The Black Tower

by Phlip Jose Farmer

  Without speaking another word, without stopping for any purpose, the four marines turned tail and ran screaming back toward the row of hills that separated this valley from New Kwajalein Atoll.

  Clive continued forward. When he reached Shriek she released her dual burden, placing Sergeant Smythe and his own erstwhile prisoner on the ground.

  Smythe rose unsteadily, leaning on Clive with one hand.

  The marine private lay on his back, staring sightlessly at the multicolored suns. He uttered an occasional moan, moved his hands and feet at random. His belly was swollen and his face was blank.

  "Smythe," Clive said, "what's wrong with him?"

  "Let's get away from here, sah. I don't want—I cannot watch the man. He attacked me, he very nearly killed me, sah. He had me at his mercy and he was prepared to dispatch me in a particularly nasty manner, sah, but I cannot stand near him."

  "But—what happened?"

  "It was Shriek, sah." Sergeant Smythe gestured at the arachnoid. "She arrived in the proverbial nick o' time, sah, and saved me. Yes, she did. But then, sah—I think she laid her eggs inside the man's body. I don't know how long it will take them to hatch, but I don't want to be here when they do, sah."

  Clive's mouth dropped. He looked at the figure that lay on the ground, staring sightlessly at the multiple suns. He could not look, and turned his eyes away. But he couldn't not look, and had to turn his eyes back.

  Wasps do that, Clive thought. Lay their eggs inside their victims, and when the eggs hatch, the young use the hosts for food. It was horrible. One of nature's adaptations—effective, efficient, and merciless. But he didn't know that spiders did it. And then he remembered that Shriek was a being from an alien world. She was like a spider, but she was not a spider.

  What other horrors had he yet to learn of in the Dungeon? "I shall take a rock and bash his skull in, Smythe. Or take a cyberclaw and slash his jugular. Either would be more merciful than—than— He may have been an enemy, but he is still a man, Smythe! Kill him. In God's name, Smythe, as an act of mercy, let's kill him."

  "If we do that, sah—I think she's got more eggs, sah. I'm as sorry for the man as you are, sah, I think. But I don't wish to take his place, sah, do you?"

  "What then, Smythe? What can we do? What do you propose?"

  "Miss Annie is gone, sah?"

  Clive nodded.

  "The Japanese are that way." Smythe pointed. "So I suggest we go that way." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing in the direction opposite New Kwajalein. "There are two passes out of this valley. Let's find out where the other one leads."

  Clive looked at Shriek. She was preening her quills, gazing fondly at the distended belly of the helpless Japanese marine. With one hand she reached for the marine's distended belly. She pulled away his khaki shirt. The flesh beneath was swollen. A red circle marked the point at which the eggs had been inserted. Shriek laid her cheek against the man's belly, smiling serenely. She made the only sound other than her hideous screaming that Clive had ever heard her make: a warm, maternal crooning. It had the sound of a mother's loving lullaby.

  Clive turned away, his stomach heaving. When he finished being sick upon the ground he stood shaking, his hands cold and his face clammy.

  Shriek seemed to pay no attention to Folliot or Smythe or Finnbogg. Clive looked at the dwarf. How much did Finnbogg understand of what had transpired? What was his desire, now?

  Clive drew himself together. "Very well, Sergeant," he managed. "Let us see what lies in this direction."

  CHAPTER 26

  Heaven in the Dungeon

  There was no dissent.

  They trekked along the base of a row of hills. When they had first emerged into this strange, inside- out world within the Dungeon, they had seen signs of habitation in the distance. Habitation, that is, far more substantial in appearance than the makeshift Japanese military encampment at new Kwajalein.

  Now, after days of foot-wearying marches lightened by Finnbogg's spirited singing, they found a wheel-rutted roadway. It was a simple pair of parallel dirt tracks in the ground cover, but it filled their hearts with new hope and anticipation. They followed it and it brought them to an even more encouraging prospect: the sight of a distant cluster of buildings, a distant rise of chimneys, a distant curl of smoke.

  At the edge of the village Horace Hamilton Smythe exclaimed, "Lor', Major, it could be my old home! Oh, Lord, how did this bit of heaven find its way into the Dungeon!" It was indeed like rural England. Clive wondered what it seemed like to Finnbogg—and to Shriek. What was comforting and homelike to himself and Smythe might be alien and threatening to the others. Or—the thought struck Clive like a blow to the solar plexus—their surroundings might appear different to the others.

  Did Finnbogg see his home, a paradise of odors and tastes designed to make his canine heart rejoice?

  Did Shriek see some terrifying world of webs and nests, eggs and grubs and the fat juicy prey from which her kind sucked the very substance of life for their own sustenance?

  He shuddered and bent to pick up a stone that lay beside the pathway. He felt it, pressed it to his cheek, dropped it again, and kicked it. Even through his trekking boots he felt the pain in his foot. "Thus I refute Bishop Berkeley," he muttered.

  There was small comfort in the epistomological exercise.

  And he found himself wondering melancholically, if only Annie were with the party, would she perceive some strange futuristic world of glittering glass and metallic machinery?

  They reached the village as dusk fell. Clive gazed at the dimming stars and wondered, neither for the first time nor the last, how this strange world had come to be. Would God, even in His infinite power and creativity, have made such a place? Or was the Dungeon itself the handiwork of some great and wonderful—and possibly malign!—race?

  They were greeted by a spokesman for the town. To Clive the leader and the villagers appeared fully human. Again he wondered how they looked to his companions, how the village itself looked to them. He could not even frame the question sensibly so as to ask it.

  The leader was a chubby, jolly, gray-haired man. He wore a huge mustache and rough clothing, and when he spoke to Clive there was no difficulty in understanding him. The language he spoke wasn't exactly English. It was the patois that Clive had encountered before now, that had permitted him to speak with Finnbogg and with the Japanese marines of the Sixteenth Airborne Detachment. The accents and dialects were not identical. The villagers here spoke a form of the patois with enough English in it—mixed with generous portions of a dozen other languages that Clive at least recognized, plus others as baffling as Martian—to make good, clear sense.

  The town leader introduced himself with a title, and Clive was unable to tell whether the word he used was mayor or major. Was he an elected official, or a retired military man who had simply assumed the village's leadership?

  The mayor's—or major's—wife bustled around, serving platters of delicious food to the party of travelers. Clive was not surprised that Finnbogg happily dined on the same fare as the humans, nor that Shriek declined with a humanlike shake of her head and an enigmatic expression on her face.

  They ate their meal and drank steins of foaming beer at the major's rough plank table. Even before they finished the meal there were horns and drums outside, and they retired to the town square.

  Villagers in ranks performed evolutions to the sound of the musicians. It was a strange sight, a cross between a dance and something that a drill sergeant might have devised for the training of rough recruits.

  Clive turned to the leader. "Your title is that of major, is it not?"

  The man nodded.

  A chilling suspicion was growing in Clive's belly. "Who taught you all this?" he demanded.

  Silently, the major bowed his head.

  A sense of urgency—and something close to rage— swept over Clive. He caught the other by the collar and jerked his head upright. "Tell me, man. Tell me! Who taught you
this, or I'll shake the truth out of you!"

  "I—I cannot tell you, sir."

  "Cannot? You mean, will not!"

  "Please!" The major's wife was dancing around them, fluttering her hands helplessly. "Please, sir, he cannot, he cannot."

  Without releasing the major, Clive addressed the woman. "Why not? Woman, I've been through hell getting here. Through a series of hells. Where are we? What world is this? Why is the mayor called major? Who taught these people British drill? Tell me!”

  Finnbogg was cringing at his leader's outburst. Horace Hamilton Smythe stared at the spectacle, thunderstruck. Shriek stood some yards away, gazing bemused.

  Clive gave the major another shake.

  "All right,” the major gasped. "All right. I will tell you everything.”

  Clive released his grasp and the man started to squirm away, but Clive was younger and stronger, and his exertions had built up his muscles and his agility since leaving London on board Empress Philippa.

  He caught the major by the scruff of the neck and hauled him back to his house, the man's wife still fluttering in circles around the tableau. Smythe, Finnbogg, and Shriek followed. The dancers in the village square continued their movements as if nothing untoward had transpired.

  Inside the house, the major collapsed into a chair. Behind him a stone fireplace held a cozy blaze. The mantelpiece above the hearth displayed family treasures—two small paintings in ornate frames, a bouquet of dried flowers preserved beneath a glass dome, what appeared to be a Bible. A rectangular pier glass behind the treasures provided a doubled image of each. Against the wall a tall clock ticked monotonously, its long pendulum swinging back and forth with unvarying regularity.

  It was a scene that could have been lifted from a thousand English villages, yet here it was, somewhere in the Dungeon. Were they still on Q'oorna at all? Was Q'oorna the whole of the Dungeon, or were there worlds beside worlds, worlds within worlds? Was this planet a hollow shell, like an egg with its contents blown clear? If so, then they had made their way from the outer surface to the inner.

  Above their heads the miniature galaxy of stars brightened and dimmed alternately to create the simulacrum of day and night. Beneath their feet— reachable through the glowing tunnel that had brought them to this place—was the terrifying world of blackness that they had crossed on foot, the world that they knew as Q'oorna.

  How had they traveled to that black world from the Sudd?

  Perhaps the Dungeon was not as simple a place as Clive Folliot had imagined. The tunnels might lead not merely into the ground, but might course through strange dimensions beyond his schooling and beyond even his imagining.

  Which of his companions might help him to fathom the conundrum? Horace Hamilton Smythe was far too much the pragmatist; Finnbogg was too simple in his doglike devotion; Shriek was too remotely alien. If only he could be reunited with Annie—perhaps. A native of some future Earth, she seemed to possess a knowledge and understanding that would not have been found in a woman of Clive's own day and acquaintanceship. And the strange device that she wore beneath her very skin seemed to enhance her mental powers. She could create maps, Clive knew. Perhaps she could learn languages, analyze information of many sorts. . . .

  Clive grinned wryly as he realized that the mystical Sidi Bombay would have been the best person with whom to discuss their situation. But where was Sidi Bombay?

  Clive was trembling. "I—I apologize," he addressed the major. "I had no right to lay hands on you, sir."

  The man stared blankly at him.

  "You cannot imagine the experiences we have passed through," Clive continued. "Or the feelings that boil in our breasts. I allowed myself to become carried away, sir. I apologize. Will you help us, sir?"

  The major's wife had disappeared into the kitchen, and now she returned bearing a tray with hot tea and scones. The mayor/major had regained at least part of his breath—and of his composure. "We seldom meet strangers. Ours is a simple village. We tend our farms. We trade on market days and we dance on holidays. We wish no trouble."

  Clive was listening to the man's words, but even more so, as the official spoke, Clive was watching his face. The man's mustache twitched nervously. A tic appeared and disappeared at the corner of his mouth. And his eyes—

  His eyes darted here and there. To Clive, to the bustling figure of his wife, to Smythe, to Finnbogg, and to Shriek. Well they might!

  But they also darted in the direction of the mantelpiece above the cottage's cozy hearth. They darted there frequently, and each time they did so, the tic appeared at the corner of the mayor's mouth. And his eyes darted less frequently but more furtively in another direction.

  If Clive read him properly, the major was not looking at any object within the cottage. He was looking toward something outside the cottage, perhaps beyond the village. And each time he looked toward that something it was with an air of foreboding and dread.

  The major was nattering on, talking of some matter of crops and rainfall and harvests. Clive very nearly tuned out the droning voice. The major's wife handed Clive a cup of tea and held out a scone for him.

  Clive watched the major's eyes. What was it on the mantel that kept drawing his attention, that kept filling him with concern?

  Teacup in hand, Clive stood and walked to the fireplace. The logs inside burned with a steady, comforting flame. He turned his back to the others and studied the objects on display.

  One painting was a scene of village life. Happy people going about their business, thatched cottages and green fields surrounding them. In the distance a darker structure soared skyward: one that rose with towers and turrets like those of a medieval castle. All else in the picture suggested contentment and joy, but the castle loomed grim and menacing.

  The other was a wedding portrait. Clive recognized the major and his wife—younger and slimmer versions of themselves, but unmistakably the same two people. They were surrounded by well-wishers, villagers, and—apparently—family. And the priest beaming at the young couple was—a younger version of Timothy F. X. O'Hara! The face was thinner; the sparse, faded hair was thick and red. But this man was undoubtedly the white priest of Bagomoyo!

  Clive seized the picture and shoved it in the major's face. "Who is this priest?" he demanded.

  The old man stammered. "Why—why—that's the dominie."

  "What dominie?"

  "The preacher. Father O'Hara. That's our wedding portrait. Father O'Hara married the missus and myself. What's the matter, man?"

  "Is he here? In this village? Is he here now?"

  "Why, no. This is too small a town to support its own priest. Father O'Hara comes by every few years to shrive us of our sins. To solemnize weddings, say his blessings over the cradles of babies and the barrows of the dead. Why, the young courting couples can't wait for his next visit—sometimes they get dreadfully eager, living apart and waiting for the priest so they can be married."

  Clive put his hand to his forehead. "Do you know where he comes from? How he gets here? Where does he go when he leaves?"

  The major shook his head. "No, sir. He just walks up the road, same as you and your friends. He stays a few days or a week, then he walks on. That's all." Clive put the wedding portrait back on the mantel and stood with his back to the others. He shifted his glance from the painting to the pier glass behind it. In it he could see the others gathered behind him. The major was watching Clive apprehensively.

  Clive slid his feet to the left, toward the preserved bouquet. In the glass, the expression on the major's face showed relief. Clive slid back, to the paintings, then to the Bible.

  The major stood up and took Clive's arm. "Please, sir, have something to eat. Can I get you more tea?" He took Clive's cup from him. "You are still upset, I can tell. Your apology is accepted, sir. You must consider yourself a guest here, an honored guest." He pulled at Clive's elbow, tugging him away from the hearth.

  Clive let the major take his teacup but otherwise refused to budge.
"What's this now?" he asked. He picked up the Bible from the mantel.

  "Please!" the major and his wife exclaimed simultaneously.

  "But it's just a Bible," Clive protested. He held the book, looked at it carefully. It was not a Bible. It was Neville Folliot's journal!

  Clive strode furiously toward the major. "Where did you get this, sir? Where—"

  The major's wife was pawing at him with her pink chubby hands. Her motions were half-placatory, half directed at snatching the book away from him. But Clive was having none of this. The major, meanwhile, was stammering rapid bursts of words, alternately blustering and demanding the return of his property, and pleading with Clive to spare him disaster, averring that Clive did not understand, it was not his fault, it was the Lord of the Castle who was responsible, that the Lord of the Castle would punish him if he relinquished the book.

  With a slicing gesture of one hand, Clive silenced the major and stopped his wife from her plucking at the book. "This book is the journal of my brother, Major Neville Folliot, Royal Somerset Grenadier Guards. My brother being deceased, it is my responsibility to take charge of the journal and return it to our father, Baron Tewkesbury. You have no valid claim upon the book, and I will not release it from my possession. That is the end of it!"

  Quivering, the major collapsed into his chair. His wife knelt beside him, murmuring to him and wiping her tears with her apron.

  "I assume," Clive said, "that the Lord of the Castle to whom you refer dwells in the castle pictured beyond the village." He indicated the painting above the mantel.

  The major nodded silently. His face was drawn. He appeared hardly the same man he had been just minutes ago.

  "And that is the same castle toward which you cast such worried glances as you spoke earlier," Clive continued.