The Great Fetish

13

Muphrid had set, but the twilight lingered, when the odd caravan arrived at Massey. Marko watched sleepily as the paxor lumbered down to the docks of the Imperial Navy. There was a long palaver among Toskano, the officer who had come with the procession from Vien, and another officer of the fleet. The philosophers hauled the balloon down to a height of fifty feet. A reflector lantern, shone on the face of the Prem, convinced the naval officers that their lord really was captive.

After another hour’s delay, the philosophers detached the balloon from the weary paxor and carried their end of the rope aboard a ship, the steam ram Incredible. Marko, who had never been aboard a steamship, watched with interest. The ship was a sturdy-looking craft about two hundred feet long, with a big iron spike at the waterline at her bow, a strip of bronze armor running around her waterline, and a tall, thin funnel in the waist.

The philosophers had planned in advance to insist upon the merest skeleton crew on their ship; just enough to operate the machinery and steer. (“After all,” said Voutaer of Roum, “I designed that cursed engine for the Prem, and I ought to know how to run it.”)

Prem Mirabo, watching the preparations, asked Marko Prokopiu: “Now that you are ready to set forth, when will you release me?”

“When we reach our destination, sir,” said Marko.

“What? But that’s impossible! Who knows what conspirators might not seize my desk in my absence?”

Marko shrugged. “I think, sir, we could bear that disaster with becoming fortitude. And didn’t you tell me you were the idol of the masses? Surely they’d stand by you!”

“That is no joking matter,” grumbled the Prem.

The stack of the Incredible began to spit smoke and sparks. The breeze carried the smoke aft until it enveloped the basket and made Marko and the Prem cough and rub their eyes.

“Will you suffocate as well as kidnap me?” groaned Mirabo.

Marko suffered along with his captive through another half hour, until the Incredible cast off and put out of the harbor with a great blowing of whistles and bonging of bells. The stack went puff-puff-puff, making Marko and Mirabo cough more than ever. As the lights of the dark quiet harbor slid away behind them, the philosophers hauled the balloon down to the deck.

Marko climbed out, stretching and yawning, and gave a hand to the Prem. The philosophers ringed the stern in helmets and hauberks.

“Your arms locker was well stocked, Your Highness,” said Ulf Toskano. “Don’t think to set the crew on us, because we outnumber them three to one and have removed all arms out of their reach. We shall also guard you day and night against any untoward event.”

Marko mumbled: “Dr. Toskano, where can I sleep?”

On the fourteenth of Perikles, the Incredible raised the Isle of Mnaenn but hung off on the horizon until sunset, so as to make her approach under cover of darkness.

When he had awakened after sleeping most of the night through, Marko had been fascinated by the ship. He spent hours below, watching the great bronze connecting rods heave and the cranks go around. He pestered Voutaer for information on the workings of a steam engine.

The wind rose, and a choppy sea made the Incredible pitch like a cork. When she buried her ram, her screw came out and she shook herself like a wet dog. Gusts of rain beat across the slippery deck, and Marko suffered the tortures of seasickness. The Eropian sailors prayed to the sea god Nelson to save them from the terrors of the sea and the spells of the witches of Mnaenn. Some philosophers, who had opposed the conquest of Mnaenn, went about saying “I told you so.”

Halran, looking towards Mnaenn, with rainwater dripping from his chin, said: “I do not know how we shall ever get the balloon inflated from this tossing deck.” He glanced black gloomily to where the bag thrashed and lunged in its tackle. “I am sure the fabric will rip from this rough handling. If you come down in the sea, Marko, you cannot swim in armor. The mere thought of what you plan gives me the horrors,”

Marko answered: “Anything to get off this accursed deck and get my stomach back again. I think I left it fifty miles astern. It’s worse than camel back.”

“Stop glooming,” roared Ulf Toskano, slapping Halran on the back with irritating heartiness. “We ran a bigger risk when we seized the Prem. And this rain will have driven the witches indoors. You might accomplish your task without meeting one.”

“I don’t count upon that,” said Marko. He stood in a suit of three-quarters armor, which had been pieced together out of the largest pieces in the arms locker.

The wind moderated, although the rain continued, as they chuffed towards the island. Before midnight, the Incredible stood off the northwest corner of Mnaenn. She presented her stern to the island, with her engine barely turning over and a trysail out to hold her head into the wind. Marko Prokopiu climbed clanking into the basket.

“Cast off,” he said.

Away went ropes and ballast. The balloon, swaying and jerking, rose from the stern. Marko heard the fabric strain against its ropes. The philosophers had not lit the auxiliary peat stove, since the balloon would not be aloft long.

The basket swayed like a pendulum. Straining his eyes into the featureless dark, Marko felt a return of his seasickness. The reel paying out the drag rope on the quarterdeck squealed. The jerking eased as more rope was paid out, allowing slack to accumulate between jerks.

Marko stared towards the cliff. In this murk, he could not even tell direction. The balloon had started to rotate, first in one direction and then in the other.

There was nothing to do but grip the edge of the basket, feel his ax for the hundredth time, and try to see where nothing could be seen. The rain pattered against his armor.

Then another sound came, muffled by his helmet, through the hum of the wind in the cordage and the roar of the surf: the soughing of wind in trees. Marko peered. Directly below, he thought he could see the shifting ghostly-white band, which marked the surf against the base of the cliff. This ribbon slid under him and disappeared as the cliff edge occulted it. He should be over land. He pulled the valve cord.

It stuck.

He pulled with both hands. The rope gave all at once with a ripping sound and a loud hiss, and the bottom dropped out of the basket.

In the dark, Marko had pulled the rip cord by mistake, opening a slit several feet long in the upper part of the bag. The hot air rushed out and the balloon fell.

It struck with a crash, hurling Marko to the bottom of the basket. He had flexed his knees before striking, so no bones were broken. Still, the shock half stunned him, so that it took him several seconds to rise shakily to his feet.

He picked up his shield and climbed out of the basket, pushing through a tangle of ropes. He was on top of the cliff, all right, several feet back from the edge.

His next task was to light the little pyrotechnic flare the philosophers had given him, to signal them to sail around to the landing place. But rain had gotten into his tinder box. No matter how often he clicked the flirit and steel lighter, it refused to light.

He gave up. The balloon could not be hauled back aboard the Incredible. If Halran tried to haul it back, it would merely be pulled off the cliff, to smash on the talus below and be lost in the sea. If Marko cut the rope, Halran would know from the slackening what had happened. At least he would know that the balloon was no longer attached. If Marko could tie a knot in the rope before letting it fall, those aboard would infer that he had landed safely and would bring the ship to the beach.

Marko took out his ax, got a grip on the rope, and chopped. At the third try he severed it.

The rope was slippery with the rain and much heavier than he expected. The weight of the long catenary snatched the end out of his grasp.

Marko sat down on the phosphor grass with his head in his hands. He almost wept with chagrin and vexation.

After a few minutes, he roused himself. His eyes had now adjusted to the darkness. Out to sea, he could just make out the black bulk of the Incredible. Would she put out to sea, for Niok or some other non-Eropian port, leaving him? He did not fear the witches in a stand-up fight, but he could not go without food and sleep indefinitely.

The guards would soon stumble upon the balloon and know that something was up. Well, he could fix that. He pushed the basket, foot by foot, until it toppled over the edge of the cliff, dragging the bag after it and almost taking Marko along by tangling him in its ropes. Halran would not like the loss of his contraption, but the balloon was of no present use and only increased his danger.

Marko looked out to sea again. The black shape was moving. At first he could not tell whither, but after a while it seemed to be headed to his left—towards the beach. An occasional red spark flew from its stack.

Marko walked towards the town of Mnaenn, paralleling the cliff edge but tramping across country. If he followed the cliff path, he would be too likely to meet an armed witch on her rounds. The ship traveled faster than he could walk in his ironmongery, but it had to detour to avoid rocks and shoals.

The rain beat against his helmet. His boots sank into the soft muddy soil and came out with sucking sounds. He detoured the town to reach the cliff on the south side, where the landing was.

At last he saw the section of cliff top he sought, with black silhouettes marking the location of the rope ladder. Voices came out of the murk:

“… I saw them, I tell you. There’s another!”

“You’re mad, Als. What would sparks be flying around out there for?”

“You are near-sighted if you don’t see them. We should report to the sergeant.”

Marko stood still, hoping he was Invisible In his black armor.

“Another thing,” came a voice, “I could swear I’ve heard sounds as of armed men moving.”

“Your imagination is inflamed, my dear. You should…”

The muttered argument went on and on. Then one said:

“She’s right, girls; there is a ship out there! Look!”

Marko stepped forward. The guards all had their backs to him. He thought there were three or four but could not be sure. He struck one over the head with the flat of his ax.

Clang! went the ax on the helmet. The guard dropped. Clang! went another. The other guards emitted piercing shrieks. Something clanked against Marko’s shield, something else scraped his breastplate. There were footsteps running away and the jingle of accouterments. Other shouts answered from the village.

Marko felt around the rope ladder until he found the reel and the cord that held the crank. A chop severed the cord. Marko heaved on the crank, which turned, lowering the ladder down the face of the cliff. As the ladder unrolled, its increasing weight made the wheel revolve of its own accord.

Behind him, Marko heard the sound of armed witches approaching. He turned, letting the reel run on its own, and got out his ax again. With a great yammering, several of them came at him at once. He could barely see the points of their spears, which he caught on his shield.

“Get behind him!” shouted voices. “Surround him!” “Thrust for his crotch!” “He has lowered the ladder!”

One witch got too close. Marko stretched her senseless with the flat of his ax.

“Is he the only one?” “Crank up the ladder again!” “All together now, push him off the cliff!”

Marko shifted as fast as he could in the darkness so as not to present too easy a target. The darting points clicked and rasped against his defenses. From seaward came a hail.

“Hurry!” bellowed Marko. “You’ll find the ladder down. I’m holding them off.”

Clang, dzing, clank, went the witches’ weapons against Marko’s armor. Again and again he whirled, laying about him with his ax to beat them away from the ladder. One got a grip on his thigh. He struck her with his fist to knock her loose and heard her shriek as she fell off the cliff in the dark.

“They’re coming up!”

“Drop boulders on them!”

“Cut the ropes of the ladder!”

“The darkness is full of them!”

“Get the rest of the women, or we are lost!”

Marko struggled on and on. Something sharp found the unarmored back of his left thigh, and the leg turned weak under him.

“All at him at once!”

“Fetch the Stringiarch!”

“Get some lanterns!”

“See, there’s another behind us!”

Marko leaned against the reel of the ladder to take the weight off his injured leg.

“One more try!” panted a witch officer. “Push him off the cliff!”

Marko limped around the reel, stumbling over the witches he had knocked down and swinging his ax. He roared: “Curse you, stand back or I’ll give you the edge! I’ve been sparing you, but I won’t much longer!”

Lanterns bobbed in the darkness. A voice called: “Stand back to let us shoot!”

Marko dropped to one knee beside the reel, holding his iron shield up in front of him. Presently there was a snap of bowstrings, and a thrum of quarrels. Several sharp hammer blows struck the shield. Another grazed his helmet.

“Get around to the side. He cannot face all ways at once.”

Something moved behind Marko. He rose, turning and raising his ax.

“Is that you, Master Prokopiu?” said the deep voice of Ulf Toskano. Others crowded up behind him. The philosophers opened out into an armored rank and surged forwards. For an instant there arose the clangor of weapons on armor, and then with cries of despair the witches broke and fled.

“Aye,” said the Stringiarch, sitting on a chair in the Temple of Einstein before the philosophers. “I know the true story of the Descent, at least as it has been handed down from stringiarch to Stringiarch.” She glared up at the semicircle of intent faces, shiny with sweat and wet in the lamplight. “If I tell you brigands, will you spare my girls?”

“We had no intention—” began Toskano, but Marko poked him and interrupted:

“If you tell the truth, madam, no harm shall befall your charges. But take care, for we have means of confirming or refuting your story.”

“Very well. The story, as it has come down to me, is as follows: Before the Descent, the men of Earth had become so many that there was not enough land to support them. So their gods ordered them to build two great ships, promising that when the ships were finished they, the gods, would waft them through the empty space between that world and this—”

“She means the ships of space I told you about,” interrupted Bivar. “And the gods were nothing but the leaders political.”

Katlin glared at the little Iverianan but continued: “In time the ships set out from Earth. Between them they carried nearly two hundred people, as well as the female young of several domestic animals of that world and spells for causing them to conceive and bear without the presence of the male. Also seeds, tools,’ and other needful things. The gods’ commands were to land both ships on Kforri and set up a settlement for colonization and study. Then the crews of both ships should enter one of the two, and the gods would take it back to Earth.

“Whether the gods became tired of carrying these great heavy ships so many millions of miles, and dropped them in trying to set them down, I do not know. But in any case both vessels were damaged on landing, to a degree that prevented their returning. However, there was little harm fo the people in the ships, who therefore disembarked and set up the colony as planned. They hoped that, when the single ship failed to return at the appointed time, Earth would build another ship and persuade the gods to carry it to Kforri to find out what became of them.

“Here trouble arose. While the crews of the ships were all men, the settlers, who were all philosophers and men picked for their skill in colonization, had wives. The settlers said that, as the gods had so arranged matters, there was nothing to be done about it.

“But the crewmen lusted after the wives of the settlers. A machinist, Hasan Barmada, said that the gods had all gone back to Earth and deserted the colonists, and that therefore no attention need be paid to their commands. He formed a conspiracy and by a sudden uprising his men slew nearly all the male colonists, as well as their own officers who sided with the colonists. When the fighting was over there were about a hundred persons left on Kforri, a few more men than women.

“The crewmen took the wives of the colonists for their own and begat their kind. Because they had blasphemed and sinned against the gods, the gods did not inspire them with wisdom. They neglected the knowledge that the philosophers had brought with them from Earth, and in two generations had sunk to the level of barbarians.

“Also, they quarreled among themselves and split up into seven different tribes, according to the parts of Earth they had originally come from. Thus men from those parts that spoke Old Anglonian—places called Britain, Ireland, North America, and some others— formed the Anglonian tribe. Men from the land of Europe formed Eropia. Men from the islands of Russia and Balka formed Vizantia, named for the Balkan city of Byzantium. And so our modern nations arose.

“One philosopher who had much divine blood hi his veins, an Anglonian named David Grant, escaped from the massacre with some of the women and the cards composing the Great Fetish. On Earth, there was a magical instrument for reading these cards. Whether such an instrument had been brought to Kforri and then broken I do not know, but in any case David Grant had no such device with him. Nevertheless, he hoped that something would happen to make these records of Earthly wisdom available once again—”

“It was called micrography,” said Bivar.

“He came to this island on a raft,” continued the Stringiarch, “with several women who fled from their new mates. His descendants built this temple. He told his wives and children about the gods of Earth and about their duty to preserve this divine wisdom. The earthly god whom he most admired, Einstein, became after his death the special patron god of Mnaenn.

“David Grant, or Devgran as he is now called in common speech, begat many daughters but no sons. Hence, an all-woman settlement came into being. Since the women feared and hated the men of the mainland because they had slain their own true husbands, they resolved never to let any settle on Mnaenn. From that day to this the settlement has kept up its numbers in the manner you know.”

Domingo Bivar asked: “Pardon, madam, one question. If we are descended from a few crewmen, how do we have so many surnames different?”

“During the early generations, the people did not follow the Earthly custom of giving all children of one marriage the same surname, because there were so few of them that such names would not have been distinctive. Instead, they gave them names of other men whom they had known or heard about on Earth. Thus many were named for famous Earthly men, gods, and demigods. Others received made-up names, or were named for their attributes or occupations. After a while they reverted to the original custom. Even so there are, for example, many thousands of Bivars in Iveriana besides yourself, Doctor.”

“Thank you,” said Bivar. “There are some places anomalous in your narrative, but I am sure that” when we transcribe the records, rational explanations of everything will transpire.”

Katlin spoke bitterly to Marko: “Master Prokopiu, I did not believe you when you claimed, just now, you were the prophesied son of Mnaenn, come back to read the Fetish and end the stringiarchate. I am sure no man-child could haye been born and smuggled off the island, as you assert; our control is too close in such matters. However, you can read the cards with the instrument of these Mingkworen. And whereas we are in your power, I suppose we might as well put the best face on things. What will you do with us? Throw us over the cliff, as you did poor Lizveth?”

Marko did not himself really believe the son-of-Mnaenn story but had thought it up to give the witches a graceful excuse for surrendering. He looked at Toskano, who said:

“Not at all, madam. We regret the death of that witch. We did not mean to hurt any of you.”

“Soft words will never right the wrong of your deeds.”

Toskano said: “True, madam, some consciences among us are not altogether at ease. But then, by your practice of male infanticide, which would fill most people with horror, and by your unjust treatment of Messrs. Halran and Prokopiu when they unwittingly trespassed on your land, you have given up your claim to sympathy.”

“What do you intend?”

“Oh, some of us will return to our own countries. Others, especially those from Eropia, will stay here_ and set up a philosophical republic. Among them are enough single ones to provide husbands for such of your girls as wish them.”

“Hm,” said ex-Stringiarch Katlin, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “If our traditions speak true, the men of Earth tried to set up such an ideal government many times but never succeeded for long. That, however, is your problem.”

Marko had no chance for more than a brief greeting with Sinthi that night. He had much to do, his wound hurt, and he was tired out. He learned that, when the rope had been hauled back aboard the Incredible, its cut end told of Marko’s safe landing and led Toskano to bring the ship to the beach.

Next morning, leaning on a stick, Marko stood on the edge of the cliff watching Muphrid rise. A little way off, Boert Halran was looking over the edge and lamenting the destruction of his beautiful balloon. Domingo Bivar was kneading Marko’s arm and talking excitedly of the wonderful things the philosophers would do when all the records of the Fetish had been transcribed.

“We shall build a ship of space of our own and fly back to Earth to see why they have forgotten us!” he cried. “It is wonderful! The rest of the Fetish includes books innumerable—on history, science, language, everything. There are even sections of fiction and verse …”

Marko, who disliked the little man’s effusiveness, disengaged his arm as Sinthi came by. He thought her the most attractive object he had seen in years.

“Hello,” he said. “You see, I came back as I promised.”

“That is right. Where are you going now?”

“Well, since the stringiarchate is over, I thought I might stay here. While I didn’t really do anything, the philosophers seem to think me worthy of their company.”

“I heard they chose you Prez or something.”

“No, not quite. They want me to be a kind of vice-manager under Toskano. I was even thinking of sending for my mother.”

“Oh. You were going to take me away, weren’t you? You promised.”

“Well … I suppose… . Look, maybe we can figure out something just as good. You see, ah …”

They stood, Marko looking down and Sinthi up. Marko had a feeling that she would not mind if he grabbed her right there. Instead, he stared into space, shifted his feet, blushed, gulped, stammered, and finally said:

“Let’s walk along the cliff path. I’m sure I have many interesting things to tell you about.”

They strolled off without bothering to excuse themselves to Domingo Bivar. Marko was limping and talking volubly. Presently he was holding Sinthi’s hand. Bivar, looking after them, sighed a romantic sigh, brushed his hair out of his eyes, and hurried off to find another arm to knead.