New Worlds

by Edited By David Garnett

  “You, on the other hand, possess wealth and influence enough to preserve both it and its essential character.”

  She waited for him to infer the implications, before adding:

  “We thought you might appreciate a chance at first refusal.”

  He sat up. Was he awake? They were discussing an irregular splash of prime, ripe, unexploited temperate territory. Verdant mountains and flatlands stretching four hundred and something kilometres east-west, a shade over three hundred north-south. A fabulous treasure of clean water and topsoil, timber, minerals, construction space, transit rights, gene pools to plunder...

  “Henry, you’re drooling.”

  Embarrassed, Gypter wiped his mouth, found it dry, looked up at Lourat. She snorted.

  “My advisors were not wrong, it seems. Let’s not beat about the bush. This place needs your money. You are someone who can, properly stimulated, make quasi-civilised behaviour pay handsome dividends. Very well. You want control. We want survival. The makings of a partnership?”

  Her eyes, gem clear within the papery wrinkles of her face, pinned his.

  “Hell,” he said, “you know you’ve got me.”

  “Nevertheless, think about it.” She stood up, surprisingly briskly. “I anticipate you will find our terms agreeable. The documents will be brought to your apartment at noon tomorrow. Before then, why not explore the grounds? Morning would best. Swanson can equip you with an aircycle and other necessities.”

  A walk in the woods? Repulsive thought. No hardways, not anywhere. Just squishy, sticky mud. Branches and thorns to snag clothes, gash skin. Rabid animals to launch frenzied attacks.

  “Must I?”

  “It’s quite safe. And will clarify things. Please.”

  What an asset-stripper must do for a profit these days, he thought, nodding as if it seemed an exquisite idea after all.

  ~ * ~

  For an experience, the outing began ordinarily enough. Swanson knocked on his door an hour before dawn to deliver an armful of “suitable apparel.” This was military-style boots, trousers and field jacket. All, Gypter was pleased to see, manufactured by one of his own companies.

  “Nothing but the best,” he quipped to Swanson.

  The footman inclined his head minutely. “The mistress felt, sir, that you would be happiest using equipment in which you had most confidence. Moreover, should it fail to satisfy, you would be in a position to apportion blame effectively.”

  Breakfast was experienced in a vastly under-occupied formal chamber. Gypter’s clumsily massive dining chair faced along a table whose far end seemed to lie beyond the horizon. Somewhere down there, he was sure, sat a Citizen Kane look-alike, similarly engaged in a joyless repast. Meanwhile, at the near end, Swanson lurked randomly, inflicting occasional personal services.

  He could not quite nail down what it was about the footman he was learning to loathe. He had never taken to the Wodehouse stories starring that super-butler, Jeeves. Perhaps it was the way Swanson attained a similar perfection without evident effort, and without having to humble himself in the slightest, which so irked. Or perhaps it was Swanson’s seeming indifference to what Gypter thought of the service, so long as he permitted Swanson to provide it. Damn fellow was scarcely human.

  With the sun at last clear of the eastern mountains, Gypter was led out to a sprawling fieldstone building roofed in mossy slate. Wide wooden doors swung open as they approached. Ceiling panels shone down upon assorted one- and two-person vehicles.

  “The mistress suggests you take a two-seater aircycle, sir,” said Swanson, indicating a spotless machine by the doors. “The handling characteristics are superior. And you may find the additional capacity convenient.”

  “Whatever for?” Gypter bent to look inside. The autopilot was a top model. Again, one of his own. Gadgets galore littered the interior with pretty detailing, including handy touchtabs for electronic window blanking. Sumptuous craftsmanship complemented a design that was spacious almost to a fault, the wide fold-flat seats together virtually amounting to a bed.

  “One never can predict,” the footman explained. He released the driver’s door and held it wide.

  Well, if there was something about the machine meant to harm him, dodging out now would be futile. He was here for a full day yet. They could get him later, if obliged to.

  He settled inside and began the startup procedure.

  ~ * ~

  There were no difficulties. The aircycle performed flawlessly. Flying high above the forest, snug within the cockpit canopy, he savoured the purity of the scenery and its precious virginity. Money-money, money-money, muttered the engine behind him. Such awesome potential, if he could but convince Pat Lourat and her cronies of his honourable intentions. Thereafter, the sack of Rome would pale into a sincere attempt at civic conservation.

  He flew far enough to be out of sight of the mansion. That alone called for a journey of several kilometres, as the pile squatted on a hilltop, visible from—and hence viewing—far and wide. Then he needed to find a spot where it was possible to dismount without at once being assaulted by rampant wilderness.

  The map showed a view point, with proper landing pad, beyond the first ridge. A rocky cup in the hillside provided screening for a bit of clandestine business. He settled there.

  As an aircycle’s autopilot was not automentive, it could be trusted to take no interest in events not concerning the vehicle. But the chassis might be bugged; playing safe, he moved away downhill until bushes intervened.

  From a side pocket he slid a long, flat box. Outwardly this was plastic tat, textured cunningly to seem cased by real snake skin. Gullible tourists snapped up such goods in furtive markets where traders sneered behind conspiratorial smiles. Gypter did not mind. He made good money, making tat: pick your animal, he could fake it. Better still, his conscience stayed clean, while the tourists enjoyed a guilty, but harmless, secret thrill.

  Tourists and trade would have been disagreeably impressed, had they tried to meddle with this piece of tat. Pressing a recessed switch, he recited carefully:

  “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree.”

  “Wrong,” snarled a tiny voice.

  He repeated the quotation.

  “One more mistake,” gloated the voice, “and I explode.”

  Did he have the right package? Had the voice been quite so venomous during rehearsals?

  Again Gypter said the words.

  “Ten, nine, eight,...”

  He let it count.

  “...two, one, zero.”

  A sullen pause ensued.

  The box clicked open.

  Gypter breathed out.

  Slotted into plastic foam were ranks of gaudy fluff and wire which a casual eye should mistake for fishing flies. Indeed, he had insisted they be usable as such, lest the box come into strange hands and, however improbably, be opened intact.

  Holding the box aloft, he pressed the switch once more.

  A colourful cloud whirled up into the sky. The forests were full of insects. A few extra would hardly be noticed. But every one of these should trace a course, albeit an erratic one, that returned it to the mansion within an hour.

  The box now held neatly ordered naked fishhooks. It was of no further use. Tossing it into deep undergrowth, he redirected his attention to the business of enjoying his walk.

  Soon after, a muffled boom sent flocks of birds surging from the trees. He watched them in mild interest, before moving on.

  ~ * ~

  The dell was a lake of blue flowers. Like a pool of...

  Behind eyes that had witnessed coolly the career deaths of many a foe, a struggle commenced as Gypter tried to dredge the requisite terminology from neglected poetic boglands of his mind. Fallen heaven? Nah, mushy. Scintillating cerulean? Laboured. God, this place was getting to him. Health warning: too much scenery can soften your brain. He gave up. It would come.

  Strolling into the sunshine, he bent to pick a flower. As his fingers
took hold and pulled, someone shouted at him.

  “No!”

  He froze for a second, then looked around.

  She was standing, motionless, shaded by nearby trees. His snap judgment assessed her: late teens; healthy; build not suited to physical labour; damn sexy; expression suggesting he’d better not voice that last thought...

  But her clothing? It was absurd. A flimsy green negligee that somehow guarded her modesty despite a frisky breeze—and nothing else. Impure thoughts simmered in his mind.

  Billows of soft brown hair framed a flawless suntanned face. Precise features. Delicate nose. A mouth whose true shape was hard to gauge, being small and pursed with anger.

  Green eyes were intent upon the wisp of blue in his grip.

  “This?” he asked.

  She nodded slowly, before sighing. “Too late.”

  “And if I buy into this estate?” he demanded, angered for no reason he could fathom, except finding himself on the defensive. “I’d control it all, right? Every last weed.”

  Her temper sparked. “Sometimes the things we suppose are ours were only hired to us by the real owners.”

  “Yah? And who might those be?”

  “The children.” Perhaps it was the movement of her head which caught another light; the green in her eyes had shifted to blue. She relaxed. “Wherever. Whosever.”

  He thought to discard the flower. Of a sudden, she slipped from shade into sun and down the grassy bank, to stand before him. So gently he scarcely thought to resist, she confiscated the bloom. Twirling it beneath her nose, she smiled up at him.

  “You picked it,” she said. “Don’t waste it.”

  She lodged the slender stem in the topmost teeth of his jacket’s front fastener and stepped back, regarding the effect. Blue shone against military drab.

  He nearly brushed it to the ground. Impulse and irritation died before his hand had moved halfway. Instead he fingered the petals.

  She was studying him when he raised his eyes.

  “And who are you?” he asked.

  “One who lives here.” A hand described an arc that implied the enclosing vista—trees, valley, sky, all.

  “In the woods?”

  “Of course.” Laughter broke from her: innocent, without a hint of mockery. “Where else could anyone wish to live?”

  “How about in a house with a roof?” There was nothing about her to suggest a life of sleeping rough. This was some damnfool joke. Lourat’s people, or Lourat herself.

  “That’s silly. Why hide in a box?” A grimace warped her face. “A dead box, too. Ugh.”

  “How long have you been here?” He was careful to keep his expression neutral. If observers were hoping to laugh themselves silly, he was not about to grant them the pleasure.

  She seemed puzzled. “Always. As long as I can remember. Just me. And my friends.” Her sunny smile returned. “Except the animals, of course, and the plants. But animals and plants don’t really count as company, even though they say nice things. I mean, that’s all they ever do say. Nice things. And the rest are mostly wrapped up in their own affairs. So I suppose I live alone. Or did, until you came.”

  “Ah,” he extemporised. Where were those cameras? Perhaps he could foil them by moving. “Shall we walk?”

  Aggressively he strode along the path and up the steepening slope. She followed by his side, chattering gaily about the natural woodland life she supposedly led.

  The going was wet and soft. He observed how freely she moved, skipping more than walking, each foot hardly pausing to tread the ground, as though only token contact were required, instead of the solid, squelching imprints his own boots made.

  “And who are the rest?” he asked.

  “People,” she said.

  “Like you?”

  “Oh no. I’m the only dryad ‘round here.” She danced ahead, up to the crest.

  Gypter stopped. Dryad? As in tree spirit? This was past getting absurd. If he cooperated with the gag an instant longer, they’d be right to mock him.

  He joined her.

  “Dryad, hah?” He studied her honest, open face. “And your friends are the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Father Frost?”

  She frowned. “No.... That is, I’ve never met them.”

  Shaking his head, he walked down the next slope. The ground levelled out into a meadow surrounded by mature oaks, beneath whose gnarled branches the path led. He ignored the girl, now frolicking amongst beds of flowers. She was singing to herself—and, for all he knew, to the flowers also.

  At the first tree he halted. The sun was hot, the shade welcome. A breeze saved the place from being unpleasantly humid. By the looks of it, in wet weather the ground here became boggy. In patches the short meadow grass had been churned to mud.

  Forsaking the shade, he went for a closer look. Everywhere were hoofprints. Numerous horses had rampaged to and fro, though concentrating their frenzy on two wallows at opposite ends of the clear area. By the outer fringes of each wallow, sticks had been jammed upright as if to form crude goals.

  Equestrian polo? Here?

  A gaudy squadron of unusually big butterflies flitted across the clearing in an undulating line and disappeared among the far trees. For a few seconds the sounds of singing seemed louder.

  The girl joined him.

  “For you,” she declared. A bunch of flowers, gloriously varicoloured and sweetly scented, was thrust under his nose.

  He inspected it dubiously. “I thought you didn’t approve of people picking flowers?”

  “Oh, I asked first, of course.”

  “Of course.” Despite himself, Gypter accepted the gift. He sniffed. It did smell wonderful.

  He pointed to the mud. “What happened here?”

  She looked up and down the meadow.

  “That would be the centaurs. Some are practising for the hoofball championship...”

  She stopped when he burst out laughing.

  “I don’t see what’s so very funny about that,” she snapped. “They stand an excellent chance this year. The satyrs and fauns can barely muster a whole team between them, after last winter.”

  “I surrender,” he said. He turned abruptly and headed back towards the parked aircycle.

  The girl caught up. “Have I offended?”

  “Who, you? Not in the least. Your lot have a really neat style in humour. Dryads, centaurs, satyrs. Et bloody cetera—”

  With astonishing strength, she grabbed his sleeve. Fabric ripped as he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, sending the flowers flying. All of a sudden Gypter found himself on his back, pinned beneath a babbling fury that brandished a fist and hurled words at him.

  “You listen to me mister high-and-mighty barging in here as if you have a right to buy these forests and everything in them I’ll have you know there are people with every bit as much right as you might fancy you own...”

  In a while she lost her head of steam and ceased shouting.

  Gypter looked at her.

  She looked at him.

  Each second of silence, in its own way, seemed fully as noisy and significant as any which had preceded it. But at last she gave a small shake of her head. Standing, she turned away.

  Gypter got up, dusting off dirt and dead leaves.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Shouldn’t have lost my manners.”

  “Nix,” he replied. Wryly he examined the ripped sleeve. The fabric was to full Mil-Spec.

  “Did I hurt you?” she asked.

  “Just my pride.”

  She hesitated. “It’s because we’re worried.”

  “Who, about what?”

  “My friends and I. About what plans you have for our home.” “You know of the deal?”

  “Why not? We may shun your world. That doesn’t mean we have to be ignorant of it. The people in the House tell us a little, now and then.”

  He fingered the ripped sleeve. “You did this so easily. I certainly couldn’t. What are you?”

  “I al
ready said.”

  “Don’t kid a kidder, kid.”

  “Dryad is near enough. It is the form I wear. The function I fulfill.” Rubbing her fingertips together, she gripped the torn edges of the sleeve, massaged them for a few seconds and let go.

  The join was far from perfect, yet synthetic fibres had been fused along a neat seam.

  She peered up into Gypter’s eyes, her head tilted sideways, grinning mischievously. “Is that sufficiently eldritch for you?”