicious to respond to that speculation.
“They are large,” said a man. “There is as much below the water as above the water.”
“More, much more,” said another.
“Some are larger than others,” said a fellow. “It depends on their age.”
“This one is somewhere between a hundred and two hundred years old,” volunteered another.
“Young,” said another man.
“Do you not fear that it will dive, that it will submerge?” I asked.
“We have our boats at hand,” said a man.
“There is always warning, a restlessness,” said a man.
“They seldom go beneath the surface oftener than every ten or fifteen years,” said a man.
“Then to mate,” said a short fellow.
“We want our gifts!” wailed one of the women, to the side.
“Fetch them from others,” said a man impatiently.
“Yes,” cried more than one of the young women, and, released, they hurried away, to mingle eagerly with the crew of the Tesephone.
“They have not yet been companioned,” said he who had, with a word, released the women. “They wish to enhance their attractiveness by augmenting their dowries.”
I scarcely attended to this, as it seemed local business.
“This thing, this living place,” I said, “tolerates your presence?�
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“I do not think it knows we are here,” said a man.
“We are good for it, and it is good for us,” said one of the fellows. “It supplies us with a camp, a station, which much enlarges the range of our fishing grounds. On our part, we scrape and clean it, especially the breathing door, fend away predators, and share our catch with it.”
“What do you call these things?” I asked.
“Living islands, of course,” said he who seemed first amongst those met on shore. “This one is called ‘Isle of Seleukos’.”
“He who just spoke,” said a fellow, “is our headman, Seleukos.”
“He is first in our village, the village of Seleukos,” said another.
I was much interested in prosecuting certain inquiries but I did not think it politic to make known certain concerns to the men of this transitory fishing camp. I did not know what they knew, or where their allegiances might lie. Accordingly, I would prefer to seek information which might be purveyed more openly, less critically, more innocently.
“I wish you well,” I said to the men.
“Enjoy yourself,” said Seleukos.
“I trust your pouch bulges with trinkets and baubles,” said another.
I turned away, puzzled.
In order that what follows might be more easily grasped, let me give a brief account of certain aspects of the culture of several of the living islands, of which we may take Isle of Seleukos to be typical. The young women of many such islands, villages, or stations, seek the status, security, honor, and pleasures, of the companionship. Thus, they seek to enhance their innate desirability, which is often considerable, by accumulating what is, in effect, a personal dowry. They liberally exchange their favors for coins, pins, badges, beads, medals, brooches, and such, which they commonly hang on their belts. In this way they not only proclaim their interest in, and eligibility for, the companionship, but make clear, given the weight and value of the belt, both their allure and likely prowess.
I made my way carefully amongst fondling couples.
I feared that my quest for a suitable informant, given the general busyness of the afternoon, might come to naught. Then, near the wall of a small shelter, some yards away, a tiny enclosure like a hut of sticks and thatch, I saw a rather plain young woman, one so plain that the plainness itself, regarded carefully, becomes a sort of beauty. She was alone, her dress was unwrinkled and unsoiled. There were tears on her cheeks. There were few adornments attached her belt.
I approached her.
She looked away. “Do not mock me,” she said.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but you seem unoccupied.”
“You are perceptive,” she said.
“May I speak to you?” I asked.
“Speak?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“What is wrong with you?” she asked. “Can you not see? Perhaps the sun is in your eyes.”
“The others are occupied,” I said.
“And I am not,” she said.
“No,” I said, “it seems you are not.”
“I do not have a face like a hogfish,” she said.
“No,” I said. “You certainly do not.”
“No?” she said.
“No,” I said.
“I may look like a hogfish,” she said. “But I am good. I cannot help myself. I am hot. I gush and oil.”
“I am sure you do,” I said.
“He who tries me is never disappointed,” she said.
“I am sure of it,” I said.
“Try me,” she said.
“I have other concerns,” I said.
“Then what do you want?” she said.
“To talk,” I said.
“Just that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I did not think I was that homely,” she said.
“You are not homely,” I said. “You have a different kind of beauty.”
“I hope not too different,” she said.
“I am prepared to pay for your time,” I said. “A copper tarsk. You can pierce it, and tie it on your belt.”
“Not a tarsk-bit?” she said. “A whole copper tarsk?”
“Yes,” I said, “and one not clipped, not trimmed, not even shaved.”
“Of what shall we speak?” she asked. “Of love, of fishing, of villages, of men, of Priest-Kings, of the mysteries of the universe? I warn you. I know little of Priest-Kings or the mysteries of the universe.”
“Nor do I,” I said. “I would speak of living islands, of men, and ships.”
“Let me see the copper tarsk,” she said.
I drew forth such a coin from my pouch, displayed it, a bit ostentatiously I fear, and then, with great deliberation, replaced it firmly in my pouch. Each phrase of this operation she perused intently.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Cuy,” she said.
This name is pronounced in two syllables. I think it is a village corruption of ‘Chloe’, which is a familiar name in Cos, Tyros, and the Farther Islands.
“How many living islands are there?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said. “They are rare, but there are several.”
“Some are enleagued with ships, are they not?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “And some are claimed by villages and towns, as is this one.”
“On some,” I said, “are there kept stores, supplies, tackle, weapons, water, ship gear?”
“I have heard so,” she said, “on some of the larger islands.”
“Have you heard of the notorious Bosk of Port Kar?” I asked.
“Who has not heard of that dreadful pirate, so elusive and ruthless a corsair?”
“Might his predations, on land and sea, be somehow supported and abetted by living islands?”
“I should hope not,” she said.
“Might some not serve as observation sites or posts, enlarging the compass of his intelligence, informing him of passing shipping, and such?”
“I trust that such is not the case,” she said.
“But if it were,” I said, “would such communication, such an interchange of information, be possible?”
“Easily,” she said. “Many message vulos home to particular islands as well as to villages and towns, even to particular ships.”
“How could a vulo home to a ship?” I asked.
“If the ship bears its cot,” she said. “Like most birds, message vulos have keen eyesight, and the homing circles of a message vulo, searching for its cot, can range over hundreds of pasangs.”
I recalled that Clitus had informed me that certain large, simple designs had been painted on the deck of two of the raiders’ ships, but I had thought little of it at the time. I had seen no point to the designs at the time, but I now realized that they would be visible from a considerable height.
“Then messages might be sent from a living island to a ship,” I said, “and from a ship to a given living island.”
“Certainly,” she said. “And, in some cases, from ship to ship.”
I had, of late, feared such a thing might be possible.
“In the Farther Islands,” she said, “vulos have been selected and bred for generations for just such an aptitude.”
“I suspect,” I said, “living islands, being alive, can move.”
“And do,” she said. “They swim. How else could they seek food?”
“This island,” I said, “seems inert, phlegmatic, immobile, passive.”
“So are they all,” she said. “How else could they be mistaken for islands? They are a massive life form, which moves little and, after feeding, can sleep for weeks, which two characteristics much diminish its need for food.”
“And the men, conveniently accessing new fishing grounds, share their catch with the island,” I said.
“Each benefits the other,” she said.
“The richest fishing is in shallower water,” I said, “where light can nourish plants, and fish come to feed on the plants, and larger fish come to feed on smaller fish.”
“Shallower water is not always close to shore,” she said. “In many places there are broad, risen plateaus under the water, sometimes several pasangs in width, plateaus which are often no more than twenty or thirty feet under the surface of the water. They make excellent fishing grounds.”
“If the islands sleep,” I said, “how can they breathe?”
“Easily,” she said. “They lift their breathing door from the water, expel used air and inhale fresh air, all this done in their sleep.”
“The men told me a living island can go more than a day without breathing,” I said.
“That is true,” she said. “But usually they do not go so long.”
“I have seen brush on at least one living island,” I said.
“The men do that,” she said. “Some soil, some seeds, some plants. That is done to fool strangers into thinking that the living island is an ordinary island. Too, for those who are familiar with these islands, it makes clear that a given island is spoken for, that it is claimed.”
“How long do living islands live?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said. “Some say a thousand years.”
“For their feeding,” I said, “they must seek fishing grounds.”
“When one encounters a living island in the wild,” she said, “one may be sure the fishing will be good.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“In that way,” she said, “they help the men find good fishing.”
“In the wild?” I asked.
“But not in the wild,” she said, “the men, ranging widely in their boats, can locate fresh fishing grounds. In that way, they can help their living island.”
“This is hard to understand,” I said.
“The living island is a predator, and territorial,” she said. “Their rage and contests are hideous to behold. I have only heard about this, of course. But once, when I was a girl, I swam near the head of the island, which is forbidden. I saw the beak and tentacles, under water. I have never forgotten that. I have never swum there again.”