Pallahaxi

by Michael Coney

  The motorcart would go no further that night.

  I hurried back to the cab. Faun hugged me, her tears wet against my face. In its way this was flattering but outweighed by other factors. I turned to the elders, who were still seeking truth.

  “The right-hand spring’s broken,” I said.

  They paused in their deliberations.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” said Uncle Stance sharply. “My guess is, the wheel’s dropped into a snorter’s hole. We’ll jack it up and back out.”

  Dad meanwhile was looking somewhat stricken. “You’ve been and looked, Hardy, have you? While we were standing here arguing! By Phu, Stance, he’s got more guts than we have. Well done, Hardy!”

  “You’d accept the word of a kid in a matter like this, Bruno? Not me. Not in a thousand winters.”

  “Then go and take a look yourself.”

  By now all the nearby anemone trees were leaning toward us, their fronds reaching into the cab and caressing the boiler. Bindweed would be crawling up the wheels. We represented a small temperate zone in a frozen world. Uncle Stance regarded the network of fronds expressionlessly, his face still set in lines of leadership. I knew what he was thinking. It would take time to fight his way around to the front of the motorcart. It might take too long… . It might be better to accept the word of this young upstart.

  “You’re sure of this?” he asked me, staring at a point where my face would be, if I were two hands taller.

  “He’s sure,” said Dad.

  “Well, in that case… .”

  “We’re stuck here,” said Wand. Her voice quavered.

  Trigger emerged from obscurity. “We’re gonna die!”

  “We’ll wait it out until dawn, then go for help,” said Stance, ignoring his son’s more realistic appraisal of the situation.

  “We don’t have enough fuel,” Dad pointed out.

  “We do.”

  “We don’t.”

  “We do.”

  “We had enough for the journey. We don’t have enough to keep the fire burning all night, Stance.”

  “Are we gonna die, Dad?” whimpered Trigger. “Are we gonna die?”

  “I’ll send off the parott,” said Dad.

  “What’s the use of that?”

  “None, probably. But you never know.” He opened the cage and took the silvery bird in his big fist, staring into its beady little eyes. “Help,” he said. “Help Bruno. Repeat?”

  “Help Bruno,” croaked the bird.

  “Off you go.” He threw the parott into the air. It fluttered around the cab, crimson in the glow from the firebox, then disappeared into the blackness, easily evading the clumsy sweep of an anemone frond. “You never know, Mister McNeil may be at Yam. He knows the route we took. He can contact Devon Station and they’ll send out one of their vehicles to look for us.”

  “If he’s at Yam,” said Uncle Stance skeptically.

  The muscles in the corner of Dad’s jaw knotted up, always a bad sign. He said nothing, but regarded his brother steadily.

  Wand, taking her cue, said, “So what now, Stance?”

  “What are we gonna do, Dad?” wailed Trigger.

  Faun took my hand. Stance threw a log into the firebox.

  The night deepened.

  We’d pinned our hopes on the parott and the technology of the human race. It had been a long shot, but it had given us hope. We’d opened the firebox door and Dad had fed in wood grudgingly, calculated to keep a warm glow in there, but only just enough to stop us going mad.

  Already, a subtle jockeying for position nearest the fire had started. Trigger, the smallest, would be the loser in this. Next would be Faun, then Wand. Social status meant nothing in matters of life or death. Rax would suck away our reason and turn us into animals fighting for survival. By rights I should go after Wand, but probably Dad would protect me.

  Which meant that Dad and Uncle Stance would be fighting it out, probably at quite an early stage, maybe before Faun cracked, but after Trigger had gone. I couldn’t see Uncle Stance fighting for Trigger’s life, somehow.

  I shuddered. I wished I were somewhere else. I riffled through my memories and tried to fix on something pleasant; some memory so powerful that it would wipe out the present. One of the good stardreams.

  A pair of brown eyes looked into mine. “Charm,” she said. “Noss Charm. I know it’s a funny name, but it’s because of this.” She reached inside the neck of her dress and pulled out a crystal on a thin cord… .

  Dad’s voice broke the spell. “Move over, Stance! I can’t get through to feed the fire.” The brown eyes faded into the nightmare present.

  The bottom of the firebox opening was about level with Uncle Stance’s knees, the top at waist level. It was only a little wider than his hips. As Dad had left to get another piece of wood, he’d moved in closer until all the rest of us could see was a tiny slot of warmth between the edge of the opening and his solid body. But we didn’t complain. In such circumstances a person has to be very careful; it’s all too easy to say the wrong thing.

  Dad said it. “Move over,” he repeated, an edge to his voice.

  “Are you accusing me of hogging the fire?”

  “No. I want to throw some more wood on.”

  “Use distil.” Uncle Stance indicated the filler that fed the burners, then extended his hands through the door into the very firebox. I heard Wand start muttering. Trigger whimpered somewhere behind me. Faun was pressed against the side of the boiler which, unfortunately, was well insulated.

  “I don’t want to use distil,” said Dad in reasonable tones, “because there’s only one can, and we may need that for… . other purposes.”

  “What other purposes, for Phu’s sake?”

  “Nine generations ago our ancestor of the time was trapped in this kind of situation. A wheel had fractured.”

  “I remember that!” shouted Uncle Stance angrily as though his own memory was being challenged — an impolite thing to do in our society, but we were all beginning to behave strangely.

  “Then you’ll remember what he did. Once he’d decided the situation was hopeless, he drank distil until he was insensible and fell asleep beside the boiler. He was found lying there the next day.”

  “Dead, I suppose.”

  “Of course not, for Phu’s sake! You and I wouldn’t be here now if he’d died, Stance! I stardreamed this; it happened before he sired his son!” Now Dad was angry; he never suffered fools gladly. “He was sick, but he was alive. And the important thing was: he was sane. Rax hadn’t got him, because he’d been too drunk to feel the cold and the fear. Understand? We conserve the distil. So step aside and let me feed the fire!”

  This is why leadership must depend on memory. It’s as valuable as personal experience. Uncle Stance stepped back, muttering. Trigger squealed as his toes were stepped on. Time passed and the jostling at the firebox became less subtle. Suddenly Uncle Stance commanded Dad to build up the fire more. “If we’re going to die, we’ll die in comfort!” he shouted illogically.

  Dad had no option but to obey. He’d already rigged furs over the cab’s openings and it soon became stiflingly hot. The boiler pressure rose. Our fear subsided to be replaced by a dull hopelessness. Uncle Stance uncapped the distil and from time to time drank deeply. Before long he was lurching around the footplate, yelling incoherent prayers.

  “Easy there, Stance,” said Dad, seizing his arm as he stumbled toward the roaring flames.

  Uncle Stance swung round, his face fiery in the glow. “Yes, you’d like to betray me, wouldn’t you, you freezer! You’ve always wanted to be chief. It must have been a big disappointment to you when I was born!”

  “For Phu’s sake, Stance,” murmured Dad. “I was only two years old at the time.”

  Uncle Stance stared at him wordlessly, then wheeled around, tripped and fell heavily, his head striking the footplate with a meaty thud. He lay still. Dad knelt beside him, l
ifting his head gently.

  “He’s knocked himself out, poor freezer.” He took Uncle Stance under the armpits, dragged him to the boiler and propped him against it. Then he turned to Wand. “You’re in command,” he said briefly.

  Our womanchief smiled grimly. “This is no time for social niceties. You outmemory me, Bruno. You take over.”

  It made sense; Dad had the experience. “All right,” he said. “We’ll keep a minimal fire, like before. And when the cold really begins to bite, we’ll drink the distil. And may the Great Lox take care of us for the rest of the night.”

  “And the next day,” said Wand. “Until someone comes.”

  There was a long silence. Even if we got through the night, we wouldn’t survive a winter day.

  Trigger was the first to speak. “Uh… . Uh, Bruno… .”

  “Yes, Trigger?”

  “Look.” He pointed. His cheeks were wet. He’d been crying for some time, in a quandary, not wanting to imply disloyalty to his father.

  The can of distil lay on its side where Stance had dropped it. A pool of fluid surrounded it.

  Dad shook it. “It’s nearly empty,” he said heavily.

  But the evil planet Rax hadn’t finished with us yet. “Up there,” said Faun suddenly. “Isn’t that… .” She couldn’t finish.

  Perched on top of the boiler was the parott.

  “It never went to Yam,” muttered Wand. “The freezing bird circled round and came back!”

  “Too cold even for a parott,” said Dad.

  Cocking its head, the bird stared down at us, a pale ghost against the blackness.

  “Help Bruno!” it croaked.

  I tried to escape into the reality of a stardream, but a person needs peace of mind and possibly a pipe of hatch to do that successfully. In the end I fell into a nightmare doze inhabited by icy monsters.

  Then, beyond the stealthy scrapings of the anemones, I heard the squeak of wheels and the grunting of lox. That awakened me in a hurry.

  “Someone’s coming,” I shouted.

  “Go back to sleep, Hardy,” said Dad dully. He thought I’d dreamed it. Sometimes he disheartens quite easily.

  “No, really. I can hear a cart. Listen!”

  Now they were all alert — all except Uncle Stance, that is — heads cocked, listening.

  “You’re right!” piped Trigger joyfully. “We’re saved!”

  Dad hauled on the overhead cord and the shrill squeal of the motorcart’s whistle rent the night air. The anemones were crowding us so densely we’d be easy to miss. The whistle sounded again, then died away in a splutter as boiler ran out of steam.

  We all shouted. “In here! In here!” We banged on the cab sides with the fire irons. We made so much noise we didn’t hear our savior’s approach until a lox snuffled right outside the cab.

  “That’s the Yam motorcart, isn’t it?” came a shout from the darkness.

  “We have a broken spring,” called Dad.

  “You chose a bad time and place.”

  “Can you get us out of here?”

  The newcomer yelled to his lox and they crashed forward, trampling anemones underfoot. A covered cart drew alongside, ghostly luminous from the light of an interior lamp. Hanging furs were drawn aside and a round, cheery face peered into our cab. “I can do better than that,” the man said. “I can repair your spring if you can wait till morning.”

  “It’s Smith,” said Wand with less delight than I’d have expected. “Why does it have to be Smith, of all people?” she muttered to Dad.

  “Because nobody else is fool enough to travel on a winter’s night!” shouted Smith jovially, overhearing. “Except you, of course. You must be near frozen. Come on over! I’ll stoke the furnace up.”

  Dad carried Uncle Stance like a child in his arms, and I helped Faun who was lost in a defensive stardream — how she managed it I don’t know. Wand arrived last, muttering disapprovingly.

  We found ourselves in a large cart covered with skins stitched together and laid over hoops high enough to allow plenty of headroom. The air was warm and acrid, heated by a glowing brazier placed centrally. Beyond lay a big heap of coal — a rare sight in these parts. Also at the forward end was a great pile of strangely-shaped pieces of metal. And sitting on a heap of furs was the source of Wand’s displeasure.

  A woman.

  Everybody’s heard of Smith and his woman, Smitha. They’re legendary. Traveling together, eating together, sleeping together. Living together. It’s unnatural — or so I thought at the time. Smith and Smitha are not normal. So people think they’re at least part-way toward being evil. And here they were, saving our lives. An awkward situation for Wand.

  But not for Dad. He wasn’t a chief, so he didn’t have to judge and set examples. And — let’s face it — he had his own unhealthy relationship with Spring. He’d dumped the snoring Uncle Stance on the floor and was busy hugging Smith. When he’d finished, he hugged Smitha, and even his long arms could not reach right around her vast body.

  “Glad to see you!” he roared.

  Smitha had clambered to her feet for the hug, and now I could see around her, right up to the front of the cart. And I heard Wand’s hissing intake of breath.

  A lorin sat there.

  It sat on a shelf jutting from the low side wall of the cart just like a real person might, arms folded and one leg thrown over the other. Lorin are great mimics. It watched us, round-eyed.

  Incredibly, Dad approached it, touched it on the shoulder, and said, “How are you, old fellow?” The lorin made no reply, of course. Afterwards I realized Dad’s action was no different from the way he might greet someone’s pet animal, but in that unreal moment it was almost as though he was accepting the lorin as an equal. “So, where have you been since last year?” he asked Smith, sitting down on a pile of furs.

  “Oh, the usual route. All over Erto, as far as the Yellow Mountains. Working by day, traveling by night. It gets easier; I’ve had these lox three, four years and they know the way. And I have Wilt, of course.” He waved a giant hand at the lorin. It was the first time I’d ever come across a lorin with a name. “He keeps the lox on the right track if they start to wander while we’re asleep. I don’t know what I’d do without Wilt.”

  “And Smitha,” said Smitha, with a fond look at Smith. Her name was not really Smitha; it was Alika Chubb, but she’d changed it when she and Smith got together. They say there were a lot of objections because people simply don’t change names; after all their name is them, isn’t it? So some people had tried calling her Chubb, obstinately. They didn’t do it more than once. One swipe from the back of Smitha’s vast hand and they found themselves more than willing to accept her new name.

  “And Smitha,” Smith agreed. He was smaller than his wife, but had unusually thick and powerful arms.

  He and Dad began a long reminiscence — what we call a revisiting — part personal, part culled from stardreams, rambling back over the history of generations with moments of delight when they found themselves visualizing the identical event from differing ancestral viewpoints. The rest of us dozed, apart from Wand who listened for the purpose — so it seemed — of interjecting acid comments from time to time.

  Near dawn, talk drifted on to the human presence. As the skins overhead began to lighten I began to awaken properly.

  “Selfish freezers,” Smith was saying without rancor, when Dad mentioned the failure of our expedition. “But maybe we’d be the same in their place; who knows? Just because they look like us, we can’t expect them to treat us like their own people.”

  “Funny, the similarity,” said Dad. “I mean, they could have looked like lorin. Or even snorters. But no, they look like us, only bigger. I often wonder if we’re in any way descended from them. Or them from us.”

  “Hardly,” said Wand. “I’ve stardreamed their arrival. Our world was new to them.”

  “So we’re just an efficient, logical shape,” said
Smith happily. “You too, Smitha.”

  He was answered by a strangled snore.

  “All the same,” said Uncle Stance, now awake and brooding over the previous day’s humiliations, “I do feel they might give us the benefit of their technology. It’s no loss to them. It’d help us a lot, particularly in farming.” This last was for the benefit of Wand.

  Smitha was up and about, busy at the brazier. An appetizing smell of fried snorter wafted around. “We’re our own worst enemies,” she said over her shoulder.

  “She wants a motorcart,” Smith explained.

  “A motorcart!” Uncle Stance exclaimed, rubbing his head. “You’re talking sacrilege!”

  “In what way?”

  “One village, one motorcart, that’s the rule. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Why is that the rule?”

  “Motorcarts are for chiefs. Where would we be, if ordinary people were allowed motorcarts? They’d be off driving all over the place. We’d lose all control. We’d never get any work done.” A spasm of pain crossed Uncle Stance’s face and he slumped back against the woodwork, enthusiasm suddenly spent. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered tiredly. “It would be the end of civilization as we know it.”

  “One minute you’re complaining the humans won’t give us their technology, the next you’re saying people shouldn’t have motorcarts.”

  “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “It would be easy enough to build one. There’s all kinds of ancient machinery at Pallahaxi. Cranes, plows, boats, motorcarts, everything you can imagine and more besides. Metal things. Our ancestors made things in metal; new things, they didn’t just repair what they’d already got. Amazing people, they must have been. They certainly had the technology. We should learn from them, our own ancestors. We should take what we need and put it to use.”

  There came a predictable outcry from Uncle Stance and Wand.

  “Loot Pallahaxi? The Holy Fount?”

  “Sacrilege!”

  Dear old Dad was silent, having mixed feelings in the matter. Or possibly no particular feelings at all.