To Your Scattered Bodies Go/The Fabulous Riverboat

by Philip José Farmer

  “The chief knows Joe is a mighty warrior,” Abdul said. “Greater than Rustam himself. I overheard some men talking, and they said their chief plans to use Joe as a hostage. He wants to become partners in the iron mine. If refused, he will not kill Joe but will make a slave out of him, although I doubt he can do that. He’ll attack us, kill us, get the iron for himself.

  “He can do it. He’s building a huge fleet, many small ships carrying forty men each, hastily put together but serviceable to transport his army. He’ll make an all-out attack with warriors armed with flint weapons, bows and arrows, and heavy war-boomerangs.”

  “And who is this would-be Napoleon?” Sam said.

  “His men called him King John. They say that he ruled over England when men wore armor and fought with swords. In the time of Saladin. His brother was a very famous warrior, Richard the Lion-Hearted.”

  Sam cursed and said, “John Lackland! The black-hearted pussyfooting Prince John! So rotten that the English swore never again to have a king named John! I’d sooner have a scoundrel like Leopold of Belgium or Jim Fisk after my hide!”

  THIRTY minutes later, Sam was shoved into an even deeper gloom. This time, the message came by word-of-mouth grapevine. Thirty miles downRiver, a huge fleet was sailing toward them. This consisted of sixty large single-masters, each carrying forty warriors. The leader of the armada was a king of an area which had been just outside the destruction caused by the meteorite. His name was Joseph Maria von Radowitz.

  “I read about him in school!” von Richthofen said. “Let’s see. He was born in 1797, died about 1853, I believe. He was an artillery expert and a good friend of Frederick Wilhelm IV of Prussia. He was called ‘The Warlike Monk’ because he was a general who also had strict religious views. He died when he was about fifty years old, a disappointed man because he had been dropped from favor. So now he’s alive again, young, and no doubt trying to impose his Puritanism upon others, and killing those who don’t agree with him.”

  An hour later, he got word that King John’s fleet had set sail.

  “John’s force will get here first,” he told Bloodaxe. “They’ll be faster because the wind and current will be helping them.”

  “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” Bloodaxe snorted.

  “So what do you plan to do?”

  “Smash the Englishman first and then destroy the German later,” Bloodaxe replied. He swung his ax and said, “By the shattered hymen of Thor’s bride! My ribs still hurt, but I will ignore the pain!”

  Sam did not argue. When he was alone with Lothar, he said, “Fighting against hopeless odds until you die is all very admirable. But it doesn’t pay off in preferred stock. Now, I know you’re going to think I’m as spineless as a cockroach, Lothar, but I have a dream, a great dream, and it transcends all ordinary ideas of faithfulness and morality. I want that boat, Lothar, and I want to pilot it to the end of The River, no matter what!

  “If we had a fighting chance, I wouldn’t suggest this. But we don’t. We’re outnumbered and have inferior weapons. So I’m going to suggest that we make a deal.”

  “With whom?” von Richthofen said. He was grim and pale.

  “With John. He may be the most treacherous king in the world, although the competition is fierce, but he’s the one most likely to throw in with us. Radowitz’s fleet is bigger than his, and even if John somehow managed to defeat it, he’d be so weakened we could take him. But if we ganged up with John, we could give Radowitz such a beating he’d take off like a hound dog, tail closed down like a latch.”

  Von Richthofen laughed and said, “For a moment I thought you were going to propose that we hide in the mountains and then come out to offer our services to the victor. I could not stand the idea of playing coward, of leaving these people to fight alone.”

  “I’ll be frank,” Clemens said, “even if I am Sam. I’d do that if I thought it was the only way. No, what I’m suggesting is that we get rid, somehow, of Bloodaxe. He’ll never go along with taking John in as a partner.”

  “You’ll have to watch John as if he were a poisonous snake,” the German said. “But I see no other way out. Nor do I think it’s treachery to kill Bloodaxe. It’s just insurance. He’ll get rid of you the first chance he gets.”

  “And we’ll not really be killing him,” Sam said. “Just removing him from the picture.”

  Clemens wanted to talk more about what they should do, but von Richthofen said that there had been enough talk. Sam was putting off the taking of action—as usual. Things had to be done right now.

  Sam gave a sigh and said, “I suppose so.”

  “What’s the matter?” Lothar said.

  “I’m suffering from guilt before I’ve even incurred it,” Sam replied. “I feel like a yellow dog, although there’s no reason I should. None at all! But I was born to feel guilty about everything, even about being born.”

  Lothar threw his hands up in disgust and strode off, saying over his shoulder, “Follow me or hang back. But you can’t expect me to think of you as the captain of our boat. Captains don’t drag their feet.”

  Sam grimaced but went after him. Lothar talked to twelve men he thought trustworthy enough for what he proposed. The sun began to climb down from the zenith while the details were arranged and then the men went to arm themselves. They came back from their huts with bamboo spears and knives. One had a bamboo bow with six arrows, effective only at close range.

  Lothar von Richthofen and Sam Clemens leading, the group strode up to the Norse king’s hut. Six Vikings stood guard outside.

  “We want to talk to Bloodaxe,” Sam said, trying to keep his voice from quavering.

  “He’s in there with a woman,” Ve Grimarsson said.

  Sam raised his hand. Lothar ran past him and clubbed Grimarsson over the head. An arrow whistled past Sam’s shoulder and stopped in the throat of a guard. Within ten seconds, the others had been killed or wounded too severely to continue fighting. There were shouts from a distance as a dozen other Vikings came running to protect their chief. Bloodaxe, naked, bellowing, his steel ax held high, rushed through the doorway. Von Richthofen lunged with his spear and impaled the Norseman on it. Bloodaxe dropped the ax and staggered back, driven by the German’s weight on the spear, until he slammed into the bamboo wall of the hut. He stared; his mouth worked; blood ran from a corner of his lips; his skin was blue-gray.

  The German then yanked the spear out of the Norseman’s belly, and Bloodaxe crumpled.

  There was a fight afterward with six of Clemens’ men killed and four wounded. The Vikings did not give up until all were silenced and as dead as their king.

  Sam Clemens, panting hoarsely, splashed with blood from others and bleeding from a gash on his shoulder, leaned on his spear. He had killed one man, Gunnlaugr Thorrfinnsson, puncturing his kidney from behind while the Viking was thrusting at von Richthofen. Too bad about Gunnlaugr. Of all the Norsemen, he enjoyed Sam’s jokes the most. Now he was stabbed in the back by his friend Sam Clemens.

  I’ve fought in thirty-eight battles, Sam thought, and I’ve slain only two men. The other was a severely wounded Turk struggling to get to his feet. Sam Clemens, the mighty warrior, great-hearted hero. Thinking thus, he gazed with the horror and fascination that corpses had always had for him and would have if he lived ten thousand years.

  AND then he squawked with fright and yanked his left ankle away in a frantic effort to escape the hand gripping it. Unable to do so, he lifted his spear to drive it into the man who held him. He looked down into the pale blue eyes of Erik Bloodaxe. Life had surged up in Bloodaxe for a moment. The glaze was gone from his eyes and the skin was not so gray-blue. His voice was weak but strong enough for Sam, and others nearby, to hear him.

  “Bikkja! Droppings of Ratatosk! Listen! I will not let you go until I have spoken! The gods have given me the powers of a voluspa. They want revenge for your treachery. Listen! I know there is iron beneath this blood-soaked grass. I feel the iron flowing in my veins. Its gray
ness turns my blood thick and cold. There is iron enough and more than enough for your great white boat. You will dig up this iron, and you will build a boat to rival Skithblathnir.

  “You will be captain of it, Bitch Clemens, and your boat will sail up The River for more miles than Sleipnir’s eight legs could cover in a day. You will go back and forth, north and south, east and west, as the Rivervalley takes you. You will go around the world many times.

  “But the building of the boat and the sailing thereof will be bitter and full of grief. And after years, two generations as known on Earth, after great sufferings, and some joys, when you think you are at long last near the end of the long, long journey, then you will find me!

  “Rather, I will find you! I will be waiting on a distant boat and I will kill you. And you will never get to the end of The River nor storm the gates of Valhalla!”

  Sam became cold and brittle. Even when he felt the hand slacken its grip on his ankle, he did not move. He heard the death rattle and did not move or look down.

  Faintly, Bloodaxe spoke again. “I wait!”

  There was another rattle, more drawn out, and the hand fell away. Sam forced himself to step away, not sure that he would not break into a dozen pieces. He looked at von Richthofen and said, “Superstition! A man can’t look into the future!”

  Von Richthofen said, “I don’t think so. But if things are as you believe, Sam, mechanical, automatic, then the future is predetermined. If things are ready-made, why can’t the future open up for a minute, lights blaze in the tunnel of time, and a man see down the track?”

  Sam did not answer. Von Richthofen laughed to show that he was joking and clapped Sam on the shoulder.

  Sam said, “I need a drink. Badly.” Then he said, “I don’t take any stock in that superstitious rot.”

  But he believed that those dying eyes had seen into the years ahead, and he was thereafter to believe.

  13

  An hour before dusk, King John’s fleet arrived. Sam Clemens sent a man out to tell John that he wanted to discuss a possible partnership. John, ever willing to talk to you before knifing you, agreed to a powwow. Sam stood on the edge of the bank while John Lackland leaned on the railing of his galley. Sam, his terror unfrozen by a dozen whiskeys, described the situation and spoke glowingly of the great boat to be built after the iron was secured.

  John was a short, dark man with very broad shoulders, tawny hair, and blue eyes. He smiled frequently and spoke in an English not so heavily accented it could not be easily understood. Before coming to this area, he had lived for ten years among late-eighteenth-century Virginians. A fluent linguist, he had disburdened himself of much of the speech patterns of his twelfth-century English and Norman French.

  He understood well why it would pay him to team up with Clemens against von Radowitz. No doubt he had mental reservations about what he would do after von Radowitz was disposed of, but he came ashore to swear eternal friendship and partnership. The details of the pact were arranged over drinks, and then King John had Joe Miller released from his cage on the flagship.

  Sam did not shed tears easily, but several trickled down his cheeks on seeing the titanthrop. Joe wept like a perambulating Niagara Falls and almost broke Sam’s ribs in his embrace.

  Von Richthofen, however, told Clemens later, “At least, with Bloodaxe, you knew fairly well where you stood. You’ve made a bad trade.”

  “I’m from Missouri,” Sam replied, “but I never was much of a mule trader. However, if you’re running for your life, a pack of wolves snapping at your heels, you’ll trade a foundered plug for a wild mustang as long as he’ll carry you out of danger. You worry later about how to get down off of him without breaking your neck.”

  The battle, which started at dawn the next day, was long. Several times, disaster came close for Clemens and King John. The Englishman’s fleet had hidden near the east bank in the early morning fog and then had come up behind the German fleet. Flaming pine torches thrown by John’s sailors started fires on many of von Radowitz’s boats. But the invaders spoke a common language, were well disciplined, had soldiered together a long time, and were far better armed.

  Their rockets sank many of John’s boats and blasted holes in the cheval-de-frise along the bank. The Germans then stormed ashore under cover of a hail of arrows. During the landing, a rocket exploded in the hole dug to get to the iron. Sam was knocked over by the blast. Half stunned, he rose. And he became aware of a man he had never seen before standing by him. Sam was sure that the man had not been in this area until this moment.

  The stranger was about five feet seven inches tall and was stockily, even massively, built. Like an old red ram, Sam thought, though the stranger looked, of course, as if he were twenty-five years old. His curly auburn hair hung down his back to his waist. His black eyebrows were as thick as Sam’s. His eyes were large, dark brown with chips of pale green. His face was aquiline and jutting-chinned. His ears were large and stood out at almost right angles from his head.

  The body of an old red ram, Sam thought, with the head of a great horned owl.

  His bow was made of a material that Sam had seen before, though it was rare. It was made from two of the curved horns that ring a Riverdragon-fish’s mouth. The two were joined together to make one double recurved bow. This type was by far the most powerful and durable bow in the valley but had one disadvantage. It took extremely powerful arms to bend it.

  The stranger’s leather quiver held twenty arrows, flint-tipped, the shafts carved laboriously from the fin bones of the Riverdragon and feathered with carved pieces of bone so thin that the sun shone through them.

  He spoke in a German with a thick, non-Germanic, unidentifiable accent. “You look like Sam Clemens.”

  “I am,” Clemens replied. “What’s left of me. But how did you…?”

  “You were described to me by”—the stranger paused—“one of Them.”

  Sam did not understand for a moment. The part-deafness caused by the explosion, the yells of men killing each other only twenty yards away, other, more distant rocket explosions, and the sudden appearance of this man gave everything an unreal quality.

  He said, “He sent…the Mysterious Stranger…he sent you! You’re one of The Twelve!”

  “He? Not he! She sent me!”

  Sam did not have time to question him about this. He checked the impulse to ask the man if he was any good with the bow. He looked as if he could wrest from the bow the last atom of potentiality. Instead, Sam climbed to the top of the pile of dirt by the hole and pointed at the nearest enemy ship, its prow against the bank. A man standing on its poop deck was bellowing orders.

  “Von Radowitz, the leader of the enemy,” Sam said. “He’s out of range of our feeble bows.”

  Smoothly, swiftly, pausing only to aim briefly, not bothering to gauge the wind which blew always at this time of day at a steady six miles an hour, the bowman loosed his black arrow. Its trajectory ended in the solar plexus of von Radowitz. The German staggered backward under the impact, whirled to reveal the bloody tip sticking from his back, and fell backward over the railing and into the waters between boat and bank.

  The second-in-command rallied his men, and the bowman drove a shaft through him. Joe Miller, clad in Riverdragon-leather armor, swinging his huge oaken club, ravaged among the Germans in the center of the line of battle. He was like an 800-pound lion with a human brain. Death and panic went with him. He smashed twenty skulls by the minute and occasionally picked up a man with his free hand and threw him to knock down a half dozen or so.

  At different times, five men managed to slip behind Joe, but the black bone arrows of the newcomer always intercepted them.

  The invaders broke and tried to get back to their boats. Von Richthofen, naked, bloody, grinning, danced before Sam. “We’ve won! We’ve won!”

  “You’ll get your flying machine yet,” Sam said. He turned to the archer. “What is your name?”

  “I have had many names, but when my gran
dfather first held me in his arms he called me Odysseus.”

  …

  ALL Sam could think of to say was, “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Could this be the man of whom Homer sang? The real Ulysses, that is, the historical Ulysses, who did fight before the walls of Troy and about whom legends and fairy tales were later collected? Why not? The shadowy man who had talked in Sam’s hut had said he had picked twelve men out of the billions available. What his means were for choosing, Sam did not know, but he presumed his reasons were good. And the Mysterious Stranger had told him of one choice: Richard Francis Burton. Was there some kind of aura about The Twelve that enabled the renegade to know the man who could do the job? Some tiger color of the soul?

  Late that night, Sam, Joe, Lothar, and the Achaean, Odysseus, walked to their huts after the victory celebration. Sam’s throat was dry from all the talking. He had tried to squeeze out of the Achaean all he knew about the siege of Troy and his wanderings afterward. He had been told enough to confuse, not enlighten, him.

  The Troy that Odysseus knew was not the city near the Hellespont, the ruins that Terrestrial archaeologists called Troy VIIa. The Troy that Odysseus, Agamemnon, and Diomedes besieged was farther south, opposite the island of Lesbos but inland and north of the Kaikos River. It had been inhabited by people related to the Etruscans, who lived at that time in Asia Minor and later emigrated to Italy because of the Hellenic invaders. Odysseus knew of the city which later generations had thought was Troy. Dardanians, barbarophones, lived there; they were related to the true Trojans. Their city had fallen five years before the Trojan war to other barbarians from the north.

  Three years after the siege of the real Troy, which had lasted for only two years, Odysseus had gone on the great sea-raid of the Danaans, or Achaeans, against the Egypt of Rameses III. The raid had ended in disaster. Odysseus had fled for his life by sea and had indeed gone unwillingly on a journey that took three years and resulted in his visiting Malta, Sicily, and parts of Italy, lands unknown then to the Greeks. There had been no Laestrygonians, Aeolus, Calypso, Circe, Polyphemus. His wife was named Penelope, but there were no suitors for him to kill.