Into the Thinking Kingdoms

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Netherbrae,” Knucker corrected him. “Another day, perhaps two. I know the way, but I have only been there once myself, and that was in passing long ago.”

  Gathering himself, the swordsman started forward. “Let’s get after it, then.” He glanced up into the branches. Dragonets could rain fire down on a man, and birds other things, but these he did not mind. It was the groats he had no desire to meet up with again, and where one troop lived, another could follow.

  Ehomba and Knucker trailed the swordsman’s lead. Rising from his sitting position, Ahlitah brought up the rear. As he padded along in the humans’ wake, he focused great yellow eyes on the herdsman’s back. He did not say anything, nor did he intend to say anything, about what he had seen. The less he was compelled to converse with men, the better he liked it. But being intelligent, he was curious. For now he would keep that curiosity to himself. Doubtless an explanation would be forthcoming sometime in the future, either by design or by accident.

  When the two smaller men had first looked into the mirror held by the man from the south, they had been momentarily blinded by reflected light. Nothing unusual about that.

  Except that at the time, the sun had been in front of the herdsman, and not behind him.

  XVII

  Simna was anticipating a fairly typical isolated mountain village, with pigs and heptodons, chickens and raphusids running loose on rutted, muddy streets, children wailing, laundry hanging from unshuttered windows, and the pervasive stink of waste both human and animal. Given such low expectations, it was not surprising that when it finally came into view through the surrounding trees, the reality of Netherbrae gave a boost to his spirits as well as to his tired legs.

  They were all relieved. The previous day had seen them climbing steadily up a trail become increasingly steep. Though it was not mentioned, each of them found the possibility of a night’s sleep in a real bed quietly exhilarating.

  “What an appealing little place.” His fingers locked in the straps of his backpack, Simna ibn Sind’s step had become positively jaunty as he gave Knucker a friendly nudge. “I admit I was a bit worried about what we might find, but if anything you understated its charm.” He lowered his voice slightly. “I wonder if the local ladies are as attractive as their surroundings?”

  As the travelers entered the unfenced, unguarded hamlet, people looked up from their work to smile and wave. Used to encountering the occasional traveler in their mountain hideaway, they were not wary of the three men and their imposing feline companion. Their unforced greetings were, if anything, effusive.

  As Knucker led them deeper into the thoughtfully laid-out community, Ehomba admired the wonderful homes and shops. None rose higher than a single story, though many boasted sharply raked roofs that accommodated spacious lofts. Every exposed beam and post, board and railing had been carved with care and attention. Crossbeams terminated in the beaked heads of forest birds. More animals than the herdsman could count leaped and browsed and slumbered and inclined graceful wooden necks to sip from pools of richly grained carved water.

  There were wooden flowers in profusion, gaily painted to approximate their natural tints. The shutters that flanked open, glass-free windows were inscribed with mountain scenes, and the fences that enclosed neat yards and gardens were comprised of pickets of every imaginable style and size. Small stone wells were topped with sheltering roofs of all possible shapes, from round to octagonal.

  Each shop or storefront was engraved with scenes that depicted the profession they housed. The entrance to the village cobbler’s was lined with oversized wooden shoes in several styles and varieties. A smithy boasted the unique distinction of displaying assorted iron and other metal objects carved in wood. Wooden rolls and muffins, pies and cookies outside the bakery looked fresh enough to eat. Not merely the flowers, but a great many of the other sculptures had been painted with as much skill as they had been carved.

  The undersized streets that separated the storybook buildings were hard-packed earth, but the travelers kicked up no dust as they walked. The reason for this became apparent when they encountered a cluster of women bending to pick up any forest debris while pushing heavy horsehair brushes along in front of them.

  “I admire their cleanliness.” Simna smiled and bowed gallantly as they passed the street sweepers. Several of the women smiled and curtsied in return. “But sweeping the dirt’s a bit much.”

  “I recall another town we passed through that was obsessed with cleanliness.” Ehomba’s expression was unflappable as ever, but he was keeping a careful watch on the buildings they passed. “Do you remember? We had problems there.”

  “Hoy, but this is only a little village. I wouldn’t expect to find the same kind of trouble here.”

  The herdsman was unable to relax. “I do not like things that are too perfect.”

  “Fine.” Bending over, Simna spat on the herdsman’s foot. “There. Something that’s not perfect. Feel better now?”

  Glancing down, the tall southerner ignored the trickle of saliva. “I have been drooled on by many animals. Spittle does not make something imperfect.”

  The swordsman shook his head sadly. “I hope your wife and kids are more spirited than you, Etjole, or it’s a dull, dead family life you lead for certain.”

  Ehomba turned to his friend. “I am told by others that Mirhanja is among the liveliest and most engaging of women. Certainly she seems so to me.”

  “Or maybe it’s just in comparison to you, bruther. In your company, a rock would appear the essence of merrymaking.”

  “You are not the first to assert that if I have any faults, a sometimes overriding seriousness might be among them.”

  “Might be?” The herdsman chortled in disbelief. “Hoy, long bruther, and the moon might be far away, the oceans deep, and women fickle. Yes, you might tend to the sedate just a trifle. But that’s all right—we don’t hold it against you.” He looked around at the others. “Do we, friends?”

  “Not I,” professed Knucker quickly.

  “I find you all infantile and silly in the extreme.” Ahlitah avowed this with utter seriousness. “Among humans, the most thoughtful strive long and hard to attain the exalted level of perfect twit.”

  “That’s profound,” Simna retorted, “coming from one who proclaims the location of his home by pissing all around it.”

  “Look, there’s the inn!” Knucker made the announcement hastily and a bit too loudly. Swordsman and litah glared at one another for a long moment, whereupon the disputation was set aside by mutual unspoken consent, as had been dozens of similar arguments.

  Splendid as had been the decorations they had beheld throughout the town, those fronting the inn put all their carved predecessors to shame. It was still only a single-story structure, but the upper loft or attic was proportionately larger in scale, allowing for a number of rooms to be located above the main floor. Not only forest creatures but inanimate inventions of the wood-carvers’ fancy stared out from the wide, handsomely milled entrance. There were oaken arabesques and pine flutings, rain clouds of spruce overhanging redwood mountains, and much, much more.

  Following Knucker up the steps, they found themselves in an anteroom empty but for a plump, rosy-cheeked woman in her midthirties. She was using a fine-whisked broom to tidy the highly polished hardwood floor. Strain though he might, Ehomba could not see that there was anything to sweep. To his eyes the floor appeared immaculate.

  “Welcome, visitors!” She smiled expansively. “Welcome to Netherbrae. I hope that you will fine our rooms comfortable, our linens sweet-smelling, and our food and drink to your liking.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Simna assured her. “I take it you can accommodate four of us?”

  “Oh yes, certainly!” Leaning her broom against a wall that was no less spotless than the floor, she clasped her hands together and nodded hospitably. “It is a slow time of year for us and we are glad to have your trade. You should know that there will be a townsparty here tonight. N
aturally, as guests, you are invited.”

  “A party!” The swordsman nodded approvingly. “I don’t remember the last time I was at a party.” He grinned teasingly at Ehomba. “It certainly wasn’t in your company.” Turning back to their congenial and proper hostess, he added, “We’d be delighted to attend.”

  Her smile flickered, but only for an instant. “I must have misunderstood. You said that there were four of you? But I see only three.”

  Turning slightly, Ehomba nodded in the direction of the litah. Having entered late, the big cat had settled down onto its belly, its front legs stretched out in front of it. “Three men, and one feline.”

  Their hostess’s smile did not waver, but a new and unexpectedly biting sternness crept into her voice. “Surely you don’t expect that great black thing to join you in your room?”

  “Ahlitah is one with us,” Ehomba explained. “Why can he not stay? He is intelligent, and can speak as well as any man.”

  “That is not so.” The black cat spoke without lifting his head. “I can speak better.”

  It required a visible effort, but their hostess managed to maintain her smile. “It is a filthy animal!”

  All of a sudden the paint that highlighted the skillful wood carvings outside seemed to dim slightly, the perfectly trimmed rows of flowers to reveal one or two weeds. Seeing the herdsman’s jawline tighten uncharacteristically, Simna stepped quickly forward.

  “Of course it is, m’dear, and we quite understand. My tall friend here”—he jerked a thumb in Ehomba’s direction—“comes from a land far to the south, where shepherds often stay out in the fields with their herds and flocks for days on end. So he’s used to being with animals and finds it only natural to sleep in their company. Furthermore, he’s unfamiliar with towns. Might I ask, lady, if there is anyplace where our cat could find shelter?”

  Much mollified, the proprietress nodded to her right. “There are stables around back. At the moment they’re unoccupied, so that monstrous great creature won’t have any mounts to disturb. There’s water out there, and plenty of straw, and it will keep some of the chill away. It gets cold up here in the Hrugars.”

  “I’m sure that’ll be okay.” Grinning tensely, the swordsman turned to look at the nonchalant Ahlitah. “Won’t it?”

  The big cat’s face twitched slightly. It might have been a shrug. “I’d as soon not smell humans.”

  “And I will stay with him.” Ehomba was no longer smiling at their hostess. “I know you have your policies. Please do not concern yourself on my account. I prefer a hard bed to a soft one in any case, as my companions can tell you.”

  “Fine, good!” Muttering softly, Simna turned away from him. “I suppose you expect me to show solidarity by joining you in sharing the delights of the barn?”

  “Not at all,” Ehomba told him. “You should enjoy your comforts where you can find them.”

  “That’s good to hear, because that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” The swordsman was insistent. “After that climb out of Bondressey I want to soak in a hot tub, and lie between clean sheets, and awaken warm and rested.”

  “As well you should.” Ehomba looked past him and inquired politely, “Around the back of the inn, you said?” Arms folded, the hostess nodded sternly.

  “Sleep well,” Simna told him sarcastically. “Knucker and me here—we’re sure going to. Aren’t we, friend?”

  “I hope so,” the little man ventured uncertainly.

  “Right! Come on, then.” Putting an arm around the hesitant Knucker, the swordsman started past the proprietress and up the hall. “If you would show us to our room, m’dear?”

  “Gladly.” Favoring Ehomba with a last disapproving look, she turned and took the lead from the two smaller men.

  “Out, back, and around.” Pivoting, Ehomba led the way back out through the entrance. The litah rose and followed.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” the big cat told him as they trooped down the front steps and turned to their right.

  “I know that.”

  “I’m not asking you to keep me company. I enjoy my solitude.”

  “I know that also. I meant what I said about town beds being too soft. Straw will be better for me.”

  “Suit yourself. It makes no difference to me.” Ahlitah was silent until they reached the stable. It was as sturdy and well made as every other building they had encountered in the village—even if it was intended only for the housing of filthy animals. “What about this ‘townsparty’ tonight?”

  “The woman’s sharp reaction to you may have been an anomaly, but I think it would be better to take no chances. If these people will not allow filthy animals to stay in their inn, I have a strong feeling that they will not embrace them at their social gatherings.”

  Entering the stables, the litah began to hunt for a suitable resting place to spend the night. “You are probably right, Etjole Ehomba. I wonder how they feel about entertaining filthy humans?”

  “From the woman’s tone of voice I think she was referring only to matters of personal hygiene when she used the word ‘filthy.’ My fear is that bounded emotions may run deeper and nastier than that.”

  Poking his head into an empty stall, Ahlitah grunted. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I’ll stay here and catch up on some sleep.” He snorted and shook his head, the great black mane swishing back and forth like a gigantic dust mop. “I have been behind on my sleep ever since we left the veldt.” Satisfied, he looked up curiously. “Are you going?”

  “I have to. Not because I particularly want to, although in spite of their prejudice this is an interesting place, but because I feel it necessary to keep an eye on Simna. When he is not careful of what he says, his mouth can get him into trouble.”

  “He and I almost have something in common, then. I like to put trouble in my mouth.” He emitted a silky growl. “Here’s a good place.”

  Together, they flopped down on the thick pile of hay. It was a recent threshing, still soft and pliable, with a good view of both the front and back entrances to the stables. There Ehomba would rest until suppertime. After that would come the townsparty, which he, as traveler and guest, would attend. So long as he was there to keep Simna’s mouth full of food, he knew, the swordsman was unlikely to cause problems.

  Taken in the inn’s tavern, the evening meal was excellent, as artistically and competently prepared and presented as the building in which it was served. Nor were the three travelers the only ones eating there. Locals began to trickle in with the setting of the sun, finding their way through Netherbrae’s immaculate streets with the aid of small, elegantly repoussed tin lanterns. Soon the tavern was alive with laughter and earnest conversation. Men discussed the opening of a new patch of forest to logging, for the village supplied many wood products to Bondressey and Squoy. Women talked children and household tasks, and both genders indulged in much good-natured gossiping.

  As the three travelers sat at one of the long communal benches, they spoke mostly among themselves. But as the evening wore on and the tavern became more crowded, the jocularity more general, and the banter more boisterous, they inevitably found themselves drawn into conversation with the locals. Certainly Simna was. Knucker was a hesitant talker, and Ehomba could be downright noncommunicative.

  Leaning out of his chair, the swordsman inquired casually of one burly native seated nearby, “So you cut a lot of trees, do you?”

  “Why not?” The man’s hands were thick and callused from a lifetime of heavy physical labor. “We have lots of trees, and the Bondresseyeans pay well for our timber. Besides, a two-man cross-cut saw makes awfully quick work of carrots, so we might as well use them to cut trees.” His companions roared and Simna deigned to smile graciously at the spirited outpouring of bucolic humor.

  “Any lady loggers among you?” He grinned hopefully. The laughter around him died instantly. Grave expressions took the place of the easy affability that had prevailed. “That would be an abomination. No Netherbraen, man
or woman, would stand for it.”

  “Hoy,” murmured Simna contritely, “it was just a question. Remember, my friends and I are strangers here.”

  “That’s true . . . yes, that’s so . . .” Gradually the group regained its smiles and humor. “A lady logger—talk like that could get a man condemned.”

  “Condemned?” Ehomba joined the dialogue. “Condemned by whom?”

  “Why, by Tragg, of course.” The locals looked at one another and shook their heads in mutual commiseration at the visitors’ ignorance. “Tragg is the God of wandering forest paths. Whoever follows His way and His teachings will live a long and happy life here in the Hrugar Mountains. So it has always been for the citizens of Netherbrae.”

  “This is what your priests tell you?” Subsequent to his initial faux pas, Simna tried to couch his comments in the least offensive manner possible.

  “Priests?” The men exchanged a glance and, to the swordsman’s relief, burst out laughing once again. “We have no priests!”

  “We know the truth of what Tragg tells us,” avowed another, “because it has always been the truth. We don’t need priests to tell us these things. We are as much a part of the Thinking Kingdoms as Melespra or Urenon the Elegant.”

  “Yes. The only difference is that we choose to live in simpler surroundings.” The villager nearest Simna gestured expansively. “No need here for estates or castles. Our homes we decorate with humble wood, enhanced and beautified by our own hands. All of this Tragg tells us.”

  “Does he also tell you that animals are filthy creatures?” Ehomba asked the question before Simna could catch the gist of it and stop him.

  The swordsman was needlessly concerned. Another of the villagers answered freely and without hesitation. “Of course! Whenever we are unsure about anything, we put our faith in the teachings of Tragg and they tell us what to do.”