Nick and the Glimmung

by Philip K. Dick

  “Wait until the werjes are gone,” his father said. “Then it’ll be safe for him to come down from the tree, which he will do, once he knows the coast is clear.”

  To the first werj, Nick said, “What is it that lives inside you? That awful thing I see behind your eyes?” He did not see it in the second werj, only the first.

  The second werj said, “He is aware of Glimmung.”

  “No one can see Glimmung,” the first werj replied sharply. “He is invisible.”

  “Nevertheless,” the second werj said, “he has made out the shape of the wanderer within you.” To Nick, it said, “Glimmung has made us old. He will make the world itself old, given enough time. Glimmung is—” The second werj paused, trying to explain what it meant. “The weaver of the web of fate. He has brought this planet’s destiny with him, and now it is too late for any of us to escape it.”

  “Are we included?” Nick asked.

  “Everyone is included,” the first werj said, or was it Glimmung speaking through the beak of the werj? Nick did not know. “Everyone who comes here.” the first werj continued, and its eyes shone like broken, lit-up rocks.

  “I will put into your soul,” the werj said to Nick, “the memory of Glimmung coming here, back in earlier times. In those days we lived together, trobes and printers, wubs, nunks, ourselves— every life which flourished on this world, including the grass of the fields; yes, even the grass and trees. It was a favored world, a land in which to play, and to be keen about sights and movements, the flicker of the wind which blows across the fields at sunset. We lived in accord with one another, then.”

  “And then Glimmung came,” the second werj said.

  “Where did he come from?” Nick asked.

  “A star,” the second werj said. “A scorched, dead star which had gone out, which no longer burned. There are very few stars as cold as it. The cold ate more and more of Glimmung and at last he left, bringing the cold with him.”

  The wub, having rummaged within its neck-bag once more, held up another of its printed signs.

  HOW ARE YOU? I AM FINE. FOR A NICKEL I WILL TAKE YOU WHERE YOU WANT TO GO.

  “What’s that mean?” Nick asked his father. “That’s the first sign it showed us.”

  His father said, “I think it wants us to leave this place and stop talking to the werjes.”

  “It must be very annoying,” Nick’s mother said, “to be limited to a few signs for every occasion that may or may not come up.”

  “It probably has signs it has never used,” Nick’s father said. “And some signs it uses again and again…whether they apply or not.”

  Nick said to the wub, “We can’t leave until Horace comes down from the tree. And he won’t come down until the werjes leave.”

  The wub brought out another sign.

  GOODBYE. IT WAS A PLEASURE TO SERVE YOU.

  “It wants us to get out of the cart,” Nick’s father said, “so it can go on alone.” He sighed. “Okay. Come on. Nick; help me unload all the baggage. No use making it stay if it’s afraid.” He hopped down from the cart and began at once to unload it. Nick did so, too. And presently they had taken everything from the cart.

  Nick’s mother said, as she stepped down, “It really wasn’t much of a help to us.”

  “But it tried,” Nick pointed out. “It did the best it could.” He could not blame the wub for being afraid of the werjes. And, after all, Horace meant nothing to it. The wub probably did not even know what a cat was, let alone how valuable and interesting it might be.

  The wub lumbered off as fast as it could go, the cart clanking and bouncing up and down behind it. Very soon the wub and the can had disappeared into a grove of tall orange-colored trees. The sound of its heavy wheezing faded out and then, at last, there was only silence.

  “Well,” Nick’s father said, “I guess we’ll have to walk. We’ll have to find some other human settlers. They must be around here some place.”

  The flock of werjes, flying overhead, squawked at the two on the ground. “Come along! Come along! We have business to attend to!”

  “In a moment,” the first werj said. “Don’t tell me what to do,” it added. To Nick, it said, “I will reveal to you now the part which wubs have played in the war. When Glimmung came here and took up residence in the High Hills the nunks, who lived close by, wished to leave…but nunks, as you will soon see, cannot move far without help. They asked their friends the wubs to assist them, to cart them away. And this the wubs did—at least for those nunks who could pay five cents.”

  “Very greedy,” the second werj put in. “That is the weak spot in the wub; its greediness. For food and for money, for sleep, for buying and owning as many signs as possible. This is well-known, here on this world. And for it the wubs are looked down on. By one and all.”

  To his father, Nick said, “I’m going to get Horace.” It was clear to him that the flock of werjes would never leave. They liked to talk, on and on; he could see that, now. And Horace had to be rescued now, not later.

  “Here is a little book which we have prepared,” the first werj said. In his long jaws there appeared a slender volume, and this was waved towards Nick. “A short, official history of the war, prepared by ourselves. It gives a true account of all that has happened, and, most especially, it will protect you from the lies of the Grand Four who fight on the other side.”

  “‘The Grand Four,’” Nick echoed. “Who are they?”

  “The printers, first of all,” the werj said. “They are the last great enemy of Glimmung. The nunks are almost gone, now, so they do not count; anyhow, they come second among the Grand Four. Third, the human colonists from Earth who live here. They have been misled by the printers, exactly as we hope you will not be misled.”

  The second werj said, “And the spiddles. They are the last of the Grand Four.”

  “And the trobes?” Nick asked. “What about the trobes?”

  “They are on Glimmung’s side,” the first werj said. “As are the father-things. Ourselves, the trobes and the father-things—we fight for Glimmung, and one day, we shall win. We have almost won already. Then there will be peace again upon this world, and Glimmung can thrive and flourish; he can grow as he wants to.” As the werj said this, something blazed within its eyes. A dull, black fire, like a torch held under water. The spark of Glimmung himself, Nick realized. Residing within the werj, lodged there and smoldering, waiting to come out when the war had been won. He would not wait much longer; Nick sensed Glimmung’s eagerness, his horrid need.

  “You have told them too much!” the werjes flying overhead cried in their shrill, grating voices. “Let’s get away! Leave them and go!” They pumped their wings and started off, back towards the twisted stove-pipe buildings on the horizon.

  The first werj dropped the little hide-covered book at Nick’s feet, then ran off on its flat feet; it wobbled unsteadily up into the air. It and the second werj rejoined the flock; for a moment they hovered overhead, flying in circles, and then they shot off, as fast as they had originally come. Again they became dots. They had gone.

  Nick bent and picked up the dry little book; against his hands its texture was coarse and unpleasant. He read the title. One Summer Day, it was called. He leafed through it, glancing here and there at its pages. “This isn’t about a war,” he said to his mother and father. “It’s—” He could not tell; it did not seem to be about anything. Like a book in a dream, he thought. “I don’t want to read it,” he said aloud.

  “I’ll take it,” his father said. He held out his hand and Nick gratefully gave him the odd little dark volume. “And now you can get Horace,” his father said.

  Nick ran at once towards the orange-colored tree in which Horace, safe from his enemies the werjes, cautiously hid.

  Chapter 7

  AFTER they had persuaded Horace to climb down from the tree, and had collected together their scattered luggage, the four of them seated themselves on their mound of parcels and suitcases. “Time for
a conversation,” his father said. “Perhaps if we discuss our situation we will think of a way out. A way by which we can find our farm, now that the map has been eaten.”

  Nick picked up Horace and examined him. Since his adventure Horace had become sullen; he glowered with suspicion at everyone and everything. On Nick’s lap he sat scrunched down, taking up as little space as he could manage. Clearly, the werjes had offended him; they had snatched him up and then they had caused him to lose his dignity by confusing him, by making him run in the wrong direction. Horace would remember the werjes for a long time; in the future he would keep them in mind, whatever he was doing.

  “Horace isn’t happy,” Nick said. He petted Horace, but the cat sank down, away from his hand. “Maybe if we feed him—”

  “This book,” his father said, not paying any attention; he held the dark little volume open in the middle, reading it intently. “The werj must have given you the wrong book entirely. This has nothing to do with us. This isn’t a text regarding the war.”

  Nick’s mother said, “Maybe the werj lied. Maybe there isn’t any war. Maybe it wanted to frighten us. A werj would enjoy that; I could tell.” She shivered.

  “The wub agreed with the werj,” Nick’s father said. “So it is probably true.” He turned the page and read on. “Hmm,” he said aloud. He held the book towards Nick’s mother, who took it. “Read the part on the left-hand page. The second paragraph.”

  “Read it aloud,” Nick said, wanting to know what it said.

  His mother read, “‘When a printer makes a bowl he loses a piece of himself. The bowl grows puddinged. The printer tries harder. But he can’t go on. Things taken to him are not printed any longer; the printer is silent. In the end he cannot even print himself.’”

  There was a moment of silence as the four of them thought this over.

  Nick’s father said, “You know what I think this book is? It’s a study of the enemies of Glimmung. What they’re like and how they can be destroyed.”

  “Look in the index,” Nick said. “In the back.” He had a strange feeling, as if he knew what his mother would find. “Look under ‘G’. Look for us.”

  His mother turned to the back of the book. “I don’t see how we could be—” She broke off. “Pete,” she said to Nick’s father, “he’s right. We are here. It says, ‘Graham, Peter & family. Page 31.’” She hunted rapidly for the page.

  “Read it aloud,” Nick’s father said in a low, serious voice.

  “Here it is.” She took a deep breath and read from page 31 of the little book. “‘They cannot find their farm. The map has been eaten. The creature which smells of fish misleads them until it is too late. They are undone by their love.’” She paused, her forehead wrinkling. “Our love of Horace, I suppose,” she said, finally. Eying Horace, she said, “So were to blame you because we’re lost.”

  “The werjes,” Nick’s father said, “are sowing seeds of distrust. They’re tricky and clever. This book is a trap.” He took it back from her and examined the index himself. “‘Werje,’” he read aloud. “‘Also spelled wurj; more commonly werj. Pages 24 to 29.’” He raised his head. “A lot about them in here. Which isn’t much of a surprise.”

  “Don’t read it,” Nick’s mother said. “I don’t think we’re very interested in what the werjes have to say about themselves.”

  Nick’s father said, “I don’t think the werjes wrote this. I think this is by Glimmung.”

  “Why do you think that?” Nick asked, wondering how his father could possibly know.

  “Listen to this,” his father said. He read aloud from the passage in the book dealing with werjes “‘It is a low form which comes from ditches and from cracks in the earth. It uses its skin as a sail. Anything which moves is its prey. Certain intense odors will drive it off. During parts of the year, the summer parts, it can be inhabited, and it will fly everywhere. In the end it will join the horned klake, the enemy of us all. But meanwhile it can be used.’” His father shut the book tight. “A werj wouldn’t write that. No creature would write that about itself. Anyhow I doubt if the werjes can write. Neither can the wub. But some life form here on Plowman’s Planet can write.”

  “As you said,” Nick’s mother reflected. “Glimmung.”

  “He was terrible,” Nick said. “I saw him, down inside the first werj. He looked out at me.”

  “But he let us go.” Nick’s mother pointed out. “So he can’t be so bad.”

  “Maybe Glimmung was afraid of us,” Nick said.

  His father and mother both glanced at him wonderingly.

  “A thing can be evil,” Nick said, “without being strong. Glimmung may be weak. The war isn’t over. There are still printers, at least. And it’s afraid of the horned klake. Maybe klakes are even worse than Glimmung.” He did not like that idea; it made him very uneasy. The anti-pet man had spoken of klakes. And in a similar way as this book. So evidently it was true.

  “What we must do is find the Grand Four,” his father decided. “Not another wub; in my opinion the wubs, although meaning well, are of slight value to anyone. Except, perhaps, to themselves; they will, no doubt, survive the war…by being on. neither side.”

  A distant noise reached their ears.

  “Look,” Nick said, pointing; he saw, far off, a vehicle of some kind, almost like an old-fashioned, ancient car. It pulled behind it a huge vat of some kind, like a water storage tank. How slow it’s going, Nick thought. As if the driver doesn’t know the way.

  “Nick,” his mother said excitedly, “run as fast as you can; try to catch up with it. I think I see people in it. Yes, I’m sure I see a man driving it.”

  Tossing the little leather-bound book aside, Nick’s father said, “I guess we have no use for this.” He began to wave at the distant car.

  “I think we should keep it,” Nick disagreed. “We can turn it over to the Grand Four; maybe they can use it.” The werj probably shouldn’t have given it to us, he said to himself. I wonder how soon it’ll discover its mistake. Bending, he picked the book up.

  The ancient car had turned in their direction. The driver had seen them. Very slowly the car approached them, taking its time. At last it drew up beside them, making a wheezing noise. Trails of steam drifted up from its radiator.

  “Who are you?” the driver asked. “I don’t remember ever seeing you before, and I know every colonist on this planet.”

  Nick’s father said, “The ship just let us off. A wub was taking us to our farm, but a flock of werjes scared it away.”

  “Wubs aren’t very brave.” the man said. “Where’s your farm? Let’s see your map.”

  “The wub ate it,” Nick’s father admitted.

  The driver grinned. “They do that. Do you have your deed? I can probably figure out where it is for you.”

  From a suitcase Nick’s father produced a flat packet, which he opened. He handed the driver an official-looking document, which the driver read slowly and painstakingly.

  “Is it far from here?” Nick’s mother asked.

  “Pretty far,” the driver said. “And I’m not going in that direction; in fact I’m going the opposite way.”

  “But you said—” Nick’s father began.

  “I said I could tell you where it is,” the driver said. “I didn’t say I would—or could—take you there.” He shifted the gears of his car and it started into motion. “See that mountain peak over there?” The driver pointed. “Keep walking in that direction. Your land is on the near side.”

  “But our baggage,” Nick’s mother protested.

  “We’ll pay you,” Nick’s father said. “The wub wanted a nickel, which probably isn’t enough. But we can pay more than that. How much would you take?”

  “Sorry,” the driver said as he moved his car away. “Money is nearly worthless, here. What’s valuable is water, such as I have in this tank. Water is scarce on Plowman’s Planet, as you may have heard.” He waved goodbye to them.

  Nick, holding up the small
book which the werj had given him, said. “Is this worth anything?”

  Slowing his car, the driver shaded his eyes and studied the book. “Where did you get that?” he asked. He stopped his car, then.

  “We’ll trade it to you,” Nick’s dad said, “if you’ll take us and our possessions to our land. An even trade. No questions asked.”

  “No one has ever really seen that book,” the driver said. “We thought it was a myth; I didn’t believe it actually existed. Sure, I’ll be glad to trade you.” He shut off the motor of his car, opened the door and slid out. “I’ll help you load your stuff into the back.”

  Nick said, “Why is this book valuable?” His feeling had been correct; the book did have worth, and of a kind they needed.

  “That’s Glimmung’s book,” the driver grunted, as he loaded one suitcase after another into the boot of his old car. “Glimmung is supposed to have brought it with him when he came to this planet, years ago.” He raised his head, eyed Nick and his parents. “Have you seen Glimmung?” he asked.

  “My son has,” Nick’s father said.

  The driver stared long and hard at Nick. “What did Glimmung look like?” he asked presently. “What shape did he take? They say Glimmung can take many shapes. He appears first one way, then another.”

  “He seemed to he living inside a werj,” Nick said, “The werj who gave me this book.”

  “A werj wouldn’t give a human this book,” the driver said.

  Nick said, “It made a mistake. It meant to give me a history of the war. I don’t think it could read.”

  “True.” the driver said. “Werjes can’t read. Neither can wubs, although they carry around their untidy little signs.” He had loaded the last parcel and suitcase into his car. Now he reseated himself behind the steering wheel and started up the motor once again. “Glimmung will be furious,” he said as he held the door open for Nick’s mother to get in. “He’ll undoubtedly try to get the book back.” Uneasily, the driver glanced up into the sky. “We’d better hurry.”