by Don Wilcox
“Do you hold me responsible for your brother’s death?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Moo.” Hajjah rose and paced around in a circle over the stones of the mountain slope, as though he suddenly felt weightless and free. He returned with another question.
“Do you think the lightning struck Bolt? Or do you think Ecker or one of the others dashed him across the head with a staff?”
“I don’t know, Haj . . . I’ve always known that the lightning could strike people dead. But lightning is fire. Bolt’s head wasn’t burned, Haj, it was crushed.”
“Have you mentioned that fact to anyone, Moo?”
“I tried to talk with the three herders who had stood guard. There was one—Zaywoodie—”
“The one who took our side when they argued?”
“Yes,” said Moo. “He admitted to me that Bolt’s head had been bumped, not burned . . . Shall I tell Voileen that you’ll meet her at Crassie’s house soon?”
“As soon as the rains begin,” said Hajjah.
As Moo shambled off, Hajjah watched him. What a change from the brisk little fat boy of a few seasons ago. Moo was thin, pallid, undernourished.
“Don’t trip over yourself, friend,” Hajjah called after him. “Stop at the High Servant’s palace and ask for some fish. You’re starving and don’t know it.”
XXX
Hill’s notebook: I can’t foresee what will become of these people if they use up all their fish. Apparently no other food supplies the necessary vitamins. I’ve made a few tests. If I could get away with it I’d try to set up a hatchery to replenish the lakes. But this would be blasphemy! (Such stupidity!)
XXXI
The wide, low-roofed dravoth palace served as residence for the High Servant and headquarters for the Witfessal Agents.
Mombal, the highest dignitary, called Ecker in for a conference.
“A few questions, Ecker. You know the Laws. Do you think there is danger that the King’s lightning will strike again, soon?”
Ecker stood straight and confident. Only the slightest flick of suspicion in his countenance hinted that he was on his guard.
“You are the High Servant,” he replied. “You know the Laws better than I.”
“Do you believe that the lightning struck Bolt?” Mombal asked sharply. “Of course.”
“For his lying?”
“Yes . . . Lying where a crime against the Law was involved.”
“Now, consider this carefully,” said Mombal, slipping around the room wisely and mysteriously. He stopped to catch Ecker’s face full in the light. “Do you think you could ask this young Hajjah questions which would bring out the lies in him?”
“Certainly,” came the arrogant reply. “If he gives you lies, the lightning will surely strike him, too.”
Ecker frowned. Mombal pressed the point farther. Surely if the offender, Hajjah, were to lie as much as Bolt, the King would answer with sudden death. A public question would demonstrate the King’s power to all.
“You’re trying to put me in an embarrassing position,” said Ecker shrewdly. “If the lightning shouldn’t strike—”
“Do you doubt that it would? You know Hajjah to be the arch offender.” The worried look on Ecker’s face suddenly vanished, and a keen observer might have noted a flash of cunning and cruelty in his eyes.
“I have a simpler plan,” said Ecker. “One that will not put the will of the King to a test. The King may be busy making his light shine brighter on the dravoth fields or guiding the way for some fisherman.”
“You are poetic in your subterfuges,” thought Mombal.
“My plan,” said Ecker, “would be to wrench from Hajjah the partner who urges him to go on with his folly.”
“Mooburkle?”
“No, Voileen.’ She is the spirit behind his plan. Without her to fire his enthusiasm he would never go on.”
“And your plan—”
“In complete accord with the wishes of her father, I shall marry her. It will be an honor to confer upon her. Nome will be pleased. She will be made happy. And she will forget about Hajjah. Then he will go back to herding and forget his blasphemous plan.”
There was an uneasiness in Mombal’s mystic eyes. He considered the problem in silence, passing his small white fingers over his brow.
“Very well, Ecker,” he said smoothly. “We shall use both plans. And a third, as well. Among them we shall put an end to these matters that trouble our people.”
“I shall marry Voileen?”
“At once. We shall also set a time for a public hearing for Hajjah. You shall question him. King Witfessal may strike him dead. And for our third action, we shall close the tunnel that Crassie once began.”
Mombal folded his red and blue cape around him and walked into the Witfessal palace.
Later, he returned to the porch to discover that Ecker was still there.
“Well?”
“High Servant of the King,” Ecker bowed graciously, “I ask you to reconsider.”
“Is something wrong with our three plans?”
Ecker drew himself up as he might if about to recite the hardest lines of a play. But his words came forth bluntly, edged with anger.
“Your plan bears the marks of a trick.”
“How so?”
“Because the people will come to the hearings in high excitement,” said Ecker. “They will expect to see Hajjah killed by a stroke of lightning.”
“Certainly.”
“If the lightning shouldn’t come—where would I be? I would have earned laughter and scorn. All of my fine service to the King will be undone.”
Mombal laughed cynically. “You forget, Ecker, you’re not the one on trial. It’s Hajjah. Or is all this activity of yours something less noble than it seems?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Yes you do,” Mombal’s eyes blazed fire. “Take heed, Ecker. Your hunger for glory can be seen, as plain as the King’s Cloud. But don’t be too eager to take my place. I have a few seasons yet to live.”
XXXII
Mombal made preparations without delay. He would carry out all three plans. Then neither he nor Nome should have any further worries about their former connections with the late Teacher Crassie. The people would know that they were in the clear. Their hands would be clean.
Mombal called for Nome.
“Cease your worries over being the son of Crassie,” the High Servant said. “You shall help me execute a three-way plan. Are you willing to marry your daughter to Ecker?”
“Indeed,” said Nome, bowing gratefully. “That would put an end to her foolishness. It would bring her back to respect.”
“That is the first plan. The second concerns the tunnel which Crassie dug. It must be clogged with stones.”
“I shall place men to work on it,” said Nome. “I will assign the task to these innumerable beggars who drift past the palace asking for food.”
A frown passed over the countenance of Mombal. He had tried to ignore the fact that these hungry ones were growing in number. They were coming from the farther roadcrossings where the lakes were said to be without fish.
“And the third plan,” said Mombal, “is to hold a public hearing for Hajjah. We shall give our young friend Ecker the privilege of questioning him.”
Nome bowed. “An honor indeed for my future son-in-law. Ecker will have no trouble defeating the herdsmen’s son in a match of wits.”
“Is Hajjah low on wits?”
“I am told he always resorts to fists,” said Nome. “At any rate, we shall see his complete defeat.”
“After what happened to Bolt, the public will expect nothing less than a lightning death—if this Hajjah is as glib with his blasphemy as we think he is.”
“True . . . true.” Nome frowned, but said no more. It was plain that Nome was not entirely satisfied with the third of these plans, and yet could not quite define his dissatisfaction.
“I’ll send word to my daughter at once,” said
Nome, “that she must submit to this marriage.”
XXXIII
Among the hungry idlers that loitered by the palace grounds Nome came upon young Mooburkle. He was no longer the chubby, funny, little fat boy of a few seasons ago. He was thin and white, and his old habitual grin showed a mouthful of hungry teeth.
“You here?” Nome uttered in surprise.
“Our last three fandruffs died. They all seem to be dying in our part of the mountains. I’m hungry,” Mooburkle said.
“You should feast each time one dies.”
“We do. Nothing’s gone to waste. But I’m still hungry. Will there be any fish left on your plates?”
“I’ll let you earn a fish for yourself,” said Nome. “Do an errand for me. Go to Voileen. Tell her to come here. She is to be married at once—to Ecker.”
“Ecker?” Moo shook his head. “I can’t tell her that. Have someone else—”
“For two fish?”
“Two? Um.” Moo glanced at the darkening sky. The rains were coming. “All right, I’ll go tell her.”
It was the strange look that Mooburkle gave Nome on departing that caused the latter to shudder.
XXXIV
There was something wrong. Nome felt It in his bones. He stood on the palace porch and watched the rain drench the lands. He could see the road. Its gentle concave course was mostly visible between the palace and his own dravoth house.
But he couldn’t see any sign of Mooburkle.
“I’m going home,” he told Mombal abruptly. “I must be sure Voileen understands what is expected of her.”
“You aren’t dressed for the rain,” said Mombal. “Take one of my robes.”
Nome donned one of the splendid red and blue robes and pulled the hood close around his face. The garment fitted him well, for he and Mombal were similar in size and build.
“In such splendor,” he thought, “I will have more prestige in commanding Voileen.”
He crossed the palace grounds. The torrent clattered down on his waterproof hood and robe.
He left the line of muddy tracks made by beggars scurrying to shelter. He slogged down the road past the dravoth marshes, across the footbridge under which the waters were racing and roaring.
He glanced back at his rain-filled tracks. Amid all the sloshing of the downpour he had the strange feeling that he was being watched. But there was no one to be seen on the road. His path lay around the ledge of the hill. Most travelers of this road followed the bottom land along the lake.
As he began the short hill-climb, momentarily out of sight of roadcrossings and palace, he was struck down.
Not by lightning. But by something just as deadly: a stone as heavy as his body.
The flying weight caught him at the hips. He fell to the mud, crying out. His hooded eyes turned upward. He saw the second stone being hurled at him. It crashed against his head. Blackness engulfed him—a crushing, painful, murderous blackness.
His last sensations were the frightful, sickening sensations of being clubbed to death with stones.
Then Nome, the father of Voileen, the grandson of Madman Hill, was no more.
XXXV
Hill’s notebook: Crassie is amazed at my skill with metals. Every son likes to think his dad is the greatest man who ever lived. Crassie is sure I am. Nothing like this metal job has ever been seen in this world.
The principle of disintegration came back to me readily. My seasons of shopwork in Uranus are proving their worth.
The fuel, problem is a stunner, but at last I’m on the right track.
XXXVI
Through the rain, Hajjah hiked along hurriedly, leaping over puddles and streams. Now and then he caught his reflection spinning across the muddy waters. He was wearing his best dark-season suit, and its rows of bright ornamental stones sparkled like points of fire in the semidarkness. Presently Moo caught up with him. “I came to warn you,” Moo said breathlessly. “The palace is after you at last.”
Hajjah was instantly belligerent. “How do you know?”
“Because I have just earned two fish,” said Moo. “By taking a message from Nome to Voileen. She is to be married to Ecker.”
“When did she say that?”
“She didn’t say it,” Moo corrected. “It was Nome’s order. What are you going to do about it?”
Hajjah stopped in his muddy tracks. He gazed through the rain toward Crassie’s house a short distance ahead.
“The question is, what will she do?” said Hajjah. “All I can do is to keep my promise. I said I would meet her in Crassie’s tunnel when the rains began. I’m going on.”
Moo followed after him. “Let me talk with you, Haj. It isn’t too late to turn back.”
“She and I made a bargain,” Hajjah muttered. “I’ll keep my half of it.”
“There’s more trouble I haven’t told you about.”
The fearful look in Moo’s white face caused Hajjah to stop and listen. A few paces short of Crassie’s house the two of them slipped into a fandruff shed under a leaky roof—a shed that Hajjah associated with the tragedy of Moo’s brother.
In swift nervous statements Moo now sketched the rumors he had heard of ominous plans from the palace.
“They’re going to give you a public questioning, Haj. Do you know what that means?”
“Ecker, again!”
“Of course. What will you have to live for when he gets through?”
“Or will I live through?” Hajjah said numbly. Shadowy arms of coming troubles seemed already to be pounding him.
“As if that isn’t enough,” Moo continued, “they’re going to fill up the mouth of this tunnel to make sure no one else goes on with these blasphemies.”
“I’m going ahead,” said Hajjah stubbornly.
“Think it over, Haj. There’s still time to turn back. You might still have a chance with Voileen.”
“How?”
“If you’d forget your promise to Crassie—”
“Moo!”
“Then Ecker couldn’t hurt you at the public hearings. He’d ask you if you believed there were other Kings beside Witfessal and you’d say, ‘No . . . Other providers of fish and food? . . . No. Other worlds . . . No!’ ”
“Other worlds—yes!”
Hajjah could feel the blaze of his eyes almost as if Crassie were again whispering to him from the deathbed. And yet, deep in the pit of his stomach there was a sinking feeling. Possibly, Moo was right. All he would have to do to clear himself of his crimes would be to make a staunch declaration. Hajjah was momentarily shaken. How simple it would be—merely to state that he knew Crassie was a mistaken fool. That he knew the Laws of King Witfessal were infallible.
Such a turnabout would dissolve his troubles. Then Voileen’s father could no longer object to him.
Hajjah stopped in the midst of this whirl of thoughts to gaze at the white, undernourished figure of Mooburkle.
Crassie’s predictions were swiftly coming true. Thousands of persons, like Moo, were already suffering for lack of good food.
XXXVII
Hajjah skipped over the last steps of the muddy trail through the spattering rain.
There were Voileen’s tracks!
Hajjah’s nerves tingled with joyful relief. She had entered the house ahead of him. Whatever troubles might come, she was with him. He hurried in.
The dravoth mat that screened the tunnel entrance had been left leaning against the wall of the inner room. Hajjah rehung it and bounded on down,
“Voileen!” he called. The round echoes melted away in the blackness; “Voileeeeen!”
Soon he heard faint musical echoes—Voileen was calling an answer from what seemed many dunes away. Good. He would soon overtake her.
He struck dry chunks of dravoth together until he succeeded in lighting a torch. Then he proceeded down the long black tunnel.
Here were tools that had been left along the low walls by the ill-fated party of helpers from over the mountain range. Bitterly, Hajjah re
collected their retreat from this cause.
The thought of Bolt’s fate shot pangs of hurt through him. His fists tightened. Ecker would slide out of his evil doings. He would cleverly play on the emotions of the people to keep himself in their good graces. And meanwhile they would delight in turning their backs on anyone who was friendly with Hajjah.
Even Moo had been shaken.
Down, down—through the curving lane of blackness Hajjah descended. Still he failed to overtake Voileen. Her tracks were ahead of him. Why had she not waited?
Had Hajjah been through this part of the tunnel before?
Suddenly he came upon a chamber where the tunnel widened out into a natural cavern. Its ceilings and floors were spiked with iridescent stalactites and stalagmites.
He had never seen this before!
Why hadn’t he remembered it? Didn’t Crassie once take him to the end of the excavation? Yes—but it had entered no natural cave.
Someone had done more digging since that time Crassie had led him down this way.
“Voileeen!”
In a few moments the faint answer came, like the sigh of a wind through barren dravoth stalks. And yet it was surely Voileen’s voice calling his name.
“Ha—a-a-j-a-h-h-h!”
Which way did it come from? Or was he only imagining it? He couldn’t be sure.
He knew, of course, that the whole direction of the excavated tunnel had been downward. Not straight down, but slanting. The calves of his legs were tight from holding back his descent.
Here the stalactites and stalagmites helped to restore his sense of up and down.
But as he went on a little farther the whole system of up-and-down seemed to go into reverse.
He was still within the natural cave. And still on the trail—for here again were the tracks of Voileen’s boots. But the direction of the stalactites and stalagmites had apparently turned about.
Or had he turned about?
No, the torchlight looked back down upon the part of the cave he had just descended through. And yet he was now climbing upward instead of descending.
