Beasts of Gor (52 page)

“No self-respecting sleen follows a man like that,” he said.

“You are quite possibly correct,” I granted him. Though sleen were not fastidious, men were surely not their preferred prey.

“But there they are,” said Imnak.

“They certainly are,” I said.

“We must teach those lazy, greedy fellows a lesson,” he said.

“I doubt if we could get close enough to them to harm them,” I said. “When they become sufficiently hungry, then they will come in.”

“But then they will be extremely dangerous,” said Imnak. “And there are five of them.”

“True,” I said. It did not seem likely that we could sustain the attack of five snow sleen without a shelter. Instinctively such animals, when in packs, tend to circle and attack simultaneously from different directions. The shelter, incidentally, tends to confuse them. It is not a shape which releases their normal attack behaviors. The best that we could do, presumably, if caught in the open, would be to fight back to back, the girls, low, at our feet. Even then they might be dragged away from us. Our best chance, presumably, would be to have pack ice behind us.

Before we had slept that night, and after Imnak had constructed our shelter, he removed from the supplies several strips of supple baleen, whale bone, taken from the baleen whale, the bluish blunt fin, which we had killed before taking the black Hunjer whale. He had brought this with him from the permanent camp. Why I had not understood.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

He worked in the light of the lamp.

“Watch,” he said.

He took a long strip of baleen, about fifteen inches in length, and, with his knife, sharpened both ends, wickedly sharp. He then, carefully, folded the baleen together, with S-type folds. Its suppleness permitted this, but it was undet great tension, of course, to spring straight again, resuming its original shape. He then tied the baleen, tensed as it was, together with some stout tabuk sinew. The sinew, of. course, held the baleen together, in effect fastening a stout spring into a powerfully compressed position. If the sinew should break I would not have wished to be near that fierce, compressed, stout strip of sharpened baleen.

“Put it away,” I said to Imnak,

Imnak made several of these objects. He then inserted them into several pieces of meat, one in each piece of meat.

He threw one of these pieces of meat, containing the compressed baleen, outside the shelter.

“Now, let us sleep,” he said.

“It is a horrifying thing you are doing, Imnak,” I said to him.

“Do you wish to live?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then do not object,” he said. “It is us or it is the sleen.”

I lay awake for a long time. Then, suddenly, piercing, horrifying, I heard the cry of the animal. The sinew had dissolved in its stomach.

“What is it?” cried Arlene.

“It is nothing,” I told her.

I then slept.

We pressed on, further northward.

No sleen now followed us. The first of the five sleen had been killed two sleeps ago, outside one of the shelters as it had prowled about. It had been eaten by the other four. Two of those animals, apparently satisfied with the meat, had then left our trail, turning their attention elsewhere. Two others had continued to follow us. Yesterday, one sleep ago, when we had begun to trek, Imnak had cast behind the sled, in our tracks, another of his pieces of meat, containing the compressed baleen. The more aggressive of the two animals which had been following us was the first upon the meat. It died an Ahn later, while still following us. The other animal, more timid, crouched beside it. It waited until the first animal no longer moved, before it began to feed. After we had awakened after our most recent sleep and hitched the sleen to the sled Imnak had thrown out yet another of the cruel pieces of meat. Some hours later, when we heard the startled pain squeal of the mortally wounded beast, Imnak turned about in his tracks.

“Hurry!” he said. “It is meat!”

When we reached the animal it lay on the ice, Its eyes open, not moving. Its pain must have been excruciating. It did not resist our lances.

“We will now make a shelter,” said Imnak.

Once again, as he had before, he found a suitable drift of snow and began to cut blocks. We may call this type of shelter an igloo, or iglu, I suppose, for that is the word, an Innuit word actually, by which we would think of it. Yet in the language of the Innuit, or of the People, the word ‘igloo’ or ‘iglu’ designates more generally a dwelling or house. For example, it is not necessary for an igloo to be made from snow or ice. Imnak’s half-underground hut, or house, at the permanent camp, for example, was also called an igloo.

Soon Imnak had completed the shelter and he had then come outside, to stand with me. Within the girls were preparing supper.

“We are now free of sleen,” I told him.

“It is unlikely that sleen, new sleen, would come this far out on the ice,” he said.

“We have then little to fear from them,” I said.

“This is, however,” said Imnak, “the country of the ice beasts.”

“I have not seen any,” I said, “not for several sleeps.”

Imnak and I had both, several sleeps ago, caught glimpses of an ice beast. We had not seen it, however, since the great storm.

“Let us go inside,” said Imnak. “The night is going to be cool.”

I smiled to myself. Surely the temperature was at least sixty below zero.

I looked up at the sky, at streaks and curtains of light, mostly yellowish green, hundreds of miles in height. This is an atmospheric phenomenon, caused by electrically charged particles from the sun bombarding the upper atmosphere. It was unusual for it to occur at this time of year. The autumnal and vernal equinox times are the most frequent times of occurrence. In different light conditions these curtains and streaks can appear violet or red or orange depending on their height. This silent storm of charged particles, flung from millions of miles across space, raining upon an atmosphere, was very beautiful. On Earth this type of phenomenon is sometimes referred to as the Northern Lights or the Aurora Borealis. It occurs also, of course, in the south, in the vicinity of the southern polar circle.

I called Arlene out, and she came out, followed by Audrey. We stood for a time, quietly, watching the lights. Then I indicated that they should return inside the shelter.

Later, some Ahn later, Arlene lay within my arms. “It was very beautiful,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“The night is so still outside,” she said. “How beautiful the north can be.”

“Yes,” I said. It was very quiet, very still, very calm, very peaceful.

“What is that?” she asked, suddenly.

“Imnak,” I said, calling him.

“I hear it,” he said.

We listened, carefully. For a time we heard nothing. Then, after a time, we heard the snow and ice crunch outside. Something was outside.

“Is it a sleen?” I asked.

“Listen,” he said.

After a time Arlene asked, “Is it a sleen?”

“No,” I said. “It is walking on two feet.”

Then, after a time, the noise was gone. I heard Imnak replace the knife in its sheath. I then returned my own blade, too, to its sheath.

“I am going out,” I said.

I drew on furs. The outer parka I retrieved from the long, low entrance way to the shelter. This entrance, contrived as it was, made it impossible for the direct blast of an outside wind to get inside. It is generally better for the fur of the heavy parka to be left in the entrance way, where it is colder. One brushes snow from the parka before leaning down and moving through the tunnel to the interior of the shelter, but, in the shelter, the residue of snow would melt, wetting the garment. Later, when the lamp goes out, the garment could stiffen and freeze. It is better for the fur not to be constantly put through this cycle of dampening and freezing; also, the heavy parka is rather large for the drying frame, which is generally used for smaller articles, like boots and mittens. Also, of course, the garment is more comfortable to put on if it is not cramped and frozen.

Crouching down I edged toward the opening. The roof of the exit tunnel was about a yard high, at the inner end. Usually a hide tent is hung inside the snow shelter, which provides additional insulation. It is fastened by pegs within the shelter, which are anchored outside, on the rounded outer roof. We had not set the tent within the shelter this sleeping period, however. I had brushed aside a hide flap, though, which was hung over the inner entrance. At the outer end of the tunnel, where one emerged to the outside, the ceiling of the tunnel was about four and one half feet in height The general reason for the tunnel dimensions is to prevent wear and tear on mittens and clothing, which can be a very serious matter in subzero temperatures; a needle and thread in the arctic can be as important as a knife and a harpoon. Another value of the tunnel dimensions, of course, is that one may emerge from the shelter with a weapon at the ready. This can be of value in a country where there may be dangerous animals.

I began to move down the tunnel. I heard Imnak behind me.

At the outer end of the tunnel, gently, I edged out the snow blocks which, for most practical purposes, closed the opening. One does not seal the shelter, of course; that can be extremely dangerous; it must be adequately ventilated, particularly when the lamp is lit. Air from the entrance, or another aperture, moving into or through the shelter and, warmed, rising, escaping at the smoke hole in the roof, supplies the required ventilation.

When I emerged from the opening I, knife in hand, looked cautiously about. A moment later Imnak, knife, too, in hand, straightening up, emerged beside me.

It seemed very calm.

The girls, too, Poalu first, and then Arlene and Audrey, crept out.

It was very quiet, and desolate, and cold.

The Northern Lights still spun and played in the sky.

Imnak and I, knives ready, the girls remaining at the hut, scouted the terrain in the immediate vicinity.

“I have found nothing,” I told Imnak.

“Nor I,” he said.

“There was something here,” I said, “for we heard it outside.”

“Did you find tracks?” asked Arlene.

“No,” I said.

“The ice is hard,” said Imnak.

“But it was here, something,” I said.

“Yes,” said Imnak.

“There seems to be nothing here now,” I said.

“No,” said Imnak.

I looked about again. “It is gone,” I said. We sheathed our knives.

“Perhaps there was nothing here,” said Arlene. “Perhaps It was only the ice and the wind.”

“No,” I said. “Something was here.”

“Aiii!” cried Imnak, suddenly, pointing upward. Arlene screamed.

In the lights in the sky, in those shimmering, subtle, shifting streaks and curtains of light, mostly yellowish green, some hundreds of miles in height, clearly portrayed, though it was for a moment only, was the gigantic, hideous visage of a Kur.

Imnak stood in silence, looking at it, and I, too. Poalu did not speak. Audrey screamed, and turned away. Arlene stood beside me, clutching my arm.

There was no mistaking that towering face etched in the lights and the darkness. It was clearly that of a Kur. Its outline was shaggy. Its eyes seemed to blaze, as though fires burned behind them. Its nostrils were distended. Its mouth was fanged. Then its lips drew back, in the Kur’s sign of anticipation, of pleasure, of amusement. Then its ears lay back against the side of its head. Then the visage faded and disappeared, the eyes last, as soon as it had come. Before the ears had lain back against the side of its head I had seen that one of them, the left, had been hail torn away. Then the lights themselves were gone, and we saw only the stars and the polar night over the desolate horizon.

“What was it?” asked Arlene.

“It was that which you had served,” I told her.

“No, no!” she said.

“Surely it is a sign that we should turn back,” said Poalu.

“No,” said Imnak.

“Do you not think it is a sign?” she asked.

“I think it is a sign,” he said.

“Then we must turn back!” she said.

“No,” said Imnak.

“Is it not a sign that we must turn back?” she asked.

“I do not think so,” he said.

“Then what is its meaning?” asked Poalu.

“Its meaning, I think,” said Imnak, “is that it is too late to turn back.”

“I think you are right, Imnak,” I said.

I looked up at the sky. It was too late, indeed, to turn back. I smiled to myself. I had come, after long trekking, to the country of Zarendargar, to the brink of the camp of my enemy, to the brink of the camp of Half-Ear.

“I think, Imnak,” I said, “that I am close to finding him whom I have sought.”

“Perhaps, already, he has found you,” said Imnak.

“Perhaps,” I said. “It is hard to know.”

“Let us flee, Master,” wept Arlene.

“I am of the Warriors,” I told her.

“But such things,” she said, “control even the forces of nature.”

“Perhaps so, perhaps not,” I said. “I do not know,”

“Flee!” she said.

“I am of the Warriors,” I said.

“But you may die,” she said.

“That is acknowledged in the codes,” I said.

“What are the codes?” she asked.

“They are nothing, and everything,” I said. “They are a bit of noise, and the steel of the heart. They are meaningless, and all significant. They are the difference. Without the codes men would be Kurii.”

“Kurii?” she asked.

“Beasts, such as ice beasts, and worse,” I said. “Beasts such as the face you saw in the sky.”

“You need not keep the codes,” she said.

“I once betrayed my codes,” I said. “It is not my intention to do so again.” I looked at her. “One does not know, truly, what it is to stand, until one has fallen. Once one has fallen, then one knows, you see, what it is to stand.”

“None would know if you betrayed the codes,” she said.

“I would know,” I said, “and I am of the Warriors.”

“What is it to be a warrior?” she asked.

“It is to keep the codes,” I said. “You may think that to be a warrior is to be large, or strong, and to be skilled with weapons, to have a blade at your hip, to know the grasp of the spear, to wear the scarlet, to know the fitting of the iron helm upon one’s countenance, but these things are not truly needful; they are not, truly, what makes one man a warrior and another not. Many men are strong, and large, and skilled with weapons. Any man might, if he dared, don the scarlet and gird himself with weapons. Any man might place upon his brow the helm of iron. But it is not the scarlet, not the steel, not the helm of iron which makes the warrior.”