The Chronicles of Misty

by Ed Hurst

  Part 2 - From Mists to Mysts

  Prologue

  A digest from the Anthropologist’s report on Dalorius Four: Dalorius Four is locally known as Misty. The inhabitants of Misty maintain a fairly stable tribal social and political structure, though internecine warfare is not unknown. The economy is Eastern Feudalism, with a highly evolved form of indirect barter. The primary economic activity is subsistence agriculture and resource extraction. Lacking any significant mineral resources, the primary advancements are in biology, particularly breeding flora and fauna for specific uses. They are noted for having gained significant mastery in using microorganisms to enhance their products. Technology is limited to non-metallic products, such as nano-computer circuitry, and non-metallic electrical generation, storage and transmission. The planet suffers many disadvantages in interstellar trade, sometimes lacking trading partners for long periods. They traditionally prefer to trade through monopolistic proxies. During better times, they export a wide range of luxury goods made from natural materials: woods, fabrics, ceramics and animal hides.

  Chapter 11: Landing

  Fortis joined George in the lower deck, feeding, brushing and cleaning up behind the animals. He learned the common term for them was “coursers.” During the journey across the polar island, it seemed they ate all the grass they could get. Once on board, they grew eerily quiescent, eating far less of the dried forage stowed below deck for them.

  George explained, “This long period of inactivity is very hard on them. When we dock, they’ll need some hard riding.”

  “Does that fit in with our planned activities on Johnston Island?”

  “Well, no. They are borrowed, as is the ship and the wagon. The food was provided, as well. Only the tent and a few belongings are actually my personal baggage. So when we land, the Harbor Master will take possession of them and notify the owner.” George began gathering the tools and climbed to the rear deck.

  Fortis followed. “Give me the bigger picture. Somehow my arrival, or that of any other visitor, must be quite significant, because this represents a substantial investment.”

  George began pulling his personal baggage out of the wagon, setting it on the deck. “When we discerned the time was ripe for expecting a peaceful contact, the Council of Sheikhs met and decided it was worth ensuring there would always be someone on station at our primitive space port at all times. The task was delegated and elders were selected from each tribe, by clan, and various promises were made for exchange of goods to offset the costs for Clan Johnston. This is the closest clan home to the pole, and all of us selected for the welcome committee are being hosted here,” waving his hand at the now visible island.

  Fortis saw a low, gently sloping green hump rising from the sea. He had learned to expect trees at the lower elevations, with grass on the higher lands, but nothing much higher than a few meters. Aside from natural springs or wells, the only water was from the sea. While extensive research and development had made desalination a relatively minor task, so that even the ship itself relied on it, there was also an industry in capturing the night mists as cheaper and less troublesome. Water was easier to move and distribute when it was already uphill from the users. George had showed him the water collection tubing built into his tent and the bladder where it was held.

  As they drew closer, Fortis could see the clan banner atop a pole mounted on the hill nearest their southern approach. It was yellow, with a purple geometric design. He also saw a large number of wildly colorful fabrics fluttering and moving around the pole, apparently randomly scattered. “Are those water captures?”

  Glancing up, George smiled. “No, those are kites. We encourage kite making by students and hobbyists. The wind is a major natural resource, and we are constantly seeking improved means for harvesting its power. Kite design over the centuries has yielded significant advancements, both in materials and shapes. Clan Johnston is a leader in this endeavor.”

  As George continued loading the loose equipment into the wagon, or stowing on the ship, Fortis stared silently at the kites. “Privilege and reputation is a major item of exchange, then?”

  “Very perceptive!” George laughed. “Which brings up an important issue: You are currently the most valuable commodity on this planet.”

  Fortis turned red with embarrassment. Stammering, “I... I’m used to being treated well... But I hardly see myself...”

  “Think in symbols, Fortis. If all you do is send your ship and spooler home, we will in a few years have trade missions coming to visit. Our few surviving metal imports are nearly worn out. It’s not just better equipment we need, but just keeping our current level of comfort requires replacement. Naturally, human comfort itself is a mirage from the mystical viewpoint, but keeping ourselves alive and productive is critical to far greater concerns.”

  “Some rising threat to the galaxy?” Fortis remembered the previous hints, but had respectfully waited for George to discuss it at his leisure.

  “That, but you would almost be missing the point if that were the whole matter. We do see a major threat, and we believe we have a solution, in a manner of speaking. But that in itself is the means to a greater end. The threat is a symptom of some deep darkness, for lack of a better term.” George finished moving his personal baggage to the foredeck.

  Fortis joined him at the steering controls one last time, as the stone and wood dock was now visible as the nearest fixture they were approaching. George continued, “The part you play as a fellow mystic lies entirely in your hands. I’m sure you’ll want to learn as much as possible, but at some point the rest of the galaxy needs to know we are here. We must cultivate in others an acceptance for our uniqueness, as we seek to rebuild what has fallen in the wider galactic human culture. There are no words for it, but I believe you already know, in some sense. No one can stop the ultimate end of humankind, but we dare not let the light be extinguished, and the portal to the Other Realm be lost.”

  Chapter 12: Coming and Going

  There was excited shouting from the pier. Someone was out on the end, calling back to several others in front of the first solid man-made building Fortis had seen so far. He could just make out carefully stacked stones in varying shades of gray on the lower floor, and what appeared pale yellow-brown wood on the second. The peaked roof was almost black, like slate. From inside the large open door on the bottom floor directly facing the pier came running several other figures. Unlike George, with his robe down below the knees, these wore uniformly shorter garments, cut just above their knees. They also had more color than George’s somber gray and brown. While the elder had small hints of red and green, these men wore various shades of blue and purple, with yellow trim. Fortis’ anthropologist frame of reference drank in the details of the scene.

  The young men on the end of the pier were waving and chattering as they lifted long poles grappling hooks. Two were holding the ends of large, tan colored straps. George manipulated the controls and the sails slipped together in stacks. Glancing down into the water, Fortis could see the bottom was sloping gently upward into view. George pulled a lever and there was the sound of splashing under the vessel as it suddenly slowed. They were less than a meter from the end of the pier, still drifting slowly toward it. Once the grapplers had pulled the boat tightly alongside the dock, the straps were snaked around fixtures on the pontoons. Each was anchored in a large roll around a small, narrow drum, with a crank handle. The two men quickly cranked in the slack as the port side pontoon was pulled tightly against some sort of pale colored cushioning of a material Fortis could not identify. The ship was now solidly attached to the dock.

  The chatter never slowed. Fortis recognized it as an oddly inflected version of Standard Galactic, but it was clear some of the words were being used differently, rather like slang. There were hugs and back slapping with George and each of the young workers. Finally, George freed himself, stepped back and made a formal introduction Fortis understood. “Gentlemen, I would like you all to meet Doctor
Fortis Plimick, Interstellar Anthropologist.”

  The men bowed half-way to waist level almost in unison. The eldest alone rose and spoke, this time in clear Galactic. “Doctor Plimick, on behalf of Clan Johnston, we welcome you to our home. Please be so kind as to tell us your slightest whims, that we may have the honor of assisting you.”

  With George’s meaningful look, Fortis made a quick estimate of the situation, then bowed somewhat less than the workers had. “Men, I am grateful for your hospitality.” Then, straightening up, he assayed a joke. “For now, I believe what would serve me best is getting off this boat.”

  The men laughed and cleared a path for him, as George gestured Fortis lead the way, bowing slightly himself. As he cleared the knot of men and turned toward the head of the pier, Fortis saw a trio of older men, noted their slightly longer robes, smiling broadly. While certainly more relaxed than most protocols he had seen, Fortis realized there would be a strong undercurrent of ceremony every where he went.

  He was glad for the moment the odd flat topography of Misty meant the pier was at least a couple hundred meters long. Turning his face to George, just a half step behind on the left, he spotted the archery bow and sword hilt projecting above the shoulders again. Half smiling, “George, don’t let me make of fool of myself.”

  “You’re doing fine, Fortis. The burden of flexibility falls to your hosts, and they would probably laugh at themselves before daring to think anything you said or did was silly. They’ll be relieved to find you so relaxed and friendly, because if you were a tyrant, they would be obliged to cater to your demands.”

  Fortis had met such tyrants, even in his own profession where it was such a hindrance. Behind them they left the sound of men working to unload the animals and wagon, while one trailed a few paces behind them lugging George’s gear. With part of his mind, Fortis noted the forest grew within a couple of meters of the shore, but had been cleared back a bit from the small harbor. Across the way stood a pair of shorter piers with a scattering of smaller boats tied up, including one which had no pontoons. It was rather long and sleek, with a ribbed hull, and a single mast for the complicated framework of the stiff curved sails used on Misty. Fortis noticed the boat when he caught out of the corner of his the movement of someone climbing over the side onto the dock, and rapidly pacing toward the head of the short pier. He was dressed more like George than anyone else Fortis could see.

  Of the men waiting for them on this pier, Fortis saw two of them, of middling age, with dark blue, and patches of other colors. The other, much older, was wearing mostly black, including leggings. Fortis stopped a comfortable distance away, and they all bowed, bending only slightly at the waist. Fortis matched it, as George stepped forward and made the same formal introduction as before. The eldest man in black was Harbor Master Wendell Johnston. George didn’t name the other two. The Harbor Master was just as formal as the eldest worker who first greeted him, with a similar offer of hospitality. He even asked if Fortis had any personal baggage he could carry.

  At this, the younger man in blue relieved the worker of George’s gear. Fortis held out empty hands, deciding humor was working well with these people. “I haven’t lacked for anything so far, but I suppose I shall have to acquire some.”

  The Master chuckled, and turned to George. “Elder Manley, it’s good to know you gave proper care to our esteemed visitor. You will see Francis here about proper equipment before you travel to the city,” he said indicating the elder of the pair in blue. He opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by a shout. The figure who had left the fancy boat on the other pier was striding quickly toward them. He wore colors which matched the Johnston clan banner, but with large panels of gray. Glancing back at George, Fortis noticed the similarities of style, and decided tentatively the gray was related to their profession or relative position in society, and the other colors marked clan affiliation. It was at least partially confirmed by the greeting.

  George stepped forward to intercept the man. “Elder Bradley! How nice to see you again.”

  Wearing a large grin, this new elder spoke with broad sarcasm. “So, you just couldn’t wait for me to come and help. You had to drag this poor visitor up here in a hurry without any of his personal baggage. What is Misty coming to?”

  There was hearty laughter all around, the two men in blue stepping back a bit. The Master spoke up, “Elder Bradley, we were just discussing that. Manley, do your duty.”

  The ritual was familiar by now, and Fortis bowed just slightly from the shoulders, as Elder Bradley bowed from the waist about one-quarter. He decided it was really up to him to discern from the context the proper depth to bow.

  Bradley continued, “I suppose there is no hurry now for me to chase the currents and winds to the pole, unless I just want to see the latest technology in space travel.”

  George produced his electronic sheet, unrolled it, tapped and stroked the face a few times, then showed an image of the ship. Apparently the device served several purposes, rather like personal communication devices, but without the communications. Everyone gathered around to see, but Fortis was suddenly struck by a thought.

  “Elder Bradley, did we catch you about to relieve George on his watch at the space port?” Fortis rested one hand lightly on a pocket.

  “Indeed! While he prefers the coursers and wagons, I just sail my little craft up the inlet on the far side. It crosses inside the polar flat, leaving me just a day’s walk from the pole itself.” His accent was much closer to George’s than anyone else there.

  Fortis turned to George. “Can you zoom in that image closer on the legs?” George did so, and then turned it back for Fortis to see. Motioning Bradley closer, he pointed to the extended platform. “Right next to this, on the right side, is a tiny little circle which opens if you press on it.” Bradley signified he understood, with a quizzical look.

  Producing the spooler from his pocked, Fortis handed it to the elder. “When you do get there, please press this into that receptacle. Then step away from the ship, as it will disappear, which will create a momentary vacuum. It could kick up some rocks or other debris.”

  The two elders stared at each other wordlessly. George smiled and gave a single, faint nod of his head. Bradley clutched the spooler in both hands to his chest, and his face took on a very serious look. “I was planning to leave first thing in the morning. I’ll be sure to carry out your wishes.”

  Chapter 13: Packing Up

  For the first time, Fortis noticed insects. The polar island had been devoid of any native life except grass. Though George had mentioned the possibility of predators, they had seen no sign of life other than themselves and the coursers. He had spotted a few sea birds while sailing, and there were just a few more randomly wheeling over the harbor. He wondered if any of flying insects would bite, but no one else seemed concerned, not even bothering to wave them off. They were simply there.

  The man called Francis led Fortis and George through the large open doorway of the shipping warehouse. Through the gloom of the windowless open space, Fortis spied another opening on the opposite side, a rather solid gate over a doorway too wide for simple human traffic. The other side must have been somewhat open, because in the light he could see wisps of dried grass scattered on the stone floor, rather like the fodder they had given the coursers during the voyage north from the polar island. The three of them mounted an airy but solid wooden stairway up, Fortis trailing. He heard the sound of the coursers planting their heavy feet on the pavement, then watched them being led in the wide doorway as one of the young workers trotted ahead to open the gate. From this angle, over the backs of the animals he could also see the warehouse was filled ceiling to floor with racks and shelves, and broad aisles. His last glimpse was of long, thin curved planks, and what appeared to be the tip of a pontoon.

  They entered the upper story almost dead center in the long building. A row of chairs backed on the railing, similar to the chairs George left packed in the wagon, but with hea
vier frames. The fabric was more carefully tailored to accommodate the human form, and there were armrests. The chairs faced an unpolished, but very finely crafted wooden counter, separated by a wide space of what looked like seamless ceramic flooring, buffed in the center where traffic was the heaviest, semi-reflective elsewhere. After arranging the baggage on the counter, Francis ducked behind a curtained opening into a back room.

  Fortis glanced out the back window over the stairs and saw a tent awning over what he took to be the corral. To his left was on open doorway and what appeared to be offices of some sort. In the other direction was a partially enclosed dining area, with an open buffet of some sort, as steam was rising from parts of the counter. Brightly colored serving handles stood at various angles just barely in line of sight. Smells of cooked food teased him. Three large tables with stools scattered about them were currently empty. Fortis estimated the evening meal was not so far off, and wondered what combination of workers or guests ate here. There was a window on the far wall. In the distance were several tents, some over frames he guessed were permanent.

  His attention returned to the counter as Francis brought out first two very slender pack frames, which Fortis recognized by the curvature. There were a number of quick release straps of various widths. An assistant brought out another frame with small wheels, and a folded handle. He placed it on the floor at the end of the counter, disappeared inside the curtain only to pop back out with two slender bags, colored bright orange.

  George turned to him, with one hand on the counter. Pointing to the rig where Francis was fastening the folded tent over the long orange bags, “Those are hammocks. In the forest the insects and other creatures like to climb into your warm bed if you are on the ground, or even on a raised cot. Forest rangers maintain camping spots where there are pairs of large trees spaced for tents and hammocks. The bright color is to prevent them getting lost in the half light of morning when we pack up.”