Luana

by Alan Dean Foster

  “We’ll make camp here.” Isabel fulfilled his expectations by asking the inevitable question.

  “Mr. Barrett? We seem to have a good deal of light left. Shouldn’t we make all the distance we can?”

  Barrett sighed and stood, let the bearer continue to unpack the tent.

  “Izzy, how’s your balance?”

  “My . . . sense of balance, you mean?” She looked puzzled. “What has that got to do with . . .?”

  “Well, we could press on,” he interrupted. “But I’d have to be assured that your balance is real good. See, here,” and he waved an arm to encompass the clearing, “we’ve got a nice natural little clearing, rare enough in this kind of forest. But if you think you can sleep on a tree limb without falling off why, I’m willing to continue.” She looked unsatisfied, but there was nothing he could do about that.

  “Relax. If there’s still anything left of your father’s plane, another couple of hours or days isn’t going to make any difference. It’s been there for fifteen years, right? Slow down, Izzy. Nobody runs through this jungle.

  “And while you’re at it, you might take some of those clothes off. You’ll feel better and sweat less.”

  She looked at him sarcastically. “Dear me, I thought one would get terribly sunburnt if he did that.”

  “Eighty percent of the time you’ll only see the sun indirectly, or at an angle. Or haven’t you noticed that the vegetation hereabouts is, shall we say, somewhat dense? Anyhow, I wasn’t referring to your top shirt. You can get some ugly cuts from a few of these creepers, and the thinner trees you tend to ignore often have nasty thorns. I was referring to certain undergarments.”

  “You’d enjoy that. That’d give you a cheap thrill, wouldn’t it?”

  “Oh Christ,” groaned Barrett. “Listen, lady, do what you want, okay? I made a simple suggestion. Now, you can run around naked or put on a fur stole for all I care. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like to share my sleeping hours with the bugs. So excuse me while I get this tent up, huh?”

  Unhappy without knowing quite why, Isabel walked away. That he had the nerve to make such a suggestion . . .!

  She winced. Also the good sense. The damn straps felt like they were cutting her into bite-sized chunks and the sooner she got it off, the better.

  Chapter V

  You knew the sun had set even if you couldn’t see it. The trees turned orange and brown and mauve, and dark places began to swell like black bubbles in the underbrush. Tiny kerosene lamps sent screen-smattered patterns of light out of the tents, and the single fire in the center of the camp popped and cracked, an aural mirage of some imagined war.

  In nearby trees four pairs of eyes observed the camp. Half of them picked up the firelight and threw it back, stronger than ever.

  “I’m certain the one who leads is the same we saved from the evil one’s poison,” whispered Luana.

  Chaugh grumbled irritably. “Foolishness to follow them thus. More foolishness they should return. We should let them die, this time.”

  “Why Chaugh,” she murmured, reaching out to the next branch to rumple the fur behind the huge panther’s head, “I do believe you’re jealous of the male.”

  Chaugh jerked his head away and rested jaws of black iron on crossed forepaws. The panther was moody tonight.

  “That is a man-term. I do not understand.”

  “I’m not entirely sure I do either,” Luana admitted, sadly. “It’s hard enough to learn language from books and old tapes, especially when there are more than one and the tape machine gives out.”

  “Tape machine?” It was Jukakhan from another tree. The lion’s eyes glowed nightfire.

  “The word-box,” she reminded him.

  For his part, Ohoh did not share the big cats’ pessimism. He was intensely curious about anything manlike or having to do with man. Their utter unpredictability was an endearing trait.

  Luana felt no overwhelming urge for a closer look at the camp or the majority of its sleeping inhabitants. But there was a European woman with them, and that was a sufficient novelty to require a closer look.

  “Me too, me too,” chittered Ohoh when he saw her intent. He fairly shook the branch loose in his enthusiasm.

  “I’m sorry, Ohoh. Not this time. You stay here.”

  Ignoring the chimp’s pleadings, she dropped the six meters from the branch and landed silently on the jungle floor. Night beetles scrambled out from under her feet, their nocturnal warfare temporarily broken.

  A few completely quiet steps brought her to the back of the studied tent. There was a small window there that threw light out into the forest. Cautiously, she raised her head to a corner of the screen and peered in.

  Isabel Hardi stood in the middle of the tent, facing away from the window. Not too surprisingly, she was working at her hair. Vanity was not involved. She was combing out leaves and small insects, not curls. It was awkward work with the tiny hand mirror, but here even that was a luxury.

  Luana observed the process with interest. The brush, she saw, acted like a multitude of tiny fingers. She thought back, trying to match the process with some of the pictures in the books. She fingered her own hair, a straight black nightshade cascade that fell unbroken to her waist.

  Isabel stopped and put down the brush. She took up a small box and began to apply what looked like white mud to her face. Stranger and stranger. Finishing this, she removed her clothes. This was a natural thing, but there were certain others that were not, and were not included in the books. Luana found the entire process fascinating and wondered at the purpose of so much covering.

  Even more fascinating, after removing the unbearably heavy-looking clothing, the woman proceeded to put on an entirely different garment before crawling into a cot.

  In truth, she thought, civilization held many concepts that seemed to run counter to reason.

  Isabel had dimmed, but not turned out the light. So Luana could still clearly see the dark black-brown shape which crawled out from under the cot. It was fat and roughly round and the size of a man’s spread hand. She did not know the English, but another book showed it plainly. Buibuieusi—the black death spider.

  It was harmless unless irritated. Patiently, it began to climb up the sheets which fell off the side of the cot, hunting for warmth. It might share the bed all night and depart harmlessly in the morning.

  On the other hand, if the woman should roll over suddenly in her sleep, or wake up and see it—Luana sensed that she would not react with reason to the situation.

  The buibuieusi seemed determined to find an awkward spot. It continued to follow a path leading to the back of Isabel’s neck. Luana considered and reached a decision instantly.

  She carefully edged around to the front of the tent, eyed the camp. There was a single watch, on the far side of the fire. His posture betrayed sleep. Slipping inside, she approached the bed. Cautiously, she dipped the end of her long jet hair into the spider’s path. It crept onto the hair-covered palm and settled comfortably into the warmth. She ran a finger along the short fur on its thorax and it relaxed completely. A last look before she left the tent showed Isabel fast asleep.

  In the trees, she released the spider in a pile of dead leaves. It crawled into the decaying depths, quite unaware it had been cause for concern to any but small bugs. Luana studied the tiny monster and reflected on the vagaries of shape. Was a spider conscious of its ugliness? She was being profound.

  Albright widened the gap in his tent flap and stepped outside quietly. He hefted the rifle in his right hand and moved on tip-toe across the camp. What he’d just seen was utterly unreal. A quick test revealed he was neither dreaming, hallucinating, or blind. Either ghosts did exist, or else—

  He tried to follow the girl into the trees and badly overestimated his tracking ability. A few steps into the bush found him hopelessly lost.

  Something moved, there, to the left! He stumbled in turning. A snarl and two cold red eyes appeared. Flickering over startlingly w
hite teeth, the rest of his shape blending into the night, Chaugh’s sudden appearance seemed to Albright a cross between the Cheshire cat and Satan. He fired reflexively, without thinking.

  Something hit him between the shoulders, hard, and he fell. Rolling over, he found himself staring down the throat of Jukakhan. Death lay in those eyes more than fang or tooth.

  Noise and commotion came from the direction of the camp. Barrett was there first, his own rifle in hand. He raised it to the lion’s head. A shadow form dropped from nowhere and knocked the gun from his grasp. Light from the distant campfire danced in almond eyes. Barrett stared back, hypnotized.

  The figure shook its head once, then turned and uttered a startling alto-soprano growl, part opera singer, part panther. Jukakhan snarled once and vanished into the dark. The figure turned back to Barrett. Recollection and still gripping sleep combined to daze him. His eyes dropped to the scanty halter covering the girl’s breasts.

  In between, dangling from a short chain, lay a tiny coil of sterling. It was dark with age and tarnish. The pendant took the form of a striking cobra.

  Black wash memory took on color and line. Silver cobra in a mountain valley . . . of course! Murin, Isabel, and Kobenene clustered behind him. Their silence helped him find his voice.

  “You’re not a miracle, then. No, you’re not a dream. The miracle is still open to consideration. Sometimes I thought if you turned out to be real I’d be disappointed.” He almost chuckled. “I’m not.”

  “I’m pleased.” What a strange voice! It rippled little-girlish in the high places, broke into thunder in the low. Barrett took a deep breath, blinked the last sleep from his eyes. He was wide awake, now.

  “The dream talks, this time. You didn’t the other. What’s your name, dream?”

  “I had another calling, once,” the magnificent girl said. “Now I prefer Luana.”

  “All right, Luana. What happened here?” He glanced over at Albright. Kobenene was working on the prone figure. “What happened to him?”

  Luana looked at him coldly. “He tried to shoot Chaugh. Jukakhan intervened. Quite rightly so. It was a foolish thing for the man,” and she jerked her head contemptuously in Albright’s direction, “to try. The fool panicked. But then, you are all fools, for coming here, so I suppose he is in good company.”

  “You don’t mean,” began Isabel, “that you’re mad at him for defending himself, when he was being viciously attacked by—”

  Luana shook her head pityingly.

  “Perhaps it would have been a kindness to let the little visitor have his way with you tonight.”

  Barrett’s mind, meanwhile was working overtime. If anyone knew this country it seemed credible that this delicious figment of a drunken satyr’s imagination did. She might even have some idea about—

  “Luana—I wonder. Maybe you could help us.” She looked at him and her change was shockingly abrupt. She seemed not only no longer contemptuous and aloof, but positively contrite. Barrett heard a strange sound and didn’t immediately connect it with her.

  Holy smoke, she was purring! It was weird, and beautiful.

  “What is your name?”

  “Huh?” She was looking at him, more directly than any civilized stranger would. “Barrett.” he found himself answering stupidly. “George Barrett.”

  “George Barrett, I will try and help you. You must listen closely.”

  He put his head forward and she leaned to whisper in his ear. Everyone heard anyway.

  “Go home.”

  She spun abruptly and was gone, swallowed up by the dark and sheltering trees. Her perfume lingered in the air. Barrett took two steps after her and came up against a seemingly impenetrable wall of brush.

  “Luana . . . Luana!” he yelled. Normal night noise only replied. Song of cicada and cricket and white-faced monkey. Behind him, Murin was mumbling in a crazy-quilt of languages.

  “It’s like a fairy tale,” Isabel breathed.

  “Yeah.” Barrett was thoughtful, quiet. “I thought I dreamt about her once. If you’d seen the rest of that dream, your fairy princess image of her would go right out the window. No, she’s real enough.” He looked back into the forest. “I wonder what your friend Albright was shooting at? I think I can guess.

  “By the way,” he said to Kobenene, who was holding his master’s head up and fanning it with a broad leaf, “how is he?”

  “Just coming out of it, Barrett. He only fainted.”

  Albright blinked several seconds later and found Barrett and the others leaning to stare at him.

  “Guess I passed out.” He sat up by himself, still not really seeing them.

  “Don’t let it bother you,” Barrett soothed. He didn’t like Albright one bit. Still, without knowing for sure the whole of it, he wouldn’t have wished that confrontation with the lion on his worst enemy. It would scare the coolest man alive mindless.

  “It’s all right. Anyone would have reacted the same with that monster centimeters from his nose. Me too. Probably the best thing you could have done.” He tried to make the next question sound casual.

  “What were you shooting at?”

  “There was something moving in the forest. It . . . it looked at me.” Kobenene helped the shaken scientist to his feet. “It snarled at me and I thought it was going to charge.”

  “It snarled. Was it another big cat? A panther, maybe?”

  “Each tooth looked like an Afgan dirk!” Albright replied. “I didn’t get the chance to check its pedigree. Kobe, give me a hand back to the tent, will you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Albright.”

  Barrett put out a restraining hand. “Just one thing more, Albright.” The other stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “What were you doing in the jungle at this time of night . . . with a rifle?”

  Albright hesitated, but not too long. Necessity lent speed to his wit.

  “I heard something prowling around at the back of my tent and thought I’d better investigate.”

  Barrett acknowledged this explanation, and Albright sighed inwardly. It would not be helpful if the guide thought he’d gone hunting for this odd girl.

  “You’re going to hear a lot of sounds like that. Loose branches, the wind, harmless animals. It didn’t,” he said distastefully, “wake up the watch. I’d prefer you didn’t go gunning for every new sound you hear. You might shoot yourself. It’s been known to happen.”

  “You’re right, of course,” agreed Albright.

  “And now,” Barrett continued, “it’s time for my first order of the new day.” He looked around, noticed that the bearers were crowded around also. “Everybody go back to bed.”

  “But those big cats,” Albright protested. “They might still be around. Surely we should mount a stronger guard . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Norman. They’ll stay away from the fire. And,” he added, looking into the jungle, “somehow I don’t think they’ll cause us any trouble unless we go asking for it.”

  The sound of drums rose with the sun. They were distant, very distant, to the north.

  Murin rubbed at his eyes as he joined Barrett. “Wanderi, partner.” Barrett felt, or imagined he felt, a sharp twinge in his left shoulder.

  “Probably. Can’t be certain.”

  “Well,” said the Breeded, “at least they’re not getting any closer. That means we’re not walking into them.”

  “They’re not getting any quieter, either, partner. Don’t try to cheer me up. That means they’re moving parallel to us. It means they know we’re here.”

  “Not necessarily,” Murin countered. “They might not be interested in this part of the forest. Probably only hunting. And if you say ‘hunting what,’ George, I’ll pop you one.”

  Barrett grinned with a humor he didn’t feel.

  “Okay, you’re right, we’ll jump to no conclusions. But pass the word to the boys to try keeping the lid on any unrestrained hilarity, huh? Tell ’em to lose quietly for a change.”

  They
stopped for an early lunch. There was a small river in front of them and further upstream, a moderate waterfall. Even aerial maps of this area were spotty and incomplete, but if Barrett was right, there should be a major river nearby. They’d have to cross it eventually. And the country ahead should get rugged even sooner.

  Barrett sat down and did some careful thinking. They were moving in country well to the south of his previous, ill-fated expedition. The distant drums (maybe they weren’t Wanderi, after all) continued to stay well to the north. Maybe they really had passed to the south of the witch-men’s influence. The boundary could be defined only by fatalities. Barrett hoped he was right.

  Isabel, meanwhile, sat boredly in her tent. They had a long day ahead yet. The life of the camp is repetitive make-work. And the jungle can become incredibly dull to all but a select few. Isabel was neither botanist, entymologist, nor Barrett.

  She took a towel and wiped the back of her neck. The white cloth came away brown. That was the last straw!

  Scrounging through her personal pack, she managed to unearth a bar of soap . . . another luxury. Barrett complained about every excess gram. Well, the hell with him.

  The jungle air, damn it, was like green gravy. Sooner or later you got coated with filth and grime that seemed to materialize out of thin air. The time had come to counterattack, or else she’d go crazy. Taking the towel, she slipped quietly out of camp.

  Some bearers had cut a narrow path to the river’s edge. She followed it to the water and turned upstream. Just enough of a beach ran parallel to the water so that she didn’t have to battle vines and thorn bushes all the way. She paused only once, to watch a painted box turtle make its lumbering way from the water’s edge to a hole in the soft bank.

  The waterfall, which fell a scant few meters into the river, had dug a hole in the soft sand of the bank and river bottom. So when she stepped in, the water came up to her shoulders. It was warm, though not as cloying as the slow moving river. The fresh water cascading over her tired skin held the pleasure of something wicked.