Iduna

Chapter Four

He was in a room designed for the use of giants with walls which soared like the face of cliffs and a ceiling which looked like a shadowed sky. The floor was covered with a carpet with a pile so thick it reached to his ankles and all about loomed the bulk of oddly familiar furniture. Turning he studied grotesquely distorted tables, chairs, something which could have been a desk, something else which held stuffed and sagging dolls.

"Hello, there! Will you play with me?"

Dumarest spun to see a waddling shape come hopping toward him. A parody of what a human should be; the face round as were the eyes, the mouth a grinning slit, the chin merging into the neck, the whole dressed in a clown's attire.

"Will you play?" The voice had a high-pitched squeakiness. "I know lots of fine games. We could hunt the slipper or find the parcel or we could roll marbles or climb. Don't you want to play?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm Clownie. I'm the one who makes you smile when you are sad and unless I am very, very good, very good, you give me no tea but that isn't often because always I am good."

"Tea?"

"Tisane. See? Tee for tisane. Tea. Isn't it fun to make up words?"

"Where are we?"

"In Magic Land. Where you always go when you're alone. Now hurry and meet Bear."

Bear was as tall, covered in short brown fur, nose and lips of black, eyes round and gleaming. A wide ribbon adorned his neck and his voice was deep and a little gruff as befitted a serious person.

Solemnly he held out a paw. "You are welcome to join me in a game. What shall it be? Soldiers?"

"For that we need armies."

"We have armies. They are in the boxes but if you call them they will come on parade." The bear glanced at the clown. "He doesn't seem to know what to do."

"He needs to eat," said the clown. "I'll get the cakes and you call the others. Hurry, now."

They came from nowhere, oddly shaped creatures of garish colors and peculiar appearance. Eyes and heads and faces seemed alien and yet totally familiar. They moved and talked and aped the style of humans but they were not and could never have been fashioned in human form. They were more like caricatures of familiar types; the fat one with the round, shining face, the fox-like one, the pigs, the toad, the nodding, weaving monkey, the solemn policeman with his truncheon, the giggling girl, the staid matron-the playmates of a lonely child.

Dolls!

Companions of the mind created from the toys of childhood when imagination took things of rag and wood and stuffing and gave them life and form and voices. And the vastness of the room and the furniture.

Dumarest knew the answer.

Leaning back, ignoring the babble around him, he looked at the nursery. The bed would be elsewhere but here, surrounded by comfort, he would play with the toys provided and with the magic of childhood endow them with individual personalities. But he was not a child but a grown man so why should he be in the nursery?

"A cake!" The bear was insistent. "You must have one of these cakes. Mistress Gold baked them and she will be very angry if you do not take one. She may even order you to be shut up in a cupboard for a whole hour. You wouldn't like that, would you?"

"No," said Dumarest.

"Then take a cake." The bear nodded as he did so. "And one for you, Clownie. And for you, Foxie. And for you, Toadie." His voice was a drone above the clatter of cups and the ritual of pouring tisane or tea as they called it. A party. A tea party. A pastime beloved by the young, especially young girls who aped their mothers in playing the hostess.

Had Iduna played such games?

Iduna!

Dumarest looked at his cake and set it aside. This was her world, not his. The soft and comfortable world of a loved and cherished child who would find the living toys perfectly natural. A delightful realization of an often-pretended charade in which they would have been placed around the table and fed tisane and cakes and moved and placed and given words in the entrancing world of make-believe which every child could call his own.

"You dirty thing!" The matron seethed with anger as she glared at one of the pigs. "You spilled tea on my gown! You did it on purpose!"

"It was an accident."

"Don't talk such lies! You should be beaten for having been so bad. Look at my nice new gown! You've spoiled it!"

"Be calm," rumbled the bear. "Ladies, be calm."

"Hit them," suggested the clown to the policeman. "Hit them both."

"Now, now there!" The policeman lurched to his feet. "We don't want trouble, do we?"

"Why not?" The toad gaped and seemed to blur. "Why not?"

The giggling girl half-turned and froze as she lifted her cup to hurl its contents in the face of the red-cheeked drummer who smiled as he toppled to one side to lie with his head in a quivering mass of jelly, his hands still jerking to produce a death-like rattle from his drum.

Anger, the petulance of childish rage had ruined the party but in a moment all could be as before with those involved going through their paces like well-trained puppets manipulated by mental intent. As always during a party when spats and outbursts provided variety. When things were done deserving of punishment which could then be administered with solemn ceremonies.

But this world was not one he had known. His childhood had contained no similar comforts. It had been a time of harsh deprivation unrelieved by moments of joy.

Dumarest shivered, remembering, then shivered again to the chilling wind.

It came from the north where ice still coated the ponds and snow filled the gulleys; the residue of winter stubbornly defying the sun. He glanced at it, narrowing his eyes against the glare, wishing the watery brightness held more strength. Soon it would be dark and all hope of game lost and, again, he would hug an empty belly and nurse bruises from savage blows.

Crouched against the gritty soil he stared at the area ahead. The wind touched his near-naked body, driving knives of ice through the rents, numbing the flesh and blood and causing his teeth to chatter. He clamped them shut, feeling the jerk of muscles in his jaw, the taste of blood as his teeth caught at the tender membranes of his cheeks. Weakness blurred his vision so that the scrub barely masking the stoney ground danced and spun in wild sarabands of bewildering complexity. Impatiently he squeezed shut his eyes, opening them to see the landscape steady again, seeing too the twitch of leaves at the base of a matted bunch of vegetation.

The lizard was cautious. It thrust its snout from the leaves and stared with unwinking eyes before making a small dart forward to freeze again as it checked its surroundings for possible enemies. Watching it, Dumarest forced himself to freeze.

To rise now would be to lose the prey; it would dive into cover at the first sign of movement. Only later, after it had come into the open to warm itself by the weak sunlight and search for grubs, would he have a chance and then only one. For now he must wait as the wind chilled his body, gnawing at him with spiteful teeth, sending more pain to join the throb of old bruises, the sores from festering wounds, the ache of hunger and fatigue.

He narrowed his eyes as the wind lifted dust and threw it into his face, stirring the lank mane of his hair and fluttering the ragged neck of his single garment. A movement which would have scared the quarry had it not been out of its sight and the wind carried his scent from the reptile who, moving with greater assurance now, had come well into the open.

Dumarest flexed his fingers and touched the crude sling at his side. A leather pouch and thongs made from the hides of small rodents. Stones carefully selected and of the size of small eggs. He would have time for one cast only-if he missed the chance would be lost. All depended on choosing the exact moment, of hand and arm and eye working in harmony, of speed which would enable him to strike before the lizard could run to safety.

Now?

The creature was alerted, head lifted, eyes like jewels as they caught and reflected the sunlight, scaled body blending with the soil on which it stood. It would be best to wait.

To wait as the wind chilled his blood and stiffened his muscles, as dirt stung his eyes and the sickening fear that he might miss added itself to the destructive emotions of his being. Then, guided by subconscious dictates, to act. To rise, the loaded sling lifting, to swing in a sharp circle, the thong released at the exact moment to send the missile hurtling through the air.

To land in the dirt at the side of the lizard's skull.

Dumarest was running even as it left the pouch, lips drawn back, legs pounding, breathing in short, shallow gasps to oxygenate his lungs. To gain energy and speed so that, even as the half-stunned lizard headed toward cover he was on it, snatching up the prize, holding it fast as his teeth dug into the scaled throat and released the blood of its life.

Blood he gulped until it ceased to flow and then to fight the temptation to rip into the flesh and fill his stomach with its raw sweetness.

A boy forcing himself to think like a man.

A child of ten fighting to survive.

The place which was home rested ten miles distant over torn and hostile ground, the surface cut and scarred with crevasses edged with fused blades of obsidian, craters of starred silicates, mounds of bristling fragments blasted from the rubble of mountains. A journey which had to be taken with care for a slip could mean a broken leg and that would lead to inevitable death.

It was dark by the time he arrived and the fire was a warm beacon in the gloom. The only welcome he would get but, with luck, he would be given a portion of his kill. A hope which died as the man came to the mouth of the cave to snatch it and send him reeling with a vicious, back-handed blow.

"Lazy young swine! What took you so long?" He didn't wait for an answer, standing tall and puffed, his scarred face twisted into a snarl. "You've been eating!"

"It's on your mouth! Blood!"

"From the lizard! I-"

"Liar!" Again the thudding impact of the hand, a blow which smashed against his nose and sent his own blood to join the dried smears already on his chin. "You useless bastard! I took you in, let my woman tend you, and all you do is lie! A day's hunting for this!" He shook the dead reptile. "Well, it's too bad for you. Stay out there and starve!"

"I'll freeze!"

"So freeze. What's that to me? Freeze and be dammed to you!"

Another blow and he was gone, snug within the confines of the cave, warmed by the fire and fed by the game Dumarest had won. From where he crouched he could hear the mutter of voices, the harsh, cackling laughter of the crone as she heard the news, a liquid gurgling as the man lifted a mug from his pot of fermenting liquids.

Later there were snortings and muffled poundings and the sounds of animals in rut. Later still came snores.

From where he had crouched Dumarest rose and rubbed cracked palms over his frozen limbs. The incident had not been new; often he had been treated like that before, but then it had been summer and the nights had been warm and he had been fortunate. Now the neighbor who had fed him was dead and the rest had no time for charity.

If he stayed in the open he would die.

He knew it as he knew that he had been robbed of his kill and would continue to be robbed while the man had the greater strength. As always he would be robbed unless he prevented it. A hard-won lesson and one which would be wasted unless he survived to put it into practice. And he intended to survive.

Softly he stepped toward the cave and pushed aside the curtain of skins which closed the opening. The fire burned low, little more than a bed of glowing ashes but they radiated a welcome heat and he squatted beside them warming his hands and rubbing them over his legs and biceps. From the pot standing beside the embers he found a bone and sucked it, cracking it between his teeth to extract the marrow before throwing the shards on the fire where they burned with little blue flickerings of brightness.

More followed until the pot was empty and, drugged by the nourishment, outraged muscles demanding rest, he fell asleep.

And woke to a scream of rage.

It was day and in the light seeping through the curtain the crone stood glaring at him, her raddled face convulsed with fury. A slut, her body sagging beneath the filthy clothes she wore, lice crawling in her matted hair, sores on lips and chin. A fit mate for the man who woke and lurched forward wiping the crust from his eyes.

"He's eaten it!" A cracked and dirty nail pointed at the pot. "The stew's gone! The thieving young bastard!"

"I'll teach him." The man pushed her aside. "I'll have the skin off his bones." He was naked aside from an apron around his loins. Stripping off the belt, he let it fall to reveal pallid, scabrous flesh. The leather whined as he swung it through the air. "Now you greedy young swine! Stand still and be taught a lesson!"

Stand and have the flesh scarred on back and thighs, bruised, cut with the edge of the belt, the heavy buckle weighting the end. Stand and be crippled, maimed, blinded. Stand and be killed!

Dumarest moved as the belt lashed toward him, feeling the stir of wind on his back through his torn garment. Unimpeded, the heavy buckle swung on to crack against the woman's arm. Her scream was echoed by the man's savage curse.

"Stand! Damn you, do as I say!"

He lunged forward, eyes blazing, face like that of an animal. The belt lifted, swung, again cut air as again Dumarest dodged. The third attempt was more successful and fire seared his shoulders. Trying to dodge the next blow he trod into the fire and the smouldering ashes seared his naked foot. Stumbling he fell to twist as leather lashed at his legs, his groin, one hand reaching out, feeling heat, fire which seared as he gripped a handful of embers and flung them into the snarling face.

"God!" The man screamed as he clawed at his face. "My eyes! My eyes!"

The woman was fast. Water showered from a pot and washed away the ashes to reveal eyes filled with streaming tears, bloodshot but otherwise unharmed. A face which was now a killer's mask.

"I'll get you," he panted. "I'll make you pay for that. By God I'll have you screaming before I've done with you."

Naked he advanced, belt forgotten, hands extended, the fingers curved into claws, instruments of destruction to grip and tear and savage the object of his hate. A man against a child.

Dumarest backed and felt the touch of wind against his shoulders as he left the cave. It was barely dawn and a milky opalescence softened the harsh outlines of the terrain. Wisps of fading mist clung to the face of the cliff, shredding as the man lunged through writhing vapors, forming a curtain to create an isolated area of combat. But how to fight a man five times heavier than himself? Dumarest backed faster and felt his foot strike against a stone. Stooping, he snatched it up and held it so as to threaten.

"Stop! Leave me alone!"

"Begging, you little bastard?" The man gloated, enjoying the moment. "Well, beg on, boy. I owe you nothing. Nothing but the beating of your life!"

The stone could be thrown but if it missed what then? A second stone would provide a second weapon and Dumarest looked for one as he backed. To run would be safer but where could he go? And if he tried and slipped the man would be on him. His sling?

It was bound around his waist and to loosen it would take too long. He needed a weapon to hand, one he could get to fast and use even faster. Another stone to back the first. A stone!

He found it as the man charged.

Dumarest rose and dived to one side all in the same flowing movement. Landing, he turned and, drawing back his arm, hurled one of his stones. His aim was good and the man roared as it hit his temple. Slapping his hand against the spot, he glared at the blood on his palm and, as he lowered it, Dumarest knew he intended to kill. Had intended it all along, perhaps, but now there could be no mistaking his intention.

How to win?

How to beat the mass of rage-inflamed muscle and bone? How to cripple it and bring it down and then make it harmless in the only way there was? Backing, stone in hand, Dumarest looked at the man as if he were a beast. He was a beast, a savage predator who must be stopped, one who would have no mercy.

The legs?

Smash his knees and he must fall. He would lie on the dirt unable to hurt anything beyond the range of his arms. He would twist and plead and cry in his pain and be an easy target for more missiles.

The genitals?

Better if they could be hit with enough force but the blow would have to be just right and the target wouldn't be easy to hit and was smaller than a knee. The rest of the body was hair and muscle and composed of tough sinew and bone.

The eyes?

Dumarest remembered the scream, the naked display of terror, the fear of blindness the man had revealed. The eyes, then. Vulnerable but an even smaller target than the groin and a lowering of the head could protect them. But that very action would serve to blind the man's vision and behind the eyes rested the skull, the brain, and below them the mouth and teeth and, lower, the throat.

And, already, he had hit a temple.

The second stone left his hand, flung with all the force of his back and shoulders, sliding through the air to hit the man's upraised arm, to fall to one side leaving nothing more than a bruise. A mistake, he should have used the sling, and he tore it from around his waist as the man lunged after him.

He was fast and Dumarest felt his hand touch his shoulder, slipping as fear gave him speed, the fingers catching the neck of his garment to jerk the rotting fabric from the thin, young body. A jerk which threw him off balance so that he stumbled and fell and cried out as the man fell on him, feeling the pound of a fist against his nose, the crushing of cartilage, the splitting of lips, the taste of blood in mouth and throat.

The feel of the soft bag as he desperately reached for the man's groin and gripped the testicles. The shriek as he jerked and twisted and pulled with nails dug deep, moving his head just in time to avoid the blow which broke bones as the man rammed his hand against the rock, rolling clear to leave his opponent moaning, grabbing at his loins, blood thick between his thighs.

Time won in which to pick up stones and fit one to his sling. To whirl it. To release the thong and watch as the missile smashed teeth. To send another, another, more until the shrieking, blood-stained thing with the ruined eyes and pulverized face and the gray of brain showing among the red of blood and white of bone finally slumped and was silent.

The woman said nothing as he entered the cave but silently handed him a bowl of water, her eyes frightened, little sucking noises coming from her lips. Her man was dead, who was to provide? The boy was better than nothing. A decision which kept her hand from the knife tucked into her rags but Dumarest noticed the twitch of her hand and was cautious as he washed blood from his nose and mouth.

The flesh was swollen and would soon show purple bruises and be tender but as yet he could touch it without too much discomfort. Snorting, he cleared his nostrils of clotted blood and fumbled with the damaged organ. It looked lopsided but that could have beeen distortion caused by the ruby-tinted water which he used as a mirror.

"He hurt you." The woman was at his side judging the time right to establish her authority. "He was drunk, mad, crazed and dangerous. I was afraid of him. That's why I couldn't help you last night."

And why she had screamed in rage this morning?

"I tried to stop him," she continued. "He pushed me aside. You didn't see that, you were out of the cave by then. The bastard hurt me." She winced as she pressed a hand to her side. "He was always hurting me. I'm glad he's dead. You did a good job out there. Gave him what he asked for. That nose hurt?"

"No."

"It will." She lifted her hands toward him. "Unless you let me fix it you'll have trouble later on. It'll block your breathing."

Dumarest said, "Give me your knife."

"Knife? Knife? What the hell are you talking about?"

"The knife," he said again. "The one in your skirt I just want to see it." Then, as she continued to shake her head, he added, "I might be able to make one like it. It'll be useful when hunting. I'll be able to get us more food."

"You'll hunt for me?" Dirt cracked in the creases of her face as she smiled. "You're a good boy, Earl. I've always thought of you as my own. Stick with me and I'll look after you. Stand by me and we'll get on fine."

"The knife." He held out his hand for it. "I'll look at it while you fix my nose."

It was crude, a strip of pointed and edged metal with slats of wood to form a grip, the whole held together with lashings of twine. He turned it as her fingers pressed at his nose, pushing the cartilage back into place, roughly shaping the damaged tissue. He was young and time would take care of the rest.

"There." She stepped back, dropping her hands. "You finished with my knife?"

"I'm keeping it."

"Keeping it?" Her voice rose in a shriek of protest. "Stealing it, you mean. First you kill my man then you rob me. Why stop there? Why not kill me too? Go ahead, you vicious young swine. Kill me. Kill me, I dare you!" Her face changed as he lifted the blade. "No! No, I didn't mean that!"

"How do you sharpen it?"

"What?"

"How do you sharpen it? With a stone or a file? If you have a file I want that too."

"A stone," she said bitterly, "I haven't a file. Not now. He sold it for a bottle. You might find another in the ruins." She watched as he moved about the cave. "What are you doing now? Robbing me some more?"

"I need clothes."

Clothes and food and something to carry it in. Water and a container for that too. A blanket against the cold of night and coverings for his feet to protect them against the stones. All the things which an adult had and which he had been denied because he was a child. But he was a child no longer. He had killed and was now a man.

And would leave and walk toward the east and live how he could.

Ten years old-a native of Earth.

The captain had an old, lined face with tufted eyebrows and a pinched nose set above a firm-lipped mouth. His skin was creped, mottled and pouched beneath the eyes. Thin hair graced a rounded skull. His hands toyed with a scrap of agate as they rested on his lap.

"Your name, boy?" He nodded as it was given. "Well, Earl, so you decided to stowaway. A mistake."

Dumarest said nothing.

"A bigger mistake than I think you realize. It is my duty to evict you into the void."

"To kill me, sir?"

"To punish you for having broken the regulations. You understand? Stowaways can't be encouraged, so to stop them we punish them when discovered. We didn't ask them to come aboard and they haven't paid for passage so we dump them as unwanted cargo." The eyes, deep-set beneath the tufted brows, watched him as the captain spoke. "You aren't afraid?"

"Of death, sir? Yes."

"Of course you are. Even the young fear death and you are how old? Ten? Eleven?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, what? Ten or eleven?"

"Eleven, sir-I think. Or I could be twelve."

"Aren't you sure?"

"No, sir." Dumarest looked at the man. "Does it matter?"

"Earth!" The captain made a spitting sound. "You poor little bastard!"

"Sir?"

"Forget it. I meant no insult. You've no family, of course? No kin. Nowhere to go and nothing to do when you get there. What the hell could you lose by stowing away? How were you to know you were committing suicide?"

Dumarest made no comment, watching the movements of the hands as they toyed with the scrap of agate, the stone carved he saw now in the shape of a figure, a woman depicted with her knees updrawn to the chin, back and buttocks and thighs all blending in a continuous curve. The stone was worn with much handling.

"What am I to do with you?" muttered the captain. "Kill you, a boy? Toss you into the void because you acted from ignorance? Dump you like excreta into space? Were you born for such an end? Was anyone? Damn it, what to do?"

The stone slipped as he passed it from one hand to another, bounced on a knee and dropped to the deck. Dumarest caught it an inch before it landed.

"Sir!" He handed it to the man. Then saw the expression in the fading eyes, the lined face. "Sir?"

"Do you always move as fast as that?"

"It was falling and I didn't want it to get broken."

"So you lunged forward, stooped and caught it. Just like that." The captain tossed the carving into the air, caught it, tucked it into a pocket. "I've decided, lad. Are you willing to work hard? To learn? Damn it, I'll take a chance. You can work your passage. It's going to be a long trip and you'll work hard but, at least, you'll be fed."

Fed and rested and taught and one journey stretched to another and more after that until the captain had died and he'd moved on. Traveling deeper into the heart of the galaxy where stars were close and worlds plentiful. Into regions which had forgotten the world of his birth. Where the name of Earth was cause for amusement, the planet itself assumed to be a figment of legend.

"You understand why," said the captain. He had returned and was smiling. "No ships, nothing in the almanacs, no star guides, no coordinates. You're looking, Earl, but you are the only one convinced you have something to find."

"I'll find it."

"Yes." The man sobered. "Yes, Earl, you will. What else do you have to live for? But this," he gestured with a hand. "You know what all this is about?"

"I do."

"You'd better be sure of that."

"I am. I'm here to find Iduna."

"Yes," said the captain. "To find Iduna. So don't get yourself lost in the past. Childhood is over. And don't waste time in dreams-you have a job to do." His face wavered and began to blur. "You can call on me if ever you want someone to talk with."

"I know."

"Don't forget now. Don't forget."

And then he was gone.