“And we had not a single glimpse of a murgu—they have learned to keep their distance.”
“The dam could be torn down . . .”
“Why? It would only be grown again. While here the vines are closer to the valley floor every day. It must be said. The murgu have learned how to defeat us at last. Not in battle—but with the slow and ceaseless growth of their poison plants. They will win in the end. We cannot stop it any more than we can stop the tide.”
“Yet each day the tide retreats again.”
“The murgu do not.” Herilak dropped to the ground, feeling defeat, feeling as old and tired as the mandukto. “They will win, Sanone, they will win.”
“I have never heard you speak like that before, strong Herilak. There is still a battle to be fought. You have led us before, you have won.”
“Now we have lost.”
“We will cross the desert to the west.”
“They will follow.”
Sanone looked at the bowed shoulders of the big hunter and felt the other’s despair, shared it despite himself. Was it Kadair’s will that the Sasku be wiped from the face of the land? Had they followed the tracks of the mastodon only to find extinction waiting at trails end? He could not believe it. Yet what else could he believe?
The excited shouts cut through the darkness of his thoughts and he turned to see what was happening. Hunters were running toward them, pointing, shouting. Herilak seized up his death-stick, leapt to his feet. There was a splashing roar as a wave of water rushed down the dry riverbed toward them, yellow with mud, quickly filling the banks. The terrified Sasku and Tanu scrambled to safety as the wall of water thundered by.
“The dam has been broken!” Herilak said. “Are all safe?”
Sanone watched the muddy water rush through the valley, saw no bodies—only tumbling shrubs and other debris. “I think they are, the river is staying inside its old banks. And, look, the level has dropped already. It is just as it always has been.”
“Until they rebuild the dam, regrow it. This means nothing.”
Even this welcome sight could not touch Herilak’s despair. He had gone beyond hope, was ready for his life to end. He did not even lift his head when others called out, only looked up, blinking, when Sanone pounded on his arm.
“Something is happening,” the mandukto cried, hope in his voice for the first time. “The vines, look at the vines! Kadair has not deserted us, we follow still in his tracks.”
High above them a mass of vine tore loose from the cliff, tumbled and fell to the valley floor. Dust rose about it and when it had settled they saw that the thick stems that had supported it were gray and crumbled. Even as they watched the waxy green leaves drooped and lost their shine. In the distance another great tangle of vines broke free and slid down into the valley.
“Something is happening out there, something that we don’t know about,” Herilak said, released from the dark prison of despair by the incredible events about him. “I must go see.”
His death-stick ready he ran the length of the valley, clambered up the barricade. Across from him, on the other side of the river, were the cliffs of the opposite bank, a close arrow-shot away. There was sudden movement there and he crouched, weapon pointed. A murgu appeared to stand at the cliff’s edge, then another and another. Their repulsive two-thumbed hands were empty. They stood motionless, wide-eyed and staring.
Herilak lowered his weapon. It was inaccurate at this distance—and he needed to understand what was happening.
They looked at him, as he looked at them, in silence, capable of communicating only their presence to each other. The width of the river lay between them, the width of their difference wider than any river or sea. Herilak hated them and knew that the stare from their slitted eyes radiated the same hate in return. Then what was happening? Why had they undamned the river, slain the vines?
The large one, closest to him, turned about and moved its limbs in sudden spasms as another appeared and passed over some object. The first one turned and cradled it in both hands, looking down at it—then looked up at Herilak. Its mouth opened in a spasm of unreadable emotion. Then it spun about and hurled the thing across the narrow valley. He watched it rise up in a slow arc, descend to strike the barrier and roll down to catch among the rocks.
When he looked back the murgu were gone. Herilak waited but they did not return. Only then did he slide down the barrier and stop beside the thing they had thrown over to him. There was the sound of hoarse panting as Sanone climbed up to join him.
“I saw . . . that,” he said. “They stood and looked at you, did nothing. Just threw this thing—then left. What is it?”
It was a melon-shaped bladder of some kind, gray and smooth. Featureless. Herilak pushed at it with his foot.
“It could be dangerous,” Sanone warned. “Be careful.”
“It could be anything.” Herilak knelt and prodded it with his thumb. “There is only one way to find out.”
He lay the death-stick aside and pulled out his stone knife, tested the edge with his thumb. Sanone gasped with alarm and moved back as Herilak bent and cut into the bladder.
The outer skin was tough. He pressed and sawed—and it suddenly broke. Collapsing as orange liquid oozed from it. There was a dark shape inside. Herilak used the tip of his knife to push it free. Sanone was standing beside him now, looking down as well.
Looking at Kerrick’s silver blade that had been concealed inside. The knife of sky-stone that he had always worn about his neck.
“It is Kerrick’s,” Sanone said. “He is dead. They have killed him and cut this from him and sent it to us as a message that he is dead.”
Herilak seized up the blade, held it high so that it glinted in the sun.
“You are right in that it is a message—but the message is that Kerrick lives! He has done this thing—I don’t know how—but he has done it. He did not die in the north but lives now. And has conquered the murgu.” Herilak swept his arm out in a gesture that encompassed the valley.
“This is all his doing. He has defeated them. They have broken the dam and have killed their vines—and they are gone. That is what the knife says. We can stay here. The valley is ours again.”
He held the knife high in the sunlight, turned it so that it gleamed and sparkled, and roared his words aloud.
“Won! We have won—we have won!”
“You have lost, Vaintè,” Lanefenuu said, one eye on the erect figure at her side, the other looking with distaste at the filthy, fur encrusted ustuzou that stood on the other side of the valley staring back at her. Then she signed Akotolp to join them. “Is the destruction done?”
The scientist framed her limbs into completion-as-ordered. “The virus has been released. It is harmless to other plants, animals. But certain death for all of the newly mutated cells. They will die. The virus remains in the ground so any seeds that mature will die as well.”
Vaintè was scarcely aware of Akotolp and pushed her rudely aside to get close to the Eistaa, in a frenzy to deny what the Eistaa had last said.
“We cannot lose. They must be destroyed.”
So fierce were her emotions that her meaning was muffled as conflicting feelings tore at the muscles of her body. In a final spasm she faced Lanefenuu, menace in her every motion.
“The battle must not stop. You must not stop it.”
So strong were her expressions that Akotolp fell away with a cry of pain and the watching Yilanè raised their weapons, fearful for Lanefenuu’s safety. She waved them back, then turned on Vaintè with distaste her limbs.
“The ustuzou-Kerrick knows you well, Vaintè. It said you would disobey me, would ignore my orders if I did not deliver them myself. It was right in that. You disobey me, Vaintè, who swore to be my fargi for life.”
“You cannot do this—”
“It is done!” Lanefenuu roared with anger, all patience vanished. The watchers fled. “You wish to disobey me? Then you will have death as my last order—an order you
cannot disobey. Die, outcast, die!”
Vaintè turned and stumbled away, Lanefenuu a step behind her, crest livid and shaking with rage.
“What is this? You do not die! You who hated them have become one of them. You are a Daughter of Destruction. A deathless one, an outcast. You have joined the ranks of those you once loathed. I will have you killed. Attention to orders all present.”
The fleeing Yilanè stopped, turned, fingered their weapons. Cold reason cut through Vaintè’s anger; she turned quickly to Lanefenuu, her back to the others, spoke the sounds softly and moved her limbs with the minimum needed to communicate.
“Great Lanefenuu, Eistaa of Ikhalmenets who rules from strength, Vaintè who served you abases herself. I obey your instructions always.”
“You did not obey the order to die, Daughter of Death,” she hissed.
“I would, but I cannot. I live to serve you.”
“I doubt that. I will order you killed.”
“Do not chance it.” There was cold menace now as Vaintè spoke. “There are Yilanè here who have forgotten Ikhalmenets, who have served me faithfully, who might even see me as their eistaa. Let us not tempt their loyalty—it might be a very dangerous thing to do.”
Lanefenuu was swollen with cold anger, ready to burst, looking at the deadly creature before her, weighing her threat. Looking at the same time at the troubled Yilanè below them. Remembering the threat to Ikhalmenets that had brought her here so far from her sea-girt city. There could be much truth in what this Yilanè of venom had said. When Lanefenuu finally spoke she did so as silently as the other.
“You live. For the moment you live. We return to Ikhalmenets and you will leave with me. I do not trust you here when I am not present. The war against the ustuzou will end. Nor will I have you again in my city. You are banished from Gendasi*, from Alpèasak, from my presence forever. If I could hurl you into the sea I would do that. I will not take that chance for others would know. You will be landed alone—very much alone—on the shore of Entoban*, far from any city of the Yilanè. You will be as a fargi again. That is what I will do and that is your fate. Do you have anything to say?”
What Vaintè felt she dare not say—or one of them would have to die. She could not chance it. So rigidly under control was her body now that her muscles vibrated with the strain as she raised her thumbs and signed acceptance.
“Good. Now we leave this place of the ustuzou and I count the passing days with joy until tomorrow’s tomorrow comes and I see the last of you.”
They climbed on their mounts, the fargi following on the uruktop, and rode away. When the dust had slowly drifted back to the ground they were gone, all of them, gone.
“I had a dream last night,” Armun said. “It was so real that I could see the colors of the leaves and the sky, even smell the smoke from the fire.”
She stood in the bow of the ikkergak, her eyes half-closed in the glare of the setting sun ahead. Kerrick stood behind her, his arms about her for the warmth and the pleasure of being close. She turned to look up into his windburned face.
“The alladjex would always listen when he was told about dreams,” she said. “Then he would tell you what they meant.”
“Old Fraken is a fool. A troublemaker.”
“You mean that my dream was not true?”
There was pain in her voice. He ran his finger over her long hair and reassured her. “A dream can be true—that is certain. We must dream for a reason. I meant only that you can tell for yourself, you don’t need that old one to tell what you know yourself. What was the dream?”
“We were back at the round lake. Arnwheet was there and eating the meat I had cooked. The girl Darras too, only she was bigger than I remember her.”
“She would be older now. Was Harl or Ortnar in your dream?”
“Ortnar was there, sitting and eating as well, with his bad arm hanging at his side. But the boy wasn’t there, Harl. Could the dream be telling me that he is dead?”
He caught the fear in her voice and answered quickly. “It sounds a very real dream. You said you saw the color of the sky so it was daylight in your dream. Harl would be away hunting during the day.”
“Of course.” She laughed aloud, relieved. “But maybe it was just a dream because I hope so much?”
“No! It was real. You saw ahead of us, saw the lake where we are going and all of those who wait for us there. Who wait in safety.”
“I want to be there.”
“The ikkergak sails well, the spring storms are over. We will be there soon.”
“Then I am happy. I did not want to have the new baby in the cold north.”
She spoke calmly, with happiness and acceptance and he laughed aloud with pleasure, sharing her thoughts and feelings, holding her tight to him. Never to be parted, never again. Stroking her hair gently he felt at peace, realized that he had felt that way ever since that morning in Ikhalmenets when he had bent the eistaa to his will, forced her to end the attacks on the sammads. This single effort had banished the fears that had possessed him for so long, driven out the demons that had perched in his head and darkened his thoughts.
They were going to the lake, going back to his sammad. They would be complete once again.
The ikkergak surged up and over the long rollers, its rigging creaking, spray flying from the bow. There was sudden laughter from the stern where the other Paramutan sat close to Kalaleq at the tiller. It was an easy voyage for them, good fun. They laughed again.
A red sky ahead, sign of good weather, a band of high clouds turned rose-pink by the setting sun.
A world at peace.
Far to the south, in the world they were leaving behind, Vaintè stood in the sea, the warm waters surging about her. Looking out at the uruketo vanishing into the red-shot sunset. Her arms curled into a cry of hatred, her thumbs arched and aching to claw. She was alone, there were none to hear what she called aloud, none to aid her, to share with her. She was alone.
Perhaps it was better that way. She still had the strength of her hatred and that was all she needed. There was tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow, days running far into the future like stones tumbled on a beach. Days enough for her to do what must be done.
She turned, strode out of the ocean, trudged up onto the trackless sand. The wall of the jungle was solid and impenetrable. She turned and walked along the beach, leaving a straight trail of footsteps on the sand, walking slowly and steadily into the falling dusk.
THE WORLD
WEST OF EDEN
THE YILANÈ
History of the World
Physiology
Diet
Reproduction
Science
Culture
Language
THE TANU
Language
THE PARMUTAN
Environment
Language
DICTIONARIES
Yilanè–English
Marbak–English
Sesek–English
Angurpiaq–English
ZOOLOGY
THE YILANÈ
Translator’s Note
The following section has been translated from Yilanè, an exercise that poses formidable problems. Of necessity the translation must be a “free” one and the translator apologizes in advance for any errors or discrepancies that may have crept into the text.
HISTORY OF THE WORLD
It must be pointed out at the very beginning of this particular history that it differs from many ‘histories’ currently popular. It differs in kind, a fact that the judicious reader must always take into consideration. For far too long Yilanè history has been the province of the fabulist and the dreamer. Whereas the intelligent Yilanè would be offended at any guesswork or wild speculation in a physics or a biological text, the same reader will allow any sort of imaginary excess in a work of history. A perfect example of fiction purporting to be fact is the currently popular history of this world that describes how a giant meteor struck the Earth 75* mi
llion years ago and wiped out 85% of the species then alive. It goes on to explain in great detail the manner in which warm-blooded creatures developed and became the dominant life forms on this planet. This sort of thing is what the present authors deplore; wild speculation instead of accurate historical research. No meteor of that size ever struck the Earth. The world as we see it is the world as it always has been, always will be, world without end. It is necessary, therefore, in the light of other works of this nature, that we define the term history before we can proceed.
History, as it is known today, is far too often a very inexact science, so inexact that it is more fiction that fact, more speculation than presentation. This is due to intrinsic aspects of the Yilanè nature. We care little where we have been—but we know exactly where we are going. We are happy with changes of a short duration while at the same time we demand that the future shall be as the present, changeless and unchangeable. Since this need for long-term continuity is essential to our very nature we tend to feel unhappy about the past because it might have contained long-term changes that we would find offensive. Therefore we refer vaguely to ‘the egg of time’ and assume in doing so that this was when the world was born, whole and new—and changeless ever since.
Which is of course nonsense. The moment has now arrived in Yilanè history to declare that history as we have known it is worthless. We could have referred to this present work as new history, but refrain since this gives an element of credence to the ‘old-history’. We therefore reject all other works of history to this date and declare that there is now only one history. This one.
In creating this history we are grateful for the very few Yilanè with an interest in the sciences of geology and paleontology. We wish to honor these sciences and declare them true ones, just as true as physics or chemistry, and not the subjects of sly laughter as they have been up to now. The past existed, no matter how much we might like to ignore this unpleasant fact. We feel that it is intellectually more courageous to admit it and to accept this fact, to admit that the Yilanè did not appear suddenly when the egg of time cracked open. This is the true history and a far more exciting and fulfilling one.
Winter in Eden Page 37