A Far Sunset

TWENTY

Two workmen had just delivered a load of rough-hewn wood for strengthening the framework of the small school. Poul Mer Lo noted with satisfaction that the wood had been brought on a four-wheeled cart complete with a two-man harness. He also noted with even greater satisfaction that the small Bayanis took their cart very much for granted. They might have been accustomed to using such vehicles for years instead of only for a matter of months. Poul Mer Lo—and this was one of the days when he did not think it was such a bad thing to be Poul Mer Lo, the teacher—wondered how long it would be before some Bayani genius decided that the front pair of wheels, their axle linked to a guiding shaft, would be more efficiently employed if they could swing on a vertical pivot.

But perhaps a vertical pivot and guiding mechanism for the front axle-tree was as yet too revolutionary a concept—as revolutionary as differential gears might have been to an eighteenth-century European coach-builder. Perhaps it would require a few more generations before the Bayani themselves added refinements to the new method of transport that had been introduced by the stranger. Certainly, Poul Mer Lo decided, he would not present them with the device himself. It would be a mistake not to let the Bayani do some of their own discovering.

It was a warm, sunny morning. When they had unloaded their wood, the workmen rested a while, wiped the sweat from their foreheads and regarded with obvious amusement the crazy structure that was being built by two boys and two cripples. Poul Mer Lo gave them the copper ring he had promised, and there was much exchange of courtesies.

Then one of them said somewhat diffidently: ‘Lord, what is this thing that you cause these lost ones to raise? Is it, perhaps,

to be a temple for the gods of your own country?’

‘It is not to be a temple,’ explained Poul Mer Lo, ‘but a school.’ There was no word for school in the Bayani language so he simply introduced the English word.

‘A sku-ell?’

‘That is right,’ answered Poul Mer Lo gravely. ‘A school.’ ‘Then for what purpose, lord, is this sku-ell to be raised?’

‘It is to be a place where children come to learn new skills.’ The Bayani scratched his head and thought deeply. ‘Lord, does not the son of a hunter learn to hunt and the son of a carver learn to carve?’

‘That is so.’

‘Then, lord, you do not need this sku-ell,’ said the Bayani triumphantly, ‘for the young learn by watching the old, such is the nature of life.’

‘That is true,’ said Poul Mer Lo. ‘But consider. These are children now without fathers. Also the skills that they shall learn shall be skills such as their fathers have not known.’

The Bayani was puzzled. ‘It is known that lost ones are the beloved of Oruri, from whom they will receive that which they are destined to receive … Also, lord, may not new skills be dangerous?’

‘New skills may indeed be dangerous,’ agreed Poul Mer Lo, ‘but so also may old skills be dangerous. The school is where— with the blessing of Oruri—these lost ones may perhaps gather some small wisdom.’

The Bayani was baffled, but he said politely: ‘Wisdom is good to have, lord—but surely Enka Ne is the source of wisdom?’

‘Without doubt, Enka Ne is the greatest source of wisdom in Baya Nor,’ said Poul Mer Lo carefully, ‘but it is good, is it not, that lesser beings should endeavour to achieve wisdom?’ The Bayani urinated on the spot. ‘Lord, these matters are too great for poor men to consider … Oruri be with you.’ He signalled to his companion, and they picked up the harness of the cart.

‘Oruri be with you always,’ responded Poul Mer Lo, ‘at the end as at the beginning.’

He watched them as they trundled the cart back along the Road of Travail towards the Third Avenue of the Gods.

For a while he supervised the stacking of the timber. Then, because the day was hot, he sat down to rest in the shadow of the small patch of roofing already on top of the school house.

Presently Nemo scuttled towards him, sideways, legs all twisted and arms used as forelegs, like some pathetic hybrid of crab and baboon. His small wizened face was creased in an expression of perplexity.

‘Lord, I may speak with you?’ asked the child formally.

‘Yes, Nemo, you may speak with me.’

The boy circled in the dust, vainly endeavouring to make himself comfortable.

‘Lord, in the night that has passed my head was filled with strange creatures and strange voices. I am troubled. It is said that those who listen to the people of the night go mad.’

Poul Mer Lo gazed at him curiously. ‘Tell me first of the creatures.’

‘I do not know whether they were animals or men, lord,’ said Nemo. ‘They were encased in a strange substance that caught the sunlight and became a thing of fire, as sometimes does the surface of water when a man sits by the Mirror of Oruri. They were tall, these beings, and they walked upon two legs. The skin of their head was smooth and hard like ring money. In their heads they carried weapons or tools. Truly they were terrible to behold. Also their god was with them.’

‘Their god?’ echoed Poul Mer Lo blankly.

‘Yes, lord, for such a being could only be a god.’

‘Describe this god, then.’

‘It was many times the height of many men, lord. It came down from the sky, walking upon a column of fire that scorched the white earth, transforming it into great clouds of steam and a torrent of water. Then, when the steam had subsided and the water was no more, the god opened his belly and brought forth many tall children—those whose skin was as fire in the sunlight.’

Poul Mer Lo was trembling. He was also sweating profusely. And, sweating and trembling, he could visualize the scene almost as clearly as Nemo.

‘Tell me more,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Tell me more of this vision that came to you in the night.’

‘Lord there is no more to tell. I saw and was afraid.’

‘What of the voices, then?’

Nemo frowned with concentration. ‘The voices did not seem to come from the creatures, lord. They came from the god.’

‘Try to remember, Nemo, what they said. It is important.’ The boy smiled. ‘They, at least, did not frighten me, lord; for they spoke chiefly in riddles.’

Poul Mer Lo wiped the sweat from his forehead and forced himself to be calm. If he could not stay calm he would never get the rest of the story from Nemo. And it was important that he should learn all that the boy knew. It was more important than anything else in his life.

‘Tell me these riddles, Nemo, for it may be that I shall understand.’

Nemo looked at him curiously. ‘Lord, are you ill or tired? I should not weary you with my unimportant thoughts if you are not well.’

Poul Mer Lo made a great effort to control himself. ‘It is nothing, Nemo. I am in good health. Your story interests me … What were these riddles?’

Nemo laughed. ‘All men are brothers,’ he said. ‘That, surely, is a fine riddle, lord, is it not?’

‘Yes, Nemo, it is a very good riddle. What else?’

‘There are lands beyond the sky where the seed of man has taken root… That, too, is very funny.’

‘It is indeed funny … Is that all?’

‘No, lord. There is one more riddle—the most amusing. It is that some day the god with the tail of fire will unite all the children of all the lands beyond the sky into a family which will be numberless, as are the drops of water in the Mirror of Oruri.’

‘Nemo,’ said Poul Mer Lo quietly, “what you have dreamed is a most wonderful dream. I cannot understand how these things could be made known to you. But I believe that there is much truth in what you have seen and heard. I hope that you will have such dreams again. If that happens—if you should again receive the grace of Oruri—I hope also that you will tell me all that you can remember.’

Nemo seemed relieved. ‘Those afflictions will not bring madness, then?’

Poul Mer Lo laughed—and tried vainly to suppress the note of hysteria in his voice. ‘No, they will not bring madness, Nemo. Nor are they afflictions. They are the gift of Oruri.’

At that point Mylai Tui came from the house with a calabash and a jug of watered kappa spirit. Seeing her, Nemo scuttled away. He and Mylai Tui hated each other. Their hatred was the product of jealousy.

‘Paul,’ said Mylai Tui gaily in English. ‘I wish you to drink. I wish you to drink as I drink, so that the joy will be shared.’

She poured some of the watered kappa spirit into the calabash then raised it to her own lips and handed it to him. She seemed happier than she had been for many, many days.

‘What is this joy of which you speak?’ he said haltingly in Bayani. His head was reeling.

‘Oruri has looked upon us,’ explained Mylai Tui.

‘I am no wiser.’

Mylai Tui laughed. ‘My lord, you are great with wisdom but not with perception.’ She pirouetted. ‘Whereas I,’ she continued, ‘am now indisputably great with child.’