Mountain of Black Glass (62 page)

The vast hand slammed down, narrowly missing him. Paul tripped and staggered back. The Cyclops leaned closer, blood from Azador's failed attack on the monster's neck and hand, his growling, gap-toothed mouth stinking of rotten flesh, and the difference between real and virtual shrank to absolutely nothing.

Paul heaved up a pitch bucket and threw it at the Cyclop's face, hoping to blind him. The bucket fell short and broke on the creature's breastbone instead, covering his mighty chest in black ooze, but the giant was not even slowed. Paul sprang to the side and dodged behind their raft, which was leaning against a cavern wall near the fire. Polyphemus flung it aside as though it were paper; it crashed down on the far side of the room, timbers cracking. The monstrosity's lips curled in pleasant anticipation as Paul fled again, backing into a corner, his only weapon a deadfall branch from the pile of firewood. Both of the giant's enormous hands came up, hemming him in, and Paul smacked uselessly at the dirty, squat fingers.

Suddenly, the Cyclops lurched upright, bellowing out a scream which threatened to burst Paul's eardrums as he swatted at something behind him. Azador stumbled back from the Cyclops' leg, the shears which Paul had flung earlier now quivering in the monster's thick calf muscle. The giant made a move toward this new attacker, then turned to peer with his vast, bloodshot eye at Paul, who still cowered in the corner. Polyphemus shambled to the wall of the cavern and snatched up his shepherd's staff, a slender tree trunk half-a-dozen meters tall, shod in bronze, then whirled with surprising speed and swung it at Azador, who had only an instant to fall to his belly as the log hissed toward his head. Polyphemus lifted the staff high, intending to spear him like a fish.

Desperate, Paul threw the piece of wood he had been holding, but it bounced harmlessly off the Cyclops' back. He sprang forward and heaved up the giant's wooden dinner bowl, but realized it would be no more of a distraction than the firewood. The Cyclops jabbed at Azador, forcing him to roll out of the way again and again, but he was running out of room to maneuver. Paul's helpless terror was so great that it took a moment for him to realize that he was standing on something that was burning his foot.

The Cyclops had raised the staff to pin Azador against the cavern wall when Paul put his foot against the shears wagging in the monster's calf and shoved them farther into his leg. The giant roared and turned, swatting at Paul with the back of his hand, but Paul had expected the blow and was able to duck beneath it before flinging the bowl full of burning coals into the monster's face.

He had hoped only for a moment's distraction, to blind the creature long enough for them to make a try for the cavern entrance. He had not expected the pitch splashed on the creature's face and body to ignite, crackling up the creature's beard and setting it ablaze.

Flames enveloped the Cyclops' head. The creature's shriek of pain was so loud that Paul sank to the earth and clutched his head. Polyphemus turned and shoved his way through the front doorway, sending the great stone spinning; Azador pulled Paul out of its path just before it wobbled to a halt and crashed to the cavern floor.

For long moments Paul could only lie curled on his side. His skull felt like it had been smashed to pieces inside his head, and he could hear nothing but a single insistent tone. When he looked up, Azador stood before him, bloody but alive. He was speaking, but Paul could not make out a word.

“I think I'm deaf,” Paul said. His own voice seemed to come from the other side of a vast space, faint as a whisper, all but subsumed by the painful ringing.

Azador helped him up. They looked at the open doorway, both wondering how long until the giant would return with flames extinguished, burned and vengeful. Azador gestured to the raft, clearly wanting to seize it, but Paul only shook his head as he staggered toward the cavern entrance. There was no knowing how long the giant would be gone: to remain a moment longer would be suicidal folly. He could not hear the other man, but he knew Azador was cursing his cowardice.

The first light of dawn was in the sky outside, revealing the giant's track where it had smashed its way through the trees, perhaps stumbling in search of water. They followed along the line of destruction, but stayed hidden in the trees on either side. The path zigzagged down the hill toward the ocean far below.

 

They found the Cyclops facedown on a shelf of stone, wreathed in smoke like a defeated Titan flung blazing to Earth from Mount Olympus. Flames burned fitfully in the sheepskin garment, fanned by the wind. The creature's head still smoldered, a lump of black ruin atop the shoulders. It was quite dead.

Paul slumped down on the stone beside it, so happy to be alive and underneath the sky once more that he burst into tears. He could not make out Azador's scornful words, but it was easy to read the other man's expression.

 

Even with the monster destroyed they could not get off its island, nor were they in much of a hurry to do so.

They spent the first day simply recovering from the struggle, sleeping and nursing their aching bodies. Most of their wounds were little worse than cuts and bruises, but Azador's ribs had taken a hard blow and although his hearing had returned, Paul was burned on his feet and in several places on his hands and chest where the coals had touched him. As the sun fell down the sky toward evening, Azador suggested they sleep in the giant's shelter, but Paul did not want to spend any more time in that reeking den than necessary. To Azador's disgust he insisted that they make their campsite in front of the cave instead, exposed to the elements but breathing clean air.

Azador caught and killed one of the Cyclops' sheep, which had strayed all across the hilltop after their master's death. For Paul the smell of roasting meat was a little too reminiscent of what they had just survived, but Azador ate with gusto. By the time he had finished his meal he seemed quite recovered, and even grudgingly congratulated Paul for his quick thinking.

“That was good, the fire,” he said. “Bastard went up like a torch—
foof
!” Azador wiggled his fingers to mime flames. “And now we eat his meat.”

“Please, no,” said Paul, nauseated by the choice of words.

 

The raft was too large to carry down to the water so they reluctantly dismantled it into a half-dozen smaller pieces, carefully saving all the rope for later use, and dragged them out of the cave and down to the beach for repair.

“He was a big strong bastard, I give him that,” grunted Azador as they trudged along the hillside with a length of bound logs. “The way he carried it up over his head like that—when I saw it coming over the trees, I thought it was Saint Kali the Black.”

Paul stumbled on a root and almost let go of his end. “Saint who?”

“Saint Kali. She is special to my people. We carry her in her boat down to the ocean every year.” He saw that Paul was staring at him. “A statue. On the saint's day she is carried to the water. She is called Black Sarah, too.”

Paul had been astonished not by the outlandishness of the ritual, but because Azador was sharing something of himself. “She's . . .” He paused. “Who
are
your people, anyway?”

Azador lifted an eyebrow. “I am Romany.”

“Gypsies?”

“If you like.” Azador himself did not seem to like, because he was silent for the rest of the trip to the beach.

They were able to use the giant's own tools, although they found them heavy and clumsy. Of particular use was a bronze knife with a scalloped edge, long as a sword but twice as wide, handy for sawing at tree branches. Over the course of two days, slowed by an occasional rain shower or their own aching muscles, the two men managed to reassemble the raft and fashion a new mast from the pliant trunk of a young tree, but it was much harder work than Paul's first round of boatbuilding. More than once he found himself wishing that Calypso's magical ax had survived the attack of the monster Scylla.

On the evening of the second night, with plans to cast off again at dawn and leave the island of Polyphemus behind, they held a celebratory feast.

Besides the luckless animal whose leg was crackling on a spit above the flames, Azador selected several more of the giant's fattest sheep to take with them on the raft. The thought of a fresh stock of meat put him in a good mood. As their fire leaped high into the air, sparks whirling above the trees, he did a dance and sang a song whose words the machineries of the network could not or did not translate. As the gypsy grimaced through some of the more difficult steps, his face locked in a scowling concentration that was nevertheless oddly joyful, Paul found himself warming to the man.

The mutton and the Cyclops' last jug of sour but potent wine might have put Azador in a buoyant mood, but his tongue was no looser than usual. When he had finished dancing and eating, he rolled himself onto his side without further conversation and went to sleep.

 

The winds were up and the sea was restive all the next day after they cast off, and their rebuilt raft responded to it as to a new and ardent lover. Disturbed by the constant pitching, Paul spent most of the day crouched on the deck with his arms around the mast, wondering how a virtual experience could cause such profound discomfort to his inner ear. The winds calmed a little at sundown, and as a balmy evening settled on them Paul found himself feeling much better about everything. Azador steered by the stars, using a dead reckoning method that Paul had read about in books, but which had never seemed of any more practical use than mummification or alchemy. Now he was extremely grateful to have a companion who knew such antiquated things.

“Will we reach Troy soon?” he asked as the moon ran behind the clouds and the ocean and sky darkened. The rush and murmur of the sea and the great starless emptiness around him was like being inside a vast seashell.

“Don't know.” Azador sat at the back of the raft, one hand lightly on the tiller, perched above the waves as calmly as if he sat on a mat in his own home. “Depends on many things.”

Paul nodded as though he understood, but it was only to save the now familiar—and generally unrewarded—effort of getting Azador to explain. Weather, he guessed, and navigational uncertainty.

Sometime after midnight Azador lashed the rudder into position and took his turn sleeping. The moon had gone for good now and the black sky was afire with stars. Paul watched them pass through their slow dance above his head, so close it seemed he could reach up to them and freeze his fingers against their cold light, and vowed that if he ever found his way home he would never take the heavens for granted again.

 

In the late morning of their third day since leaving Polyphemus' island they saw land again. Another squall had passed over them just after sunrise, forcing them to furl the sail, and the sea had been unruly ever since. Azador was struggling with the ropes, trying to find a healthy tautness of sail. Paul was kneeling at the front of the raft, holding one of the lines but mainly feeling queasy, when he saw something dark on the horizon.

“Look!” he said. “I think it's another island!”

Azador squinted. A column of sunlight sharp as a knife blade suddenly sliced down through the toil of clouds, making the distant green hills glint across the dark water.

“Island, yes,” Azador agreed. “Look at her, winking at us like a beautiful whore.”

Paul thought that seemed a little harsh, but he was too happy to have sighted it to care. He was much less sad and fearful now that the raft was rebuilt and he had a strong, skilled companion, but he was still growing a little tired of the monotony of the Homeric seas—a bit of dry land would be a good thing. He thought of berries, and even bread and cheese if there was a town or city below the distant green slopes, and his mouth watered. It was odd that he seldom felt hungry, but could still feel the
desire
for food very strongly, could think of tastes and textures with great pleasure and longing. Undoubtedly a byproduct of his body being kept alive on machines—drips and tubes providing his nutrients, most likely. But it would be good on that day when he was not only back in his own England, but back in his real body once more as well. Like the starsprayed skies, it was something he would never again take for granted.

As the day wore on past noon and they drew nearer to the island, the clouds drifted away; although a mild breeze remained, the sun soon warmed the skies and sea, and Paul felt his mood becoming even more optimistic. Azador, too, seemed to catch a little of the feeling. Once, turning quickly, Paul almost caught him smiling.

The island growing before them rose at its center to a collection of steep grassy hills which took the sun like green velvet. A mile or more of white sand lay before them along the water's edge, curiously mimicked in the blankets of white flowers that covered many of the hillsides, thick as snow. Streams and rivulets glittered in the meadows, or splashed down from the rocks of the highest hills, the cataracts making more spots of white. Paul saw no human inhabitants, but thought he saw regular shapes that might be low buildings atop some of the lesser hills. In truth, it would have been astonishing if there had not been some sign of the works of men, for the island was the loveliest he had seen in this whole imaginary Mediterranean world. Even the scents that the wind had brought them for some time now, blossoming trees and wet grass and something less definable, something pungent as perfume but somehow also as subtle as the spray from a waterfall, made Paul feel that for this moment anyway, life was good.

As they dragged their raft through the gentle surf and onto sand fine as bone ash, Paul realized that he was laughing with pleasure.