Into the Storm (37 page)

At its base, the procession finally halted and the crowd noises diminished. Keje stepped forward and raised his hands, palms forward. When he spoke, Chack quietly translated as best he could.

“Greetings, Nakja-Mur, High Chief of Baalkpan!” Keje’s voice seemed unnaturally loud now that everyone nearby was silent. “I am Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of
Salissa
Home, come from the Southern Sea with mighty friends, trade, and tales to tell. May we come aboard for counsel?”

There was a moment of silence, then a powerful voice from an unseen source boomed at them from above.

“Come aboard, and welcome, Brother. It is long since
Salissa
Home visited these waters, and some of your tale has arrived before you. Come, eat and drink and tell me your tale. Bring these mighty friends of yours. I would meet them!”

Adar glanced back at them and suddenly spoke urgently to Keje. Keje looked at them and seemed to hesitate, but then clapped Adar on the back and scampered up the rope ladder that was, apparently, the only way up. Adar looked at them again with what might have been uncertainty, but then followed his leader. Matt motioned for Sandra to make the twenty-foot climb and with a smile she grasped the ropes and started up. Matt would have sworn he hadn’t consciously considered it when he suggested she go first, but he caught himself watching the shapely nurse ascending the ladder above and for a moment he was almost mesmerized. The white stockings didn’t hide her athletic legs, and the way her hips swished from side to side at the bottom of her wasp-thin waist . . . He shook his head and looked away, vaguely ashamed, and saw all the other men watching as well. He coughed loudly and meaningfully and gestured Chack closer.

“How come these people build everything so high off the ground?”

Chack looked at him blankly, then his eyelids fluttered with amusement and he grinned. “Is, ah, tradition? Yes. Remind us of old ways. Also, keep dry when high water. Bad land lizards not climb good, too.”

Matt grinned back at him. “Makes sense to me!” With that, he made his own way up.

Large as it was, Captain Reddy never imagined that the enormous hall he entered would possibly hold all who came along, but it did—as well as an equal number of locals. The size and shape reminded him of an oversized basketball court, dimly lit by oil lamps that exuded a pleasant, if somewhat fishy smell. Huge beams supported the vaulted ceiling and great gaudy tapestries lined the walls, stirring gently with the soft breeze from banks of open shutters. Dominating the center of the hall, the trunk of the massive Galla tree disappeared into the gloom above. Except for the size of the tree and the height of the ceiling, it looked like the Great Hall on
Big Sal
. Matt guessed there were close to five hundred occupants, talking animatedly, and for the moment, no one paid them any heed.

Along one wall, a long bar was laid with colorful dishes heaped with food. Every ten feet or so was a cluster of copper pitchers containing a dark amber liquid that smelled like honey and bread. Matt saw others grab pitchers and begin to drink, so he seized one each for himself and Sandra. Bradford took one too, but when the other destroyermen moved in that direction, Lieutenant Garrett scowled and shook his head. Matt peered into his pitcher and sipped experimentally. He looked at Bradford, surprised.

“Tastes . . . sort of like beer,” he said. “Not bad, either.” Sandra took a tentative sip and Bradford raised his mug. A moment later, he lowered it and smacked his lips.

“Ahhh! Beer! We’ve more in common with these Lemurians than we ever dreamed! I’d think the alcohol content is rather high as well.”

Matt glanced at Garrett and the security detachment and felt a pang of remorse. They looked at him like dogs watching him eat. “Go ahead, men, but just one mug apiece. Mr. Garrett? See to it. All we need now is drunken sailors!” He and Sandra politely moved along the bar with the crowd, sampling small dishes here and there. The spices were different and some were quite brutal. Many of
Big Sal’s
’Cats proudly pointed out this or that and made suggestions, but most of the locals just watched, wide-eyed.

“Cap-i-taan Riddy!”

Matt turned toward the somewhat familiar voice and faced Kas-Ra-Ar, Keje’s cousin, and captain of his personal guard.

“Com plees.”

Bradford had obviously been as busy teaching English on
Big Sal
as Chack had been learning it on
Walker
.

“By all means,” Matt replied. “Mr. Garrett? Please supervise our protectors. Lieutenant Tucker, Mr. Bradford, would you accompany me?”

They followed Kas through the boisterous throng, threading their way down the far side, away from the buffet. At the other end of the hall, they came to a less-packed space, where Keje and Adar stood near a seated figure dressed in flowing robes of red and gold. The figure was easily the fattest Lemurian they’d seen, but he gave no impression of sedentary weakness. His dark fur was sleek and shiny with just a hint of silver, and he radiated an aura of strength and power despite the massive stomach his hands laid upon. He regarded them with keen, intelligent eyes as they approached and raised his hand palm outward and thundered a greeting in his own tongue.

Matt returned the gesture, and the Lemurian’s eyes flicked to the sword at his side. Keje spoke quickly in Nakja-Mur’s ear. While the Lemurian chief watched them, unblinking, Adar translated to Courtney Bradford.

“Never has he seen someone make the Sign of the Empty Hand when that person’s hand wasn’t empty. I believe he’s referring to your sword, old boy.”

Matt glanced with surprise at the sheathed ceremonial weapon. They’d worn the swords—as before—to seem less exotic. It hadn’t occurred to him that it might cause trouble. Keje would have warned them if they were committing some terrible breach of convention. Wouldn’t he? He thought quickly. “Tell him my hand
is
empty. Among our people, only the unsheathed weapon is a threat because it shows intent. The sign is given as a token of friendship and reflects more the intent than the actual fact.”

“It is a lie, then?” came the question. Keje seemed uncomfortable and Adar radiated an air of vindication. Matt felt a surge of anger and wondered if they’d been set up. Sandra unobtrusively squeezed his arm.

“Tell him it’s not a lie. We came here as friends, as we came to the aid of
Salissa
Home. We’d like to be the friends of all the People. Since our intentions are friendly,
not
making the sign would have been a lie. Among our people, friends may go among one another armed and still remain friends. Is that not the case among his?”

After the translation, Nakja-Mur just stared for a moment, but then slowly, his lips parted into a grin. Matt looked at Keje and saw he was already smiling. “I tell Nakja-Mur you people always armed because you always . . . warriors. Always. You ship made for fighting only. Not so?”

Finally, they’d come to the point. He’d never lied about it, but he had downplayed it. Now, Matt knew, there was only one possible answer. The truth.

“USS
Walker
is a ship of war,” he admitted quietly.

“Who you fight?” Adar asked. “Who you fight all the time to need ship only for war?”

Matt realized it was the first time he’d heard the Sky Priest speak English. “We fight the enemies of our people . . . and the enemies of our friends.”

“You fight Grik?” Adar translated for Nakja-Mur.

“We’ve already fought the Grik.”

“You fight again?”

Matt glanced at Sandra and Bradford. They were both looking at him, realizing that what he said in the next few moments might have grave consequences for them all.

“If the Grik come and you can’t fight them alone, we’ll help. That’s what friends do. But friends don’t ask friends to do all their fighting for them.”

Nakja-Mur spoke to Adar, all the while watching Matt’s face as if curious how to interpret human expressions. Adar repeated his words as carefully as he could. “After battle tale of U-Amaki Ay
Salissa”
—he paused and looked at Matt—“Keje tell fight. Grik fight bad, but hard. Fight new way, bigger ship. More Grik than see before.” He took a quick gulp from his tankard. “New thing,” he said. “Different thing. Maybe Grik come . . . bigger, like long ago.”

Matt was concerned about the Grik, of course, but he wasn’t too worried about
Walker
’s ability to handle several of their ships at once, if need be. They were the “Ancient Enemy,” that much he understood, and he knew the ’Cats held them in almost superstitious dread—with good reason. But he guessed he’d begun to think of them more along the lines of his “Malay pirate” model than as an actual expansionist menace. They’d been “out there” for thousands of years, after all. His assessment was based on his limited conversations, as well as the lack of any evident preparations to meet a serious threat. Especially here. He’d shifted his primary concern to establishing good enough relations with the Lemurians that they would help with fuel and repairs. If a limited alliance, in which
Walker
chased off a few Grik now and then, was the only way to meet those needs, then he was prepared to agree to one, but he wanted to avoid an “entangling” alliance that left either too dependent on the other.

Now, though, it seemed they were actually afraid the Grik might attack here. That didn’t fit the “pirate” model. He was dismayed how vulnerable the people of Baalkpan were, even compared to their seagoing cousins. They’d always referred to it as an “outpost” or “colony,” and he supposed that description had left him thinking Baalkpan was small and possibly even transient. Certainly easily evacuated. Now, of course, he knew that the land colony of Baalkpan would be about as easy to evacuate as . . . Surabaya. But even against six Grik ships, Baalkpan had enough people—complacent as they were—to repel an assault with ease. Something had been lost in translation—or had they been “downplaying” too?

Adar continued. “If Grik come bigger, like long ago, there be . . . plenty? Plenty fight for all.” Matt looked at Nakja-Mur and then at Keje who stood by his side, watching him. Then he glanced at Sandra and sighed.

“Tell me more about the Grik.”

The party proceeded around them, loud with happy cries and chittering laughter. A troupe of dancers found enough space near the trunk of the great tree to perform feats of astonishing agility and admirable grace. They were accompanied by haunting but festive music produced by drums and a woodwind/horn that sounded like a muted trumpet. All the while, a space was left surrounding the thronelike chair of Nakja-Mur and his guests while they discussed the peril they faced.

Nakja-Mur touched a chime. At the signal, a truly ancient Lemurian emerged—as if he’d been waiting—from a chamber behind his chief, dressed in the robes and stars of the Sky Priests. Around his neck was a simple brass pendant, tarnished with age but suspended by an ornate chain of gold. He clutched it when he suddenly spoke the same, but more polished, Latin that Adar had first used to communicate with them.

“You understand the Ancient Tongue,” he grated.

“Yes! I mean, uh, that’s true, Your . . . Eminence.”

The old Lemurian gave a start when Bradford replied, but continued in his raspy voice. “I’m disquieted by that, but it’s clearly true. I would learn how this can be. But that will wait.” He seemed contemplative for a moment, but then visibly gathered himself to speak again.

“I’m Naga, High Sky Priest of Baalkpan. I will tell you of the Grik and of the People. The Scrolls are our ancient history, our guide, our way, our very life, but they are incomplete and there are gaps—great gaps—between their beginning and the now. Hundreds of generations passed between the beginning times and when we learned the Ancient Tongue. The Truth was passed by word of mouth all that time before it was recorded.” He blinked several times in a sequence that Bradford thought signified regret. “Perhaps, much was lost,” he continued, “but the Scrolls clearly tell of a time when all the people lived together in happiness and peace on a land in the west. A land vast and beautiful, safe from the capricious sea. A land lush and green and covered with trees and protected by water. And the Maker of All Things, the Greatest of all the Stars above, filled the waters around the Ancient Home with wicked fishes that kept our people safe from the monsters across the water on the western land.

“And thus it was, for age upon age. The People lived and died, but were prosperous and happy and needed only the trees for their homes.” He shook his head in lament and blinked again, rapidly. “But for some, it wasn’t enough. The fragile perfection of the People’s existence was somehow lacking, it seemed. Some built boats, to range upon the sea and take fishes there. They wandered and explored, and finally it came to be that one of the boats was cast upon the western land of monsters. The Grik,” he added darkly. “The Grik slew them and ate them, but then wondered from where did they come, this new prey?”

Bradford translated as quickly as he could, but began to fall behind. The old priest waited while he caught up, and then continued.

“The Grik built boats for themselves. They copied the very boats delivered unto them. They were poor sailors, and many perished and the flasher-fish and gri-kakka grew fat on their bodies, but there were always more. Finally, they reached the ancient paradise of our People. Only a few came at first, like now.” He stopped and looked at Nakja-Mur. “And they were killed and cast into the sea. The People were not warriors and many died, but they were able, for a time, to slay all that came.” He paused for effect. “But there were always more.”

The party went on, unabated, but a circle of silent listeners had formed around them. The old Sky Priest lifted a copper mug to his shriveled lips and drank.

Bradford turned to Matt. “My God, Captain! Do you know what this means? Madagascar! This ‘ancient paradise’ simply must be Madagascar! These people are quite clearly related to lemurs—as I’ve believed from the start! I admit the relation has become somewhat distant . . .”