Phthor (4 page)

He stopped beside his most promising alcove, where a new variation grew. This plant was blue, and—yes—it did glow slightly! The first blue-glow crossbreed! He held out his hand to it, and the plant shied away from him. It did not actually move; this was an emotional thing. The leaves nearest him drooped subtly, signifying negation.

Shocked, he retreated. Never before had any of his plants rejected him! What did this mean?

He approached another hvee, a more conventional green one. It, too, avoided him. Thus it was no peculiarity of the hybrid, but something between him and the hvee. And because of what the hvee was, that was awful.

Chthon! he cried mentally. But even the god rejected him. There was no contact.

This shook him fundamentally. Suddenly it was too much. Arlo ran from the garden, into one of the round exit tunnels, following it up to its intersection with another, and on in an intricate ascent. He did not know exactly what he was running from.

Then he realized that he was headed toward the cave of the Norns. Yes—they could explain this. His subconscious had guided him truly. He continued on through the intricate network, avoiding pitfalls and dangers that would have wiped out any person or creature not completely familiar with these bypaths. He maneuvered through canyons and corkscrews, crossing the paths of caterpillars and the labyrinth of a small dragon, and came at last to the cave.

It was a ledge behind the tall waterfall, about halfway up the cavern wall. Here the river was comparatively narrow, for it was falling rapidly. It formed a flattish translucent sheet that screened the ledge, wafting cool spray-mist across it. On the other side, he knew, that spray dissipated in the air, helping form the clouds that occasionally added their rain to the plants below. Sometimes he wished he could fly among those clouds, penetrating their mysteries as readily as he penetrated those of the smaller tunnels. But such wishes were mild. He would have felt at peace here, were it not the lair of the Norns.

They came out of their dark hole, three human figures. They were zombies: two complete, the third half.

The half-woman stepped toward him. “Yes we can tell you, Arlo, son of Aton,” she said. “If we would.” She was actually rather sensual, with large, well-formed breasts, a small waist, unwrinkled skin, and flowing black hair. Arlo had no notion how old she was; it was impossible to tell with zombies. Probably fifty or sixty years, for her eyes were slits through which an ancient hunger shone.

Arlo drew up to the edge of their ledge and waited, not speaking. It did not surprise him or alarm him that Verthandi should know his mission without being told; that was the nature of the Norns. Their visions derived from Chthon, who of course knew everything. Yet they were not entirely of Chthon, for some human elements remained, especially in Verthandi. Their perspective differed.

The half-woman reached out her hand to intersect the waterfall. Spray shot out to douse Arlo. She had uncanny aim! “My sisters will answer you,” she said, “But they must touch you.”

Because they were blind. Something in the zombie process had destroyed their sight and much of their hearing, so that they were largely dependent on tactile input. Probably the myxo—a thick enough coating of that gummy stuff... ugh! Arlo knew that, and had sympathy for their plight—but he did not like being touched by those wrinkled, grasping hands.

“Then talk to your hvee,” Verthandi said, turning her back.

She really did know! And so she must know the answer. He would have to submit. He knew they would not hurt him, in fact he could probably pitch all three over the cliff if he had to. Except that that would anger Chthon. By the same token, they would be careful of him, for they were more dependent on Chthon than he was.

He stood, and the three came to him. Urder reached out a thin hand and laid it on his chest. From her mouth poured a dribble of gibberish as her fingers slid across the muscles of his chest.

“Child of malice,” Verthandi. translated. “Incestuous issue, but very strong.”

“I’m the child of Coquina, “Arlo said, irritatedly. “She was never malefic.”

Urdur poked her jagged fingernail at his masculine nipples and emitted shrill laughter. Arlo realized he had been duped by some sort of pun or joke whose meaning only the Norns comprehended.

Skuld now put her cold hands on his right leg. She burst into her own gibberish. Again Verthandi translated: “How soon this flesh carries us all to Ragnarok!”

This time Arlo kept his mouth shut. The prophecy made no sense, but he didn’t want to provoke more insane mirth.

Now Verthandi herself touched him. Her hands were smooth and strong, and they took hold of his genital, kneading, stretching, forcing a reaction that was not unpleasant. “This hardening rod transfixes your sister,” she said.

“I have no sister!’’ Arlo cried, jerking away. “Why don’t you answer my questions? Why does Chthon hide from me? Why does my own hvee turn against me? Who is this child Ex?”

Verthandi looked calmly at him.
 
She was breathing with greater volume now, and had the shape of a remarkably fair woman. But her words remained zombie. “We have answered; past, future, and present. Your angry incest destroys life and death.”

Arlo backed away. “This is crazy! What is your price for a fair answer?” For he knew they could tell him, if they only would.

Verthandi squinted at him a long moment. “You are sixteen, very nearly,” she said.

Arlo started to correct her, then realized that he could not be really sure of his age. It had been a couple of years since he had asked Coquina about it, and perhaps he was older now.

“That may be considered an age of consent,” the Norn continued.

Now he understood her well enough to become uneasy. She had massaged his body, arousing a certain urgency in him, a certain mystery. Surely she knew more about this matter than he did, and wanted more of his body than a mere touch. And because there was a strong, confusing element of desire in him, his repulsion was greater. “Not that!” He did not know what or why not; perhaps it was a fear of being initiated into mysteries that could make him part zombie himself. “What other price?”

She gestured. “Stand in the water.”

He looked at the falls. It would be suicide to attempt to stand in that downrushing wall! But she extended her gesture to the side, and he saw that further along there was a smaller shoot that splashed off the ledge, forming an arcing spray over the chasm. There was a footing there—barely.

“I would be swept off,” he demurred.

She held her open hand toward him, offering to steady him. Arlo did not feel at ease, but decided this was the best compromise he could make. He walked toward the lesser falls.

From up close, the situation seemed more precarious. He felt an apprehension verging on terror. Therefore he proceeded, knowing the Norm were testing him. They expected him to fail, to back off—and then to have no pretext not to obtain his answers their way. Or give up the quest. As he would not.

He inserted the toes of one foot into the water. It was icy cold, and the force was such as to bounce his foot out again, throwing him off-balance. His arms flailed wildly, and Verthandi caught his hand, steadying him.

Perhaps she had as much of him as she required, merely grasping his hand, controlling his life physically. She could easily tip him into the gulf. So be it; he would not yield. He put his foot back in the water, setting it firmly on the slippery rock, then wedged his leg in slowly.

The numbing force of it traveled up his leg to his waist, then on up to his chest. At first it was as though he would be swept entirely away by that current; but as he came in wholly, the force steadied, and the water flowed all about him, containing him. The center of the falls was hollow; there was no strong beat upon his head. He withdrew his hand from that of the Norn and stood there, encapsulated in the descending chill.

Perhaps this was what it felt like to be a zombie, contained in Chthon’s beneficence.

Soon his confusion and annoyance with Ex faded. She was a young girl, a child banged on the head; naturally she reacted irrationally. He would take care of her, and she would recover. He liked that notion: taking care of her. He had never had a human companion before, especially not a female. A real female; the zombies didn’t count, for they were only shells, their minds buried somewhere in Chthon. Being encapsulated might be nice—but only if it were possible to break out at will.

Now he was able to approach the hvee problem. Why had his plants shied from him? Did they resent the presence of another person in the garden? Yet old Doc Bedside came often to the garden. Arlo resented this but could do nothing; the man was another creature of Chthon—like the Norns, but different. The hvee did not like Bedside—but this had never affected the plants’ reaction to Arlo. Why should it be otherwise with Ex?

The reason had to be in Arlo himself, as the Norns seemed to have suggested. He must have changed in some way, making him foreign to the hvee. For the plants were mindless; they could not reason and therefore could not lie. They reacted only to what was in the person they were near.

This was difficult thinking! Arlo had seldom explored his own motives deeply, but now he had to try. He had to make it right with the hvee because the emotional plants mirrored his self-esteem. In this sense he was incestuous, perhaps destroying himself: his emotions breeding within their own family, not truly interacting with the emotions of other people. The Norns’ message was coming clear!

How had he changed? No way—except that he had taken care of the girl. Would the hvee have liked him better if he had let her die? If he had let Chthon make her another zombie? No—he had done what seemed right, because he needed a companion.

A companion other than the hvee? No, the hvee was not jealous. In fact, it was the nature of the plant to cement the love of a man and woman. Once a given hvee fixed on a man, it would die in his absence—unless in the presence of the woman who truly loved him.

Man? Woman? Love? What had any of this to do with him?

But he had to explore it honestly. The girl Ex fascinated him at the same time as she annoyed him. That was confusing. Perhaps that confusion extended to the hvee.

Well, all he had to do was get to know the girl better. Then there would be no confusion.

Suddenly a feeling of dread infused him. Arlo grabbed for his spear and almost overbalanced himself. For an instant his face poked through the tube of water, and he gazed into the abyss.

But there was no immediate threat. He was safe here, as long as he kept his balance. As safe as it was possible to be in the caverns.

No—the menace was not to him, but to someone else. His father Aton? No, not directly. His mother Coquina? No.

He stiffened. Ex! She was alone and unguarded in the garden below, and something huge and awful was moving toward her. He felt it in that part of him attuned to the life of the caverns. That talent Chthon had taught him.

Arlo stepped out of the shower. The water wrenched at him again, and his feet slipped out from under. He sat down hard on the rock, his legs going out over the edge, his gaze fashioning a precipitous plunge through the glowing vapors of the middle space of the garden... and again Verthandi’s hand caught his and held him steady.

“You have saved me. You have also answered my questions,” Arlo told her. “I will remember that. But now I must hurry.”

She only nodded. She surely knew whether he would ever return to her, and was willing to wait. Zombies had extraordinary patience.

He left the cave of the Norns, impelled by his new urgency. He made his way down through the labyrinth of passages, again reminded how formidable they would have been for anyone who did not know their idiosyncrasies and dangers. His father could not pass here—at least not with any speed or security. But Arlo had had years to explore them, with Chthon’s protection and help.

This particular region had only one safe exit: a corkscrew tunnel barely large enough to let a man pass. All other routes led past potwhales, caterpillars, and other predators. Arlo could traverse them when Chthon was with them, but not alone.

As he approached the corkscrew—the term derived from an artifact mentioned in LOE, a metal-wire spiral used to remove the ancient stoppers from bottles—he stopped. A salamander was there.

The best way to deal with a salamander was to avoid it. Normally they did not stray from the hottest wind-tunnels.

Which suggested that this one’s presence in this key location was not coincidence. Chthon could have summoned it to bar the way.

Why?

Arlo froze, a prickle of dread traveling up his spine. Ex was alone; only his determination had spared her from Chthon’s siege, before. She was imminently threatened by something vicious. A wolf thing. Now—

He had to get past the salamander! But the creature was aware of him, alert—and the very touch of its tiny tooth meant death.

“Chthon!” he called automatically, knowing that was useless. One lesson this experience with Ex had already taught him: he could no longer rely on his friend the god. Not completely. And what was untrustworthy part of the time was uncertain all of the time. He had depended on Chthon to protect him from cavern predators, until he had come to think of the caverns as safe. That had been a dangerous complacency!