Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (59 page)

‘Oruri will destroy!’ he shouted in a loud voice. ‘This thing is an affliction to the chosen. Oruri will destroy!’

There was a dreadful silence. Poul Mer Lo gazed at the hoodless priest uncomprehendingly.

Then somebody threw the first stone. It bounced off the cart harmlessly. But it was a signal.

More stones came. The crowd began to rumble. Part of the causeway itself was torn up as ammunition.

‘Oruri speaks!’ screamed the priest.

And then the stones began to fall like giant hail.

‘Stop!’ shouted Poul Mer Lo. ‘Stop! The cart is a gift for Enka Ne.’

But the woodcutter, holding one of the shafts, had already been struck in the small of the back by a sharp piece of rock. He fell, bleeding. The mason abandoned his shaft and tried to flee. The crowd seized him.

‘Stop!’ shouted Poul Mer Lo. ‘In the name of Enka Ne, I—’

He never finished the sentence. A strangely heavy round pebble, expertly aimed by a child on the fringe of the crowd, caught him on the forehead. He went down with the sound of a great roaring in his ears.

Poul Mer Lo was aware of an intense, throbbing pain. He opened his eyes. He was in a room to which there seemed to be no windows. Here and there, smoky oil lamps burned in niches in the stone walls.

He felt cold.

He tried to move, and could not.

He was chained to a stone slab.

A Bayani with a white hood over his face leaned over the slab and peered through narrow eye-slits. ‘The spirit has returned,’ he announced to someone outside Poul Mer Lo’s field of vision. ‘Now the stranger will speak.’

‘Who – who are you? What am I doing here? What happened?’

‘I am Indrui Sa, general of the Order of the Blind Ones. You are Poul Mer Lo, a stranger in this land, quite possibly an instrument of chaos.’

‘Where are the two men who were with me?’

‘Dead.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘Oruri crushed them to his bosom. Stranger, they were the victims of chaos. Speak of them no more. Their names are undone. Their fathers had no sons. Their sons had no fathers. They are without meaning … But you, stranger, you Oruri did not take. Oruri looked upon you but he did not take you. This we must understand.’

‘I was going to Enka Ne in the sacred city. I was taking him the cart I had caused to be built.’

‘Enka Ne had called you?’

‘No,’ answered Poul Mer Lo.

‘Help him,’ said the Bayani in the hood.

From out of the gloom another dark shape advanced.

Poul Mer Lo felt the sudden touch of cold metal on his stomach. Then he screamed.

He gazed, horrified, at the pincers gripping a large fold of his flesh.

‘I grieve for you,’ said Indrui Sa. ‘The god-king receives only those who are called … Help him!’

The pincers were tightened and twisted. Poul Mer Lo screamed again.

‘Thus, perhaps, Oruri hears your sorrow,’ said Indrui Sa. ‘It may be that your ignorance and presumption will inspire some mercy … Stranger, you
rode not upon an animal but upon that which had been built by the hand of man. How call you this thing?’

‘It is a cart.’

‘Help him!’

Again the pincers were tightened and twisted. Again Poul Mer Lo screamed.

‘The kayrt is no more. Oruri saw fit to destroy it. What did you hope to encompass with this kayrt?’

‘It was a gift,’ sobbed Poul Mer Lo. ‘It was a gift to Enka Ne. I thought – I thought that if the god-king saw the use to which the cart could be put, he would cause many of them to be built. Thus would the toil of men be greatly eased.’

‘Stranger,’ said Indrui Sa, ‘human toil is the gift of Oruri. Let no man diminish that gift … Help him.’

Once more the pincers tightened and twisted. Poul Mer Lo screamed and fainted. When he became conscious once more, Indrui Sa was still speaking. He sounded as if he had been speaking a long time.

‘And therefore,’ said Indrui Sa, ‘it is clear, is it not, that you were the uncomprehending instrument of chaos. Two men have been destroyed, the kayrt has been destroyed and the foot of the priest will require much rest. Repent, Poul Mer Lo, of ignorance. Repent also of presumption. Give thanks to Oruri for the blessing of a speedy death which, bearing in mind the degree of chaos you have already inspired is more than—’

Suddenly there was a wild desolate bird cry.

Instantly Indrui Sa stopped speaking and fell upon his face.

Poul Mer Lo heard a rustling and saw a bright, darting bird’s head and brilliant plumage that glistened even in the lamplight.

‘Who speaks of death?’ asked a high, reedy voice.

There was silence.

The god-king gave his piercing cry once more. ‘Who speaks of death?’

Indrui Sa picked himself up. ‘Lord, the stranger brings chaos.’

‘But who speaks of death?’

‘Lord, chaos is the product of unbeing, therefore unbeing is the reward of chaos.’

‘Oruri hears you, Indrui Sa, most worthy of men and upholder of the law. Oruri hears you and is desirous of your company.’

Indrui Sa stiffened and remained motionless.

Poul Mer Lo was vaguely aware of others coming into the chamber.

Enka Ne uttered his bird cry once more. ‘Strike!’ he said.

A warrior stepped forward and thrust a short trident into the throat of Indrui Sa. There was a brief whistling noise, then he fell suddenly.

‘Release the instrument of chaos,’ commanded Enka Ne. Then, without waiting to see if his command was carried out, he turned and left the chamber.

Presently, Poul Mer Lo found himself stumbling up a narrow spiral staircase, stumbling out into the brilliant and painful sunlight.

‘It is very strange,’ said Shah Shan, speaking excellent English, ‘this friendship that exists between us. We are men of two worlds, Paul. It is strange that Oruri should guide you across the great darkness of space to shed some light in the darkness of my mind.’ He laughed. ‘One is tempted to look for a pattern.’

‘Shah Shan, you have a great talent for learning,’ said Paul Marlowe. ‘In two hundred days – four Bayani months – you have learned to speak my language better than many people in my own world who have studied it for years.’

‘That is because I wish to see into your thoughts.’

‘On Earth, we should undoubtedly call you a genius.’

Shah Shan laughed. ‘I do not think so. From what you have told me, your planet has many who are more gifted than I.’

‘By our reckoning,’ said Paul, ‘you are nineteen years old – still a boy. Yet you rule a kingdom wisely, and you have assimilated more information in a few months than our most talented young men can assimilate in as many years.’

Shah Shan shrugged. ‘Please, Paul, humour me a little. For me the old ways of thinking die hard. Enka Ne rules Baya Nor. Shah Shan is merely his shadow, a simple waterman.’

Paul laughed. ‘Ritual schizophrenia.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’m sorry. I meant that in a sense you have two excellent minds, both able to perfectly control the same body.’

‘Oruri speaks for Enka Ne,’ retorted Shah Shan. Then he grinned. ‘But Shah Shan is insignificant enough to speak for himself.’

‘Paul,’ said Mylai Tui in English with an atrocious accent, ‘will you dronk some mare kappa spreet?’

‘Ask our guest first, love.’

‘I am sorry. Shah Shan, police you will dronk?’

Shah Shan held out his calabash. ‘Police I will dronk,’ he said gravely.

The three of them were taking their ease on the verandah of Paul’s little house. It had been a hot day, but though the evening was still warm, the clouded skies had rolled away to reveal a fine, far dusting of stars. Overhead the nine small moons of Altair Five flew raggedly westward like bright migrating birds.

Paul Marlowe looked at the moons and the stars without seeing either. He
was thinking of the last few months, of the time since Shah Shan had begun to come to him regularly to learn English. He knew that it was difficult for Enka Ne to make time for Shah Shan, and he had been puzzled as to why the boy should devote so much precious energy and concentration to learning a language that he could only ever hope to speak with one person.

But then he realized that Shah Shan was not so much intent upon learning a language as upon learning all he could of the world that existed on the other side of the sky. Instinctively, the boy knew that the Bayani language was inadequate, that its simple collection of nouns and verbs and qualifying words could only provide a horribly distorted picture of the world that had once belonged to Paul Marlowe.

So Shah Shan, with the typical fanaticism of genius, had applied himself not only to a new language but to the attitudes and philosophy of the one man who spoke that language. He had used Paul like an encyclopaedia; and in four Bayani months he had mastered not only the language but much of the knowledge of the man who spoke it.

‘You know, of course,’ said Shah Shan, ‘that in twenty-three days Enka Ne will return to the bosom of Oruri?’

Paul sighed. ‘Yes, I know. But – is it necessary?’

‘So it has always been. The god-king reigns for a year. Then Oruri sees fit to renew the form.’

‘But is it necessary?’

Shah Shan regarded him calmly. And in the eyes of the boy there seemed to Paul Marlowe to be a wisdom that passed beyond the realm of understanding.

‘It is necessary,’ said Shah Shan softly. ‘The face of a civilization cannot be changed in a single lifetime, Paul. You should know that. If Enka Ne did not offer himself gladly and with great joy, Baya Nor would disintegrate. Factions would arise. Most probably the end would be civil war … No. Enlightenment must come closely, peacefully. You, the instrument of chaos, are also the instrument of progress. You must plant the seed and hope that others will reap the harvest.’

‘Shah Shan, you are the first man to bring tears to my eyes.’

‘Let us hope that I am also the last. I know nothing of the new god-king. He has been found already, and is being instructed. But I know nothing of him. It may be that he will be more – what is the word I want?’

‘Orthodox?’ suggested Paul.

‘Yes, more orthodox. Perhaps he will insist on tradition. You will have to be careful.’ Shah Shan laughed. ‘Remember what happened when you introduced us to the wheel?’

‘Three men died,’ said Paul. ‘But now your citizens are able to use carts, wheelbarrows, rickshaws.’

Shah Shan took a deep draught of the kappa spirit. ‘No, Paul, your arithmetic is wrong. I have not told you this before, but Enka Ne was forced to execute one hundred and seventeen priests – mostly of the blind order – in order to preserve your life and to permit the building of carts. It was a high price, was it not?’

Paul Marlowe looked at him, appalled.

It was a grey, cool morning. Winds blew erratically and disturbingly from the forest, filling the city of Baya Nor with strange odours – musky intimations of mortality.

Death had been very much on the mind of Paul Marlowe. It was the prospect of death – and, perhaps, the recent spate of English lessons – that had caused a reversion to type. Poul Mer Lo, the pseudo Bayani, had given way to Paul Marlowe, an Englishman of the twenty-first century of Earth. A man who was depressed and revolted by the fact that his only friend on this alien world would be joyfully going to his death in six more days.

He had grown to love Shah Shan. Love on Earth, reflected Paul bitterly, was suspect if not obsolete. And love for a man was more than obsolete: it was perverted. But here on this other fragment of dust on the other side of the sky, love could be admitted. There need be no justifications, no feelings of guilt, no sense of shame.

But why did he love Shah Shan? Was it because, as Enka Ne, the boy had spared his life when it would have been so much safer, so much easier to have given thumbs down? Was it because, back on that other burnt out particle of fire, he, Paul, had never had a brother? Or a son …

No matter what the reason, the fact remained. Shah Shan was going to die. Or, rather, Enka Ne, the god-king, was drawing close to the bosom of Oruri. And the brightest mind in the whole of Baya Nor was going to be sacrificed to the senseless traditions and superstitions of an ignorant little tribe that had not changed its ways for hundreds of years.

What was that Bayani proverb? He who is alive cannot die. Paul Marlowe laughed. God damn Oruri! Then he laughed again as he realized that he had only called on one god to confound another.

Because of his sadness he had wanted solitude. So he had left the small house and Mylai Tui and had wandered slowly along the bank of the Canal of Life until he came to where the kappa fields met the heavy green perimeter of the forest. And now he was sitting on a small mound, watching the women toiling in the muddy fields as they tended the new crop.

They were singing. The words came to him faintly, intermittently across the indecisive gusts of wind …

Yes, thought Paul savagely, God damn Oruri! Oruri was the millstone round these people’s necks, the concept that kept them in a static, medieval society with a medieval technology and medieval attitudes that would hold them back for a thousand years.

God damn Oruri!

Suddenly, his silent monologue, his reverie of exasperation was broken by a long-drawn high pitched cry. He had never heard such a cry before. He didn’t know whether it was animal or human, whether it was close or distant.

The cry came again, this time ending in a gasp. It was close – so close that he was briefly tempted to believe he had made it himself.

It came from somewhere on the other side of the mound.

He scrambled the few steps to the top of the hillock and looked down. There at the base on the other side a small Bayani woman squatted over a hole in the ground. It looked as if she had scooped the hole out of the rich soft soil with her fingers, for it was arranged in two neat piles on each side of her; and her hands were buried in the fresh, moist earth – presumably supporting her as she squatted.