The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Berk examined the blossom under a glass for many hours. The plant itself was a rank growth of stalk with leaves like a corn plant. The blossom was globe-shaped, larger than one’s cupped hands—almost as large as the human head. It was lighter than a ball of cork, and the gauze-like petals which curved out from its surface were like tongues of red fire. It was a miniature sun with swirling coronas, and when plucked it would float about like thistle-down.

  Not until Berk had sketched a map of the city and spotted on it the areas of the epidemic did he stumble upon the clue. At first he had thought it must be the presence of the flower itself. He had once questioned whether it might be the brilliance of its color; and again, the reed-like song that came from it at times had caused him to wonder whether the epidemic might somehow be a tone-sickness.

  But in the end, what Berk discovered was something quite different. Not the plants themselves, but the gray gulllike birds that flew in from the sea to feed upon the blossoms, were the source of the epidemic.

  The birds were pests. They came in with certain winds, they fed only in certain areas of the town. It was believed by the fishermen that their condition of life was affected by floods in some remote part of the planet. To say the least, they had become an unclean breed, and uncleanliness was at the root of the epidemic.

  “Get rid of the gray birds!” Berk ordered. “Kill them off. Drive them off. Keep your yards clean. If necessary, get rid of the Kessa flowers that attract them.”

  The afflicted natives gladly complied. And the epidemic was stamped out. Words of praise for Berk the Prophet warmed the city like a kindly sun. And on every street corner one might hear rumors of Yig Morrow’s consternation.

  Then the call came from the palace.

  “Yig Morrow, the ruler of this land,” said the messenger to Berk, “would like for you to come to the balcony. He wishes to see you.”

  CHAPTER XII

  All the way up the spiral ascent, Berk whispered to himself his rehearsed facts. Let Yig Morrow just try to doubt that he was Berk the Prophet!

  But Yig’s first word of greeting was disarming. “To the honored prophet of Kessa I extend a respectful welcome.” He beckoned to a servant. “Please seat our honored guest at my table and bring food and drink.”

  Berk caught his own reflection in the polished black marble wall as he was being seated. He was clean-shaven, and his red and black military uniform had been given the best possible brightening by friends who attended him at his cave-home. The small black-and-white pistol might have been only an ornament; it would mean no more to Yig Morrow than the insignia of travel on his coat. Yig, indeed, seemed hardly to see Berk at all, during the first part of their feast, for his eyes had a habit of lifting toward the clouds or following the course of flying birds.

  He was like a bird himself, Berk thought. The feathered cape that spread outward in wing-like points from his massive shoulders gave a rustling sound whenever he moved. The feathers of natural gray made Berk think of the recent epidemic. Yet there was nothing unclean or repulsive in Yig Morrow’s appearance. His wide face possessed a certain strength; the deepset topaz eyes betrayed a depth of feeling.

  Three times during Yig Morrow’s low, brittle monolog about bits of nothing—the sea—the habits of birds—the distant earthquakes—he stopped as if listening to a signal. Soon Berk knew what it was. The sounds of faint music from the Kessa flowers. A breeze was rising, shifting directions. The flowers began to sing.

  “I remember that song from my previous visit,” Berk said.

  “Not that song. Every song is a little different.”

  “The music of Kessa flowers must add much beauty to the life of your people.”

  “Beauty—yes. Fears also. There is an urgency about this song that I find most compelling. Hear it?”

  The weird notes ascended an irregular scale, growing faster and sharper with each ascent, breaking off with an unfinished effect. Thong! . . . Thang! . . . Thang! . . . Thine! Thine Thin! Thin-thin-thin-theeeen! . . . A moment of silence, then again. A little faster, a little sharper, over and over. Now in the distance, now near at hand, now distant again.

  “That noise!” Yig rose, looked at the sea and the darkening sky. “I was going to ask you many questions, but that noise!”

  “I can talk against it,” Berk said casually. “Sit down.”

  “No, it disturbs me. That note of urgency. If you had the power to stop it—but you don’t, of course.”

  Berk caught his questioning eye. Did he seriously wonder if Berk had power over the winds and the waves? What a nervous one he was. A gust fluttered his winged shoulders. Another gust, the whine of flowers, the wail, the shriek, then weird silence again. Yig Morrow pushed his chair aside.

  “Come. The song tells us to hurry. The wedding can wait.”

  “What wedding?” Berk asked. “Daunsa and I.”

  “When?”

  “I can’t talk here. Come. There’s a quieter room inside.” He motioned Berk to follow. “Here. Now—”

  Messengers kept interrupting to report growing crowds. Trouble was moving toward the palace with the darkness. Berk saw through hall mirrors the reflections of moving torchlights. Down the long slopes toward the plaza. It was time, in the language of Kessa. The god was telling them. The wail of the Kessa flowers. It was time.

  Berk tried to read Morrow’s frenzied gestures. The wings of the feathered costume quivered like a trembling heart. Abrupt words. The ruler was probing for Berk’s inner thoughts. How much power did Berk have? What was the basis of his beliefs? Yig Morrow needed to know—quickly. The time was at hand. These wailing flowers—

  “You say you came from the sky. Yet you claim to understand my people. You have stirred them to the point of revolt. You accuse me of cruelty. Here. Sit here, Prophet Berk.” Were his courtesies sincere? And his questions? “Sit here and repeat—”

  Berk thought, We’re being overheard. Repeat—for whom? He saw Yig glance to a purple screen that separated the adjoining room. A guard near the doorway gave Yig a slight nod, and Yig said to Berk, “Repeat what you said about the Dart of Fire.”

  Berk said crisply, “It’s all evil. Destroy it!”

  “But you’re only taunting.” Yig Morrow searched his eyes.

  “Destroy it, Yig Morrow, or I will destroy it myself!”

  “It was formed out of your own words.”

  “My words were twisted. It provides a hideous death, nothing more.”

  “But old Daunsog told us—”

  “You misunderstood.”

  Yig glowered. “Old Daunsog’s daughter would not like to hear such blasphemies.”

  Then Berk knew who was back of the purple screen. Daunsa. Had she been brought here against her will? Why? Because revolt was in the air? Yig Morrow was keen enough to hope he could use her as a weapon to turn the tide. And perhaps to use Berk for the same purpose? Berk lashed out with sharp words:

  “The people will destroy you, Yig Morrow. I’ve taught them true ways. With the help of Daunsa and Cog I’ve cured their illnesses. They’re hungry for truth. On this night they’ll learn that your ritual of fire is a sham.”

  Yig stared hard at Berk. “You think they’ll believe you? No. If you try to kill this ritual, they’ll turn on you, not me. Even Daunsa. You’ll see.”

  Coldness struck through Berk’s nerves. Even Daunsa? He had not forgotten—A servant interrupted. The oncoming crowds were bringing stones to hurl at the palace. Should the guards turn them back with spears at once?

  Yig’s face went white with rage. His shoulders fluttered as he whirled. “I’ll face them. Tell them I’ll address them from the Dart of Fire. The fire is ready.

  Kessa will be appeased.”

  The messenger left. Berk seized his advantage. “If you want to save yourself, Yig Morrow, confess your mistake in the name of Kessa. Set this city free from your murderous lie.”

  “It’s not a lie. The Dart of Fire is the true glory.”

  “You do
n’t believe that.”

  “I do!”

  Then Berk’s anger unleashed a bitter challenge. “True glory! And the victim—always a beautiful woman—after your passion is spent!”

  Yig’s voice was edged with a taunt. “Is the prophet jealous of our gifts to Kessa? Then let me surprise you. This time the victim, as you say it, shall be a man. I’ll make that much concession to the clamor of the people.” And Yig turned sharply to the guard near the purple screen. “Has Cog been captured? . . . Conduct him to the Dart of Fire. The ceremony will proceed at once.” Then it was that the girl’s voice sounded an outcry. The screen fell forward, and Daunsa forced her way past the guard, toward Yig Morrow and Berk. An outraged, sobbing plea, over and over. “No, not Cog! No, not Cog! No! . . .”

  Then she stopped, touching her tear-filled eyes. A look from Berk must have given her strength. She recovered her composure. It was not good for a girl of such queenly beauty to plead with tears. She moved backward a step, then stood, calm and proud, facing the two of them.

  Berk saw that she was wearing a bridal costume. The sight of her had caused his heart to skip a beat. Her mass of dark hair was thrown to one side, caught in loops of beaded jewels. Her brief costume had been designed from the petals of a Kessa flower. Narrow ribbons of gold clung to her body, revealing the magic beauty of her curves, the fullness of her breasts. Berk thought, Kessa! —if Kessa was indeed an all-seeing, all-knowing god—Kessa must have been proud of this creation.

  Now in quiet dignity Daunsa repeated, “No, Yig Morrow, you will not take Cog—”

  “I am honoring him, don’t you see?” The ruler’s eves glittered. “This proves that I forgive him.”

  “If he goes, I go with him,” the girl said quietly.

  “I have other honors planned for you.” Yig moved a step toward her. “When the fire ceremony is over, you are to have my love—in the name of Kessa.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  The clamoring crowd hushed expectantly as the party crossed the torch-lighted bridge from the palace to the Dart platform. A squad of twelve guards with spears accompanied the regal march. The breeze stilled. The Kessa flowers went silent.

  Berk walked close beside Daunsa, whispering tensely. “Have you forgotten that I asked you to come away with me to the worlds beyond?”

  “I could never do it,” she answered softly.

  “I’ll not let you go into the flame with Cog.”

  “If he goes, I’ll go with him. I could not bear to see him go alone.”

  “He will not go alone. He will not go.” His words were answered with the strange light of hurt in her eyes. “You are beyond understanding, Prophet Berk. Even Yig Morrow is ready to offer him the honor—”

  “You still believe? This is terrifying, Daunsa.” Then he was pleading with her hoarsely against the sounds of their marching. “Daunsa, I love you. You remember my bond with your father. But this is more. If I leave this land alone, my heart will always be tom by love for you. Come with me, Daunsa, while there’s still time.”

  “I have dreamed it, Berk.”

  “Then come.”

  “But always in my dream you loomed above me as a prophet. I could never be free to share myself . . . I am sorry.”

  “It is Cog you love, then?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes shone. Whatever might happen, she seemed relieved that she had been able to say these words.

  Now they reached the end of the bridge. Berk hardly saw the dark towering Dart of Fire that rose from the center of the platform. His step had grown heavy. He thought of his ship waiting somewhere across the dark desert. Around him the threatening voices of the multitude were like something out of a dream. Yet as real, he knew, as a savage beast that turns upon its master. Had Yig Morrow’s cruelties run their course? This sullen crowd held the answer.

  The squad of guards stood back. Yig Morrow stepped forward to the rail of the circular platform, his face highlighted by the glow of torches. He motioned Daunsa and Berk to stand beside him. This was his strategy to quell the public anger: make them believe there was no clash between ruler and prophet.

  Yig began to speak. He made friendly gestures toward both Daunsa and Berk. Berk listened, his thoughts whirling. What chance had anyone against the power of the deep-rooted ritual? The smell of cool, soot-blackened stones was in his nostrils. Would he see the Dart of Fixe in full blaze on this night? How could he make these simple people believe the truth? He had not even been able to convince Daunsa! Why try to sway the others? The ritual would go on, down through the ages, growing more sacred, no doubt, and gathering added cruelty. But of one thing Berk was sure. Tonight, whoever the victim might be, he would be spared the worst by the instantaneous touch of death from Berk’s pistol. . . and no one would know.

  Yig Morrow’s speech ended. The crowd went into an uproar. At first Berk, lost in his own thoughts, didn’t realize what was happening. Then he saw: It was Cog! Cog was being forced to the platform by the points of spears.

  Berk saw the flash of defiance in Cog’s face, a look that recalled the night on the desert. Daunsa ran to his side.

  “If you go, I go.” Daunsa clung to him. The crowd’s murmurs told that they were stirred with deep feelings. How deep? How intent upon saving Cog and Daunsa? Berk wondered. Sixty or more uniformed guards stood in formation around the platform on the ground level, twelve feet below the rail. They gripped their spears, looking sharp for trouble. Berk looked down on them and wondered whether they could suppress mob violence.

  Cog was ordered to enter the Dart of Fire. He didn’t move. He and Daunsa clung to each other. The dozen guards on the platform advanced. But the shouting from the crowd suddenly caught everyone’s attention, even that of Yig Morrow and the guards.

  “Let Berk speak!”

  “Let the prophet be heard!”

  “Is this the will of Kessa?”

  “Speak, Berk!”

  Yig Morrow yelled back at them harshly. “The Prophet Berk agrees with me . . . He approves—” Yig’s voice was tense. He was losing control. Then Berk himself, outraged by this lie, broke in and shouted in a voice that rang across the plaza:

  “If Kessa must be honored by fire, let him be honored by the one who insists I command Yig Morrow to enter the Dart of Fire and be delivered in smoke!”

  The wild cries that greeted this command fairly rocked the mountainside.

  Yig Morrow roared. “No! No! That was not the plan!” The crowd shouted him down. Yig waved for silence, but it was Berk who again caught the audience with his ringing voice:

  “Listen to me. Before anyone goes into this furnace of death, let me tell you what the god Kessa would have you know. This device was not my wish. It was an accident of misunderstanding. My words were twisted into something false. You have never heard of a spaceship. You have no ward for it. It is a marvel of invention. It rides through the skies. Someday you will know. Your children’s children may travel in spaceships someday. They will ride, unharmed, with the speed of sunbeams—ride, and return again—and no breath of the spaceship’s fire will ever touch them. But this poor tower of stone. It is no more a spaceship than Yig Morrow is a bird. It has only a little of the shape, but none of the reality. It is only a mockery. A furnace. And if you would look under the grate of this furnace, what would you find?”

  The crowd waited, hushed. Berk commanded one of the guards on the ground below to walk under the platform, through the mass of Kessa flowers and see what he found in the center. The guard returned to give the dire answer. Charred bones.

  “The guard finds beneath the grate the bones—the burned bones of the victims.” Berk repeated these words to the listening multitude. “Those remains tell you the true story. An honor to Kessa? No, a trick of misunderstanding. Those honored ones were burned alive— and Yig Morrow knew it!”

  Indignation thundered across the plaza.

  Yig Morrow, whose face was chalky in the torchlight, flailed the air with his arms. “I did not know it. I do not b
elieve it! I deny—”

  “The bones are there to prove—”

  “I DENY—”

  “Then step into the Dart of Fire yourself, if you think your own flesh will not be consumed.”

  “I will! I will. I defy all of you. I defy Kessa himself!”

  “Careful! Consider well—”

  “Let it happen!” Yig Morrow shouted in white fury. “Let it happen! I will go to Kessa. I’ll prove you a false prophet, and then these people will know. They’ll grind you to dust under their heels. And I’ll laugh at you from the skies—”

  His words were lost in the pandemonium, the cries of excited people, the rising winds, the sudden scream of flowers. Amid the noise he walked to the center of the platform, stepped into the blackened entrance of-the Dart. He waved his arms, defying the fire to consume him. He cried his command to a guard on the ground below. The guard hurled a lighted Kessa flower into the air from the point of his spear. It missed the top of the dart and floated off, burning out. A second missed. A third went true.

  The blazing globe of flower touched a stream of oil near the top.

  “Let the fires come down!” Yig’s voice sounded weirdly from the hollow cylindrical furnace. “Pull the cords! Let the fires come down!”

  A guard pulled a cable. A line of blaze spilled down. The first flame caught one tip of Yig’s winged shoulder with an audible floosh! The feathers burst into flame.

  Yig’s roar changed to a shriek of fear. He rushed out of the Dart, just ahead of the full flame that would have baptized him. He threw off the burning costume as he came. He ran at Berk. The blinding light of fire, roaring up through the masonry, threw Berk momentarily off guard.

  “Look out!” The shout of Cog. Berk barely dodged as Yig went by him, arm upraised, knife in hand.

  The guards were rushing to get back out of the wave of heat. Yig, however, rounded the platform, shouting orders at the forces on the ground below. “Come on with those spears! Get the prophet first. Then Cog—hurry! Cut him down. Stay back, the rest of you. Don’t let the crowd rush you—”