Pallahaxi

by Michael Coney

  “Thanks,” I muttered, embarrassed by something in her voice. “I’ll get going at daylight.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Noss, maybe. I don’t want to go far. There’s something peculiar going on here, and I want to stay in touch.”

  “I thought you weren’t very popular in Noss.”

  “I can straighten that out. It was all a misunderstanding.”

  “The girl will be a big help to you.”

  “Girl?”

  “Oh, for Phu’s sake, you can’t fool me, Hardy. Your dad and I were… different. You may have inherited it, whatever it is.” She sighed. “And that’s your bad luck. It can be wonderful, but it can’t last. People don’t die in pairs, you see. Someone gets left alone. So enjoy your Charm while you can; your dad said she might just possibly feel the same way as I do. Something in the way she looked at you, he said.”

  “I’ve never known a man and a woman get along the way you and Dad did.”

  “You haven’t? Let me tell you something. There are other women in Yam like me. Other men like Bruno, too. The problem is, they don’t have the guts to admit they’re different. Bruno had the guts, maybe because he had the status. He taught me how to feel, you know that?”

  It was supremely embarrassing to have to listen to this, but it was better than being knifed in the cold of night.

  She understood my silence, and continued in a tone of finality. “So now you know. I’m going to bed. You’ll find some furs in that corner. I won’t light the lantern; people might be watching for it.”

  “I’ll leave at first light.”

  “There’ll be hot bricks under the fire; take one. And a couple of spare furs. There are some lox in the stable behind the barn; you might take one of those; you have a long walk ahead of you.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Good luck, Hardy.”

  I heard the rustle of her robe, then something outlandish happened.

  I felt warm breath on my brow, then soft lips.

  Then she was gone, leaving me wondering.

  I awakened as a gray light was showing through the cracks in the shutters, stood and immediately collapsed on the floor. My ankle hurt agonizingly. I stood again, more carefully this time, limped to the nearest shutter, opened it and prodded my ankle carefully. It was enormously swollen, dull red with darker patches almost black. It looked like the ham of a skinned snorter. It didn’t look like the kind of ankle a fellow could get far on. I wrapped some more furs around myself and sat down to consider my next move.

  I couldn’t stay here long. If Spring saw my ankle she’d start fussing over it and try to persuade me to stay; that’s why I’d kept it from her last night. She might even take it into her head to send out for a healer. No; I had to get going, ankle or no ankle. I wasn’t safe in Yam.

  I lay back for a moment to ease the pain… .

  I was jerked awake by shouting and the sound of battering at the door. Bright daylight illuminated the room. I’d let Spring down; my enemies had arrived.

  “All right, all right!”

  Spring was descending the ladder from her loft. She saw me and raised a finger to her lips, then pointed to the back door.

  The hammering at the door started up again. In a minute they’d be coming around the side of the cottage; the shutter was open and the room would be in full view. I grabbed some furs and stumbled out of the back door, closing it quietly behind me.

  “Let me get some clothes on, for Phu’s sake!” I heard Spring calling. “What do you want this early, anyway?”

  The reply was muffled, but it sounded urgent.

  I heard a crash and an angry shout from Spring. They’d pushed their way in. A man’s voice was questioning her, loud and hectoring. I looked around for a way of escape. The women’s village consists of a string of cottages on either side of the road, each separated from its neighbor by a narrow alley. Before me lay sunlit open grassland; few trees, little cover, long morning shadows. I couldn’t run; I wasn’t sure I could even walk. I didn’t stand a chance. All I could do was to get around to the front of the cottage while my enemies were inside, and stand in the road and shout, attracting as much attention to myself as I could. That might deter them.

  I limped around the side of the cottage and into the alley, which was about four paces wide. I stumbled and fell against the wall, a knot of dismay rising in my chest.

  The alley was completely blocked by some kind of temporary structure. In hindsight I should have identified it immediately, but at the time I was blind with panic and saw it only as a barrier to freedom. And in panic I scrabbled at the obstruction, felt something give, rolled over a waist-high obstacle and found myself in darkness. My hands encountered a heap of furs. I crawled under them and wedged myself into a corner, trying to quiet my breathing.

  “I haven’t seen him, I tell you!” I heard Spring shout. “This is the women’s village, hadn’t you noticed, you freezers?”

  “He’s around here somewhere,” said a man’s voice, closer.

  And I froze, because I knew the voice very well. And another part of the mystery was revealed.

  At that moment the floor started to move under me.

  It was so unexpected and unreal that I almost yelled out before I got myself under control. I told myself Yam was experiencing an earthquake. It had little to do with my present predicament. I must lie still and quiet, and hope that Spring would satisfy my enemies and they would go away.

  The rocking continued; ponderous and accompanied by a harsh scraping noise. It dawned on me that this was no earthquake. The explanation was much more simple.

  I was in some kind of cart, and it was in motion.

  With the realization came another thought: just possibly the cart might take me away from my enemies.

  I lay on my side rocking with the motion like a dead animal. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention to my presence, and hear a grunt of discovery and have the furs hauled off me. Then the motion would stop, right in the middle of the road, and the cart’s owner would start loudly demanding an explanation.

  And my enemies would hear, and come charging out of Spring’s house. They would not attack me, here and now in broad daylight. But I knew now that they would find a very good excuse to take me away, into their power.

  Yes, even me, with my supposed status.

  Because the last voice I’d heard belonged to Stance.

  “All right then, let’s be having you out of there!”

  And the furs were dragged off me.

  I blinked at the sudden light, gathered myself for flight, and found I was looking up into a familiar face.

  “By Phu!” exclaimed Smith, “it’s young Hardy!”

  I took in the interior of the cart at a glance ; vast Smitha sitting fat-kneed beside the dying brazier, the forward end piled high with metal objects and coal, baskets of tools and vegetables randomly scattered. The tailgate and hanging skins hid me from the road. Smitha overcame her surprise and grinned widely. This was reassuring.

  “Please don’t give me away,” I said quickly. “I’ll explain once we’re clear of the village. And don’t stop the cart, for Phu’s sake.”

  Without a word, Smith threw the furs back over me.

  I waited. I heard shouting. The cart trundled on. I supposed the lorin, Wilt, was driving the lox.

  The shouting came nearer.

  Smith yelled back, “Don’t you think I know the contents of my own cart?”

  Stance’s voice, close by and breathless, called. “Yes, but he may have slipped over the tailgate while you weren’t looking. Just stop for a minute, will you?”

  “If you think I’m going to let that rabble poke around in my cart you can think again!”

  “You could be harboring a murderer!”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  “If you’re in there, Hardy,” yelled my uncle, “you won’t get far.
We’ll be after you. You can’t escape justice for long!”

  I had no need to escape justice, but I certainly needed to escape Stance. Alone I could take him, but clearly he was backed by select members of his hunting team. And he’d convinced them I’d murdered someone. Probably Dad, because nobody else had been murdered lately.

  Well, I’d been in Noss at the time. And I’d inexplicably lost the only evidence — Dad’s body. And I’d uttered wild accusations against Cuff; it might have sounded like the bluster of a guilty person.

  I wondered: If Stance got hold of me, what would happen next? At best, exile. More likely forced confinement to my cottage, followed by an accidental fire… . I huddled under the furs. I didn’t want to find out.

  My uncle, hunting me down. What else was he responsible for? Last night’s foray into my cottage? Probably. The ice-devil in my stardreaming pool? He was familiar enough with the motorcart. The distil incident and Dad’s murder? Well, he’d been hunting near Noss at the time. And he hadn’t liked my questioning his hunters about their deployment on that day.

  But was he capable of killing his own brother?

  It seemed he might be.

  But why would he want to? And why would he now be after me?

  He had everything to gain by Dad, at least, remaining alive. Dad was useful to him, even indispensable. But suppose he didn’t realize that? It’s often said that our ancestors can give us memory, but they can’t give us the sense to use it wisely. Just suppose he was so proud and so stupid that he’d begun to see Dad’s help as interference, as a challenge to his leadership, even?

  Was he that stupid?

  And even if he was… . Why me? What threat did I pose?

  The furs were pulled off me for the second time.

  “All right, Hardy! We’re clear of the village. Now suppose you tell us what this is all about.”

  I peeped through the skins hanging above the tailgate. Some distance back, a knot of men stood in the middle of the road, flanked by the cottages of the woman’s village. Stance and his hunters. Five of them altogether. They were my enemies. Who were my friends?

  “I wish I knew,” I said.

  “Come and sit by the brazier, boy,” said Smitha. “There’s still some heat left here.”

  It was annoying to be called ‘boy,’ but there was nothing but kindness in her voice. I crawled forward and hauled myself onto the narrow bench beside her huge body.

  “You won’t get far with that ankle,” she said, staring.

  “I can’t stay in Yam.”

  “We’d noticed that,” said Smith. “What’s this about murder?”

  “I didn’t stay to find out. But my guess is, they’re accusing me of killing Dad.”

  “Yam Bruno? That’s hardly likely. You and he used to get along well, didn’t you?”

  I swallowed, angered by a sudden tearful weakness in myself. “Yes,” I muttered.

  “I thought so.” He sighed and sat down on the other side of the brazier. “We have plenty of time before Totney. Maybe you’d better tell us what it’s all about.”

  By the time I’d finished, the sun was high. The cart rumbled on, jerking and swaying as the wheels dropped into potholes. Smith sat silently; Smitha had hauled herself to her feet after a while and begun to prepare food, frying bannocks over the low fire in an ancient iron skillet. She balanced with an ease that belied her heavy frame.

  “This girl,” she said when I eventually ran out of explanations. “Your witness. You’re not talking about the girl we met last freeze?”

  “No, that was Yam Faun. If I’d been sailing with her the day we found Dad, there’d be no problems. But I don’t want to drag Noss Charm into this mess. Lonessa wouldn’t stand for it. She only puts up with me because she liked Dad.”

  “An apology would fix Lonessa. She may be fierce, but she sees reason when it’s laid out in front of her,” said Smitha confidently.

  “And anyway, I don’t think Stance and his men want to hear alibis.”

  “So you outflank them. Just tell the Noss people you were mistaken when you accused them of killing your Dad. Then Charm could come in on your side and tell everyone in Yam she was with you when your Dad was killed.”

  “But… . She’s a girl. She’s a flounder.”

  Smith chuckled. “Once people get an idea into their stupid heads it certainly gathers strength through the generations. It’s that old miscegenation myth again. Listen, boy. I’m a flounder from Fal and I’m a man. Smitha’s a grubber from Alika and you may have noticed she’s a woman. And for good measure, Wilt out front’s a lorin. And yet here we are all together, flounder, grubber and lorin; man, woman and whatever. And we get along together, and we stick together. You may think it’s weird. We think it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

  “We even have a son in Totney, said Smitha.

  “He’s no weirder than the rest of us,” said Smith.

  And I remembered Spring’s words. Let me tell you something. There are other women in Yam like me. Other men like Bruno, too. The problem is, they don’t have the guts to admit they’re different.

  Apparently Smith and Smitha had the guts.

  “Make your way to Noss. Make your peace there. Charm will be on your side,” said Smith. “Trust me.” He stood, walked to the rear of the swaying floor and pulled the skins aside. “Rax!” he exclaimed. “Look back there.”

  In the distance a small group of men could be seen following us, carrying spears, leading lox. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry, but they didn’t need to be. They had plenty of time.

  “We can’t outrun them,” said Smith.

  Lox are not fast-moving beasts like snorters. They tend to amble at their own pace. They have great strength, though, so the two lox hauling the cart would have no difficulty keeping ahead of my enemies’ pack animals. The problem would come when our lox decided it was time to eat. Then they would stop, lower their heads, and start munching at the roadside vegetation, and no amount of shouting and kicking would get them going until they were good and ready.

  Smitha, who seemed to take all things in her stride, passed round platters of bannocks and fried meat. “We have plenty of time,” she said comfortably. “The lox have been fed.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” said Smith.

  I’d have preferred a more definite plan, but the food was welcome. I began to eat. The bannocks had an unfamiliar but pleasant flavor, probably derived from some herb Smitha had come across during their travels. The meat seemed to be grume rider; chewy like snorter but with a slightly fishy tang. I bolted it down. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Smitha refilled my plate. Meanwhile Wilt sucked some fluid from a floppy and none-too-clean skin.

  I was very conscious of our pursuers. “But suppose they catch us up and search the cart? They’ll find me here. And they won’t want witnesses.”

  “Not if your theory is correct, no.” Smith grinned thinly. “But I’m allowing you a breathing space because I trust you more than Stance. I haven’t forgotten the way you handled yourself last freeze on the moors road, when Stance fell apart. Now, as I said, we can’t outrun them. So here’s what we do… .

  It was mid afternoon when we rumbled into Arrow Forest and the fronds of a grove of anemone trees closed overhead and reached hopefully toward us. Smith went forward and took the reins from Wilt. The lorin joined us and Smitha pinned furs around him, making sure his head was hooded. Then she did the same with me. The cart trundled on into the darkening forest. I parted the tailgate skins and peered out. Our pursuers were a hundred paces away, maintaining their distance. They didn’t want to offend Smith by forcibly searching the cart unless there was no alternative; without his occasional visits Yam machinery would fall into disrepair. They would play a waiting game until nightfall, then move in under the guise of sociability, asking to share warmth of the brazier.

  But now their waiting was over sooner than they expected. />
  “Go, Wilt!” snapped Smitha.

  The lorin pushed past me, dropped to the road, and with a remarkably human-like gait scurried off into the trees to our left.

  Stance and his men yelled with triumph. Leaving their lox, they sprinted into the forest at an angle to cut Wilt off. Soon they were out of sight.

  At the last moment I had misgivings. “Won’t they blame you for this?”

  “No.” Smitha handed me a bag of food. “Wilt will let them catch him in a while. When they bring him back we’ll say he went to get a skin of milk from a warren, and got frightened when they came chasing after him.”

  I wondered how one got a skin of milk from a warren, and how the lorin had managed to grasp his role in all this, but there was no time for discussion now. The shouting had faded into the trees. “Thanks,” I said, dropping over the tailgate to the road.

  Smitha’s big face peered down at me. “Make for Noss. See the girl. Apologize. Get them on your side.”

  “I will,” I promised. “Thanks again.”

  I headed into the trees to the right of the road and began to hobble south, favoring my ankle, smacking away the inquisitive fronds of the anemone trees. You have to treat them rough, but not too rough. Ask any arborist gathering cuttings.

  Escape can give a fellow a heady feeling of triumph, particularly when his pursuers are heading in the opposite direction. My elation lasted for quite a while as I limped steadily south, keeping the sun over my shoulder.

  In due course I emerged from the anemone trees into the less inquisitive presence of cuptrees, low sticklebushes with a few yellowballs. It was while I was quenching my thirst with an unripe and sour yellowball that the mental rot began to set in.