The Martian Megapack

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  “What strikes me as strangest of all, good comrade,” I observed pleasantly to the tripping presence at my elbow, “is that these countrymen of yours who shirk to climb a flight of steps, and have palms as soft as rose petals, these wide ways paved with stones as hard as a usurer’s heart.”

  An laughed. “The stones were still in their native quarries had it been left to us to seek them; we are like the conies in the ruins, sir, the inheritors of what other hands have done.”

  “Ay, and undone, I think, as well, for coming along I have noted axe chippings upon the walls, smudges of ancient fire and smoke upon the cornices.”

  An winced a little and stared uneasily at the walls, muttering below her breath something about trying to hide with flower garlands the marks they could not banish, but it was plain the conversation was not pleasing to her. So unpleasant was talk or sight of woodmen (Thither-folk, as she called them, in contradiction to the Hither people about us here), that the girl was clearly relieved when we were free of the town and out into the open playground of the people. The whole place down there was a gay, shifting crowd. The booths of yesterday, the arcades, the archways, were still standing, and during the night unknown hands had redecked them with flowers, while another day’s sunshine had opened the coppice buds so that the whole place was brilliant past expression. And here the Hither folk were varying their idleness by a general holiday. They were standing about in groups, or lying ranked like new-plucked flowers on the banks, piping to each other through reeds as soft and melodious as running water. They were playing inconsequent games and breaking off in the middle of them like children looking for new pleasures. They were idling about the drinking booths, delicately stupid with quaint, thin wines, dealt out to all who asked; the maids were ready to chevy or be chevied through the blossoming thickets by anyone who chanced upon them, the men slipped their arms round slender waists and wandered down the paths, scarce seeming to care even whose waist it was they circled or into whose ear they whispered the remainder of the love-tale they had begun to some one else. And everywhere it was “Hi,” and “Ha,” and “So,” and “See,” as these quaint people called to one another, knowing each other as familiarly as ants of a nest, and by the same magic it seemed to me.

  “An,” I said presently, when we had wandered an hour or so through the drifting throng, “have these good countrymen of yours no other names but monosyllabic, nothing to designate them but these chirruping syllables?”

  “Is it not enough?” answered my companion. “Once indeed I think we had longer names, but,” she added, smiling, “how much trouble it saves to limit each one to a single sound. It is uncivil to one’s neighbours to burden their tongues with double duty when half would do.”

  “But have you no patronymics—nothing to show the child comes of the same source as his father came?”

  “We have no fathers.”

  “What! no fathers?” I said, starting and staring at her.

  “No, nor mothers either, or at least none that we remember, for again, why should we? Mayhap in that strange district you come from you keep count of these things, but what have we to do with either when their initial duty is done. Look at that painted butterfly swinging on the honey-laden catkin there. What knows she of the mother who shed her life into a flowercup and forgot which flower it was the minute afterwards. We, too, are insects, stranger.”

  “And do you mean to say of this great concourse here, that every atom is solitary, individual, and can claim no kindred with another save the loose bonds of a general fraternity—a specious idea, horrible, impracticable!”

  Whereat An laughed. “Ask the grasshoppers if it is impracticable; ask the little buzzing things of grass and leaves who drift hither and thither upon each breath of wind, finding kinsmen never but comrades everywhere—ask them if it is horrible.”

  This made me melancholy, and somehow set me thinking of the friends immeasurably distant I had left but yesterday.

  What were they doing? Did they miss me? I was to have called for my pay this afternoon, and tomorrow was to have run down South to see that freckled lady of mine. What would she think of my absence? What would she think if she knew where I was? Gods, it was too mad, too absurd! I thrust my hands into my pockets in fierce desperation, and there they clutched an old dance programme and an out-of-date check for a New York ferry-boat. I scowled about on that sunny, helpless people, and laying my hand bitterly upon my heart felt in the breast-pocket beneath a packet of unpaid Boston tailors’ bills and a note from my landlady asking if I would let her aunt do my washing while I was on shore. Oh! what would they all think of me? Would they brand me as a deserter, a poltroon, and a thief, letting my name presently sink down in shame and mystery in the shadowy realm of the forgotten? Dreadful thoughts! I would think no more.

  Maybe An had marked my melancholy, for presently she led me to a stall where in fantastic vases wines of sorts I have described before were put out for all who came to try them. There was medicine here for every kind of dulness—not the gross cure which earthly wine effects, but so nicely proportioned to each specific need that one could regulate one’s debauch to a hairbreadth, rising through all the gamut of satisfaction, from the staid contentment coming of that flask there to the wild extravagances of the furthermost vase. So my stripling told me, running her finger down the line of beakers carved with strange figures and cased in silver, each in its cluster of little attendant drinking-cups, like-coloured, and waiting round on the white napkins as the shore boats wait to unload a cargo round the sides of a merchant vessel.

  “And what,” I said, after curiously examining each liquor in turn, “what is that which stands alone there in the humble earthen jar, as though unworthy of the company of the others.”

  “Oh, that,” said my friend, “is the most essential of them all—that is the wine of recovery, without which all the others were deadly poisons.”

  “The which, lady, looks as if it had a moral attaching to it.”

  “It may have; indeed I think it has, but I have forgotten. Prince Hath would know! Meanwhile let me give you to drink, great stranger, let me get you something.”

  “Well, then,” I laughed, “reach me down an antidote to fate, a specific for an absent mistress, and forgetful friends.”

  “What was she like?” said An, hesitating a little and frowning.

  “Nay, good friend,” was my answer, “what can that matter to you?”

  “Oh, nothing, of course,” answered that Martian, and while she took from the table a cup and filled it with fluid I felt in the pouch of my sword-belt to see if by chance a bit of money was lying there, but there was none, only the pips of an orange poor Polly had sucked and laughingly thrown at me.

  However, it did not matter. The girl handed me the cup, and I put my lips to it. The first taste was bitter and acrid, like the liquor of long-steeped wood. At the second taste a shiver of pleasure ran through me, and I opened my eyes and stared hard. The third taste grossness and heaviness and chagrin dropped from my heart; all the complexion of Providence altered in a flash, and a stupid irresistible joy, unreasoning, uncontrollable took possession of my fibre. I sank upon a mossy bank and, lolling my head, beamed idiotically on the lolling Martians all about me. How long I was like that I cannot say. The heavy minutes of sodden contentment slipped by unnoticed, unnumbered, till presently I felt the touch of a wine-cup at my lips again, and drinking of another liquor dulness vanished from my mind, my eyes cleared, my heart throbbed; a fantastic gaiety seized upon my limbs; I bounded to my feet, and seizing An’s two hands in mine, swung that damsel round in a giddy dance, capering as never dancer danced before, till spent and weary I sank down again from sheer lack of breath, and only knew thereafter that An was sitting by me saying, “Drink! drink stranger, drink and forget!” and as a third time a cup was pressed to my lips, aches and pleasures, stupidness and joy, life itself, seemed slipping away into a splendid golden vacuity, a hazy episode of unconscious Elysium, indefinite, a
nd unfathomable.

  CHAPTER V

  When I woke, feeling as refreshed as though I had been dreaming through a long night, An, seeing me open-eyed, helped me to my feet, and when I had recovered my senses a little, asked if we should go on. I was myself again by this time, so willingly took her hand, and soon came out of the tangle into the open spaces. I must have been under the spell of the Martian wines longer than it seemed, for already it was late in the afternoon, the shadows of trees were lying deep and far-reaching over the motley crowds of people. Out here as the day waned they had developed some sort of method in their sports. In front of us was a broad, grassy course marked off with garlanded finger-posts, and in this space rallies of workfolk were taking part in all manner of games under the eyes of a great concourse of spectators, doing the Martians’ pleasures for them as they did their labours. An led me gently on, leaning on my arm heavier, I thought, than she had done in the morning, and ever and anon turning her gazelle-like eyes upon me with a look I could not understand. As we sauntered forward I noticed all about lesser circles where the yellow-girted ones were drawing delighted laughter from good-tempered crowds by tricks of sleight-of-hand, and posturing, or tossing gilded cups and balls as though they were catering, as indeed they were, for outgrown children. Others fluted or sang songs in chorus to the slow clapping of hands, while others were doing I knew not what, sitting silent amongst silent spectators who every now and then burst out laughing for no cause that I could see. But An would not let me stop, and so we pushed on through the crowd till we came to the main enclosures where a dozen slaves had run a race for the amusement of those too lazy to race themselves, and were sitting panting on the grass.

  To give them time to get their breath, perhaps, a man stepped out of the crowd dressed in a dark blue tunic, a strange vacuous-looking fellow, and throwing down a sheaf of javelins marched off a dozen paces, then, facing round, called out loudly he would give sixteen suits of “summer cloth” to any one who could prick him with a javelin from the heap.

  “Why,” I said in amazement, “this is the best of fools—no one could miss from such a distance.”

  “Ay but,” replied my guide, “he is a gifted one, versed in mystics.”

  I was just going to say a good javelin, shod with iron, was a stronger argument than any mystic I had ever heard of could stand, when out of the crowd stepped a youth, and amid the derisive cheers of his friends chose a reed from the bundle. He poised it in his hand a minute to get the middle, then turned on the living target. Whatever else they might be, these Martians were certainly beautiful as the daytime. Never had I seen such a perfect embodiment of grace and elegance as that boy as he stood there for a moment poised to the throw; the afternoon sunshine warm and strong on his bunched brown hair, a girlish flush of shyness on his handsome face, and the sleek perfection of his limbs, clear cut against the dusky background beyond. And now the javelin was going. Surely the mystic would think better of it at the last moment! No! the initiate held his ground with tight-shut lips and retrospective eyes, and even as I looked the weapon flew upon its errand.

  “There goes the soul of a fool!” I exclaimed, and as the words were uttered the spear struck, or seemed to, between the neck and shoulder, but instead of piercing rose high into the air, quivering and flashing, and presently turning over, fell back, and plunged deep into the turf, while a low murmur of indifferent pleasure went round amongst the onlookers.

  Thereat An, yawning gently, looked to me and said, “A strong-willed fellow, isn’t he, friend?”

  I hesitated a minute and then asked, “Was it WILL which turned that shaft?”

  She answered with simplicity, “Why, of course—what else?”

  By this time another boy had stepped out, and having chosen a javelin, tested it with hand and foot, then retiring a pace or two rushed up to the throwing mark and flung it straight and true into the bared bosom of the man. And as though it had struck a wall of brass, the shaft leapt back falling quivering at the thrower’s feet. Another and another tried unsuccessfully, until at last, vexed at their futility, I said, “I have a somewhat scanty wardrobe that would be all the better for that fellow’s summer suiting, by your leave I will venture a throw against him.”

  “It is useless,” answered An; “none but one who knows more magic than he, or is especially befriended by the Fates can touch him through the envelope he has put on.”

  “Still, I think I will try.”

  “It is hopeless, I would not willingly see you fail,” whispered the girl, with a sudden show of friendship.

  “And what,” I said, bending down, “would you give me if I succeeded?” Whereat An laughed a little uneasily, and, withdrawing her hand from mine, half turned away. So I pushed through the spectators and stepped into the ring. I went straight up to the pile of weapons, and having chosen one went over to the mystic. “Good fellow,” I cried out ostentatiously, trying the sharpness of the javelin-point with my finger, “where are all of those sixteen summer suits of yours lying hid?”

  “It matters nothing,” said the man, as if he were asleep.

  “Ay, but by the stars it does, for it will vex the quiet repose of your soul tomorrow if your heirs should swear they could not find them.”

  “It matters nothing,” muttered the will-wrapped visionary.

  “It will matter something if I take you at your word. Come, friend Purple-jerkin, will you take the council with your legs and run while there is yet time, or stand up to be thrown at?”

  “I stand here immoveable in the confidence of my initiation.”

  “Then, by thunder, I will initiate you into the mysteries of a javelin-end, and your blood be on your head.”

  The Martians were all craning their necks in hushed eagerness as I turned to the casting-place, and, poising the javelin, faced the magician. Would he run at the last moment? I half hoped so; for a minute I gave him the chance, then, as he showed no sign of wavering, I drew my hand back, shook the javelin back till it bent like a reed, and hurled it at him.

  The Martians’ heads turned as though all on one pivot as the spear sped through the air, expecting no doubt to see it recoil as others had done. But it took him full in the centre of his chest, and with a wild wave of arms and a flutter of purple raiment sent him backwards, and down, and over and over in a shapeless heap of limbs and flying raiment, while a low murmur of awed surprise rose from the spectators. They crowded round him in a dense ring, as An came flitting to me with a startled face.

  “Oh, stranger,” she burst out, “you have surely killed him!” but more astounded I had broken down his guard than grieved at his injury.

  “No,” I answered smilingly; “a sore chest he may have tomorrow, but dead he is not, for I turned the lance-point back as I spun it, and it was the butt-end I threw at him!”

  “It was none the less wonderful; I thought you were a common man, a prince mayhap, come but from over the hills, but now something tells me you are more than that,” and she lapsed into thoughtful silence for a time.

  Neither of us were wishful to go back amongst those who were raising the bruised magician to his legs, but wandered away instead through the deepening twilight towards the city over meadows whose damp, soft fragrance loaded the air with sleepy pleasure, neither of us saying a word till the dusk deepened and the quick night descended, while we came amongst the gardened houses, the thousand lights of an unreal city rising like a jewelled bank before us, and there An said she would leave me for a time, meeting me again in the palace square later on, “To see Princess Heru read the destinies of the year.”

  “What!” I exclaimed, “more magic? I have been brought up on more substantial mental stuff than this.”

  “Nevertheless, I would advise you to come to the square,” persisted my companion. “It affects us all, and—who knows?—may affect you more than any.”

  Therein poor An was unconsciously wearing the cloak of prophesy herself, and, shrugging my shoulders good-humouredly, I kissed her c
hin, little realising, as I let her fingers slip from mine, that I should see her no more.

  Turning back alone, through the city, through ways twinkling with myriad lights as little lamps began to blink out amongst garlands and flower-decked booths on every hand, I walked on, lost in varying thoughts, until, fairly tired and hungry, I found myself outside a stall where many Martians stood eating and drinking to their hearts’ content. I was known to none of them, and, forgetting past experience, was looking on rather enviously, when there came a touch upon my arm, and—

  “Are you hungry, sir?” asked a bystander.

  “Ay,” I said, “hungry, good friend, and with all the zest which an empty purse lends to that condition.”

  “Then here is what you need, sir, even from here the wine smells good, and the fried fruit would make a mouse’s eye twinkle. Why do you wait?”

  “Why wait? Why, because though the rich man’s dinner goes in at his mouth, the poor man must often be content to dine through his nose. I tell you I have nothing to get me a meal with.”