Chthon (6 page)

Aurelius might work three more years, and live five. Already he spoke slowly, tired too easily. He was the shell of his youth. The hvee tolerated him, but not gladly; too much of the swamp infested him now, anathema to the tender plants. His frame was gaunt: there seemed to be too little flesh between the hanging skin and brittle bone.

“Aton,” the worn man said. “Soon—”

Aton stood beside his father, expecting to find no pleasure in the interview, but knowing that this had to be. There was too much of sorrow in their relationship, and each saw it in the other, with a premonition that that sorrow had not yet reached its nadir. They shared a cross that could not be put down until more than death had come to pass.

“Soon you must farm the hvee yourself,” Aurelius said, speaking with all the certainty he could muster, pitiful in the implied insecurity of it. “Soon you must take your wife.”

It was out—the condition he had feared. Farming was not a solitary occupation. The death of the daughter of Ten, wife to Aurelius, had damaged the crops of Five, and only Aton’s early success had prevented complete ruin. The emotional climate had to be correct for hvee, and here it was not. The successful farm was run by a family, and the matches were most carefully made. The matter was far too important to be left to the idiosyncrasies of the young.

“Who is she?”

Aurelius smiled, taking the question for assent. “She is the third daughter of eldest Four,” he said.

Four, eldest. This was a good match indeed. Aurelius deserved his tinge of pride. The possessors of First names preferred to have sons to carry on the lineage, but they protected their daughters by wifing them as prominently as possible. Many times the highborn daughters declined to marry at all, rather than drop in station. The ranking of Five was a favorable one, but there were many eager daughters below, and few above. There must have been complex negotiations.

Aton felt a pang, knowing that the effort had gone for nothing. The Families of Hvee were regarded by offworlders as aloof and cold, and in many ways they were; but within the formalistic structure the bonds were deep. Aton seldom spoke to his father, and the relationship between them was something less than usual even for this culture, but it did not surprise him to discover that Aurelius had gone to great pains to arrange an advantageous marriage. The line had to be continued honorably, and Aton was the only man bearing the name of Five who could accomplish this.

“No.”

Aurelius went on. “For you, with a wife, a good wife, the hvee will grow. For you the farm will prosper….” He drifted to a stop. Aton’s answer had penetrated. He closed his tired eyes to shut in the hurt.

“I must take another,” Aton said.

The old man did not try to argue, overtly. “She is strong, she is fair,” he said. “I have seen her. On all of Hvee there is not a finer match. She is not like the—the degradingly promiscuous sluts of the latter Families. You would… love her.”

Aton bowed his head, ashamed for himself and for his father. Aurelius had never stooped to pleading in his life, but he seemed close to it now.

“She is a song, a broken song in the forest,” Aton said, trying to explain what could not be justified. Was he indeed afraid of a liaison with a local girl? He suppressed the thought immediately. “She kissed me and gave me my hvee; I can love no other.”

Aurelius stiffened. Aton had not told him about the forest nymph before. The matching procedures of the Families did not deny the need for love; rather, they insisted upon it. The ritual of the hvee guaranteed it. Aton could not marry without his father’s approval, but he did not have to accept a woman he did not love.

“Show her to me,” Aurelius said at last. He could not yield more. If Aton could bring home his nymph, she would be approved; if he could not, he was honor bound to give the arranged betrothal a chance. 

•    •    •

Twenty-one, and the music for which he longed came once again. It was fleeting and haunting, but clear enough to his eager listening. He made for the forest, cruising through the several fields as rapidly as he could without damaging the hvee.

Aurelius signaled from a nearby field. He was not able to work outside every day, but this time he had arranged it. He intended to meet the nymph, and Aton had in effect agreed. Aton waited in an agony of impatience for his father to catch up.

It was the broken song, bending the very trees to its enchantment. It swelled, chord and descant, stirring Aton’s blood with its ultimate promise. This time, this time—

It ceased.

Aton sprinted for the glade, hurdling the well, leaving Aurelius behind. He burst upon it.

He stood absolutely still, listening for the sounds of her departure, but he could hear nothing above the noise of the man behind. She was gone.

Aurelius came up, panting and staggering. But his eyes darted around the glade, fixing on the stump, the ground, the circling trees. He pointed.

The dry leaves had been scraped away from one side of the rotting stump, exposing the spongy loam below. Symbols had been inscribed on the ground, hastily and crudely done by some pointed instrument.

Aton studied them. “M-A-L-I-C-E,” he spelled out. “What does it mean?”

Aurelius eased himself down upon the crumbling stump, scrutinizing the mystic letters. His breath grew ragged and his hands trembled; Aton realized with unacknowledged compassion that the strenuous exercise had intensified the man’s ague. “I was not sure,” Aurelius whispered, his tone oddly apologetic.

Aton turned a questioning gaze to him.

Aurelius wrenched his eyes from the ground. He spoke with difficulty. “It is the stigma of the minionette.”

Aton stared into the sky of Hvee, upset and confused by the nymph’s flight. What had frightened her? Was she actually a creature not for the eyes of the skeptic? “Minionette?”

“Man took his legends with him when he went to space,” Aurelius said. “Like man himself, they changed; but the stock is the same. You have heard of the terrible Taphids that consume entire spaceships; of the Xestian spidermen whose web-paintings penetrate all illusion; of the living hell of Chthon, where ultimate wealth and horror make eternal love. But this is the—the fable of the minionette.

“The minionette is a siren, an immortal sprite of untold beauty and strength, able to read a man’s inmost passion. It is certain misery to love her—if love is what you can call the fascination compelled by her comeliness. It—it is said that if a man can only hold back his emotion long enough to force a kiss from her, the minionette will love him—and that is the most terrible fate of all.”

This was the longest speech Aton had ever heard his father make, and the least pretentious. “But she was here. This—can’t be true.”

Aurelius sat still, his eyes tightly closed. “It is a mistake, Aton, to disparage the legends too readily. The minionette was here. Malice—she came for you, Aton—”

“Thanks,” Aton said sharply, growing angry. “This ghost, this spook, this myth came to collect her little boy, the one who believes in her—”

“Try to understand, son—”

“I do understand! A girl was here, yes—a girl playing a game, all dressed and posed, ready to charm a simple country boy—”

“No, Aton. I must tell you what she is—”

“Damn your explanations!” Aton exploded, heedless of the pain in his father’s face. “I won’t have you defending my foolishness or the lewd posturings of an offworld siren. A beautiful woman does not take up with a rustic innocent—unless she intends only to lead him on, laughing at his animal naïvete, his inexperience—”

But while he rattled his sabers at his helpless father, Aton knew, underneath, the dark truth: he loved his nymph of the forest, no matter what she was, what she had done. Next to her, all other women were as rag dolls with painted smiles and breasts stuck on in front, foolish giggles and disgusting moisture. He had had enough of this; at least the nymph had shown him the futility of his existence. He had to go from here. He would go to space, seek her out, and satisfy himself as to exactly what she was—when the act was over. Fourteen years of longing could not be dispatched so carelessly—not when the Family was Five, not when the man was Aton. He would force himself to face it, to face the truth, this time.

Aurelius, so unaccountably talkative moments ago, now sat still, rigid, shriveled. Was the final seizure upon him? No; the man lived. Was the conventional betrothal of his son that important? It was; it had to be—but it would have to wait. “If I return…” he said.

The old man did not pretend confusion. We shall wait for you, the hvee and I,” Aurelius said, opening his eyes at last.

II. Garnet.

§400

4

The cavern passages went down, down, twisting wormlike through the stone. Hot lava had honeycombed this structure long ago, and been folded under, again and again, and powdered out at last to leave the endless passages.

Can all this really be sealed off, Aton thought, when the wind booms through so readily? Surely this hot blast comes from somewhere, and seeks its freedom somewhere. And where the wind escapes, so may a man.

But Tally’s strong, narrow back, half hidden by the waterskin, was unresponsive. No use to inquire there. Even in this buried prison, mention of the minionette brought fear and hate. Safer not to bring up the matter, below.

At the lowest level a guard sat on a great flat slab of rock. A heavy rope was anchored beside him and tied to a large basket. Tally spoke sharply and the man stood up. Together they strained and ground the stone aside, exposing a sunken hole: this was the orifice leading to the nether prison.

Tally tossed the basket in, letting the cord writhe after it. Aton climbed into the hole, gripped the rope, wedged his book between his thighs, and handed himself down into the other world. A final glance at the peering face above: Will I ever see you again, you superstitious high-brow? Not likely.

He went carefully, unbalanced by the full water-skin and the book, unable to look down.
Was
there a landing here, or had he been tricked into a descent into a furnace? Had he been a fool to trust the man whose girl had—

Thirty feet below the hole he touched the floor. Rope and basket whisked up the moment he let go. The slab of rock ground over again, and for the second time he was isolated in an unknown hell.

There was light, at least—the same phosphorescent product of the walls. There was the wind, too; he had fought it on the rope without even thinking about it. The lower caverns were, after all, habitable.

“Garnet here. Take it.”

Aton spun to face the speaker. This was a large man, topping him by three inches. His body, though running slightly to fat, displayed impressive musculature, and he shouldered a heavy double-bitted axe. His bushy hair and beard were brown.

Aton raised a hand to catch the glistening pebble tossed at him. It was a red translucent crystal, rather pretty: a garnet. He waited.

“You’ll be working Garnet’s mine. Any trouble, I’ll settle it. Bossman. Come on.”

So this was the farmer Tally had warned him about. Aton followed, watching the motion of the man. He did not appear to be in condition to fight, at least not Aton’s way. Perhaps his reputation had made him soft. Or his axe—how had he managed to bring that with him?—might have provided a foolish security. There would come a time to make certain; but for now Aton planned to stay well clear of trouble while he scouted the situation for himself. Information was far more important than physical triumph. Knowledge, in time, would become mastery.

And—escape?

The wind abated as the passage expanded. A woman squatted to one side, a hunched monstrosity; but it was only the distortion of the water-skin on her back. She was sorting food into piles—rough bread, salted meat, other staples relayed from above—and wrapping each in a long dirty cloth for protection. Sanitation was not a concern, in Chthon—there was no illness here—but dehydration was. She stood as they approached.

“Man for you,” Bossman said. He turned to Aton. “Give Garnet your stone.”

Another time, he might have smiled. He held out the stone and Garnet took it, studying him intently. She was a solid, supple woman, too hefty to be good-looking. In a good light her hair might have been blonde. She picked up one of the food packages and gave it to him.

“That’s how it is,” Bossman said. “One garnet, one package. ‘Denser’s over there; you grind your own,” indicating a spot down the hall. Aton made out the machine in a recess. “Time’s your own, too—but don’t mine anybody else’s territory.” He ambled off.

Garnet beckoned, and he followed her to an offshoot cavern. She ushered him to a section of wall, well scarred and pitted. She left him there.

Aton looked about him. Men and women were working down the line on either side, chipping at the face with bits of broken stone. Some were sifting through rock dust with their bare hands. Others slept. Two were sitting together, eating and talking. The pace was hardly frenzied.

He studied the wall. No garnets were visible. He thought of pounding loose large chunks with a heavy stone, then realized that this would probably powder any garnets in the way. It would be necessary to go very carefully.

He found a niche for
LOE
and his lunch, picked up a sharp stone, and tapped the middle section of his mine experimentally. He was rewarded by a choking puff of dust and grit. How many had died here from silicosis? He held back his head and tried again. This time it was difficult to see what he was doing. He could destroy a valuable stone before spotting it. This mining was not the easiest of tasks.

In the next mine downwind a small wiry man observed the proceedings, a faint smile tugging at his features. “Got a better way?” Aton asked, frustrated.

The man came over. He borrowed Aton’s stone, held it to the wall, gently tapped it with his own. The surface began to scale away with a minimum of interference. He leaned over and blew out the dust, careful to keep his face upwind from the cut. He returned Aton’s tool and went back to his own domain.