Jongor- the Complete Tales

by Robert Moore Williams

He had no memory of them!

  The club thrown by the Murto that had struck him on the back of the head and had knocked him down had almost cracked his skull, with the result that deep inside the gray matter of his brain, certain pressures had been set up. So that his mind had slipped back across a span of time roughly equivalent to one year.

  He had no memory of ever having known Ann or Alan Hunter. He was simply Jongor, the youth who had grown up in Lost Land, the youth who lived by his wits, his cunning, and his strength.

  It is a strange characteristic of the human mind that as the result of a blow the memory will sometimes regress across a definite period of time. For recent events there may be complete amnesia, complete forgetfulness. A person injured in an accident may not be able to recall any of the events leading up to the accident. His memory may regress to the day before the accident, or two days, or a week.

  This lost memory may be recovered. Or it may not. Recovery depends to a large degree on what happens to the individual.

  Jongor was aware of a dull ache somewhere deep in the recesses of his brain. Every so often he shook his head at the ache, thinking thus to make it go away. It did not go away. He soon learned to ignore it. He was also aware of a vague, fleeting picture that from time to time tried to emerge within his mind—the picture of a female. His impression was that this was his mother. She was the only woman he bad ever known.

  Or had he known another woman?

  He tried to think, wrinkling his forehead in the process. The picture in his mind went away. With the sight, finally, of the deer feeding clearly before him, he forgot all about the picture of the woman that had tried to form in his mind.

  THE deer was feeding and not aware of the danger present. In the recesses of the leafy growth, Jongor carefully fitted an arrow to his bow. The bow stave creaked as he drew the feathered end of the shaft to his right ear.

  “Fly straight,” he whispered to the arrow, releasing it.

  Struck just back of his shoulder, the deer gave a great bound, the single convulsive leap that often comes when the death blow has been taken, and fell dead. The arrow had penetrated its heart. Jongor cut succulent steaks from the carcass, sought a secluded spot, and built a small fire using an ordinary cigarette lighter to start the blaze.

  As he used the lighter he stared at it, thoughtfully, as if he wondered where he had gotten such a thing and how it operated. The gray multi-veined crystal that he wore on his left wrist he knew about, knew where he had gotten it, and how it was used. But this little gadget that could be used to start a fire.

  Alan Hunter had given it to him only months before. But this was blocked out of his mind.

  Squatting beside the fire, he was aware of sounds off in the jungle. Not animal sounds, not Murto noises.

  The noise of men!

  Slipping the great bow on his back and picking up the spear, he rose quickly to his feet.

  THE two men had made a hasty camp at the edge of a bluff. Above them, rising in a series of graduated tiers, was a cliff. In front of them was a cleared space so that no danger could approach unseen. That much precaution they had taken.

  What little camp equipment they had was scattered about. It was not much. A medicine kit, an ammunition box, two smaller metal boxes which apparently contained food. Or had contained it.

  Two high-powered sporting rifles rested against the base of the cliff. Each of the two men had a heavy pistol; bolstered at his hip. Hanging across from each pistol was a heavy hunting knife.

  “Those worthless Blackfellows would desert just at the time when we needed them most,” Gnomer, the taller of the two, spoke. Anger sounded in his voice as he held the haunch of venison roasting over the fire. He was burly, black-bearded, and looked to be every inch a ruffian.

  “Yeah,” Rouse, his partner, answered. “They knew when to get out if I ever find one of those devils between the sights of my rifle, there’s going to be one less Blackie in this section.”

  “You’ll never catch one,” Gnomer answered, a sneer in his voice. “If you had been on the watch, like I told you, they’d never have had a chance to get away on us.”

  “I couldn’t he-p it because I fell asleep,” Rouse grumbled. “I was watching ’em. I must have nodded. I swear I didn’t close my eyes, but I must have closed ’em for a minute or two. Suddenly, no bearers.”

  “You probably closed your eyes for a couple of hours,” Gnomer said bitterly. “While you were nodding, they had time to take most of our gear and deaf out, including the maps.” Anger crept into his voice. “Damn it, I ought to put a bullet in you for letting them get away with the maps.”

  Rouse, lounging on the ground, twisted uneasily. “What difference does it make?” he answered. “Heck, we got here, didn’t we, maps or no maps!”

  “We got here all right, but now that we’re here, how in the hell are we going to find what we’re looking for without a map?”

  “We’ll find it. It’s got to be here somewhere.”

  Gnomer swept his free hand in an arc that included the whole of Lost Land. “Yeah, and you see how big this damned place is. Without a map, we could hunt for years without finding what we’re looking for.”

  “Well, I couldn’t help it,” Rouse defended weakly.

  AS quietly as a moving shadow, Jongor came down the series of ledges above the two men. He could move through jungle growth with an effortless ease that left no trace of his passage. Coming down the series of ledges was simple. He reached the ledge directly above the two men without either knowing that he existed.

  At sight of them, something stirred in him, like a hunger. But his belly was full, he could not be hungry for food. What, then, was this feeling that came into existence inside of him at the sight of the two men?

  Although he did not know it, the feeling in him was hunger for the companionship of his own kind. While his memory of Ann and Alan Hunter was blocked, there still remained in him a nostalgic emotional pressure, a sort of pseudo-memory of the happy times he had had with them. It was good to be with humans, good to be with your own kind. Even the Murtos showed a fondness for the company of their fellows.

  Seeing these two men, Jongor wanted to be with them, to talk to them. His only memory of humans at this point was of his father and mother. They had invariably been kind to him. He reasoned that all humans were the same as his parents had been.

  Standing erect on the ledge, he called out, “Hello.”

  The sight of the tall, skin-clad giant suddenly standing up on the ledge above them startled Gnomer so much that he dropped the venison into the fire. With a single motion of his hand, he snatched the heavy pistol from his hip.

  “Who are you?”

  Jongor was already dropping lightly and lithely from the ledge to the ground. A smile on his face, the spear grasped in his right hand, his left hand extended palm outward in the ancient human gesture of friendship, he advanced toward them.

  Gnomer held his fire. Rouse, snatching hastily at one of the rifles leaning against the rock wall, jerked it up to his shoulder.

  “Stop it!” Gnomer ordered.

  “But—”

  “I said to stop it and I meant exactly what I said.” Gnomer’s voice was hard and flat. Very slightly, he shifted the muzzle of the pistol he held so that instead of covering Jongor, it covered his partner, a movement that was not lost on Rouse. “But . . .” Rouse lowered the rifle.

  “I beg your pardon,” Jongor said. He knew he had startled these two men, but he also had the impression that something was not right here. Had he done something wrong? “I am Jongor,” he said. “I saw your fire and stopped to talk.” To him, this was a simple statement of fact.

  “Oh,” Gnomer said. Then he repeated the single sound again, “Oh.” Gnomer’s mind was working with lightning-like rapidity. He was badly startled. The last thing on earth he had expected to see here in this valley was a white man muscled like an Apollo and armed with utterly primitive weapons. But, now that Jongor had appeared before h
im, he had a choice of believing such a thing could exist or of doubting his own eyes. “Well—well, sit down. You startled us. Who are you?” His own voice had taken on sympathetic tones.

  SQUATTING on his heels, Jongor told them the story of his life. The doubt on the faces of the two men changed to wonder. “Well, whatta you know!” Rouse kept saying, over and over again. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his partner, as if he had an idea of some kind. Gnomer paid him no attention. Gnomer already had the same idea.

  “So you’ve lived here all your life?” Gnomer questioned.

  “Yes,” Jongor answered.

  “Then you must know this valley pretty well.”

  “Fairly well, I haven’t been over all of it. There are places here it is well to stay away from.”

  “If you want my opinion, it’s damned good sense to stay away from the whole blasted place!” Rouse spoke.

  “Nobody asked your opinion,” Gnomer said. Rouse lapsed into quick silence. Gnomer turned his attention back to Jongor. “Did you ever hear of an old, wrecked city where some kind of missing links live?”

  “Missing links?”

  “Yeah. Half human, half monkey.”

  “You must mean the Murtos,” Jongor said. A fleeting expression of anger crossed his face, and was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

  “I don’t know what you call ’em. Could you show us how to get to this Murto city?”

  “I suppose I could.” A frown crossed Jongor’s face. “But why do you want to go there?”

  “Because—” Rouse began.

  “We are scientists,” Gnomer said quickly. “We were sent here by an organization that is devoted to pure research. We have heard rumors of these Murtos and it is our job to investigate them, to determine if they are really the long-sought missing link.” His voice was suave and guileless. Rouse looked at him in startled surprise.

  “Scientists?” Jongor said. “I do not believe I know the meaning of the word.”

  “Scientists are people who devote their lives to solving the problems of the world, who explore the unknown, who search out new facts of nature and give them to the world so that all may benefit. From what you have told me of them, your parents must have been scientists. Certainly they were exploring a new world when they attempted to fly across this lost valley here.”

  “Oh,” Jongor said. This man’s words listened good, they sounded brave and honest and truthful, but somewhere about them he seemed to detect a feeling of insincerity. Was this man lying as the Murtos often lied? Jongor did not know. He shook his head.

  “No, I will not show you how to reach the city of the Murtos,” he said.

  THE gun, which Gnomer had holstered again at his hip, came out like-a flash of moving light. Jongor knew guns. His father had owned one here in this land, he knew what they could and would do. “Get your hands above your head!” Gnomer snapped.

  “But you said you were scientists—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I said. Get your hands above your head and turn around. If you make a wrong move, I’ll blow your guts out through your backbone.”

  Silently, Jongor obeyed. He did not begin to understand the reasons back of this man’s actions. He had come to them seeking companionship, seeking friends. He would have been a friend to these people. Now Gnomer was pointing: a gun at him, threatening him with death, telling him to turn around. Were all men like this? Was this the way men treated their friends?

  He felt his hands jerked down behind his back and tied there.

  “Now I guess you will guide us to the city of the Murtos!” Gnomer said, triumph in his voice.

  “But why do you want to go there? Is it because of the diamonds and the gold?”

  “Diamonds? Gold?” Rouse spoke, his eyes wide, “Are things like that to be found there?”

  “The Murtos were once miners,” Jongor said. “Yes they have tremendous stores of both jewels and gold.”

  “Holy hell!” Gnomer whispered. “That wasn’t the reason. But now that we know about it, it is a reason for going there. Well start first thing in the morning. And don’t get any ideas that you can get away during the night, because you’re not going to slip away from us now, not until you have guided us to the city of the Murtos, anyhow!”

  Gnomer sounded like a man who has stumbled into unexpected good fortune. “Even if you did lose the maps, I’ve got a better one,” he said to Rouse, nodding toward Jongor.

  Anger rose in Jongor, then subsided. He was trapped and he knew it. The first of his own kind he had ever met had tricked and trapped him. Or were these men the first of his own kind he had ever met?

  The gray ghost of memory went flitting through his brain, came and went too fast for him to grasp it.

  The two men were asking him questions, dozens of them, about the Murtos and the city of that ancient people, where it was located, and how best to get there the fastest. He answered them with dignity. Deep inside of him a feeling of anger was building up again. But it was helpless anger.

  For the time being.

  IN the silence of the night, the girl worked desperately with the leather thongs that bound her wrists. Near her, she was aware tint Alan was awake and was working too, as silently and as desperately sin. Near the great fire the Murtos had built, Calazao snored like some rusty steam engine. The Murtos themselves slept restlessly, each as near the fire as he could get without danger to himself. Guards had been posted; they were alert and apprehensive. To these creatures the night was a traditional time of danger. Off in the darkness somewhere a lion coughed. At the sound, a frightened monkey chattered.

  Ann and Alan Hunter lay a little apart from the Murtos. If they could get their hands and feet free, they could perhaps slip quietly into the overhanging foliage nearby. After that, they would be free. Free in Lost Land, where death lurked on every hand. Better the freedom and the danger of Lost Land than captivity by the Murtos!

  “Sis,” Alan Hunter’s soft whisper, came.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got my hands free.”

  Ann felt her heart jump at the words. She was aware that Alan was moving, was sliding slowly across the ground, coming nearer and nearer to her. She felt his fingers begin to explore her wrists.

  A restless Murto awakened. It was Umber, she recognized vaguely by the light of the fire. Apparently groping in a nightmare, Umber stumbled toward them. The girl held her breath.

  “Get away from her!” She heard Umber kick at Alan. Twisting, she saw that Alan had rolled away. “And don’t you come near her again!” the Murto repeated.

  “He’s my brother, he can come as close to me as he wants,” Ann said quickly, in the Murto language,

  “Shhh, Sis,” Alan said, in English. “Don’t provoke him.”

  “What is that strange talk?” Umber demanded.

  “N—nothing,” the girl faltered. “He just said that—that—we should do as you say.”

  “Good,” Umber said. Satisfaction sounded in his voice. Apparently he was still half asleep. He dropped to his knees beside her. His hands sought her face, turned, it toward him.

  HER first startled thought was that he was going to kiss her. But among the Murtos, kissing had never been discovered. They showed their affection by rubbing noses. The girl felt the hot breath of the Murto on her face, felt his nose gently touching her. Panic rolled through her like a shock wave.

  She wanted to scream, knew she did not dare. If she cried out, she would attract the attention of the other Murtos. Perhaps that would save her from this indignity but, on the other hand, it might mean just the opposite. Also, there was the danger that they would find out that Alan had freed his hands. If that fact was discovered, their chance of escape would be lost. The girl stifled her screams within her.

  “You beautiful creature,” Umber whispered to her.

  “You dirty beast!” the girl answered, in English.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means how strong you are!”
r />   “Ah!” She could almost hear a purr of satisfaction in Umber’s voice. Again his nose touched hers, again she could feel his breath upon her face. Pressure rose in her, pressure that she could no longer force down. It came explosively to the surface, in the form of an ear-splitting scream.

  “What’s that?”

  “What goes?”

  Awakened by the scream, the alarmed Murtos were instantly aroused. Even Calazao scrambled to his feet. Grasping his axe, he looked around for the enemy that had disturbed his rest.

  Umber, spitting like an angry cobra, rose to his feet. “The girl is having a nightmare,” he explained.

  It was an explanation that Ann was glad enough to accept. She lay quiet, not moving again and not uttering a sound. Alan did the same. Eventually the snores of Calazao sounded again and the whole camp was quiet. Again she felt Alan’s fingers tugging at the leather cords which bound her wrists. Minutes later, they both were free and were slipping like twin shadows into the moonlit jungle night. Alan hesitated long enough to filch a spear from a sleeping Murto.

  In the jungle, a restless sentry moved. They slipped around him. The camp of the Murtos was behind them. Each felt a surge of exultation pour through his veins.

  “We’ve got away, Alan, we’re free!” Ann whispered.

  “Never say die!” Alan answered. Nothing ever daunted Alan Hunter for long. “Now to find Jongor. I don’t understand what happened to him. I was dead certain he would be somewhere around this camp tonight.”

  “Maybe he is here somewhere,” Ann said eagerly. “Maybe he was just waiting for a good chance to set us free. We’ll get away from here and find a place to hide, and maybe he’ll find us tomorrow. I bet he will. Without him . . .” She didn’t finish what she had started to say, but both knew that getting out of Lost Land without Jongor to help them, would be a hard job indeed, if not impossible.

  “Come on,” Alan said. “Let’s scat away from here.”

  They began to put distance between them and the Murto camp. Off in the distance, a lion coughed, then was silent.

  Although neither of them knew it, as they slipped away from the Murto camp, a monkey-man quietly followed them. The Murto was Umber. Heavy club in hand, Umber followed the two humans like a silent, invisible shadow. In the darkness, one blow of the club ought to take care of the girl’s brother. After that, the girl would be his to do with as he pleased.