But she wouldn’t hear. “No, I won’t mindspeak,” she said aloud.
“Then you’re keeping your thoughts from me.”
“Yes, I am. Why should I give you my grief? What’s the good of truth? If you had lied to me yesterday, I’d still believe that you were only going to Ransifel and would be back home in a tennight. Then I’d still have ten days and nights. Now I have nothing left, not a day, not an hour. It’s all taken, all over. What good is truth?”
“Parth, will you wait for me one year?”
“No.”
“Only a year—”
“A year and a day, and you’ll return riding a silver steed to carry me to your kingdom and make me its queen. No, I won’t wait for you, Falk. Why must I wait for a man who will be lying dead in the forest, or shot by Wanderers out on the prairie, or brainless in the City of the Shing, or gone off a hundred years to another star? What should I wait for? You needn’t think I’ll take another man. I won’t. I’ll stay here in my father’s house. I’ll dye black thread and weave black cloth to wear, black to wear and black to die in. But I won’t wait for anyone, or anything. Never.”
“I had no right to ask you,” he said with the humility of pain— and she cried, “O Falk, I don’t reproach you!”
They were sitting together on the slight slope above the Long Field. Goats and sheep grazed over the mile of fenced pasture between them and the forest. Yearling colts pranced and tagged around the shaggy mares. A gray November wind blew.
Their hands lay together. Parth touched the gold ring on his left hand. “A ring is a thing given,” she said. “Sometimes I’ve thought, have you? that you may have had a wife. Think, if she was waiting for you. . . .” She shivered.
“What of it?” he said. “What do I care about what may have been, what I was? Why should I go from here? All that I am now is yours, Parth, came from you, your gift—”
“It was freely given,” the girl said in tears. “Take it and go. Go on.. . .” They held each other, and neither would break free.
The house lay far behind hoar black trunks and intertangling leafless branches. The trees closed in behind the trail.
The day was gray and cool, silent except for the drone of wind through branches, a meaningless whisper without locality that never ceased. Metock led the way, setting a long easy pace. Falk followed and young Thurro came last. They were all three dressed light and warm in hooded shirt and breeches of an unwoven stuff called wintercloth, over which no coat was needed even in snow. Each carried a light backpack of gifts and trade-goods, sleeping-bag, enough dried concentrated food to see him through a month’s blizzard. Buckeye, who had never left the house of her birth, had a great fear of perils and delays in the forest and had supplied their packs accordingly. Each wore a laser-beam gun; and Falk carried some extras—another pound or two of food; medicines, compass, a second gun, a change of clothing, a coil of rope; a little book given him two years ago by Zove—amounting in all to about fifteen pounds of stuff, his earthly possessions. Easy and tireless Metock loped on ahead, and ten yards or so behind he followed, and after him came Thurro. They went lightly, with little sound, and behind them the trees gathered motionless over the faint, leaf-strewn trail.
They would come to Ransifel on the third day. At evening of the second day they were in country different from that around Zove’s House. The forest was more open, the ground broken. Gray glades lay along hillsides above brush-choked streams. They made camp in one of these open places, on a south-facing slope, for the north wind was blowing stronger with a hint of winter in it. Thurro brought armloads of dry wood while the other two cleared away the gray grass and piled up a rough hearth of stones. As they worked Metock said, “We crossed a divide this afternoon. The stream down there runs west. To the Inland River, finally.”
Falk straightened up and looked westward, but the low hills rose up soon and the low sky closed down, leaving no distant view.
“Metock,” he said, “I’ve been thinking there’s no point in my going on to Ransifel. I may as well be on my way. There seemed to be a trail leading west along the big stream we crossed this afternoon. I’ll go back and follow it.”
Metock glanced up; he did not mindspeak, but his thought was plain enough: Are you thinking of running back home?
Falk did use mindspeech for his reply: “No, damn it, I’m not!”
“I’m sorry,” the Elder Brother said aloud, in his grim, scrupulous way. He had not tried to hide the fact that he was glad to see Falk go. To Metock nothing mattered much but the safety of the house; any stranger was a threat, even the stranger he had known for five years, his hunting-companion and his sister’s lover. But he went on, “They’ll make you welcome at Ransifel. Why not start from there?”
“Why not from here?”
“Your choice.” Metock worked a last rock into place, and Falk began to build up the fire. “If that was a trail we crossed, I don’t know where it comes from or goes. Early tomorrow we’ll cross a real path, the old Hirand Road. Hirand House was a long way west, a week on foot at least; nobody’s gone there for sixty or seventy years. I don’t know why. But the trail was still plain last time I came this way. The other might be an animal track, and lead you straying or leave you in a swamp.”
“All right, I’ll try the Hirand Road.”
There was a pause, then Metock asked, “Why are you going west?”
“Because Es Toch is in the west.”
The name seldom spoken sounded flat and strange out here under the sky. Thurro coming up with an armload of wood glanced around uneasily. Metock asked nothing more.
That night on the hillside by the campfire was Falk’s last with those who were to him his brothers, his own people. Next morning they were on the trail again a little after sunrise, and long before noon they came to a wide, overgrown trace leading to the left off the path to Ransifel. There was a kind of gateway to it made by two great pines. It was dark and still under their boughs where they stopped.
“Come back to us, guest and brother,” young Thurro said, troubled even in his bridegroom’s self-absorption by the look of that dark, vague way Falk would be taking. Metock said only, “Give me your water-flask, will you,” and in exchange gave Falk his own flask of chased silver. Then they parted, they going north and he west.
After he had walked a while Falk stopped and looked back. The others were out of sight; the Ransifel trail was already hidden behind the young trees and brush that overgrew the Hirand Road. The road looked as though it was used, if infrequently, but had not been kept up or cleared for many years. Around Falk nothing was visible but the forest, the wilderness. He stood alone under the shadows of the endless trees. The ground was soft with the fall of a thousand years; the great trees, pines and hemlocks, made the air dark and quiet. A fleck or two of sleet danced in the dying wind.
Falk eased the strap of his pack a bit and went on.
By nightfall it seemed to him that he had been gone from the house for a long, long time, that it was immeasurably far behind him, that he had always been alone.
His days were all the same. Gray winter light; a wind blowing; forest-clad hills and valleys, long slopes, brush-hidden streams, swampy lowlands. Though badly overgrown the Hirand Road was easy to follow, for it led in long straight shafts or long easy curves, avoiding the bogs and the heights. In the hills Falk realized it followed the course of some great ancient highway, for its way had been cut right through the hills, and two thousand years had not effaced it wholly. But the trees grew on it and beside it and all about it, pine and hemlock, vast holly-thickets on the slopes, endless stands of beech, oak, hickory, alder, ash, elm, all overtopped and crowned by the lordly chestnuts only now losing their last dark-yellow leaves, dropping their fat brown burrs along the path. At night he cooked the squirrel or rabbit or wild hen he had bagged from among the infinity of little game that scurried and flitted here in the kingdom of the trees; he gathered beechnuts and walnuts, roasted the chestnuts on his campfire
coals. But the nights were bad. There were two evil dreams that followed him each day and always caught up with him by midnight. One was of being stealthily pursued in the darkness by a person he could never see. The other was worse. He dreamed that he had forgotten to bring something with him, something important, essential, without which he would be lost. From this dream he woke and knew that it was true: he was lost; it was himself he had forgotten. He would build up his fire then if it was not raining and would crouch beside it, too sleepy and dream-bemused to take up the book he carried, the Old Canon, and seek comfort in the words which declared that when all ways are lost the Way lies clear. A man all alone is a miserable thing. And he knew he was not even a man but at best a kind of half-being, trying to find his wholeness by setting out aimlessly to cross a continent under uninterested stars. The days were all the same, but they were a relief after the nights.
He was still keeping count of their number, and it was on the eleventh day from the crossroads, the thirteenth of his journey, that he came to the end of the Hirand Road. There had been a clearing, once. He found a way through great tracts of wild bramble and second-growth birch thickets to four crumbling black towers that stuck high up out of the brambles and vines and mummied thistles: the chimneys of a fallen house. Hirand was nothing now, a name. The road ended at the ruin.
He stayed around the fallen place a couple of hours, kept there simply by the bleak hint of human presence. He turned up a few fragments of rusted machinery, bits of broken pottery which outlive even men’s bones, a scrap of rotted cloth which fell to dust in his hands. At last he pulled himself together and looked for a trail leading west out of the clearing. He came across a strange thing, a field a half-mile square covered perfectly level and smooth with some glassy substance, dark violet colored, unflawed. Earth was creeping over its edges and leaves and branches had scurfed it over, but it was unbroken, unscratched. It was as if the great level space had been flooded with melted amethyst. What had it been—a launching-field for some unimaginable vehicle, a mirror with which to signal other worlds, the basis of a forcefield? Whatever it was, it had brought doom on Hirand. It had been a greater work than the Shing permitted men to undertake.
Falk went on past it and entered the forest, following no path now.
These were clean woods of stately, wide-aisled deciduous trees. He went on at a good pace the rest of that day, and the next morning. The country was growing hilly again, the ridges all running north-south across his way, and around noon, heading for what looked from one ridge like the low point of the next, he became embroiled in a marshy valley full of streams. He searched for fords, floundered in boggy watermeadows, all in a cold heavy rain. Finally as he found a way up out of the gloomy valley the weather began to break up, and as he climbed the ridge the sun came out ahead of him under the clouds and sent a wintry glory raying down among the naked branches, brightening them and the great trunks and the ground with wet gold. That cheered him; he went on sturdily, figuring to walk till day’s end before he camped. Everything was bright now and utterly silent except for the drip of rain from twig-ends and the far-off wistful whistle of a chickadee. Then he heard, as in his dream, the steps that followed behind him to his left.
A fallen oak that had been an obstacle became in one startled moment a defense: he dropped down behind it and with drawn gun spoke aloud: “Come on out!”
For a long time nothing moved.
“Come out!” Falk said with the mindspeech, then closed to reception, for he was afraid to receive. He had a sense of strangeness; there was a faint, rank odor on the wind.
A wild boar walked out of the trees, crossed his tracks, and stopped to snuff the ground. A grotesque, magnificent pig, with powerful shoulders, razor back, trim, quick, filthy legs. Over snout and tusk and bristle, little bright eyes looked up at Falk.
“Aah, aah, aah, man, aah,” the creature said, snuffling.
Falk’s tense muscles jumped, and his hand tightened on the grip of his laser-pistol. He did not shoot. A wounded boar was hideously quick and dangerous. He crouched there absolutely still.
“Man, man,” said the wild pig, the voice thick and flat from the scarred snout, “think to me. Think to me. Words are hard for me.”
Falk’s hand on the pistol shook now. Suddenly he spoke aloud: “Don’t speak, then. I will not mindspeak. Go on, go your pig’s way.”
“Aah, aah, man, bespeak me!”
“Go or I will shoot.” Falk stood up, his gun pointing steadily. The little bright hog-eyes watched the gun.
“It is wrong to take life,” said the pig.
Falk had got his wits back and this time made no answer, sure that the beast understood no words. He moved the gun a little, recentered its aim, and said, “Go!” The boar dropped its head, hesitated. Then with incredible swiftness, as if released by a cord breaking, it turned and ran the way it had come.
Falk stood still a while, and when he turned and went on he kept his gun ready in his hand. His hand shook again, a little. There were old tales of beasts that spoke, but the people of Zove’s House had thought them only tales. He felt a brief nausea and an equally brief wish to laugh out loud. “Parth,” he whispered, for he had to talk to somebody, “I just had a lesson in ethics from a wild pig.. . . Oh, Parth, will I ever get out of the forest? Does it ever end?”
He worked his way on up the steepening, brushy slopes of the ridge. At the top the woods thinned out and through the trees he saw sunlight and the sky. A few paces more and he was out from under the branches, on the rim of a green slope that dropped down to a sweep of orchards and plow-lands and at last to a wide, clear river. On the far side of the river a herd of fifty or more cattle grazed in a long fenced meadow, above which hayfields and orchards rose steepening towards the tree-rimmed western ridge. A short way south of where Falk stood the river turned a little around a low knoll, over the shoulder of which, gilt by the low, late sun, rose the red chimneys of a house.
It looked like a piece of some other, golden age caught in that valley and overlooked by the passing centuries, preserved from the great wild disorder of the desolate forest. Haven, companionship, and above all, order: the work of man. A kind of weakness of relief filled Falk, at the sight of a wisp of smoke rising from those red chimneys. A hearthfire . . . He ran down the long hillside and through the lowest orchard to a path that wandered along beside the riverbank among scrub alder and golden willows. No living thing was to be seen except the red-brown cattle grazing across the water. The silence of peace filled the wintry, sunlit valley. Slowing his pace, he walked between kitchen-gardens to the nearest door of the house. As he came around the knoll the place rose up before him, walls of ruddy brick and stone reflecting in the quickened water where the river curved. He stopped, a little daunted, thinking he had best hail the house aloud before he went any farther. A movement in an open window just above the deep doorway caught his eye. As he stood half hesitant, looking up, he felt a sudden deep, thin pain sear through his chest just below the breastbone: he staggered and then dropped, doubling up like a swatted spider.
The pain had been only for an instant. He did not lose consciousness, but he could not move or speak.
People were around him; he could see them, dimly, through waves of non-seeing, but could not hear any voices. It was as if he had gone deaf, and his body was entirely numb. He struggled to think through this deprivation of the senses. He was being carried somewhere and could not feel the hands that carried him; a horrible giddiness overwhelmed him, and when it passed he had lost all control of his thoughts, which raced and babbled and chattered. Voices began to gabble and drone inside his mind, though the world drifted and ebbed dim and silent about him. Who are you are you where do you come from Falk going where going are you I don’t know are you a man west going I don’t know where the way eyes a man not a man . . . Waves and echoes and flights of words like sparrows, demands, replies, narrowing, overlapping, lapping, crying, dying away to a gray silence.
A surfa
ce of darkness lay before his eyes. An edge of light lay along it.
A table; the edge of a table. Lamp-lit, in a dark room.
He began to see, to feel. He was in a chair, in a dark room, by a long table on which a lamp stood. He was tied into the chair: he could feel the cord cut into the muscles of his chest and arms as he moved a little. Movement: a man sprang into existence at his left, another at his right. They were sitting like him, drawn up to the table. They leaned forward and spoke to each other across him. Their voices sounded as if they came from behind high walls a great way off, and he could not understand the words.
He shivered with cold. With the sensation of cold he came more closely in touch with the world and began to regain control of his mind. His hearing was clearer, his tongue was loosed. He said something which was meant to be, “What did you do to me?”
There was no answer, but presently the man on his left stuck his face quite close to Falk’s and said loudly, “Why did you come here?”
Falk heard the words; after a moment he understood them; after another moment he answered. “For refuge. The night.”
“Refuge from what?”
“Forest. Alone.”
He was more and more penetrated with cold. He managed to get his heavy, clumsy hands up a little, trying to button his shirt. Below the straps that bound him in the chair, just below his breastbone was a little painful spot.
Worlds of Exile and Illusion: Rocannon's World, Planet of Exile, City of Illusions Page 27
