Big Planet

8 A Matter of Vitamins

Glystra tried to break loose the knots on Pianza’s wrists, without success. His fingers were like sausages, without sensation. He was suddenly weak, lax; his brain felt inert. The aftermath of the drug.

The lid to the gypsy still quivered, raised. Dripping, sodden, Nancy looked out—wide-eyed, white-faced.

“Nancy!” cried Glystra. “Come here, quick!”

She looked at him as if dazed, moved uncertainly forward, paused, looked out across the steppe toward the melee.

The Beaujolain ululations rose shrill, keen, triumphant.

“Nancy!” cried Glystra. “Cut us loose—before they come back and kill us!”

Nancy looked at him with a strange contemplative expression, as if lost in thought. Glystra felt hopelessly silent. The drugged smoke or the fumes of the still had dulled her reason.

A throbbing chorus of bellows, deep-voiced, rich, rang like bells across the air. There was an intermittent thudding sound, and the Beaujolain yelling choked off, ceased. A voice rose above all others: Heinzelman the Hell-horse. “I kill, I eat your lives!… I kill, kill, kill”

“Nancy!” cried Glystra. “Come here? Untie us! They’ll be here any minute. Don’t you want to live?”

She sprang forward, took a knife from her sash, cut, cut, cut. Earthmen stood about, rubbing their wrists, grimacing at the pain of restored circulation, torpid with zygage hangover.

Glystra muttered, “At least we need worry no further about guarding the Beaujolains… A load off our minds…”

“The gypsies will eat well tonight,” said Bishop. Alone in the group he appeared alert. Indeed, he was more than alert; he evidently retained the mental edge and physical tone which the others had felt under influence of the zygage. Glystra wonderingly watched him prance up and down, like a boxer loosening his muscles. His own frame felt like a sack of damp rags.

Ketch bent with the effort of an old man, picked up a shining piece of metal. “Somebody’s ion-shine.”

Glystra searched the clearing, found his own weapon where it had been carelessly flung. “Here’s mine… They were too steamed up to care about anything.” The breeze brought a wisp of smoke into his face; new fingers of delight searched into his brain. “Whew! That stuff is powerful…”

Bishop had flung himself to the turf and was doing pushups. Feeling the stares of the others he jumped to his feet. “I just feel good,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “That smoke did me good.”

There was silence from the steppes. Overhead in the pale blue-black sky, stars flickered.

The gypsy war-chant rose up, loud, close at hand. Something whickered overhead, slashing through the leaves.

“Down!” hissed Glystra. “Arrows… Move away from the fire.”

Loud came the chant: four notes on a querulous quavering scale, sung with syllables that carried no meaning.

Loud came Heinzelman’s voice. “Come forth, you strange men, you miserable intruders, come forth. Come crouch at my feet while I kill you, while I drink your blood; come forth… I am Heinzelman the Hell-horse, Heinzelman the life-eater, I eat your life, I am the It, the Pain-maker, Heinzelman”

They saw his shape silhouetted, and behind him were a string of zipangotes. Glystra sighted along his ion-shine, then hesitated. It was like felling an ancient tree. He called, “You’d do better leaving us alone, Heinzelman.”

“Bah!” A sound of immeasurable disdain. “You dare not face me higher than your knees. Now I come to kill you; put down your electrical tricks, bow your neck, I come to kill.”

Glystra numbly started to lay down the ion-shine, then blinked, fought off the man’s magnetism. He pushed the button. Purple sparks flashed at Heinzelman, buried into his chest, absorbed, defeated. “He’s grounded!” thought Glystra in sudden panic.

Heinzelman loomed on the afterglow, a heroic figure, larger than life… Bishop ran forward, closed with him. Heinzelman bellowed, a ringing bull-sound. He bent, Bishop twisted, rose up beneath. Heinzelman performed a majestic cartwheel, struck earth with a ponderous jar. Bishop sat casually on him, made play with his hands a moment, then stood up. Glystra approached, still numb. “What did you do?”

“Tried out a few judo tricks,” said Bishop modestly. “I had an idea the fellow won his battles with his voice, his hypnotic suggestion. Sure enough he was soft; no muscle around his major chord. I killed him dead as a mackerel, one tap in the right place.”

“I never knew you were a judo expert.”

“I’m not… I read a book on the subject a few years back, and it came to me all at once—my word, all those zipangotes!”

“They must have belonged to the other Politburos, that the Beaujolains killed. They’re ours now.”

“Where are the other gypsies?”

Glystra listened. There was not a sound to be heard across the steppes. A far bray of the horn? He could not be sure.

“They’ve gone. Melted away.”

They returned to the copse leading the zipangotes. Glystra said, “We’d better get going.”

Cloyville stared. “Now?”

“Now!” Glystra snapped. He was taut with weariness. “Three Beaujolain soldiers got away last night. They’ll take the news to Montmarchy. A new column will be sent out. They’ll be mounted on zipangotes, they’ll carry metal weapons. We can’t take chances. I don’t like it any more than you do but—” he pointed to the zipangotes “—at least we can ride.”

Morning, midday, afternoon—the Earthmen slumped on the curved backs of the zipangotes, half-dazed with fatigue. The gait was a smooth rocking pitch, not conducive to sleep. Evening came with a slow dimming of the sky.

A fire was built in a hollow, a pot of wheat porridge boiled and eaten, two-hour sentry watches set, and the column bedded down.

Glystra was too tired to fall asleep. He twisted and turned. He thought of Nancy, raised to his elbow. Her eyes were on him. Sweating, he sank back into the couch. It would be hard indulging what he felt to be a mutual passion without making themselves ridiculous. It would also be inconsiderate… Sighing, Glystra slumped back into his blankets.

The next morning Glystra opened his eyes to observe Bishop running lightly back and forth along the side of the slope. Glystra rubbed his eyes, yawned, hauled himself to his feet. Feeling dull and liverish he called irritably to Bishop, “What in the world’s come over you? I never knew you to go in for early morning exercise before.”

A flush mounted Bishop’s long homely face. “I can’t understand it myself. I just feel good. I’ve never felt so well in my life. Perhaps my vitamins are taking hold.”

“They never took hold before we got all doped up with that zygage. Then they took hold like ice-tongs, and you ran out and played hell with Heinzelman.”

“I can’t understand it,” said Bishop, now half-worried. “Do you think that drug has permanently affected me?”

Glystra rubbed his chin. “If it has it seems to be a good thing—but why did it give the rest of us hangovers? We all ate the same, drank the same… Except—” he eyed Bishop speculatively. “I wish we had more of those branches; I’d make some experiments.”

“What kind of experiments?”

“It occurred to me that you’d crammed yourself with vitamins—just before the smoke hit us.”

“Well, yes. That’s true. So I did. I wonder if possibly there’s a connection… Interesting thought…”

“If I ever lay my hands on any more of that zygage,” muttered Glystra, watching Bishop absent-mindedly flexing his arms. “I’ll find out for sure.”

Four days of steady travel passed, from dawn till sunset. They saw no human being until on the afternoon of the fourth day they came upon a pair of young gypsy girls, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, tending a score of sluggish animals, yellow-furred, the size of sheep— pechavies. They wore tattered gray smocks and their feet were tied in rags. The freshness of youth was still theirs, and they had a wild prettiness in no way diminished by their complete fearlessness when they found that the men of the column were not gypsies.

They deserted their animals and ran forward. “Are you slavers,” asked the first happily. “We wish to be slaves.”

“Sorry,” said Glystra dryly. “We’re just travellers. Why are you so anxious?”

The girls giggled, eyeing Glystra as if his question were obtuse. “Slaves are fed often and eat from dishes. Slaves may step under a roof when the rain comes, and I’ve heard it said that slaves are eaten only if no other food is available… We are to be eaten this winter, unless the pechavies fatten past expectation.”

Glystra looked at them irresolutely. If he set about righting the wrongs of everyone they meet, they would never arrive at Earth Enclave. On the other hand—a stealthy thought—if the other men in the column were provided with women, it would be possible for him to advance his own desires. Of course, camp-followers would slow up the column. There would be added supply problems, emotional flare-ups… He looked over his shoulder. Corbus caught his eyes as if divining his thoughts.

“I could use a good slave” he said easily. “You—what’s your name?”

“I’m Motta. She’s Wailie.”

Glystra said weakly, “Anyone else?”

Pianza shook his head. “I’m much too old. Too old.”

Cloyville snorted, turned away.

This was embarrassing thought Glystra. Here is where he should display firmness, leadership… He passed over Ketch, who gloried in his misogyny, and would suffer the pangs of Saint Anthony before yielding so eaily.

Bishop said tentatively, “I’ll take her.”

Glystra felt quick relief, vindication of a sort. And the problems of the future could be met as they arose. Now was the present, now was the time containing that sweet union of carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, spirit, will and imagination named Nancy. He met her eyes, as if there had been a signal. She colored faintly, gave an enigmatic jerk of the shoulder, looked away.

Three more days of riding the steppe, each exactly alike. On the fourth day the land changed. The bracken grew taller and harder to ride through, almost like Earthly manzanita. There were occasional flamboyant shrubs six feet tall, with leaves like peacock fans. Ahead appeared a low black blur, which the gypsy girls identified as the bank of the River Oust.

At noon they came upon a fetish post driven into the earth—a round timber eight feet tall, topped by a spherical gourd painted to represent a face.

The gypsy girls made a wide circuit of the post. Wailie said in a hushed voice, “The Magickers of Edelweiss put that there, and only just now, to warn us away from the river.”

Bishop patiently pointed out that in all the range of vision there was no living creature but themselves.

“Only just now,” declared Wailie stubbornly. “See the moist dirt.”

“Does look fresh,” Bishop admitted dubiously.

“If you touch the post, you will blacken and die,” cried Motta.

Glystra, reflecting that many folk-beliefs were based on fact, searched the steppe in all directions… There! A flicker of white? Whatever it was, it disappeared over a distant swale.

In the middle afternoon they came upon Edelweiss, a stockaded fort, with three story blockhouses at each corner.

Motta explained. “Sometimes the South Cossacks raid the Magickers. They are not allowed at the Rummage Sale, because the sight of naked knees drives them mad and they run killing-crazy. But they love the gray powder salt which comes up the river from Gammerei and the Magickers have it in stock, and that is why Edelweiss is girt up with such care.”

The town was illumined full-face by the afternoon sun, and across the clear distance appeared as a toy, a miniature, colored dark and light brown, with black windows, light green and black roofs. From the center of town rose a tall pole, with a cupola at the top, like the crow’s-nest of a ship.

Motta explained the purpose of the pole. “The high-wire to Swamp Island is made fast at the top of the pole. And then the Magickers always watch the distance; they read the clouds as signs, and the wise hags among them see the future.”

“By watching clouds?”

“So it is said. But we know little, being females and raised for use.”

They continued to the river, and with the afternoon sun at their backs stood looking over the tremendous Oust. It flowed from the far north, appearing into sight out of the hazy distance, and proceeded into the equally distant south, curving back toward the west. Cat’s-paws vibrated the surface, and at intervals came a roiling-up from below, as if a monster fin had set the water into turbulent motion. The other shore, two or three miles distant, was low and flat, and overgrown with a dense forest of tall poles two hundred feet tall. These were silvery-green and stood like stripped and dead tree-trunks or gigantic asparagus shoots. A few blots of color showed at their base— vermilion, blue, yellow—too far distant to be resolved into detail. A long island overgrown with feathery foliage split the center of the river like a wedge.

“Look!” Cloyville cried hoarsely—unnecessarily, for every eye was straining fascinated. Floating from behind the island came a black monster. Its body was round and sleek, its head was like a frog, split by a vast mouth. The head darted forward as they watched, chewed and champed at something in the water, then lowered lazily, lay flat. The creature circled, drifted out of sight behind the island.

Cloyville released his breath. “Whew! That’s a devilish thing to have for a neighbor.”

Pianza searched the face of the river with concern. “I wonder that anyone dares to cross…”

Corbus pointed. “They use the high-line.”

It was a thin gray-white cable, swooping from the pole in the village to one of the spines of the forest on the opposite shore. The low point at the center was only fifty feet above the surface of the river.

Glystra snorted in disgust. “They’ve got the river-crossing sewed up, and so… I suppose we’d better apply for transportation.”

“That’s how the Magickers acquire their wealth,” said Motta.

Cloyville muttered, “They’ll probably make us pay through the nose…”

Glystra rubbed his short black thatch. “It’s a case of take it or leave it. We’ve got to take it if it breaks us.” He looked back across the steppe. “I don’t see the Beaujo-lain’s flying squad. No doubt it’s there… Once we get past the river we can breathe easier…”

They set out along the lip of the bluff toward the village.

Above them towered the walls of Edelweiss, two foot timbers, peeled, set into the ground like piles, lashed at the top with coarse fiber and evidently fastened elsewhere with dowels or tree-nails. The wood appeared punky and soft. Glystra thought that anyone determined on entry could easily chop his way in with a hatchet.

They stopped by the gate, which opened at the rear of a rectangular alcove, well buttressed with extra courses of timber. The gate was open, revealing a short passage walled on either side and cut off at the far end by another wall.

“Strange,” said Glystra. “No guards, no gate-keeper… In fact—there’s no one.”

“They’re afraid,” said Wailie. She raised her strident young voice. “Magickers! Come out and lead us to the high-line!”

There was no overt response. A stealthy rustle sounded behind the walls.

“Come out,” yelled Motta, “or we’ll burn the walls!”

“My God!” muttered Pianza. Bishop wore an agonized expression.

Wailie sought to outdo her companion. “Come out and give us welcome—or it’s the sword for all within!”

Bishop clapped his hand over her mouth. “Are you crazy?”

Motta shrieked, “We’ll kill the Magickers and burn the Hags, and slide the town into the river!”

There was no motion in the passageway. Three old men, bald, feeble, came forward. Their bare feet were blue-veined and bony, they wore only ragged G-strings, the ribs showed like corrugations down their milk-colored bodies.

“Who are you?” quavered the first. “Go your ways, disturb us not; we have nothing of value.”

“We want to cross the river,” said Glystra. “Take us across on the high-line and we won’t disturb you any further.”

The old men engaged in a wheezing colloquy, watching Glystra suspiciously as they whispered. Then: “It is too late in the year. You must wait.”

“Wait!” demanded Glystra indignantly. “Out here?”

The eyes of the old men faltered, fell. A muffled voice came from behind the wall. The spokesman cocked his head, listened, then said in a plaintive voice, “We are the quiet Magickers, innocent sorcerers and trades-people. You are men of the Savage Lands, and doubtless you come to loot our valuables.”

“The eight of us? Nonsense. We want to cross the river.”

There were further instructions from within the wall. The old man said in a quavering voice. “It is impossible.”

Glystra lowered his head ominously. “Why?”

“It is forbidden.” The old men withdrew. The gate slammed.

Glystra chewed his lip in frustration. “Why in the devil—”

Corbus pointed to the tower. “There’s a heliograph up there. It’s been shooting signals west. My guess is that they’ve had orders from the Beaujolains.”

Glystra grunted. “In that case, it’s more urgent than ever to get across. Here we’re trapped.”

Cloyville advanced to the bank, peered over. “No boats in sight.”

“Not even materials to make a raft,” said Pianza.

“A raft wouldn’t help us,” Cloyville pointed out. “There’s no way to propel it, no sails, no sweeps.”

Glystra looked up at the walls of Edelweiss. Corbus grinned. “Are you thinking the thoughts I’m thinking?”

“I’m thinking that a piece of that wall—the section running parallel to the river, right there, would make a fine raft.”

“But how would we cross the river?” demanded Cloyville. “There’s a good current out there; we’d be swept all the way down to Marwan Gulf.”

“There’s a way staring you in the face.” Glystra made a lasso out of a length of pack-rope. “I’m going to climb the wall; you cover me from below.”

He tossed the loop around a timber, hauled himself up, cautiously peered over the top, scrambled over.

He looked down. “There’s no one up here. It’s a kind of roof. One of you come up—Corbus.”

Corbus joined him. Behind were blank walls and shielded windows, all silent. Glystra looked skeptically at the windows. “I suppose they’re watching, but afraid to show themselves.”