Midworld

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I do not know,” Born replied absently, involved in the ceremony playing to its conclusion below. “I never asked.” As far as he was concerned, that was the end of the question. But it only stimulated Logan’s curiosity further.

  “And Losting’s furcot, Geeliwan. Is it a she?”

  “I do not know. Sometimes we say ‘he,’ sometimes ‘she.’ It matters not to a furcot. A furcot is of the brethren of furcots. That is sufficient for them and for us.”

  “Born, how do you tell whether a furcot is male or female?”

  “Who knows, who cares?” This woman’s persistence was irritating him.

  “Has anyone ever seen furcots mating?”

  “I have not. I cannot vouch for what others may have seen. I have never heard it discussed, nor have I desire to discuss it. It is not meet, or seemly, somehow.”

  The thought suddenly went out of focus again. It was something to be pursued later. Her attention was directed downward once again. “What are they doing now, Born?” Leaves, humus, dead twigs, and succulents were heaped on the bodies, filling the crevice.

  “The Keep must be sealed, of course, against predators.”

  “Naturally,” Cohoma agreed approvingly. “The oils and mulch speed biological degradation as well as masking the odor of decomposition.”

  They studied the burial procedure while a steady chant rose from the assembly, oddly soaring and unlike a dirge. Reader made several passes with his hands over the tightly packed, filled crack, bowed once, then turned and walked toward the trunk, heading for another, slightly higher, branch. The rest of the tribe followed. They had many, many such interments to perform this night.

  The subsequent burials grew repetitious, and the drenched Cohoma and Logan used the opportunity to study the design of seemingly crude torches, which burned steadily despite the unceasing rain.

  Torches of slow-burning deadwood were cut and then treated with the ever-present incendiary pollen. The globular leaf of a certain plant was then punctured through, and the pulp inside cleaned out with a knife. This left a stiff-sided sphere about thirty centimeters in diameter. The sphere was then slid over the top of the torch and a small hole cut in the side. Contact with a finger through this hole served to ignite the powder and then the wood, while providing an exit for smoke and soot, although the wood appeared to burn almost smokeless. The tough fiber of the leaf was highly resistant to heat and flame.

  The procession wound through the damp darkness like a chanting, glowing snake spotted with flickering dots of yellow-green iridescence. Everyone who could walk, from small children to some older than Sand, joined in that twisting, spiraling column. None complained, none argued when the column turned upward, none wished for a rest or return.

  Something came out of the forest piercing the normal night-chitters and the lullaby of falling rain. Born came back to them. “Stay here with the column. Whatever happens, do not leave the light.”

  “Why not, what’s—?” Logan began, but Born was already gone. The chlorophyllous sea swallowed him and the six-legged bulk that shadowed him.

  They waited with the others in the rain. Then a great crashing and moaning sounded above the column and to the right, echoed by the sound of many voices. The moan rose in pitch, became a screeching, deep-throated laugh. It rose and fell in a succession of thunderous whoops.

  It ended with a gurgling, choking sound. Something massive and distant fell to their right with the sound of shattering branches and torn vines. The light from the torches penetrated the forest only faintly.

  Though given only the briefest glimpse of whatever had stumbled on the column in the dark, neither explorer had any desire for a closer look at that monstrous outline.

  The crashing faded, dimmed, as the gigantic bulk vanished into the dark depths like a pebble down a dry well. There was no definite final crash. The breaking and tearing merely faded to a whisper, then a memory of a whisper, until the rain replaced it. Born returned to their side as the column started forward and up once more.

  “What was it?” Cohoma asked softly. “We had only the faintest sight as it fell past.” He was startled to notice that his hands were shaking. “Another species new to us.” It made him feel better to see that not all of the moisture on Logan’s brow had fallen from the sky.

  “One of the big night-eaters,” Born informed him, his eyes never straying from the coal-black walls on all sides of them. “A diverdaunt. They will not come near the Home because of the pods, but a man or two who meet one in the forest will not come Home. It was crossing our line, and hungry. Otherwise it would never have attacked. They are very powerful, but slow—no match for a band of hunters and furcots this large.” This last was uttered with an unmistakable hint of satisfaction.

  “Couldn’t we have waited till it went past?” Logan wondered.

  Born was shocked. “This is a burial march. Nothing can be allowed to interrupt a burial march.”

  “Not even a nest of Akadi?” Cohoma murmured.

  Born looked at him sharply, eyes flashing in the torchlight. “Why say that?”

  “I’m evaluating your parameters,” the research scout explained, knowing full well Born would have no idea what that meant, and reminding him that there were things not even a great hunter could understand.

  Logan cursed silently at her partner’s lack of tact, hurriedly asked, “I was just wondering how all these creatures came by their names, if they were originally classified by your ancestors?”

  Born smiled, back on familiar ground. “When one is young, one asks. An adult points and says, that is a diverdaunt, or that an ohkeefer, or that the fruit of the malpase flower which is not good to eat.”

  “According to the reports of the first colonists trapped here,” Cohoma muttered to Logan, “who were in no mood to engage in standard scientific classification. So the names that stuck were colloquial rather than generic.”

  Born heard this clearly; he heard everything when the giants engaged in their odd, secretive, soft-speak. But as usual, he gave no indication that he had heard. It would have been impolite. Though there were many times when he wished he could understand more of what he heard.

  The column continued onward. Once a series of spits and squeals sounded from directly above. Another time something that thrummed like an unmuffled navigational computer approached from below and to their left. Hunters were sent to ferret out the sources of these threatening sounds, but found nothing. The people were not attacked again.

  Eventually the last who had fallen to the Akadi were returned to the world. The final words were chanted; the penultimate song sung. They returned to the Home. By what method or signs Born’s folk found their way through the forest neither Logan or Cohoma could determine. And they were more relieved than they cared to admit when the first flowering vines with their multitude of pink blooms and leathery spore sacs came into view.

  It was only later, when the entire troop had reentered the comforting trunklets of the Home, when the last slow-burning torches had been extinguished, when the last leafleather curtain had been drawn tight, only then did muffled sobs and the lonely sounds of weeping become audible, held in check throughout the Longago. Night closed around the village, a moist black blanket, and brought the mindlessness and comfort of sleep.

  So there were none to see the movement at the fringe of the trees, none to see the long shapes stir from apparent sleep to gather by the topmost curve of webbed branches.

  A lazy cuff to the side of the head brought a sleeping cub awake and squalling. Triple pupils blinked in the near-absolute darkness. Ruumahum stood before Suv. On Muf’s passing, this new cub had been assigned to his care. There was no twinge of regret, no lingering sadness at the death of the other. He was with his person, and that was the Law.

  “Old one, what have I done?” Suv pleaded.

  “Nothing, as you will doubtless continue to do.” Ruumahum snorted and started to pad up toward the gathering place. The cub started to follow, stumbled over
his middle legs, then got all six working together and shuffled along behind.

  “Then what is it?”

  “You will see. Be quiet for now, and learn.”

  Suv detected an unusual solemnity in his new old one’s voice and decided that this truly was a time for cubs to keep tongue close to palate until otherwise instructed. Already he was used to this new elder, though not knowing the Law as well, he still felt an ache for Toocibel, who had died in the great fight.

  When Ruumahum and Suv arrived, all were gathered. In a column of twos they filed out from the Home, moving through the hylaea with a stealth and silence that belied their bulk. Sensitive nocturnal carnivores on the hunt detected the mass movement and slinked near, till they smelled or saw what was pacing purposefully through the treepaths. Then they froze motionless, or crept away, or tried to become one with the forestscape until the column had passed.

  Other meat-eaters in their lairs stirred at the noise of many feet moving and prepared to defend their territories and dens against whatever dared approach. A chance gust of nightwind rustled leaves and petals and brought the scent of furcot to flaring nostrils. Whatever their size or number or species, no matter how terrible, those who caught that pungent scent gave up their territories, their dens, and took themselves elsewhere. Occasionally a living cloud of luminescent flitters, all growing crimson and green and azure, would float down between the branches and cubbies to hover curiously over the column.

  The furcots looked neither left nor right, nor up at the dancing motes performing their chromatic choreography. Now and then a flitter would dip close, brilliant wings flashing gemlike in the night. Colors would dance in triple cat-eyes.

  A certain tree was reached, monarchical in size, a veritable goliath among local growths. But it was not its bulk which made it significant to the furcots, who arranged themselves according to age around a broad series of interlocking lianas.

  Leehadoon, who was furcot to the person Sand, took the place in the center of the semicircle. He paused to meet eyes with each of the assembled brethren in turn. Then he threw back his head. From between machete-sharp canines and upthrust tusks came an unearthly sound that was part cry, part mewling, and part something undefinable in human terms. The rest of the group joined in without instruction—just as Suv and the other cubs were able to participate without knowing how or why, or the meaning of what they howled in the dark.

  Most animals within range of that nerve-tingling caterwaul fled. But some crept near, curiosity overpowering fear, to stare and wonder animal thoughts at the rite that was at once old and new. It was different this time, more complex than Ruumahum or Leehadoon or any could remember. It would be different the next time and the next, the chorus always building, growing toward some inexplicable, unimaginable end.

  It was two days before sufficient supplies could be readied for the second attempt to reach the giants’ station-Home. Two days to prepare for a death the Akadi had not achieved, most of Born’s fellows believed.

  He had proved himself thrice now in a span of time no longer than a child’s dream. This did not alter the belief among his fellows of his madness. They thought, as Losting did, that there is a peculiar bravery that is part of insanity. Therefore they exhibited respect toward Born now—but not admiration. There is no recompense in admiring madness.

  Born felt only their indifference, without sensing the attitude that provoked it, since none would admit their belief in his madness to his face. This made him madder, but in a different sense. So he sharpened axe and knife till it seemed there would be little left of either, and he thought private angry thoughts.

  He had come back from the fight with the grazer. He had come back from the giants’ sky-boat demon. He had come back from the Akadi. And he would come back from the giants’ station and bring all the wonders they promised him! Maybe, maybe then, at last, Brightly Go would see daring and courage and intelligence whereas everyone else saw only madness; see that they were worth much more than bulk and strength.

  Of all the hunters, only Losting, for his own peculiar reasons, would come with him still. Had Born not saved the lives of the others? True, they admitted, but all the more reason not to carelessly throw them away. Losting, then, whom Born could go without seeing for the necessary weeks or months of travel and be blissfully content, would accompany him. He was secretly glad of the aid the big hunter would provide, but publicly taunting.

  “You think I go to my death. Then why come with me?” he sneered, knowing the reason full well.

  “Some say the forest protects the mad. If so, it surely will save you. And I am as mad as you, for is not love a kind of madness?”

  “If so, then we are surely both mad,” Born agreed, tightening the clasp on his cloak. “And they have been right all along, and I am the maddest of the lot.”

  “Remember, Born, you’ll not convince me to stay. I’ll see you die or come back with you.” He turned his attention to the two waiting giants, who were talking with the chief.

  Both had consented to accept a present of water-repellent cloaks, though they still insisted unreasonably on wearing their own tattered clothing underneath. When Born argued the absurdity of retaining such fragments, they countered with their old argument of catching cold. That stopped Born, for who was to say what strange maladies might exist among the giants?

  “They have learned much in the days they have lived among us,” he observed, “though each is still as clumsy as a child. At least now they ask before touching, look before stepping.”

  “What do you think of them, Born?” Losting asked.

  “We must watch constantly to see that they do not kill themselves before we reach their station-Home.”

  “Not that,” Losting corrected. “I meant, do you like them as persons?”

  Born shrugged. “They are very different. If all they claim is true, they can do us good. If not”—he made a noncommittal face—“it will be a tale to tell our grandchildren.”

  That simultaneously brought the picture of a certain young female to both minds. The conversation ended by mutual agreement. It would not do to begin a journey longer than any had ever made with fighting. There would be fighting enough in the world before they reached their goal. On that one thing, both were agreed.

  Many in the village had come to see them off with good wishes and gifts of food, though none would meet Born’s eyes. They had long since returned to the daily business of gathering food and caring for the Home.

  So they took their leave of the Home, the chief and one lone child watching them go. A fat ball of fur rocked near the child, the cub Suv. The sight reminded Born of another child, another cub, now returned to the world.

  He turned his gaze outward.

  The sky-boat had been equipped with a good Mark V ranger, new beacon tracker, tridee broadcast unit, and automatic beam-homing device. Now all this equipment was so much scrap, broken and twisted by gravity and by the sky-demon.

  Logan took out the tiny black disk with the clear face and once more blessed whoever among their outfitters had seen fit to include the compass in their tiny boot survival packs. She hoped this planet possessed nothing in the way of magnetic abnormalities. At least, they had not been told of any. But then, skimmers were supposed to be foolproof, too.

  Different variations on the same thought had occurred to Born. In that respect this journey was suicidal, for they had only the giants’ word on where they were going. The possibility that they did not have a good idea of where their station lay was something he preferred not to think on. It did his spirits no good. Besides, he reasoned, if they did not have a fairly accurate idea, surely they would not have forsaken the safety and comfort of the Home on the wild chance that they would stumble across the station by searching at random. As to what might await Losting and himself on their arrival at the mysterious station, he did not know. Handling himself among new people was not a major concern at the moment.

  Many days had passed since they had left the
Home. Though it now lay many rests behind them, the emotion uppermost in Born’s mind was neither homesickness nor apprehension of what might lie ahead. Rather, he felt a peculiar combination of tedium and tension—tedium arising from the day-to-day discovery that each new section of the world was identical to that which lay within throwing distance of the Home and tension from the inescapable feeling that tomorrow it might not be.

  After the first seven-day the giants kept to themselves as much as possible, save for an occasional question whenever they encountered a plant or forest dweller new to them. That left Born with no one to talk to but Losting. Not surprisingly, the expedition proceeded with a dearth of jovial patter.

  The hunters continued to regard each other with a mixture of hatred and respect. These cancelled each other out and kept the party operating on an even emotional keel. Both men knew that this was neither the time nor the place for a violent settlement of their differences. Mutual slaughter would have to wait until their glorious return.

  As Born had predicted, the specially designed jungle-resistant fabric of the giants’ clothing began to rot away under the steady assault of a forest which had failed to read the manufacturer’s label. Cohoma and Logan were more grateful each day for the green cloaks they had been given. A good cloak offered its wearer concealment from enemies, and protection from the night-rain, served as bedding, and had a dozen and one other uses.

  The giants grew more assured, more confident of their surroundings, as each new day came and went without incident. Considering their still incredible awkwardness in negotiating the treepaths, Born felt the little knot of humans had been exceptionally fortunate so far. The only serious encounter they had had could hardly have been predicted. It nearly cost them Logan.

  “I’ll be damned,” she had remarked to her companion, pointing up and to their right. “Is that a patch of clear sky over there, or am I hallucinating?” Born and Losting were moving just ahead of them, and neither hunter was paying much attention to the giants’ conversation.

  Cohoma looked in the indicated direction. He saw what certainly looked like an oval section of blue sky streaked with fluffy white clouds. “Not unless we’re both seeing things. Must be another hole in the forest, like the one our boat made coming down.” They angled toward it.