The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Mombal was still motioning his welcome, and the palace gate was open. There sat Moo, looking down at them with eyes that almost dropped out.

  “What’s going on here, Moo?” Hajjah called, against the roar of voices. “I never saw such a crowd.”

  “It was trouble—till you came,” Moo stammered. “Now it’ll be more trouble. But anyway you’re not dead—yet.”

  “What did he mean—yet?” Voileen whispered, but the tumult of welcome drowned her question.

  A little farther on, Hajjah caught sight of some old schoolday friends, who called to him.

  “Don’t know where you managed to hide all this time, Hajjah.”

  “What kind of trick is this? We thought you were dead.”

  “Voileen, I could cry, I’m so glad to see you.”

  Among the throng Hajjah caught sight of Zaywoodie, the herder, whose deep, honest eyes were trying to tell him something. The lips formed the words, “Ecker. Look out for Ecker.”

  LVI

  Everyone was on fire with curiosity—Mombal, the Agents, and Ecker no less than Mooburkle and the hungry beggars.

  Now, the crowds poured in at the gates or hurdled the fences. They packed in as tightly around the steps of the palace porch as room would permit. But no one climbed on the porch, where Hajjah, Voileen, and Mombal were now standing.

  That was the natural stage for the inevitable interview. At present Mombal was busy silencing the barrage of questions that were being flung by the ringsiders. At the same time those thousands who had mounted chairs or tables or were pressing at the outskirts of the throng were shouting that they wanted to hear, too.

  The pandemonium was terrifying to Hajjah and Voileen. For all the excitement, these two could not be sure whether the news they were about to deliver would be wholeheartedly received.

  That was something that Hajjah had pondered all the way back. “Will they appreciate us? Or will they be suspicious?”

  At last he was about to find out.

  He nudged Voileen. “Mombal’s having trouble silencing them. Can you help him?”

  Voileen lifted the trumpet to her lips and blew a short blast. Her free hand gestured for silence. The multitude responded beautifully. The voices died away until the last tense whisper fell silent.

  Hajjah was fascinated by the bright light in Mombal’s eyes as the little old mystic began questioning them.

  “You have been gone for a whole season, Voileen and Hajjah,” be said. “The people believed you had come to death in the tunnel before this. Tell us, where have you been? Speak up, Hajjah.”

  “We have been in the tunnel—and beyond.”

  “Beyond!” The whispers through the audience echoed his word.

  “Did you find these noise instruments in the tunnel?” Mombal asked.

  “The digging instrument,” Hajjah pointed to the silent, mysterious metal contraption which occupied the center of the porch, “was found in the tunnel. It was left by Crassie and his father to Voileen so she could go on with the work they started.”

  “And these other things,” Mombal pursued, pointing to the musical instrument and the metallic instrument which hung at Hajjah’s side, “were they also found in the tunnel?”

  “They came from beyond.”

  “What do you mean, beyond?”

  “The new world,” said Hajjah, “that lies at the other end of the tunnel.” The murmurs of the audience swelled to a rumble that was like thunder. But there was a questioning rather than a threat in the massed voices.

  Hajjah continued, and an eager silence attended his straightforward words.

  “The discovery is Voileen’s. She carried out the plan of her forefathers. I only helped her.”

  “But together we got there,” Voileen broke in impulsively. Her blue eyes were dancing. “And the new world is so wonderful and beautiful. And there’s food—the finest of fish in abundance!”

  Up swelled the appreciative murmur until it was like the roar of a storm. Questions poured forth from the lips of every listener. Where was this world? How did one get there? Was the journey easy? How long would it take?

  Before the crowd could be brought to order, Hajjah saw that a few parties were slipping toward the outer edge and from there were turning to cast their eyes across the hills toward Cras sie’s house.

  But at the very moment that some of these half-starved or over-eager persons appeared to be on the verge of starting a footrace toward the tunnel, a clap of thunder chanced to echo across from some distant clouds. That coincidence had its effect. It was a sharp reminder that tunnels and outer worlds were still a direct contradiction to the Laws.

  The near-deserters drifted back. Hajjah watched them. He realized, then, what a tight hold the native superstitions had upon all his people. For those men were hungry.

  LVII

  Then and there, Mombal tackled superstition by both horns.

  “Before we go any further with our questions about this world you have seen,” Mombal said, “I must ask you about some other matters, Hajjah and Voileen. For the present I shall not say whether or not I believe that you have found a new world—”

  “Of course we found it!” Voileen said impetuously. “We brought back these things to prove—”

  “I do not deny that you have returned with some most interesting novelties,” said Mombal. “But first of all, what have you to say regarding your attitude toward the Laws?”

  Hajjah saw that Voileen was nearing an outburst of rage. He also saw that Ecker, standing only a few paces down from the porch steps, was taking sadistic pleasure in seeing her thus tortured. “Speak up, Hajjah,” said Mombal.

  “I haven’t anything to say about the Laws,” Hajjah retorted. “They are all right, I suppose, as far as they go. But they don’t extend to this outer world.”

  “There is no outer world!” This came from Ecker. He said it as if for himself. But Hajjah knew that he intended Mombal to hear.

  Mombal heard, and was not disturbed by the interruption in the slightest.

  “It would seem to be your attitude,” Mombal said, “that these Laws which have served us so wet! for generations past should now be expanded to embrace your new discoveries.”

  “Yes, they should,” said Hajjah.

  “Blasphemy,” came the low snarl from Ecker. “He wants to change our laws. The lightning will strike him for that!”

  The little old mystic smiled gently and continued. “Hajjah, you and Voileen are persons of extraordinary courage. How could you dare to go into that tunnel, when you knew—as everyone knows—that a young boy named Bolt was killed for less?”

  “But who killed him?” Hajjah flung the answer with venom.

  “The lightning,” Ecker called, continuing his off-stage interpolations.

  “Who do you think killed him, Hajjah?” Mombal asked.

  “I know who killed him,” Hajjah’s rage-filled voice carried out to the whole multitude. “Ecker murdered him—and then put the blame on King Witfessal.”

  LVIII

  The uproar which this shocking challenge caused could not be quelled with an order or a gesture. Again the tightly packed crowd had to make way for some of its members. A number of those nearest the porch gave up their places. This talk was enough to bring down the lightning, they reasoned, and they wanted to be out of the way.

  Mombal again employed the trick of exciting curiosity among the eager throngs, and once more they became perfectly silent. For he had brought out of his robe a mysterious black instrument. He held it up to his face.

  Hajjah and Voileen recognized the instrument to be binoculars.

  “Crassie’s gift to him,” Voileen whispered. “They were handed down from Hill.”

  Mombal motioned Hajjah and Voileen to the rear of the porch, and he himself stepped forward, speaking in a loud voice.

  “All of you know that the young boy Bolt was struck down. I am about to pronounce my official judgment upon that death. But first I want several of you to
see what I have here. Ecker, Grannz, Zaywoodie . . .”

  Mombal proceeded to call fifteen persons to the porch. He allowed each of these, in turn, to look through the field glasses.

  To the audience he announced that from this distance, with this instrument, he could tell what people all over the surrounding land were doing. In proof, he told a number of persons in the audience what he saw at their houses or farms.

  “Your child is fishing in the marshes, . . . Your wife is washing clothes . . . (And to another) Your wife is wearing a jeweled coak . . . (To another) Your husband is felling dravoth stalks, and his blade is dull.”

  Wherever he looked along the vast upsweep of landscape he succeeded in making a startling observation.

  Those in the audience who were too far back to understand how he achieved these miracles were no less convinced that he was performing them with uncanny accuracy.

  “King Witfessal has given him special eyes,” they would say, “so that he sees everything.”

  The psychological moment was ripe. Mombal turned to one of the men he had called to the stage.

  “Now, Zaywoodie, and the rest of you, listen closely. I saw the young boy Bolt at the time he was struck to the ground.”

  The audience listened tensely.

  “I saw it exactly as it happened,” Mombal said coldly. “And I know that you, Zaywoodie, also saw it happen. For you were there. Am I right?”

  “High Servant of the King, you are correct,” said Zaywoodie, gulping with fright.

  “Then I demand that you tell all people, in the name of King Witfessal, how you saw it happen.”

  “Er—now?”

  “Tell it now,” said Mombal.

  Hajjah saw the old herder shrink from the awful thing that he must do. But in a tight voice he blurted his testimony.

  “Ecker struck Bolt down with a club—and it—it killed him”

  “Waaa!” Ecker burst out with a roar that would have done justice to a dying fandruff. He swung his open hands through the air, gesturing his outrage at such absurd talk.

  The shock of all this talk threw the audience into utter confusion. Ecker’s popularity as an actor and a defender of the Laws was a weighty factor.

  And now Ecker’s very actions Seemed to prove that this story was entirely foreign to him. He was shouting, “Waaa! Waaa!” at everyone, trying to drown out the talk. But the “Waaa!” he yelled at Voileen brought a sharp retort in the form of a stinging blast from the trumpet.

  Mombal regained the stage. “You have heard Zaywoodie’s story. Let me add that I saw the whole episode just as he related it. Our esteemed friend Ecker was wearing this same bright red coat which I once gave him. It was not at all difficult to observe his brand of lightning.”

  And still Ecker tried to deny the charge. His oratorical success had equipped him with perhaps too much bravado for his own good. And so he stormed and shouted like a man gone mad. He hurled a broadside straight at Mombal.

  “You’re defying the King with these lies. The lightning will strike you.”

  “Silence, Ecker!” Mombal commanded. “And don’t try to leave us. I have more to say to you. Come back here—”

  Ecker, backing away to the farther edge of the porch, hesitated. He was caught between the impulse to run and the compulsion to stay and justify himself.

  “Your lies will strike you down, Mombal!” His face grew purple with uncontrolled rage. “Witfessal! Witfessal! He’s calling me! He wants to tell me!!! I’m coming, Witfessal! I’m—”

  Ecker darted into the palace and raced through the rooms and fled out one of the rear doors.

  LIX

  “Let me!” Hajjah shouted. “I’ll bring him back!”

  On the instant Hajjah was off. He pounded through the palace, over the noisy old floors of the rear porch, and bounded down the road.

  Ecker was many paces ahead of him. But three of Ecker’s friends who might have joined forces quickly reconsidered. Hajjah was already ahead of them, and they whirled back to lose themselves in the crowd.

  A few of the Agents, Hajjah saw in passing, were doing their utmost to help him overtake the runaway. But the majority of them, like the rest of the multitude, was too nearly paralyzed over the sharp turn of events to collect its wits.

  Anyway, Hajjah thought, they would all have time to think it over before he got back.

  Ecker ran for the tall dravoth.

  Hajjah saw him plough straight into it. The tracks would be easy to follow. Unless the marsh was very dry the runaway would soon find it slow going.

  But the sound of Ecker’s hard footsteps proved that he knew better than to run the risk of bogging down. He was back on the road again, chasing pell-mell toward the old school pen. His head bobbed in sight for a moment as he clattered over the old footbridge.

  Hajjah cut off a corner of the road, leaped clear of the little stream, and was back on the trail. But his speed was not up to standard. He was lugging too much surplus weight in the form of souvenirs from the outer world. The flame gun bumped heavily against his side.

  Suddenly it dawned on Hajjah that Ecker was heading for Crassie’s house. So he was convinced, in spite of all his talk of blasphemy!

  Yes, in his heart Ecker knew that the new world must be a fact. Otherwise why should he hope to escape by this route? Why didn’t he head for the mountains—instead of a closed tunnel?

  LX

  Hajjah put on a full burst of speed.

  He didn’t intend letting this pursuit lead into the tunnel if there was any possible way of avoiding it.

  Obviously Ecker had guessed that the mouth of the tunnel had been broken open. Ecker was clever. He had been clever from the first. Cleverness and lying had been his game—forcing things down the throats of common people which he himself didn’t believe.

  Yes, he had committed his murders in the name of King Witfessal. He had climbed to popularity by condemning Crassie. But now he was turning to Crassie begging for escape. Well, he wouldn’t get it.

  Hajjah slackened his speed long enough to unsnap the flame gun from his belt.

  “Come back, Ecker! If you don’t, I’ll stop you with lightning! Come back!”

  Ecker was becoming winded, but his feet kept pounding the road, and the cloud of dust boiled up to eclipse all of him but the soles of his boots.

  Hajjah’s throat went dry and tight with dust. He had lost ground. And now the runaway made a shortcut over a heap of stones.

  This time Hajjah took the long curve of the well beaten trail. It gave him the chance he wanted. Gripping the flame gun, he shot a stream of fire across the path that Ecker must cross.

  Ecker stopped short, within a dozen bounds of Crassie’s house.

  “Lightning!” Hajjah shouted. “Come back with me. I don’t want to use it on you—”

  Ecker’s eyes were narrow and hard. “You wouldn’t!”

  “Don’t be too sure,”

  “You couldn’t afford to singe a hair of my head, you low fandruff herder. You saw how they acted. They couldn’t stand to think of me as a murderer. But you—they’d love it, after all the trouble you’ve caused.”

  “You’re the one who’s made the trouble,” Hajjah said bitterly. “I’m the one that’s worn the black eyes.”

  “That’s right.” An arrogant smile touched Ecker’s lips. “That’s the way we started and that’s how we’re going to keep on. I’d be lost without your eyes to black, Hajjah. And you—you wouldn’t dare harm a hair of my head—and neither would that blathering fish of a High Servant.”

  Ecker paused, turned to look back over the path he had just come.

  “Speaking of Mombal, we’re going to have company.”

  Hajjah barely glanced to the side. In almost the same split second he jumped to dodge the flying stone that Ecker threw on the run. Ecker lunged across the remaining space and darted through the half open door of what had once been Crassie’s house.

  Hajjah’s flame gun went into action.

&nbs
p; The first spurt of white fire caught a bit of old dry dravoth mat somewhere in an inner room. Ecker leaped back to see the flames burst up in front of him.

  The line of fire swung to one side, to avoid catching Ecker with a direct shot. Hajjah still had hopes of delivering his prize to Mombal, alive and sound.

  Ecker made four attempts in rapid succession to gain the tunnel entrance. Each time Hajjah forced him back with a stream of fire. But in a matter of moments the whole house was engulfed in flames.

  “Let me out of here! In the name of King Witfessal, let me out!”

  Through the masses of yellow flame that crackled over the front doorway, Hajjah could see the pitiful face of his old enemy, white with rage and terror.

  “Come on,” Hajjah shouted through clenched teeth. “We’re going back.”

  LXI

  It wouldn’t be quite accurate to say that Mombal’s public questioning went on as if nothing had happened. There had been a few changes.

  The multitude of onlookers was the same as before, and now that the blazes in the distance had almost finished devouring Crassie’s house, that multitude was ready to go on where it had left off. The people packed in close around the palace porch and grew respectfully attentive.

  Voileen still stood there, as pretty as ever, ready to silence the crowd with a blast from the trumpet if it should become necessary.

  Mombal was still in command, perhaps more confident of himself than ever before in his career, though one could never be sure of his inner feelings. At this very moment the people were sizing him up anew. His recent bout with the popular young Ecker had proved the little old mystic packed hidden powers. Mombal paced back and forth, gesturing with the hand that held the field glasses.

  Hajjah had brought Ecker back, and the two of them were once more standing calmly at the rear center of the wide porch, just back of the electric digging-and-disintegrating machine.

  Hajjah was all nerves. This reception had been utterly unlike his expectations. He had hoped for wholehearted rejoicing on the part of all Wanzuurans as soon as they heard the news.