This Immortal

by Roger Zelazny

  “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” I asked.

  “This is Doctor Moreby,” said George.

  “He is their witch doctor,” said Dos Santos.

  “I prefer ‘Shaman’ or ‘Medicine Chief,’” corrected Moreby, smiling.

  I moved closer to the grillwork and saw that he was rather thin, well-tanned, clean-shaven, and had all his hair woven into one enormous black braid which was coiled like a cobra about his head. He had close-set eyes, dark ones, a high forehead, and lots of extra jaw reaching down past his Adam’s apple. He wore woven sandals, a clean green sari, and a necklace of human fingerbones. In his ears were big snake-shaped circlets of silver.

  “Your English is rather precise,” said I, “and ‘Moreby’ is not a Greek name.”

  “Oh goodness!” He gestured gracefully, in mock surprise. “I’m not a local! How could you ever mistake me for a local?”

  “Sorry,” I said; “I can see now that you’re too well-dressed.”

  He giggled.

  “Oh, this old rag . . . I just threw it on. —No, I’m from Taler. I read some wonderfully rousing literature on the subject of Returnism, and I decided to come back and help rebuild the Earth.”

  “Oh? What happened then?”

  “The Office was not hiring at the time, and I experienced some difficulty in finding employment locally. So I decided to engage in research work. This place is full of opportunities for that.”

  “What sort of research?”

  “I hold two graduate degrees in cultural anthropology, from New Harvard. I decided to study a Hot tribe in depth —and after some blandishments I got this one to accept me. I started out to educate them, too. Soon, though, they were deferring to me, all over the place. Wonderful for the ego. After a time, my studies, my social work, came to be of less and less importance. Well, I daresay you’ve read Heart of Darkness—you know what I mean. The local practices are so—well, basic. I found it much more stimulating to participate than to observe. I took it upon myself to redesign some of their grosser practices along more esthetic lines. So I did really educate them, after all. They do things with ever so much style since I’ve come here.”

  “Things? Such as?”

  “Well, for one thing, they were simple cannibals before. For another, they were rather unsophisticated in their use of their captives prior to slaying them. Things like that are quite important. If they’re done properly they give you class, if you know what I mean. Here I was with a wealth of customs, superstitions, taboos—from many cultures, many eras—right here, at my fingertips.” He gestured again. “Man-even half-man, Hot man—is a ritual-loving creature, and I knew ever so many rituals and things like that. So I put all of this to good use and now I occupy a position of great honor and high esteem.”

  “What are you trying to tell me about us?” I asked.

  “Things were getting rather dull around here,” he said, “and the natives were waxing restless. So I decided it was time for another ceremony. I spoke with Procrustes, the War Chief, and suggested he find us some prisoners. I believe it is on page 577 of the abridged edition of The Golden Bough that it states, ‘The Tolalaki, notorious head-hunters of Central Celebes, drink the blood and eat the brains of their victims that they may become brave. The Italones of the Philippine Islands drink the blood of their slain enemies, and eat part of the back of their heads and of their entrails raw to acquire their courage.’ Well, we have the tongue of a poet, the blood of two very formidable warriors, the brains of a very distinguished scientist, the bilious liver of a fiery politician, and the interesting-colored flesh of a Vegan—all in this one room here. Quite a haul, I should say.”

  “You make yourself exceedingly clear,” I observed. “What of the women?’

  “Oh, for them well work out a protracted fertility rite ending in a protracted sacrifice.”

  “I see.”

  “. . . That is to say, if we do not permit all of you to continue on your way, unmolested.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Procrustes likes to give people a chance to measure themselves against a standard, to be tested, and possibly to redeem themselves. He is most Christian in this respect.”

  “And true to his name, I suppose?”

  Hasan came over and stood beside me, stared out through the grillwork at Moreby.

  “Oh, good, good,” said Moreby. “Really, I’d like to keep you around awhile, you know? You have a sense of humor. Most of the Kouretes lack this adjunct to what are otherwise exemplary personalities. I could learn to like you . . .”

  “Don’t bother. Tell me about the way of redemption, though.”

  “Yes. We are the wardens of the Dead Man. He is my most interesting creation. I am certain that one of you two shall realize this during your brief acquaintanceship with him.” He glanced from me to Hasan to me to Hasan.

  “I know of him,” I said. “Tell me what must be done.”

  “You are called upon to bring forth a champion to do battle with him, this night, when he rises again from the dead.”

  “What is he?”

  “A vampire.”

  “Crap. What is he really?”

  “He is a genuine vampire. You’ll see.”

  “Okay, have it your way. He’s a vampire, and one of us will fight him. How?”

  “Catch-as-catch-can, bare-handed—and he isn’t very difficult to catch. He’ll just stand there and wait for you. He’ll be very thirsty, and hungry too, poor fellow.”

  “And if he is beaten, do your prisoners go free?”

  “That is the rule, as I originally outlined it some sixteen or seventeen years ago. Of course, this contingency has never arisen. . . .”

  “I see. You’re trying to tell me he’s tough.”

  “Oh, he’s unbeatable. That’s the fun of it. It wouldn’t make for a good ceremony if it could end any other way. I tell the whole story of the battle before it takes place, and then my people witness it. It reaffirms their faith in destiny and my own close association with its workings.”

  Hasan glanced at me.

  “What does he mean, Karagee?”

  “It’s a fixed fight,” I told him.

  “On the contrary,” said Moreby, “it is not. It doesn’t have to be. There was once an old saying on this planet, in connection with an ancient sport: Never bet against the damn Yankees, or you’ll lose money. The Dead Man is unbeatable because he was born with a considerable amount of native ability, upon which I have elaborated, considerably. He has dined upon many champions, so of course his strength is equal to all of theirs. Everyone who’s read Frazer knows that.”

  He yawned, covering his mouth with a feathered wand.

  “I must go to the barbecue area now, to supervise the decking of the hall with boughs of holly. Decide upon your champion this afternoon, and I’ll see you all this evening. Good day.”

  “Trip and break your neck.”

  He smiled and left the shack.

  I called a meeting.

  “Okay,” I said, “they’ve got a weird Hot One called the Dead Man, who is supposed to be very tough. I am going to fight him tonight. If I can beat him we are supposed to go free, but I wouldn’t take Moreby’s word for anything. Therefore, we must plan an escape, else we will be served up on a chafing dish.

  “Phil, do you remember the road to Volos?” I asked.

  “I think so. It’s been a long time. . . . But where are we now, exactly?”

  “If it is of any help,” answered Myshtigo, from beside the window, “I see a glowing. It is not any color for which there is a word in your language, but it is off in that direction.” He pointed. “It is a color which I normally see in the vicinity of radioactive materials if the atmosphere is dense enough about them. It is spread over quite a large area.”

  I moved to the window and stared in that direction.

  “That could be the Hot Spot, then,” I said. “If that is the case, then they’ve actually brought us further along toward
the coast, which is good. Was anyone conscious when we were brought here?”

  No one answered.

  “All right. Then we’ll operate under the assumption that that is the Hot Spot, and that we are very close to it. The road to Volos should be back that way, then.” I pointed in the opposite direction. “Since the sun is on this side of the shack and it’s afternoon, head in the other direction after you hit the road—away from the sunset It might not be more than twenty-five kilometers.”

  “They will track us,” said Dos Santos.

  “There are horses,” said Hasan.

  “What?”

  “Up the street, in a paddock. There were three near that rail earlier. They are back behind the edge of the building now. There may be more. They were not strong-looking horses, though.”

  “Can all of you ride?” I asked.

  “I have never ridden a horse,” said Myshtigo, “but the thrid is something similar. I have ridden thrid

  Everyone else had ridden horses.

  “Tonight, then,” I said. “Ride double if you must. If there are more than enough horses, then turn the others loose, drive them away. As they watch me fight the Dead Man you will make a break for the paddock. Seize what weapons you can and try to fight your way to the horses. —Phil, get them up to Makrynitsa and mention the name of Korones anywhere. They will take you in and protect you.”

  “I am sorry,” said Dos Santos, “but your plan is not a good one.”

  “If you’ve got a better one, let’s hear it,” I told him.

  “First of all,” he said, “we cannot really rely on Mister Graber. While you were still unconscious he was in great pain and very weak. George believes that he suffered a heart attack during or shortly after our fight with the Kouretes. If anything happens to him we are lost. We will need you to guide us out of here, if we do succeed in breaking free. We cannot count on Mister Graber.

  “Second,” he said, “you are not the only man capable of fighting an exotic menace. Hasan will undertake the defeat of the Dead Man.”

  “I can’t ask him to do that,” I said. “Even if he wins, he will probably be separated from us at the time, and they’ll doubtless get to him pretty fast. It would most likely mean his life. You hired him to kill for you, not to die.”

  “I will fight him, Karagee,” he said.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “But I wish to.”

  “How are you feeling now, Phil?” I asked.

  “Better, much better. I think it was just an upset stomach. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Do you feel good enough to make it to Makrynitsa, on horseback?”

  “No trick at all. It will be easier than walking. I was practically born on horseback. You remember.”

  ‘Remember’?” asked Dos Santos. “What do you mean by that, Mister Graber? How could Conrad remem—”

  “—Remember his famous Ballads on Horseback,” said Red Wig. “What are you leading up to, Conrad?”

  “I’m in charge here, thank you,” said I. “I’m giving the orders and I’ve decided I’ll do the vampire-fighting.”

  “In a situation like this I think we ought to be a little more democratic about these life and death decisions,” she replied. “You were born in this country. No matter how good Phil’s memory is, you’ll do a better job of getting us from here to there in a hurry you’re not ordering Hasan to die, or abandoning him. He’s volunteering.”

  “I will kill the Dead Man,” said Hasan, “and I will follow after you. I know the ways of hiding myself from men. I will follow your trail.”

  “It’s my job,” I told him.

  “Then, since we cannot agree, leave the decision to the fates,” said Hasan. “Toss a coin.”

  “Very well. Did they take our money as well as our weapons?”

  “I have some change,” said Ellen.

  “Toss a piece into the air.”

  She did.

  “Heads,” said I, as it fell toward the floor.

  “Tails,” she replied.

  “Don’t touch it!”

  It was tails, all right. And there was a head on the other side, too.

  “Okay, Hasan, you lucky fellow, you,” I said. “You just won a do-it-yourself Hero Kit, complete with a monster. Good luck.”

  He shrugged.

  “It was written.”

  He sat down then, his back against the wall, extracted a tiny knife from the sole of his left sandal, and began to pare his fingernails. He’d always been a pretty well-groomed killer. I guess cleanliness is next to diablerie, or something like that.

  As the sun sank slowly in the west, Moreby came to us again, bringing with him a contingent of Kourete swordsmen.

  “The time has come,” he stated. “Have you decided upon your champion?”

  “Hasan will fight him,” I said.

  “Very good. Then come along. Please do not try anything foolish. I should hate to deliver damaged goods at a festival.”

  Walking within a circle of blades, we left the shack and moved up the street of the village, passing by the paddock. Eight horses, heads low, stood within. Even in the diminishing light I could see that they were not very good horses. Their flanks were all covered with sores, and they were quite thin. Everyone glanced at them as we went by.

  The village consisted of about thirty shacks, such as the one in which we had been confined. It was a dirt road that we walked on, and it was full of ruts and rubbish. The whole place smelled of sweat and urine and rotten fruit and smoke.

  We went about eighty meters and turned left. It was the end of the street, and we moved along a downhill path into a big, cleared compound. A fat, bald-headed woman with enormous breasts and a face that was a lava field of carcinoma was tending a low and dreadfully suggestive fire at the bottom of a huge barbecue pit. She smiled as we passed by and smacked her lips moistly.

  Great, sharpened stakes lay on the ground about her. . . .

  Up further ahead was a level area of hardpacked bare earth. A huge, vine-infested, tropic-type tree which had adapted itself to our climate stood at the one end of the field, and all about the field’s peripheries were rows of eight-foot torches, already waving great lengths of fire like pennants. At the other end was the most elaborate shack of them all. It was about five meters high and ten across the front. It was painted bright red and covered all over with Pennsylvania hex signs. The entire middle section of the front wall was a high, sliding door. Two armed Kouretes stood guard before that door.

  The sun was a tiny piece of orange-rind in the west. Moreby marched us the length of the field toward the tree.

  Eighty to a hundred spectators were seated on the ground on the other side of the torches, on each side of the field.

  Moreby gestured, indicating the red shack.

  “How do you like my home?” he asked.

  “Lovely,” said I.

  “I have a roommate, but he sleeps during the day. You’ve about to meet him.”

  We reached the base of the big tree; Moreby left us there, surrounded by his guards. He moved to the center of the field and began addressing the Kouretes in Greek.

  We had agreed that we would wait until the fight was near its end, whichever way, and the tribesmen all excited and concentrating on the finale, before we made our break. We’d pushed the women into the center of our group, and I managed to get on the left side of a right-handed swordsman, whom I intended to kill quickly. Too bad that we were at the far end of the field. To get to the horses we’d have to fight our way back through the barbecue area.

  “. . . and then, on that night,” Moreby was saying, “did the Dead Man rise up, smiting down this mighty warrior, Hasan, breaking his bones and casting him about this place of feasting. Finally, did he kill this great enemy and drink the blood from his throat and eat of his liver, raw and still smoking in the night air. These things did he do on that night. Mighty is his power.”

  “Mighty, oh mighty!” cried the crowd, and someone began bea
ting upon a drum.

  “Now will we call him to life again. . . .”

  The crowd cheered.

  “To life again!”

  “To life again.”

  “To life again!”

  “Hail!”

  “Hail!”

  “Sharp white teeth. . .”

  “Sharp white teeth!”

  “White, white skin. . . .”

  “White, white skin!”

  “Hands which break. . . .”

  “Hands which break!”

  “Mouth which drinks. . .”

  “Mouth which drinks!”

  “The blood of life!”

  “The blood of life!”

  “Great is our tribe!”

  “Great is our tribe!”

  “Great is the Dead Man!”

  “Great is the Dead Man!”

  “Great is the Dead Man!”

  “GREAT IS THE DEAD MAN!”

  They bellowed it, at the last. Throats human, half-human, and inhuman heaved the brief litany like a tidal wave across the field. Our guards, too, were screaming it. Myshtigo was blocking his sensitive ears and there was an expression of agony on his face. My head was ringing too. Dos Santos crossed himself and one of the guards shook his head at him and raised his blade meaningfully. Don shrugged and turned his head back toward the field.

  Moreby walked up to the shack and struck three times upon the sliding door with his wand.

  One of the guards pushed it open for him.

  An immense black catafalque, surrounded by the skulls of men and animals, was set within. It supported an enormous casket made of dark wood and decorated with bright, twisting lines.

  At Moreby’s directions, the guards raised the lid.

  For the next twenty minutes he gave hypodermic injections to something within the casket. He kept his movements slow and ritualistic. One of the guards put aside his blade and assisted him. The drummers kept up a steady, slow cadence. The crowd was very silent, very still.

  Then Moreby turned.

  “Now the Dead Man rises,” he announced.