Pallahaxi

by Michael Coney

  “In spite of my being a grubber?”

  “Oh!” I felt, rather than saw, her make a gesture of impatience; then the unstable heap of furs came to my aid and she toppled against me. I put an arm around her.

  It was not the best moment for the door to open, but I knew this situation couldn’t last forever. A bright lantern had me blinking, and once I became used to the glare I saw the kindly face of my mother behind it. Matters could have been a lot worse.

  “Hardy, for Phu’s sake! Lonessa’s looking for Charm. She’s staying the night at Wand’s cottage. Charm, you’d better get there quickly!”

  We were both standing. Charm said helplessly, “I don’t know where it is.”

  “I’ll take you,” said Spring. “Come on.”

  Then they were gone, but Charm’s presence lingered in the cottage and in my mind. I lay down on my bed of furs and relived the events of the afternoon, accurately and in every detail. It took me half the night.

  A human couldn’t have done it. That’s your loss.

  Charm stifled a chuckle. “I’m sorry. But it looks so funny, really.”

  Time: the following morning. The motorcart’s journey back to Noss had been delayed by the ceremonial return of the hunt.

  “It’s the way we do it,” I said defensively.

  “But why is your uncle Stance waving his spear like that? And why are the others all prancing along after the lox, one behind another? Why not just walk into the village like normal people? When the fishermen arrive at Noss they don’t make a big thing of it. They just sail in and unload the catch.”

  It was Stance’s custom to repeat his single file formation on entering the village, except that the lox, instead of shambling along in the rear, would be positioned immediately behind him, staggering under the weight of the kill. The rest of the team would follow the lox. All this gave the impression that Stance was personally responsible for the success of the hunt.

  “We’re not talking about a mess of smelly fish. We’re hunters, remember. We’re different.”

  It was unfortunate for my show of civic pride that Stance’s formation had backfired on him. As usual, he strutted in the lead followed by six lox, but five of them carried only bundled tents and furs. Just one lox, the lead one, bore the spoils of four days effort. This consisted of a skinny long-necked triped that appeared to have strayed from the Great Central Range where Phu stares fiercely and there are many such strange and unfavorable mutations. They are not normally considered edible, but these were hard times.

  Charm, seeing the creature, broke into peals of musical laughter. “Give me fish any time!”

  “Dropped dead during the chase, did it, Stance?” shouted someone, among scattered hoots and merriment.

  But there was an undercurrent of dismay, and many people returned immediately to their cottages to brood over this latest evidence that the Great Lox had deserted us, or was even visiting retribution for some unspecified shortcomings on our part. The temple would be full this evening.

  Lonessa strode up to Stance. “So this is the total catch, is it?”

  “Game is scarce.” As the dispirited huntsmen drifted to their cottages and the women led the lox to the barn, his stature had diminished. He looked what he was: a small man coming to terms with failure. There was no point in pretense under the critical eye of Lonessa. “It’s early days yet,” he muttered.

  She gave him a long and menacing look, then swung aboard the motorcart. “Come, Charm,” she snapped. She swung the regulator, the engine puffed rapidly and accelerated away down the street. Charm waved as they rounded the corner and headed south.

  Stance turned to me. “The team was short-handed, thanks to you.”

  I wasn’t accepting that. “Did you see any game, other than that queer thing you killed? Or were you looking in the wrong place?”

  He favored me with a look not unlike the one Lonessa had just given him; then wheeled around and hurried into his cottage, head down.

  Tradition dictates that the hunters repair to the ale house on their return. I gave them time to settle in there, then joined them. I found a gloomy company. Instead of the usual happy crowd celebrating noisily, the men sat on benches singly or in couples, silently staring into their ale. I got myself a mug and sat next to Trigger and Caunter.

  “Not much meat for four days hunting,” I ventured.

  “Huh. I’d like to see you do any better,” snapped Caunter, taking it personally. “At least we tried.”

  “Yes,” said Trigger. “At least we tried.”

  “Where were you, anyway?” asked Caunter. “I thought we were all going on this hunt together.”

  “I wasn’t feeling too well.”

  “Dad was mad as a snorter when we left,” said Trigger. “He said you weren’t worth bothering with. He said you were nothing more than a freezing liability to Yam.” He chuckled maliciously. “I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes. He’s coming to see you as soon as he’s finished talking to Wand.”

  “He’ll be even madder after he’s talked to Wand,” Caunter added.

  I was getting tired of their company already. “Too bad, because I’ve already talked to him. So you think you’d have done better if I’d been hunting with you, huh? The game are attracted by my personality, is that it?”

  “Maybe,” said Trigger. “Who can tell? It couldn’t have been worse.”

  “Maybe your Dad should try hunting where the animals are, instead of where they aren’t.”

  “All right, where are they, if you’re so clever?”

  I was leading the conversation in the direction I wanted. “You did all right down Noss way a while ago, didn’t you?”

  “Noss? Oh, you mean that time when your Dad… .” His voice trailed off. Even Trigger had his sensitivity. “It was all right,” he said.

  “You got five loats in three days. Maybe it was the method you used. You circled round them, did you? Scattered yourselves all over the place in a big circle and drove them inward?”

  “That’s what we did,” agreed Trigger happily, remembering better days.

  “But you can’t encircle non-existent game,” Caunter pointed out.

  “Obviously. And another problem with the circling method,” I said cunningly, “is that people often get lost. They can be lost all day.”

  “Who told you I got lost at Noss?” Trigger demanded loudly. “I didn’t get lost!”

  “I never said you did. Did anyone else?”

  “Nobody got lost! We hunters don’t ever get lost!”

  Caunter was watching me thoughtfully. “Why are you so interested in people getting lost?”

  “Just a thought. Just considering hunting tactics.”

  “You’ve got a nerve!” shouted Trigger, who seemed to be getting worked up about the thing. “My dad’s the only one entitled to consider hunting tactics. And now your dad’s gone he can do it without interference and stupid suggestions!” His brief moment of respect for the dead and my feelings had passed.

  “To Rax with you,” I muttered. I left them sitting there. Trigger was too busy defending his Dad’s hunting prowess to be of any help to me.

  I joined two hunters standing nearby, their spears propped against the wall, and set a similar conversation in motion.

  “Loats?” said Quorn, Stance’s top man. “You often get loats near the coast, this time of year. Waiting for the grume, see.” Loats have long legs; a visit to the grume is a part of their regular migratory pattern. When the sea flows thick they wade out and scoop stranded fish from the surface with their wide lower jaws.

  “So I suppose you’d heard there were loats down Noss way, the hunt before this one.”

  “Your dad told us that,” said Quorn. “He’d heard word from Noss.”

  “It was a tough hunt, that one,” said the other man, Patch. “Loats are fast beasts. Very fast beasts. You need your wits about you, to spear a loat. You must cast a wide circle.”<
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  “A wide circle, huh?”

  “Aye, a wide circle.” Patch’s speech was slow and deliberate. He moved from one point to another with infinite caution, like a man treading through a swamp. “You must cast your circle wide, that’s the secret of hunting loats.”

  “It can get difficult, being out of sight of one another most of the day.”

  “Aye. Aye. It can get difficult.” He digested this fresh concept while I tried not to scream.

  “A man could get lost,” I ventured.

  “We never get lost,” said Quorn firmly. This was a lie, of course, because I’d gotten lost on the hunt myself, more than once; but perhaps learners didn’t count. I’d insulted his hunter’s pride.

  “We may not see another man all day, but we always meet up at the day’s end,” said Patch.

  “It’s a kind of instinct,” said Quorn.

  “A hunter’s instinct,” said Patch.

  “So what about the Noss hunt?” I asked in some desperation. “Was there anyone you didn’t see for a long time?”

  I was wasting my time and I knew it. “Hardly saw a soul all day,” said Patch. “But we all met up come nightfall. Hunter’s instinct, you see.”

  A few days previously I’d thought I’d made great strides toward identifying Dad’s killer and my attempted killer. Now I was almost back where I started. All I knew was that the culprit was more likely from Yam than Noss.

  Baffled, I returned to my cottage to consider the next step. Perhaps someone at Noss had seen a Yam man prowling about on the day of Dad’s death. But my mind balked at the notion of reopening the matter in Noss. They’d remember I’d already suggested a Noss man was to blame. I’d be lucky to get out of there intact.

  Evening was darkening the sky outside when I lit the lamps and the fire, and put a chunk of dried fish on to boil. I was getting heartily sick of dried fish. I was trying to think how I could improve the flavor, to say nothing of the stink, when the door burst open and Stance stormed in. He took up position in the center of the room, puffing himself up, and stared at me from under lowered brows, trying to put the fear of Rax into me. After a glance in his direction, purely for the purpose of identification, I returned to my pot. A vile white scum was forming on the surface. It was, Mister McNeil once told me, very nutritious. I felt Stance’s eyes boring into my back.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” came his voice eventually.

  It was an odd question, but a typical Stance one. I worked out an answer fairly quickly. It needed a casual voice.

  “Not very much, really. What do you have to say for yourself, Stance?”

  “What! What!” I heard quick steps across the room. A hand fell on my shoulder, trying to spin me round. “What did you say?”

  I turned and stood. I was a head taller than he. This made his hand on my shoulder look like a friendly gesture. He realized this, and snatched it away. I said nothing.

  He came to the point. “Get this straight, Hardy. I won’t have you bothering my men.”

  “All right.”

  “I don’t think you heard. I won’t have you bothering my men.”

  “All right. Was there anything else?”

  He stood there, baffled. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “If you say so, Stance.”

  At last he had something to get his teeth into. “It’s Uncle Stance, you impudent young freezer! Uncle Stance!”

  “You are my uncle, yes.”

  “And don’t you forget it!”

  “I’m unlikely to, Stance.”

  He got my point. His expression changed somewhat, but he was still giving me the kind of look a man might bestow on a stubborn lox. “My men tell me you were questioning their ability, and by association, mine. I won’t have this, Hardy. I won’t have it!”

  “You must have found it annoying. I wonder why they told you that.”

  “Do you deny it?”

  I was getting tired of this silly little man. Shorn of Dad’s moderating influence, he was nothing more than a pompous prototype of his son; a jackass. How could I get rid of him? I tried changing the subject.

  “Too bad about the hunt. Let’s hope the animals start moving in soon, otherwise it’s going to be a hungry freeze again. Can you remember if there ever was a freeze worse than the last one, Stance?”

  He stared at me, his mouth open. At last, with an obvious effort, he said, “You’re speaking of things beyond your knowledge and outside your tiny sphere of authority, Hardy. I shouldn’t have to remind you that I am manchief here, and planning is my responsibility. The past is gone; dead. Whether or not the last freeze was unusual is irrelevant.” Was I imagining it, or was there a slightly crazed look in his eyes? He rambled on as though he was practicing a speech, trying on the words for size. “What matters is the future, and we must face it with fortitude and commonsense. We must cast a wide net in our struggle for survival. Too long we have dwelt in the past, and as a result we have continued to make the same mistakes, generation after generation.”

  He was talking sacrilege! Had he gone mad? Or was he cleverer than he looked? Was he trying to trap me into agreeing with him so he could denounce me? The lamplight flickered on the twitching planes of his face from below, lending him a demonic look. His eyes stared vacantly at the far wall. I began to hope some passer-by would stop and listen — and come and help, if Stance turned violent.

  “There is no point in scouring the past for answers to our present woes. There is no precedent for the predicament in which we find ourselves. There is—”

  “Stance!” I seized him by the shoulders, shaking him.

  “What?” He snapped out of it, blinking.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He focused on me. “I… . These are difficult times, Hardy. You don’t understand.” His attitude to me had changed completely. He seemed to have talked his rage out. The bombast had gone; he was just a rather small figure looking up at me in the lamplight. “Time will tell,” he muttered. To my surprise he swung round and left, closing the door quietly.

  I was still puzzling about it when I climbed the ladder to the loft, where I sometimes sleep for a change. Had the problems of Yam unhinged him? Could it be that without Dad’s help he was unable to handle chiefship? A sudden scary thought took hold of me: if Stance went mad, Trigger would become chief, and where would Yam be then? Perhaps a temporary manchief would be appointed until Trigger reached the age of discretion, if ever. There were plenty of precedents for this.

  And there was another thing. A temporary manchief would only hold his position until the permanent man was deemed responsible enough to take over. And if Trigger showed no sign of achieving some kind of maturity, the permanent man could be me.

  It was while I considered this daunting possibility that I heard the cottage door creak open, muffled whisperings, and stealthy steps approaching the foot of the ladder.

  We don’t get people breaking into other people’s dwellings in our world. We get very little crime at all, for obvious reasons. If it hadn’t been for the recent murderous incidents I’d have been mildly puzzled by the present situation. As it was, I suspected the worst.

  I rolled quietly out of the heap of furs and dragged my clothing on. The intruders were at the foot of the ladder, whispering together. What should I do? I had no weapon, and if they intended to do me harm they would be carrying knives. I could kick the first head that appeared at floor level, but it would only be a delaying tactic. They would be more careful on their subsequent approach. I could yell, but nobody pays any attention to yells in the middle of the night. They are invariably the result of blackflashes — terrifying sleeping backflashes that you humans might call nightmares.

  Retreat was my only course of action. For all I knew, my enemy had been able to mobilize half the men’s village against me; the memory of being pursued by Noss fishermen was particularly vivid. It’s a scary thing, having a mob after you. A mob
considers itself above the law of tradition and custom. And this time there was no Charm to rescue me.

  Many years ago, my loft had been used for storage. Outside the gable end was a hatch with a bracket and pulley for bringing up goods; as a child I’d played on it until, one day, the rope had broken and I’d fallen heavily to the ground. It had never been replaced, which was a pity because it would have made my escape easier. As it was, I had no option but to open the hatch, sit on the sill, and push myself off into darkness.

  I landed heavily, picked myself up and immediately fell down again. My right ankle hurt abominably. I seemed to have broken something.

  “He’s not here.” I heard the voice from above.

  “He must be here. He’s hiding somewhere.”

  Rax gleamed balefully above me, the cold was biting into me, and it was only a matter of time before my pursuers would realize where I’d gone. As quickly as I could, I limped toward the women’s village. I couldn’t go far at night. I’d have to find shelter quickly. The village was asleep; no lights showed in cracks of shutters. Soon I was hammering on a door.

  “Hardy! What in the name of the Great Lox are you doing out at this time of night?”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment.”

  I shoved my way quickly past Spring, turned and shut the door. She stood staring at me, a plump pink figure in a white robe of human cloth, holding a small lantern.

  “It’s happened, hasn’t it?”

  “I think so. Something’s happened, anyway.”

  “How many were there?”

  “More than one, anyway?”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “I didn’t wait to find out.” She extinguished the lantern and we sat in the dark while I brought her up to date with events. “They won’t look far at night,” I said. “I’ll be safe here until morning, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course it’s all right.”

  It was a strange feeling, depending on a woman. A man’s relationship with a woman is normally so brief that we don’t have time to get to know them. I had a memory of warm and comforting arms as an infant, but like all boys I’d joined my father in the men’s village at what a human would consider an early age. So here I was, putting my safety in my mother’s hands again. And feeling safe doing it. My mother is a very unusual woman; some considered her weird. I suspect it’s only her outgoing personality and good nature that keeps her from being shunned by men and women alike. Whenever I saw her, I thought of her and Dad, forever meeting and chatting; even touching, year after year. And now Dad had gone, but I still trusted Spring.