The Best of Hal Clement

by Hal Clement

  He looked at her with some surprise.

  “It’s not that bad. The bushes aren’t as green as the ones you take care of, but they’re not really brown. The village is several thousand paces from here; I didn’t want you to come with me, and maybe it would be better if you didn’t. You can wait here; I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “But I don’t want to wait out here; I don’t like it. I’ll go back inside.”

  “What’s wrong with staying out in the light? You always want Kyros to do it.”

  “I don’t like the idea. What would I do? I can’t just sit and wait for you. I should be taking care of Kyros, and the garden—”

  “Elitha is there. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “But I’m not happy about it.”

  “Don’t you trust Elitha?”

  “Yes, of course. I just don’t—don’t like being away, even now when you’re home again. Will I be able to help you if I wait, or is it all right if I go back by myself?”

  “Can you? Are you sure of the way?”

  “Oh, yes. I watched, and you’ve marked it very well. I have a light, so there’ll be one left for you.”

  He hesitated. “Do you realize—” He cut the question short, and thought for several more heartbeats. Then he changed his line of attack. “You really don’t trust Elitha, do you?”

  “I do. I trust her more than I trust myself, when it comes to taking care of Kyros. That’s not it.”

  “What is the trouble, then? What’s wrong with your waiting here? We didn’t bring food, but there’s water in the stream a few hundred paces down—”

  “No! I couldn’t go there! No, Marc, let me go back. I can find the way. I’ll see you there tonight.” She turned back toward the cave entrance, then faced him again with an expression which he had never seen before and which mystified him completely. Poor as he was at seeing into the minds of others, at least he knew this time that something strange was going on.

  “I’d better go back with you,” he said abruptly.

  “No.” She spoke barely above a whisper. “You need those things from the village. Even when I can’t help, I mustn’t hinder. Go on. I can find my way—but you must let me go.” He stared at her in silence for fully another minute; then, slowly, he nodded his head. Her expression was replaced by a smile.

  She started down the side of the gully; then she suddenly turned, climbed back to where he was standing, and kissed him. A moment later she had disappeared into the cave.

  His own face took on the unreadable quality it had borne so often in recent months, as he looked silently at the spot where she had vanished. Then he blew out the lamp he was still holding, started to put it down, changed his mind, and with the pottery bowl still in his hand slipped into the entrance after his wife.

  His sandals scuffed the rock; he stopped and removed them. Then, carefully, he looked from behind the flowstone barrier which veiled the inner end of the entryway.

  Judith was fifty yards ahead, walking slowly. Her lamp was held in front of her and he could not see the flame, but its light outlined her figure even to eyes which had just come in from full sunlight. Silently he followed.

  * * *

  It was high noon when he reappeared at the cave mouth, blew out the lamp, set it on the ground at the entrance, and started rapidly toward the village. It was almost sunset when he got back to the spot laden with more than sixty pounds of material—a skin bottle of oil, a leaf-wrapped package of meat, a basket of charcoal, and other things. He had some trouble getting these through the narrow entrance—in fact, he had to carry the bulkier items through one by one. With these inside he returned to the tunnel mouth, lighted the lamp with flint and tinder, carried it into the darkness, resumed the load he had already borne for six miles, and started along the marked route to his home.

  He had to rest several times along the way, and took it for granted that everyone would be asleep by the time he reached the living cavern. As he lowered his burden to the floor and straightened up, however, he saw the two women by the fireplace.

  The fire itself was low, and even Marc’s dark-adapted eyes could not make out their expressions; but the very fact that they were still up at this hour meant that something was out of order.

  “What is it? Has something gone wrong?” he asked tensely.

  Both women answered together, a startling action on Elitha’s part.

  “I told you! It’s my fault—I told you I was cursed. As soon as I got back here!”

  “The skin is broken only a little, and the bleeding has stopped. He is asleep now.”

  It took the man several seconds to disentangle their words.

  “You’re sure it has stopped, Elitha?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “Perhaps half the afternoon—much like the last time.”

  “Did it hurt him much?”

  “No. He gave it no thought after the first surprise and pain. He wanted to play again after we had comforted him.”

  “Good. You go back to his cave now, and sleep if you wish; there is no need to watch him.” The girl obediently rose and departed, and Marc turned to his wife, who had been sobbing almost inaudibly during the exchange. He knelt beside her and gently turned her face toward his.

  “It is no worse than last time; you heard Elitha, and you saw it all yourself. Has something else happened? There’s still no reason to blame you rather than me.”

  “But there is!” Judith’s words, emphatic as they were, were almost inaudible. “There’s all the reason in the world. He fell this time just because of me. He had missed me, and was worried, and when he saw me he came running and tripped—”

  “But it was I who made you come away,” Marc pointed out.

  “I know. I thought of that. If I were your slave instead of your wife that might mean something. I was uneasy about going, but not firm enough about refusing until it was too late. No, Marc, the fault is mine. The guilt is mine. The curse is mine.”

  “I’m not convinced. Every fault you claim for yourself could as easily be laid on me. In any case, it makes no difference; whether it be a curse on you, a curse on me, a curse on both of us, or simply another of the troubles given indifferently to the sons of men, the task and the fight are mine.”

  “No, you wouldn’t be convinced. I know the sort of thing it takes to convince you. You are not sure whether the curse is on you or on me or on both of us because the children who have been touched are of both of us. I have thought of that, too. A child of Elitha’s—” She let her voice trail off, watching him. He was several seconds catching her meaning; then he shook his head negatively.

  “No! You said it a moment ago—you are my wife. A curse on either of us, or a trouble for either of us, is a curse or a trouble for both. It is not that I don’t know which of us it is; I do not care.”

  “But why should you grow old with no sons because the gods are angry with me? I still don’t believe that anyone can fight the gods—you’ll just make them angry with you, too, for trying. Forget that I gave you sons; we’ve been warned often enough. Kyros will join the others—you know it as well as I do. Take Elitha—”

  “No!” Marc was even more emphatic than before. “I tell you it is not your fault. If gods or demons are punishing you, I blame them, not you, and will fight them—”

  “Marc!” The woman’s voice was shocked. “No! You can’t.”

  “Yes! Many times yes! If it will make you feel better, I don’t believe it is either gods or demons, or even a curse. I think I am just trying to learn something men should know; but if my sons have been killed by any living thing, that thing I will fight—man, devil, or anything else. I will not listen to any word of surrender, from you or anyone else.”

  “But if you yielded and stopped fighting, they might spare Kyros.”

  “What reason have I to expect that? They—if it is anyone—did not spare little Marc, or Balam, or Keth. They have done nothing to sugg
est that they would spare Kyros if I stopped fighting—you know that. I hadn’t started fighting when Marc and Balam died. You can’t suggest the smallest of reasons to believe what you just said; you just hope!”

  “What else can I do?” Her voice was down to a whisper again.

  “You can help. You said you would, in most things.”

  “I couldn’t help you with something that would take another woman’s children as mine have been taken. Why should I pass my pain over to her?”

  “Because if I can learn to fight this sickness, the knowledge will ward that pain from all other mothers from now on. Can’t you see that?”

  “Of course I can see it. In that case, it would be right for you to test your ideas on Kyros. Would you do that?”

  “No.” The answer came without hesitation. “Kyros is my only remaining son. I have given my share.”

  “And learned nothing.”

  “I learned enough to let me talk about it sensibly with healers in Rome.”

  “And all they told you was that it couldn’t be cured!”

  “That no one knew how to cure it,” he corrected. “I would not even have known that, if I had not seen—what we saw. Seeing that three times was more than my share, and far more than yours. We will see it again, perhaps; but if I have learned enough in time, we will see only part of it. Our boy will live.”

  “But promise me, Marc—tell me you won’t try your ideas on other people. I know you don’t believe there’s any other way to learn, but promise me—not that way!”

  “What other way is there?” he almost snarled. Then, in a gentler voice, “I can’t promise, my own. I would do anything in the world for you—except what I think to be wrong. If the gods have any hand in this at all, it is not a curse but a warning—an order. Galen in Rome had never heard of more than one son of the same father who had suffered this way. I have lost three to this thing; one remains. That is either a warning, an order, or a challenge, if it was done deliberately. I heed the warning, I obey the order, I accept the challenge. I can do nothing else. I do promise not to try my ideas on people as long as I can see any other way; more than that I cannot promise, even for you.” He got to his feet; after a moment she did the same, and stood facing him. Their shadows, magnified on the cavern wall by the steady flame of the single lamp, merged briefly and separated again.

  “Sleep now, my own,” he said softly. “I must think—I will think of all the other ways I can possibly learn what I must, before I use the one you don’t want. You must sleep; I can’t. My thoughts won’t let me.”

  “Shouldn’t I stay to help?”

  “You can’t help until I’ve thought of something for you to hear. Then you can tell me what’s wrong with it. You can do that better if you’ve slept.” She went.

  For half an hour the man stood motionless where she had left him. Then he strode softly to the entrance of their sleeping cave and listened carefully for several more minutes. Then he took another lamp, lighted it from the one which was burning, and went toward the garden again.

  He had not listened at the other sleeping cave.

  * * *

  Judith missed the chance to ask her husband about his plans the next morning. Her attention and his were otherwise taken up. Marc examined his son’s knee as soon as the boy was awake, and found that Elitha had been right—the blood had clotted well enough. The knee was badly bruised, however, and Kyros admitted that it was hurting. For once, he walked to the living cave instead of bouncing to it.

  The moment his mother discovered that he was less active than usual, she lost all thought for anything else. She kept anxious eyes on him while he ate, and went with him to the garden when he finished. Marc made no effort to follow, though he looked with concern after the pair. He went to his work cavern instead. The girl followed him to ask whether she should remain within call or go to the garden as usual with the others. He thought briefly, then smiled rather grimly and went to one of the bundles he had brought back the day before.

  “Take one of the smallest pots, which we can do without for cooking or eating,” he said as he opened the package. “Take the head off this, and boil it for the rest of the day. I want the skull complete, so handle it carefully. Once the pot is boiling do not touch it except to add more water if it seems to be going dry.” He handed the corpse of a fair-sized snake to the girl. She shrank back for an instant, then got control of herself and accepted the repulsive object. Her voice trembled just a little as she asked, “Should I skin it first, Master?”

  “No, don’t bother. It will be much easier after the boiling, and I don’t need the skin. That will be all; you may work in the garden with the others, as long as you don’t let the pot boil dry. This thing was too hard to get for me to want it burned.”

  “Yes, sir.” Elitha took the snake and left the workroom, showing rather less than her usual serenity. The man either didn’t notice this or didn’t care; he turned back to the forge.

  He was not an experienced metalworker. He had sometimes seen goldsmiths at work when he was a child, and had deliberately watched them again during his recent trip; but seeing something done is not the same as doing it oneself. He could melt gold easily with his charcoal fire and a bellows he had devised, but casting or otherwise working it into a desired shape was another matter altogether. He lost himself in the problem.

  Sometime about the middle of the morning Elitha reappeared. She stood silently by the entrance until he noticed her; just how long this was he was never sure. When he did see her, as he straightened up from another failure, he was rather startled.

  “What do you want, girl?” The answer was hesitant, in contrast to Elitha’s usual self-possession.

  “I wondered whether your pot should be at the cooking fire when the lady and your son come to eat. The boy might not notice, but do you want the mistress to know about it—about the snake?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Marc was honestly surprised.

  “Do you think she’d like black magic? She is very fond of good, and might not like bad magic even for a good purpose.”

  The man’s surprise and annoyance vanished, washed out on a wave of amusement. “This is not magic, black or white, Elitha.” He laughed. “I’ll show you what I need the skull for when it’s ready. Bring the pot back here before the evening meal, though; it should have boiled enough by then.”

  “I don’t want—I—very well, Master.” The girl left hastily and Marc returned to his work and his frustration. The rest of the day was uninterrupted, uneventful, and unsuccessful for him.

  It was worse for Judith. As long as her son was active and happy, she could usually persuade herself that the threat to his life was at least postponed; but today he was neither. His knee kept him from most of the games he enjoyed, and made him crankier than usual about the necessary garden work. Judith tended to take each complaint, each bit of disobedience or stubbornness, each departure from what she considered his normal behavior, as evidence that the curse was about to reach a climax. Elitha, who was skillful at controlling the youngster tactfully on his bad days, was spending more time than usual inside the cave. Since Judith in her present mood was quite unable to be firm with the boy, it was a bad day for both. About the only successful order she issued was the standing interdict against climbing the ladder which Elitha used to go up to the plateau for firewood. Even this might have been disobeyed if Kyros had actually felt like climbing—though it is possible that the sight of her son climbing might have driven even Judith to something stern enough to be effective. No one will ever be sure.

  The four ate the evening meal together as usual, though less happily than usual. Kyros was fretful, Judith silent, and Marc was becoming more and more worried—about his wife rather than his son. She had promised to help with his work. She was, he knew, perfectly able to do so in her normal state of mind, since she was a highly intelligent woman; but because of Kyros’ condition she had been useless all day, and seemed likely to remain so. She asked not
a word about the work, but watched the boy as she ate.

  The youngster himself had a good appetite, whatever else might be wrong with him. He finished what was set before him, asked for more, and finished that. He rebelled at the suggestion that it was time for sleep, which seemed normal enough to Marc but bothered Judith. A compromise was finally effected in which Elitha was to go back to the garden with him and tell stories until the stars could be seen. Marc engineered this arrangement, partly to get Judith from the boy for a while and partly so that he could talk to her himself. It almost failed; Judith wanted to go out with the others, but saw in time what her husband had in mind and managed to control herself. She remained silent until the two were out of earshot; then she burst forth:

  “Marc! What can we do? You can see that it’s coming—”

  “No, I can’t. Think, dearest, please! All that’s really wrong with him is a bruised knee. The blood from the cut dried, just as the finger did the other day. Why do you worry so about a bruise? Boys have bruises more often than not; you know that.” Marc was actually trying hard to retain control himself; he was carefully not telling his wife everything he had learned from Galen of Pergamum. “Please stop worrying about him, at least until something serious really happens, and help me so that we can be ready for it when it does.”

  “I’ll try.” Judith’s voice gave her husband little ground for optimism. “What have you thought of? What can we do?”

  “Nothing, without—well, you know.”

  “You have thought of nothing?”

  “I have ideas, but I have no way of knowing whether they are good. How could I?”

  “I should think that if an idea is good, anyone could tell that it is. What are the ideas?”

  “One we mentioned before—replacing the blood which a person loses. We thought of having him drink it—”

  “I remember. We didn’t like the idea.”

  “It’s not so much that we didn’t like it, but I doubt very much that it would work. A person’s stomach must turn the things he eats into the things his body needs, and maybe if you drink blood and your body needs blood it will go right through your stomach unchanged; but I’m not sure. After all, by that argument any food must turn into blood in your stomach, if that’s what you need. When the other boys were dying we tried to get them to eat. When they could, it didn’t do any special good, and toward the end they couldn’t. Remember?”