A Far Sunset

TWENTY-THREE

Unintentionally, the one-armed Bai Lut, a youth without any great degree of intelligence or initiative, changed the course of history not only on Altair Five but on many worlds about which he would never know. He changed the course of history by building a kite. It was a beautiful kite constructed of slivers of springy yana wood and with the wind-catching surfaces painstakingly woven from musa reed which, when separated into its fibres was used to weave musa loul, the kind of cloth known to the Bayani.

The kite had taken Bai Lut many days to make. It was in die shape of a giant guyanis butterfly. Bai Lut had dreamed of building such a kite for a long time. Having only one arm, he had to work hard with his toes as well as his fingers. When it was finished, he regarded his achievement with awe. It was truly beautiful. He would have been quite content to die after such an achievement—or, at least, after he had seen it fly successfully—for it did not seem possible to do anything greater in life.

He prayed for a smooth, steady wind. His prayer was answered. And, with about two hundred metres of ‘string’ made from twisted hair—which had taken longer to manufacture than the kite itself—he flew the musa-winged guyanis and watched it soar joyously over the Canal of Life and lean high, almost yearningly, over the Mirror of Oruri towards the sacred city.

It may be that Bai Lut had prayed too ardently to Oruri for a wind. Because, when all of Bai Lut’s string was extended and the kite was as high as it could go, a great gust came—so suddenly that the string snapped.

It was a tribute to Bai Lut’s craftsmanship and intuitive grasp of aerodynamics that the guyanis kite did not immediately spiral down into the Mirror of Oruri. Instead it began to execute graceful curves, losing litde altitude, but gliding almost purposefully towards the sacred city. Presently it was no more than a slowly descending speck in the sky. Presently it was out of sight.

And then the wind dropped, and the kite dropped. But Bai Lut did not know where to look for it. He was miserable with the conviction that he would never see it again. And in that he was right. For it had come to rest in the Temple of the Weeping Sun; and, though he fortunately did not know it, the guyanis kite had fallen on the stone phallus of sacrifice.

The following day, Poul Mer Lo was giving a lesson in school to his four pupils on basic mechanics and specifically on the use of the lever. He had demonstrated how a lever could be employed to do work that a man alone could not accomplish and was about to embark on the theory of the calculation of forces when he was interrupted by Nemo.

‘Lord,’ said the tiny cripple formally in Bayani, ‘the warriors of Enka Ne are approaching along the Road of Travail.’ Poul Mer Lo looked at the small boy in surprise. He was surprised not only by the interruption but by the formal method of address.

‘The warriors of Enka Ne pass many times along the Road of Travail, Nemo. What has this to do with that which now concerns us?’

‘Lord,’ said Nemo in some agitation. ‘I have been riding the thoughts of the captain. The warriors are coming here. They are in a hurry. I think they will arrive very soon.’

Poul Mer Lo tried not to betray his anxiety. ‘In which case, we will pass the time considering how this instrument that I have shown you may be used to ease the burden of man.’ ‘Paul,’ said Nemo desperately, breaking into English, ‘there is something very strange in the mind of the captain. He is thinking of a guyanis butterfly and the Temple of the Weeping Sun … It—it is very close now… I—I keep falling off.’

‘Do not be afraid, Nemo,’ said Paul gently. ‘No one here has done anything of which he need be afraid.’

But in that he was wrong.

A Bayani warrior, armed with ceremonial trident, appeared in the doorway. His eyes flickered over the children, then came to rest on Paul.

‘Oruri greets you,’ said the warrior truculently.

‘The greeting is a blessing,’ responded Paul.

‘Lord, I am the voice and hand of Enka Ne. Which of your lost ones fashioned the guyanis that was not a guyanis?’

‘I do not know what ’ began Paul.

But Bai Lut sprang importandy to his feet. ‘I am the maker of the guyanis,’ he announced. ‘Truly it was a thing of much power. Can it be that Enka Ne has observed ’

‘Enka Ne observes all that is worthy of observation,’ cut in the warrior. ‘The flight of the guyanis was not well omened… Die now—and live for ever.’ Expertly he flung his short trident. The prongs struck deep in Bai Lut’s throat. He fell over backwards, gurgled briefly and lay still.

For a moment or two Paul was stunned. He looked helplessly at the three horrified children then at the Bayani. Meanwhile, more warriors had filed into the school.

‘Lord,’ said the captain, ‘it is the will of Enka Ne that you and these lost ones must withdraw from this place.’

‘But surely there cannot be any ’

‘Lord,’ said the Bayani sternly, ‘Enka Ne has spoken. Let there be no more dying than the god-king commands.’

Paul looked helplessly at Zu Shan and Nemo and Tsong Tsong, and then at the sad and bloody heap that was once Bai Lut, and finally at the dozen or so warriors waiting patiently behind their captain.

‘Come,’ he managed to say at length in a voice that was extraordinarily calm, ‘what Enka Ne commands, it is fitting that we should obey.’

He led the boys out between ranks of Bayani warriors. About twenty paces away from the school, they stood watching and waiting and listening as the warriors of Enka Ne smashed tables, chairs and all the carefully constructed equipment. Presently they heard the captain say: ‘Make fire.’

And presendy the Bayani soldiers trooped out of the school as tell-tale spirals of smoke began to drift from under its eaves.

The dry wood burned quickly and fiercely and noisily. The heat forced everyone back; but the Bayani warriors remained until Bai Lut’s funeral pyre was no more than a heap of glowing ashes.

The captain turned to Poul Mer Lo. ‘Such is the will of Enka Ne,’ he said.

If Bai Lut had not made the guyanis kite, if the wind had not broken his hair string, if the boy had not been so casually killed and the school burned down, Paul Marlowe would probably not have summoned sufficient determination to make the journey to the Temple of the White Darkness.

And it was the journey, and the timing of the journey, that changed the course of history.