Eight Fantasms and Magics

by Jack Vance

  “By no means,” replied the Castellan. “We are a civilized people, with customs bequeathed us by the past. Since the past was more glorious than the present, we would show presumption by questioning these laws!”

  Guyal fell quiet. “And what are the usual penalties for my act?”

  The Castellan made a reassuring motion. “The rote prescribes three acts of penance, which in your case, I am sure will be nominal. But—the forms must be observed, and it is necessary that you be constrained in the Felon’s Case-board.” He motioned to the men who held Guyal’s arm. “Away with him, cross neither track nor trail, for then your grasp will be nerveless and he will be delivered from justice.”

  Guyal was pent in a well aired but poorly lighted cellar of stone. The floor he found dry, the ceiling free of crawling insects. He had not been searched, nor had his Scintillant Dagger been removed from his sash. With suspicions crowding his brain he lay on the rush bed and, after a period, slept.

  Now ensued the passing of a day. He was given food and drink; and at last the Castellan came to visit him.

  “You are indeed fortunate,” said the Saponid, “in that, as a witness, I was able to suggest your delinquencies to be more the result of negligence than malice. The last penalties exacted for the crime were stringent; the felon was ordered to perform the following three acts: First, to cut off his toes and sew the severed members into the skin at his neck; second, to revile his forbears for three hours, commencing with a Common Bill of Anathema, including feigned madness and hereditary disease, and at last defiling the hearth of his clan; and third, walking a mile under the lake with leaded shoes in search of the Lost Book of Caraz.” And the Castellan regarded Guyal with complacency.

  “What deeds must I perform?” inquired Guyal drily.

  The Castellan joined the tips of his fingers together. “As I say, the penances are nominal, by decree of the Elder. First, you must swear never again to repeat your crime.”

  “That I gladly do,” said Guyal, and so bound himself.

  “Second,” said the Castellan with a slight smile, “you must adjudicate at a Grand Pageant of Pulchritude among the maids of the village and select her whom you consider the most beautiful.”

  “Scarcely an arduous task,” commented Guyal. “Why does it fall to my lot?”

  The Castellan looked vaguely to the ceiling. “There are a number of concomitants to victory in this contest. . . .

  Every person in the town would find relations among the participants—a daughter, a sister, a niece—and so would hardly be considered unprejudiced. The charge of favoritism could never be leveled against you; therefore you make an ideal selection for this important post.”

  Guyal seemed to hear the ring of sincerity in the Saponid’s voice; still he wondered why the selection of the town's loveliest was a matter of such import.

  “And third?” he inquired.

  “That will be revealed after the contest, which occurs this afternoon.”

  The Saponid departed the cell.

  Guyal, who was not without vanity, spent several hours restoring himself and his costume from the ravages of travel. He bathed, trimmed his hair, shaved his face, and, when the Castellan came to unlock the door, he felt that he made no discreditable picture.

  He was led out upon the road and directed up the hill toward the summit of the terraced town of Saponce. Turning to the Castellan he said, “How is it that you permit me to walk the trail once more? You must know that now I am safe from molestation. . ..”

  The Castellan shrugged. “True. But you would gain little by insisting upon your temporary immunity. Ahead the trail crosses a bridge which we could demolish; behind we need but breach the dam to Green Torrent; then, should you walk the trail you would be swept to the side and so rendered vulnerable. No, Sir Guyal of Sfere, once the secret of your immunity is abroad then you are liable to a variety of stratagems. For instance, a large wall might be placed athwart the way, before and behind you. No doubt the spell would preserve you from thirst and hunger but what then? So would you sit till the sun went out.”

  Guyal said no word. Across the lake he noticed a trio of the crescent boats approaching the docks, prows and sterns rocking and dipping into the shaded water with a graceful motion. The void in his mind made itself known. “Why are your boats constructed in such fashion?”

  The Castellan looked blankly at him. “It is the only practicable method. Do not the oe-pods grow thusly to the south?”

  “Never have I seen oe-pods.”

  “They are the fruit of a great vine, and grow in scimitar-shape. When sufficiently large we cut and clean them, slit the inner edge, grapple end to end with strong line, and constrict till the pod opens as is desirable. When cured, dried, varnished, carved, burnished and lacquered, fitted with deck, thwarts and gussets—then have we our boats.”

  They entered the plaza, a flat area at the summit surrounded on three sides by tall houses. To Guyal’s surprise there seemed to be no preliminary ceremonies or formalities to the contest, and small spirit of festivity was manifest among the townspeople. Indeed they seemed beset by subdued despondency and eyed him without enthusiasm.

  A hundred girls stood in a disconsolate group. It seemed to Guyal that they had gone to few pains to embellish themselves. To the contrary, they wore shapeless rags, their hair seemed deliberately misarranged, their faces were dirty and scowling.

  Guyal turned to his guide. “The girls seem not to covet the garland of pulchritude.”

  The Castellan nodded wryly. “As you see, they are by no means jealous for distinction; modesty has always been a Saponid trait.”

  Guyal hesitated. “What is the form of procedure? I do not desire in my ignorance to violate another of your arcane regulations.”

  The Castellan said with a blank face, “There are no formalities. We conduct these pageants with expedition and the least possible ceremony. You need but pass among these maidens and point out her whom you deem the most attractive.”

  Guyal advanced to his task, feeling more than half foolish. Then he reflected: this is a penalty for contravening an absurd tradition; I will conduct myself with efficiency and so the quicker rid myself of the obligation.

  He stood before the hundred girls who eyed him with hostility and anxiety, and Guyal saw that his task would not be simple, since, on the whole, they were of a comeliness which even the dirt, grimacing, and rags could not disguise.

  “Range yourselves, if you please, into a line,” said Guyal. “In this way, none will be at disadvantage.”

  Sullenly the girls formed a line.

  Guyal surveyed the group. He saw at once that a number could be eliminated: the squat, the obese, the lean, the pocked and coarse-featured—perhaps a quarter of the group, He said suavely, “Never have I seen such unanimous loveliness; each of you might legitimately claim the cordon. My task is arduous; I must weigh fine imponderables; in the I end my choice will undoubtedly be based on subjectivity and those of real charm will no doubt be the first discharged from the competition.” He stepped forward. “Those whom I indicate may retire.”

  He walked down the line, pointing, and the ugliest, with expressions of unmistakable relief, hastened to the sidelines.

  A second time Guyal made his inspection, and now, somewhat more familiar with those he judged, he was able to discharge those who, while suffering no whit from ugliness, were merely plain.

  Roughly a third of the original group remained. These stared at Guyal with varying degrees of apprehension and truculence as he passed before them, studying each in turn.

  . . . All at once his mind was determined, and his choice definite.

  Guyal made one last survey down the line. No, he had been accurate in his choice. There were girls here as comely as the senses could desire, girls with opal-glowing eyes and hyacinth features, girls as lissome as reeds, with hair silky and fine despite the dust which they seemed to have rubbed upon themselves.

  The girl whom Guyal had selected w
as slighter than the others and possessed of a beauty not at once obvious. She had a small triangular face, great wistful eyes, and thick black hair cut short at the ears. Her skin was, of a transparent paleness, like the finest ivory; her form slender, graceful, and of a compelling magnetism. She seemed to have sensed his decision and her eyes widened.

  Guyal took her hand, led her forward, and turned to the Elder—an old man sitting stolidly in a heavy chair.

  “This is she whom I find the loveliest among your maidens.” There was silence through the square. Then there came a hoarse sound, a cry of sadness from the Castellan and Sergeant-Reader. He came forward, sagging of face, limp of body. “Guyal of Sfere, you have wrought a great revenge for my tricking you. This is my beloved daughter, Shierl, whom you have designated.”

  Guyal stammered, “I meant but complete impersonality. Your daughter Shierl I find the loveliest creature of my experience; I cannot understand where I have offended.” “No, Guyal,” said the Castellan, “you have chosen fairly, for such indeed is my own thought.”

  “Well, then,” said Guyal, “reveal to me now my third task that I may finish, and then continue my pilgrimage.” The Castellan said, “Three leagues to the north lies the ruin which tradition tells us to be the olden Museum of Man.” “Ah,” said Guyal, “go on, I attend.”

  “You must, as your third charge, conduct my daughter Shierl to the Museum of Man. At the portal you will strike on a copper gong and announce to whoever responds: ‘We are those summoned from Issane.’ ”

  Guyal frowned. “How is this? ‘We’?”

  “Such is your charge,” said the Castellan in a voice like thunder.

  Guyal looked to left, right, forward, and behind. But he stood in the center of the plaza surrounded by the hardy men of Issane.

  “When must this charge be executed?” he inquired in a controlled voice.

  The Castellan said in a voice bitter as gall: “Even now Shierl goes to clothe herself in yellow. In one hour shall she appear; in one hour shall you set forth for the Museum of Man.”

  “And then?”

  “And then—for good or for evil, it is not known. You fare as thirteen thousand have fared before you.”

  Down from the plaza, down the leafy lanes of Issane came Guyal, indignant and clamped of mouth, though the pit of his stomach felt heavy with trepidation. The ritual carried distasteful overtones. Guyal's step faltered.

  The Castellan seized his elbow with a hard hand. “Forward."

  The faces along the lane swam with morbid curiosity, inner excitement.

  The eminence, with the tall trees and carved dark houses was at his back; he walked out into the claret sunlight of the tundra. Eighty women in white gowns with ceremonial buckets of woven straw over their heads surrounded a tall tent of yellow silk. Here the Castellan halted Guyal and beckoned to the Ritual Matron. She flung back the hangings at the door of the tent; Shierl came slowly forth, eyes dark with fright. She wore a stiff gown of yellow brocade, and the wand of her body seemed pent and constrained within. She stared at Guyal, at her father, as if she had never seen them before. The Ritual Matron put a hand on her waist, propelled her forward. Shierl stepped once, twice, irresolutely halted. The Castellan brought Guyal forward and placed him at the girl's side; now two children, a boy and a girl, came hastening up with cups which they proffered to Guyal and Shierl. Dully she accepted the cup. Guyal glanced suspiciously at the murky brew. He asked the Castellan: “What is the nature of this potion?"

  “Drink," said the Castellan. “So will your way seem the shorter; you will march to the Museum with a steadier step."

  “I will not drink," said Guyal. “My senses must be my own when I meet the Curator. I have come far for the privilege; I would not stultify the occasion stumbling and staggering."

  Shierl stared dully at the cup she held. Said Guyal: “I advise you likewise to avoid the drug; so will we come to the Museum of Man with our dignity."

  She returned the cup. The Castellan's brow clouded, but he made no protest.

  An old man in a black costume brought forward a satin pillow on which rested a whip with a handle of carved steel. The Castellan now lifted this whip, and advancing,

  laid three light strokes across the shoulders of both Shierl and Guyal.

  “Now,” said the Castellan, “go from Issane outlawed forever. Seek succor at the Museum of Man. Never look back, leave all thoughts of past and future here. Go, I command; go, go, go!”

  Shierl sunk her teeth into her lower lip; tears coursed her cheek though she made no sound. With hanging head she started across the tundra. Guyal, with a swift stride, joined her.

  For a space the murmurs, the nervous sounds followed their ears; then they were alone. The north lay across the horizon; the tundra filled the foreground and background, an expanse dreary and dun. The Museum of Man rose before them; along the faint trail they walked.

  Guyal said in a tentative tone, “There is much I would understand.”

  “Speak,” said Shierl.

  “Why are we forced to this mission?”

  “It is thus because it has always been thus. Is this not reason enough?”

  “Sufficient possibly for you,” said Guyal, “but not for me. In fact, my thirst for knowledge drew me here, to find the Museum of Man.”

  She looked at him in wonder. “Are all to the south as scholarly as you?”

  “In no degree,” said Guyal. “The habitants perform the acts which fed them yesterday, last week, a year ago. ‘Why strive for a pedant’s accumulation?’ I have been asked. ‘Why seek and search? Earth grows cold; man gasps his last; why forgo merriment, music, and revelry for the abstract?’ ”

  “Indeed,” said Shierl. “Such is the consensus at Issane. But ask what you will; I will try to answer.”

  He studied the charming triangle of her face, the heavy black hair, the lustrous eyes, dark as sapphires. “In happier circumstances, there would be other yearnings for you to ease.”

  “Ask,” said Shierl of Issane. “The Museum of Man is close; there is occasion for naught but words.”

  “Why are we thus sent to the Museum?”

  “The immediate cause is the ghost you saw on the hill. When the ghost appears, then we of Issane know that the most beautiful maiden and the most handsome youth must be dispatched to the Museum. The basis of the custom I do not know. So it is; so it has been; so it will be till the sun gutters out like a coal in the rain.”

  “But what is our mission? Who greets us, what is our fate?”

  “Such details are unknown.”

  Guyal mused, “The likelihood of pleasure seems small. . . . You are beyond doubt the loveliest creature of the Saponids, the loveliest creature of Earth—but I, a casual stranger, am hardly the most well-favored youth of the town.” She smiled. “You are not uncomely.”

  Guyal said somberly, “More cogent is the fact that I am a stranger and so bring little loss to Issane.”

  “That aspect has no doubt been considered.”

  Guyal searched the horizon. “Let us then avoid the Museum of Man, let us circumvent this unknown fate and take to the mountains.”

  She shook her head. “Do you suppose that we would gain by the ruse? The eyes of a hundred warriors will follow until we pass through the portals of the Museum. Should we attempt to avoid our duty we should be bound to stakes, stripped of our skins by the inch, and at last placed in bags with a thousand scorpions. Such is the traditional penalty; twelve times in history has it been invoked.”

  Guyal threw back his shoulders. He spoke in a nervous voice, “Ah, well—the Museum of Man has been my goal for many years. On this motive I set forth from Sfere, so now I would seek the Curator and satisfy my obsession for brainfilling.”

  “You are blessed with great fortune,” said Shierl, “for you are being granted your heart’s desire.”

  Guyal could find nothing to say, so for a space they walked in silence.

  Presently she touched his arm. “Guyal, I am
greatly frightened.”

  Guyal gazed at the ground beneath his feet, and a blossom of hope sprang alive in his brain. “See the marking through the lichen?”

  “Yes; what then?”

  “Is it a trail?”

  Dubiously she responded, “It is a way worn by the passage of many feet. So then—it is a trail.”

  “Here then is safety,” declared Guyal. “But I must guard you; you must never leave my side, you must swim in the charm which protects me; perhaps then we will survive.”

  Shierl said sadly, “Let us not delude our reason, Guyal of Sfere.”

  But as they walked, the trail grew plainer, and Guyal became correspondingly sanguine. And ever larger bulked the crumble that marked the Museum of Man.

  If a storehouse of knowledge had existed here, little sign remained. There was a great flat floor, flagged in white stone, now chalky, broken and grown over with weeds. The surrounding monoliths, pocked and worn, were toppled off at various heights. The rains had washed the marble, the dust from the mountains had been laid on and swept off, laid on and swept off, and those who had built the Museum were less than a mote of this dust, so far and forgotten were they.

  “Think,” said Guyal, “think of the vastness of knowledge which once was gathered here and which is now one with the soil—unless, of course, the Curator has salvaged and preserved.”

  Shierl looked about apprehensively. “I think rather of the portal, and that which awaits us. . . . Guyal,” she whispered, “I fear, I fear greatly. . . . Suppose they tear us apart? Suppose there is torture and death? I fear a tremendous impingement.”

  Guyal’s own throat was hot and full. He looked about with challenge. “While I still breathe and hold power in my arms to fight, there will be none to harm us.”