Seahorse in the Sky

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE LORD OF SEPT Marur and his pathfinder, having left their weapons at the door as a token of trust, sat at a table in the bar of the Erewhon Hilton, gazing with some wonderment at the profusion of electric lights, and each sipping his first gin and tonic with proper respect. Eleven terrestrials were also present.

Janice and Andrea—who had come to love Tore Norstedt and had cheerfully shared his attentions— had retired to weep their hearts out and console each other as well as they could.

Farn zem Marur unrolled a flayed and cured pulpul skin on the table before him. It was darker and rougher than parchment, but it served well enough for the little drawing and writing in which the Gren Li people indulged. On the pulpul skin, Farn had drawn a pictorial map of the entire zoo. Keep Marur, Russell was amused to note, was a faithful representation of the original. The bridge huts of the People of the River were also accurately represented. But the Erewhon Hilton and its environs were shown by three concentric circles in which there was some minute writing that looked a little like Arabic.

“What does this mean?” asked Russell.

Absu smiled and sneezed. He was not yet used to the bubbles in the tonic water. “It means: Here live the magicians. For such you have proved yourselves to be.”

Russell sighed. “Our skills, Absu, are limited. As you saw, they did not prevent our friend from dying.”

“All men are mortal,” returned Absu. “Even magicians. Destiny knows no favourites… What think you of the pathfinder’s art?”

“I think he has made a very good map indeed.” Russell turned to Farn. “You have yourself seen all that you have set down here?”

“Yes, Lord Russell Grahame. All that I have set down, I have seen. When I returned to Keep Marur, joyfully finding that my sept lord whom I had gone to seek had returned before me, I was again commanded to venture forth. The lord Absu required a full drawing of the land wherein we live, enclosed by vapours. This journey was long and not without hazard; for, upon it, I lost my pulpul and very nearly my life.”

“How did this happen?” asked Russell.

“I was passing through the forest that lies near those who have their dwellings upon the river. I had stopped for a moment or two, and had dismounted from the pulpul so that I might mark my progress upon the skin I carried with me… Lord, it were well that I had dismounted, for no sooner had I done so than the pulpul fell dead, a rough lance having passed through it. By the robe, the thrust was a mighty one. But I had little time to marvel at it, for he who had hurled the lance presented himself with axe and war cry as my sword came free of the sheath. Matters seemed desperate since the warrior, though poorly clad and armed, was great of stature and not without courage. It was fortunate that I have some little skill in the ways of disputation, otherwise my lord Absu might have experienced some displeasure with one who failed to return.”

“You killed the stranger, then?”

The pathfinder smiled. “Lord Russell Grahame, in truth the warrior killed himself. He either cared nought for my weapon or was determined to perish. He ran upon my sword, and was as amazed when it passed through him, as I was by the act. I know not which of us was the more astounded. Then, even as he sank to his knees, with Death lifting from him the need for argument, he spoke. And I was again amazed that his tongue should be my tongue—as it is so with you, Lord, and with the sept of magicians—though the shapes his mouth made were strange and ugly.”

“What did he say?” inquired Russell intently.

“Lord, the words were of the Gren Li language yet contained little substance. I could not understand.”

Absu spoke sternly. “Pathfinder, do not neglect. The lord Russell Grahame asks what he asks.

Shake the dust of memory and repeat the stranger’s dying words. I command it.”

Farn zem Marur looked unhappy. “Lord, it was the nonsense of a dead man.”

“Speak it, then, if you would avoid sharing his condition.”

Farn zem Marur seemed most uncomfortable. Then he said hesitantly: “Lord, the warrior spoke thus: Him-sharp-thing-hard-sharp. Cold-hot. Bad-hurt-big-magic. You-man-no-man. Him-thing-no-stone. Him-make-sleep-dark. Dark dark-dark.” The pathfinder shrugged apologetically. “Lord Absu, I obey. The words were as I have said, but they were uttered by a man with Death in his eyes.”

“It is well,” said Absu tranquilly, “that you have remembered.”

There was a brief silence as all present contemplated the strange word sequences uttered by the savage who had run upon the pathfinder’s sword.

Then John Howard said excitedly: “It fits, of course! The People of the River have had the same kind of operation as we have. But, being primitive, their conceptual thought is primitive. Hence the word strings and the foggy description… The poor devil had no experience of metals, and even as he was dying he was still trying to find some description of what killed him. Within the limits of his culture, he was probably a very bright fellow.”

“It reminds me of Bushman talk,” said Paul Redman. “You know, the way the Australian aborigines link words together when they don’t have any single word that will adequately say what they want to say…

When you come to think of it, these People of the River may be just about at the Bushman level of development.”

“The matters of which your companions speak are doubtless of great interest,” remarked Absu loftily. “But the People of the River, as you call them, Russell, are little more than animals of the forest.

Besides the attack upon my pathfinder, they offered some indignity to a woman of the keep who was sufficiently foolish to venture far without escort. The woman is of no importance, but the insult to my sept is grave. Therefore I propose to ride against these people. Their spirits may be great, but their numbers are no greater than ours. And I venture to think that few will tell their children of the lances of sept Marur.”

“Absu,” said Russell, choosing his words with care, “I know that you have cause for enmity with the People of the River, and I know that your code of honour is something of which you are justly proud. But I should be very sad if you destroy the People of the River before we have had a chance to offer them friendship.”

“Friendship!” exploded Absu. “Friendship! Russell, I know that you magicians are a devious people.

But even magicians do not offer friendship to wild animals. And such are these whom you would call men.”

“Let me try to explain,” said Russell patiently. “Let us suppose that no bond exists between you and me. Let us further suppose that I have insulted you. What would you do?”

“By the white queen and the black,” retorted Absu, “I would resolve the argument most speedily with lance, sword and poniard.”

“But suppose,” went on Russell, “that while we were fighting we became surrounded by wolves—that is, by animals who feed upon the flesh of men—what would you then do?”

Absu smiled. “The law of the robe makes provision for such a situation. You and I, Russell, would declare a truce until we had despatched or driven away these creatures you have called wolves. Then we would resume our conversation.”

“Well now,” said Russell, “is it not possible that we are surrounded by wolves?”

“How so?”

Russell gestured to the pulpul skin on which the pathfinder had made his map. “We, you of Keep Marur and, I believe, the People of the River, have all been abducted from our own worlds—I mean our own lands. We live now in a place that, as your pathfinder shows, is completely enclosed by a wall of mist.

Our prison—for that is what we live in—is some sixty varaks wide, or, in our way of measuring, about forty kilometres… Who knows, Absu, how we came here? Who knows whether or not we are surrounded by wolves? Until we can discover what lies beyond this mist wall, and whether we are surrounded by wolves or demons or fairies, I think it would be foolish indeed to risk reducing our numbers.”

Absu sipped his gin and tonic thoughtfully. Again he sneezed. As he emptied his glass, Marion Redman brought him another. He accepted it without acknowledging her presence.

“You speak with a supple tongue, magician,” he said coldly. “The wall cannot be penetrated, as you have learned. Therefore the land in which we live is the land that must be our home, until we are released by the Night Powers from this strange exile. This being so, I ride against the People of the River, knowing that, by bond law, you may not bar my path.”

“I will not try to stop you, Absu. Indeed, if you can agree to my terms, I and some of my people will go with you. But first I must tell you that we magicians think we can find a way to pass through the wall of mist. We have also devised fearful weapons in case any should bar our path.”

It took some time for Russell to explain how John Howard proposed to take temperature measurements in the river where it came through the mist wall, and then by comparative tests taken downstream, together with measurements of the rate and flow, arrive at a rough estimation of the thickness and maximum coldness of the mist. But eventually Absu seemed to comprehend the project. The pathfinder, on the other hand, had grasped the principles involved very quickly. He and John Howard were poring over the map that had been drawn on the pulpul skin, and were engrossed in the practical problems of setting up the experiment.

When Absu had finally grasped what it was all about, Russell took him to see the boat that Tore Norstedt had almost completed before he kept his fatal rendezvous with the spider robot. By now the sun had set, but the strip of road outside the Erewhon Hilton was illuminated by a string of electric lamps that had been rigged up as makeshift street lighting some days before.

Again Absu and his pathfinder marvelled at the skills that enabled the magicians to produce light without flame. Night insects made dancing haloes round the lamps, and the strip of roadway with the empty supermarket and the two useless cars, and with wisps of grass and dry leaves drifting along the deserted pavement, looked more than ever like a discarded film set.

While the rest of the terrestrials remained in the hotel, considering the pathfinder’s map, the way Tore Norstedt had died, and the discussion that had recently taken place, Russell, John Howard, Absu and Farn zem Marur inspected the light, flat-bottomed craft that Tore had put together so carefully. It stood in one of the small workshops under the bright glare of a naked light bulb, with tools and strips of wood lying as Tore had left them. Looking at these signs of recent industry, Russell found it hard to believe that the young Swede would never come back to complete his task.

“The craft seems sturdy enough,” conceded Absu. “We of sept Marur have little knowledge of the ways of travelling upon water, since our journeys are made upon land. But I do not doubt that your boat will be strong enough to pass down the river—if you are strong enough to pass through the mist… What say you, pathfinder?”

“Lord Absu, the craft is strong, but the mist is cold. It may be that the price of passing through the mist is death.”

Absu smiled thinly. “No doubt the magicians will know how to keep a man warm as he passes through the icy air of unbeing.” He turned to Russell. “You spoke of fearful weapons, my friend. If, indeed, our prison is surrounded by wolves such weapons may be needed. Show them to me.”

John Howard brought one of his grenades—the gun-powder packed tight into a small bottle that had been bound with wire.

Absu held it in his hand. “Such as this does not look as if it will bring discouragement to either man or beast.”

“Step outside, Absu,” said Russell, “and do not be discountenanced by what you will see and hear.

But when I ask you to fall down, do so with great speed.”

When all four were clear of the buildings, John Howard lit the short fuse and hurled his grenade into the now dark savannah.

“Down!” shouted Russell. The four men fell flat on their faces.

Nothing happened for a moment or two, and Absu was just beginning to get up when there was a flash of light and the earth shook. The sound of the explosion was, to Russell, satisfyingly loud.

A look of awe came over Absu’s face. He was speechless. Farn zem Marur still lay on the ground, covering his head with his hands and muttering incantations to ward off evil. It was, thought Russell, an historic moment—two medieval warriors getting their first experience of explosives.

“Truly,” said Absu, when at last he was able to speak, “this is a weapon of much terror and destruction. By the robe, Russell, I am glad indeed that we entered the bond, you and I. A man may face metal with joy and courage; but from such a thunderbolt may he not turn away without great loss of honour.”

“If he does not turn away,” observed Russell grimly, “both he and his honour will rapidly perish…

Now, it is late, Absu. You and your pathfinder shall rest with us this night. And I will explain why, though it would be easy to destroy the People of the River, we must ride against them not to kill but to take prisoners if we can.”