Riverworld and Other Stories

by Philip José Farmer

  The dead man’s comrades yelled and turned toward Mix. The captain recalled the four men aboard the sinking fisher. They threw clubs and spears, and Mix and his crew dropped flat onto the deck. Some of the missiles bounced off the wood or stuck quivering in it. The nearest, a spear with a fire-hardened wooden point, landed a few inches from Yeshua’s ear and slid off into the water.

  Mix jumped up, braced himself, and when the starboard side of the craft rolled downward, hurled a spear. It fell short of its mark, the chest of a man, but it pierced his foot. He screamed and yanked the point loose from the deck, but he didn’t have courage enough to withdraw it from his foot. He hobbled around the deck, shrilling his pain, until two men got him down and yanked the shaft out. The head was dislodged from the shaft and remained half-sticking out from the top of his foot.

  Meanwhile, the second fisher, the one which Mix’s boat had almost struck, had come alongside the sinking fisher. Three men leaped onto it and began securing ropes to lash the two boats together. Several rowboats and three canoes came up to the fisher, and their occupants climbed aboard it. Evidently, the locals were angry about the attack and intended to take immediate measures. Mix thought they would have been smarter to have waited until the big catamaran sank and then speared the crew members as they swam. On the other hand, by attacking Kramer’s men, they were getting deeply involved. This could be the start of a war. In which case, the refugees would be welcomed here.

  However, a catamaran, because of its two hulls, didn’t sink easily. It might even be able to get away, if not back to its homeport, at least out of this area. The locals didn’t want this to happen.

  The enemy captain, seeing what was coming, had ordered his men to attack. Leading them, he boarded the sinking fisher, crossed it, and hurled himself at the nearest man on the fisher. A woman whirled a sling above her head, loosed one end, and the stone smashed into the captain’s solar plexus. He fell on his back, unconscious or dead.

  Another of Kramer’s warriors fell with a spear sticking through his arm. His comrade stumbled over him and received the point of a spear with the full weight of its wielder behind it.

  The woman who’d slung the stone staggered backward with a spear sticking out of her chest and toppled into the water.

  Then both sides closed, and there was a melee.

  Yeshua brought the catamaran up alongside the portside of Kramer’s while Bithniah and Mix let the sail down and then threw grappling hooks onto the railing. While Bithniah and Yeshua sweated to tie the two boats together, Tom Mix used his sling. He had practiced on land and water for hundreds of hours with this weapon, and so he worked smoothly with great speed and finesse. He had to wait until an enemy was separated from the crowd to prevent accidentally hitting a local. Three times he struck his target. One stone caught a man in the side of his neck. Another hit the base of a spine. The third smashed a kneecap, and the writhing man was caught and held down by some locals while a flint knife slashed his jugular.

  Mix threw a spear which plunged deep into a man’s thigh. Then, gripping a heavy axe, he leaped onto the catamaran and his axe rose and fell twice on the backs of heads.

  The two enemy survivors tried to dive overboard. Only one made it. Mix picked up the boomerang from the deck, lifted it to throw at the bobbing head, then lowered it. Boomerangs were too hard to come by to waste on someone who was no longer dangerous.

  Suddenly, except for the groaning of the wounded and the weeping of a woman, there was silence. Even the onlookers, now coming swiftly toward the scene of the battle, were voiceless. The battlers looked pale and spent. The fire was gone from them.

  Mix liked to be dressed for the occasion, and this was one of victory. He returned to his boat, winked at Yeshua and Bithniah, and put on his boots and cloak. His ten-gallon hat had remained on his head throughout. He returned to the fisher, removed his hat with a flourish, grinned, and spoke.

  “Tom Mix, Esquire, at your service, ladies and gentlemen. My heartfelt thanks for your help, and my apologies for any inconvenience our presence caused you.”

  The captain of the rescue boat said, “Bare bones o’ God, I scarce comprehend your speech. Yet it seems to be somewhat English.”

  Mix put his hat back on and rolled his eyes as if asking for help from above.

  “Still in the seventeenth century! Well, at least I can understand your lingo a little bit.”

  He spoke more slowly and carefully. “What’s your handle, amigo?”

  “Handle? Amigo?”

  “Your name, friend. And who’s your boss? I’d like to offer myself as a mercenary. I need him, and I think he’s going to need me.”

  “John Wickel Stafford is the lord-mayor of New Albion,” a woman said: She and the others were looking strangely at him and Yeshua.

  He grinned and said, “No, he’s not my twin brother, or any sort of brother to me, aside from the kinship that comes from being human. And you know how thin that is. He was born about one thousand eight hundred and eighty years before me. In Palestine. Which is a hell of a long way off from my native Pennsylvania. It’s only a trick of fate he resembles me so. A lucky one for him, otherwise he might not’ve slipped the noose Kramer’d tied around his neck.”

  Apparently, some of his audience understood some of what he’d said. The trouble was not so much vocabulary, though there were some significant differences, as with the intonation and the pronunciation. Theirs somewhat resembled the speech of some Australians he’d met. God knew what they thought his was like.

  “Any of you know Esperanto?” he said.

  The captain said, “We’ve heard of that tongue, sir. It is being taught by some of that new sect, the Church of the Second Chance, or so I understand. So far, though, none has come into this area.”

  “Too bad. So we’ll make do with what we have. My friends and I have had a tough time the last couple of days. We’re tired and hungry. I’d like permission to stay in your spread for a few days before we go on down the River. Or maybe join up with you. Do you think your boss, uh, lord-mayor, would object?”

  “Far from it, sir,” the woman said: “He welcomes good fighting men and women in the hope they’ll stay. And he rewards them well. But tell us, those men, Kramer’s they must be, why were they so hot for your blood? They chased you here, yet they knew they were forbidden to come here under pain of death.”

  “That’s a long story, ma’am,” Mix said.

  He smiled. His smile was very attractive, and he knew it. The woman was pretty, a short blonde with a buxom figure, and possibly she was unattached at the moment or thinking of being so. Certainly, there was nothing shy about her.

  “You evidently are acquainted with Kramer the Hammer, Kramer the Burner. These two, Bithniah and Yeshua, were prisoners of his, ripe for the stake because they were heretics, according to his lights, and that’s what counts in his land. Also they were Jewish, which made it worse. I got them loose, along with a bunch of others. We three were the only ones made it to a boat. The rest you know.”

  The captain decided he might as well introduce himself.

  “I am Robert Nickard. This woman is Angela Doverton. Be not deceived by her immodest manner, Master Mix. She talks boldly and without regard to her sex, unmindful of her place. She is my wife, though there is neither giving nor taking of marriage in heaven or hell.”

  Angela smiled and winked at Mix. Fortunately, the eye was turned away from Nickard.

  “As for this business of heretics, New Albion does not care—officially, anyway—what the religion of a man or woman be. Or indeed if he be an atheist, though how any could be after having been resurrected from the dead, I cannot understand. We welcome all as citizens, so they be hard-working and dutiful, clean and comparatively sober. We even accept Jews.”

  “That must be quite a change from when you were alive,” Mix said.

  Quickly, before Nickard could comment on that, he said, “Where do we report, sir?”

  Nickard gave him directions. Mi
x told his crew to return to their craft. They untied the ropes, retrieved the grappling hooks, hoisted sail, and departed down-River. Not, however, before Mix saw Angela Doverton slip him another wink. He had already decided to steer clear of her, desirable though she was. He didn’t believe in making love to another man’s mate. On the other hand, if she were to leave Nickard, which seemed likely, then … no, she seemed like a troublemaker. Still …

  Behind him the business of getting the two damaged boats in to shore before they sank had begun. The lone survivor of the Kramer force had been pulled out of the water and was being taken, bound, to the shore. Mix wondered what would happen to him, not that he cared.

  The woman Bithniah steered the catamaran while Yeshua took care of the ropes. Tom Mix stood in the prow, one hand on a shroud to support himself, his long white cloak flapping. He must seem a strange and dramatic figure to the locals. At least, he hoped so. Wherever he was, if he found drama lacking, he drummed up some.

  3.

  As almost everywhere in the never-ending valley, both sides of the River were bordered with plains. These were usually from a mile to a mile and a half wide. They were as unbumpy as the floor of a house but sloped gently toward the foothills. A shortbladed grass that no amount of trampling could kill covered them. Here and there were some trees.

  Beyond the plains, the hills started out as mounds twenty feet high and sixty feet broad. As they neared the mountains, they became broader and higher and finally converged. The hills were thick with forest. Eighty out of every hundred were usually the indestructible “irontrees,” deep-rooted monsters the bark of which resisted fire and shrugged off the edge of even steel axes—though very few of these existed in this metal-poor world. Beneath the trees grew long-bladed grass and bamboos—some only two feet high, some over a hundred. Unlike every other area he’d been in, this lacked ash and yew trees and so the bow and arrow were seldom seen. Most of the bows were made from the mouth horns of a huge fish, but apparently the people here had not caught many of these. Even the bamboo here wasn’t suitable for use as bows.

  Beyond the hills, the mountains soared. The lower parts were rugged with small canyons and fissures and little plateaus. At the five-thousand-foot height, the mountains became unbroken cliffs, smooth as glass. Then they climbed straight up for another five thousand feet or leaned outward near the top. They were unclimbable. If a man wished to get to the valley on the other side of them, he’d have to follow The River, and that might take him years. The Rivervalley was a world-snake, winding down from the headwaters at the North Pole and around the South Pole and back up the other hemisphere to the mouth at the North Pole.

  Or so it was said. Nobody had yet proved it.

  In this area, unlike some he’d been in, huge vines encircled the trees and even some of the bamboo stands. From the vines grew perennial flowers of many sizes, shapes, and exhibiting every shade of the spectrum.

  For ten thousand miles the Rivervalley would be a silent, frozen explosion of color. Then, just as abruptly as it had started, the trees would resume their unadorned ascetic green.

  But this stretch of The River trumpeted a flourish of hue.

  A mile from the scene of the battle, Mix ordered that Bithniah steer toward the lefthand bank. Presently, Yeshua lowered the sail, and the catamaran slid its nose up onto a slope of the bank. The three got off, and many hands among the crowd grabbed the hulls and pulled it entirely on land. Men and women surrounded the newcomers and asked many questions. Mix started to answer one from a good-looking woman when he was interrupted by soldiers. These wore fish-leather bone-reinforced helmets and cuirasses, modeled after those used in the time of Charles I and Oliver Cromwell. They carried small round shields of leather-covered oak and long stone-tipped or wooden-ended spears or heavy war-axes or big clubs. Thick fish-leather boots protected their legs to just above the knees.

  Their ensign, Alfred Regius Swinford, heard Mix’s report halfway through. Mix interrupted himself then, saying, “We’re hungry. Couldn’t we wait until we charge our buckets?”

  He gestured at the nearest mushroom-shaped stone, six feet high and several hundred feet broad. The bottoms of the gray cylinders of the bystanders were inserted in the depressions on its top.

  “Buckets?” the ensign said. “We name them copias, stranger. Short for cornucopia. Give me your copias. We’ll charge them for you, and you can fill your bellies after Lord Stafford’s talked to you. I’ll see that they’re properly identified.”

  Mix shrugged. He was in no position to argue, though, like everybody else, he was uneasy if his “holy bucket” was out of his sight. The three walked among the soldiers across the plain toward a hill. They went past many one-room bamboo huts. On top of the hill was a larger circular wall of logs. They went through the gateway into a huge yard. The Council House, their destination, was a long triangular log building in the center of the stockade. There were many observation towers and a broad walkway behind the outer walls. The sharp-pointed logs towered above this, but windows and slits for defenders to throw spears or pour out burning fish oil on attackers were plentiful. There were also wooden cranes which could be swung over the walls to dump nets full of large rocks.

  Mix saw ten large wooden tanks filled with water and sheds which he supposed held stores of dried fish and acorn bread and weapons.

  Out of one of the sheds, though, came men carrying baskets of earth. These would be digging a secret underground tunnel to the outside for escape or for a rear attack on the enemy. It wasn’t much of a secret if they allowed strangers to see evidence of it. He felt chilled momentarily. Perhaps no stranger who knew of the tunnel would be allowed to leave.

  Mix said nothing. He might as well play dumb, though he doubted that the ensign would think he was that unobservant. No. He should try something, however weak.

  “Digging a well,” he said. “That’s a good idea. If you’re besieged, you needn’t worry about water.”

  “Exactly,” Swinford said. “We should have dug it a long time ago. But then we were shorthanded for a while.”

  Mix didn’t think that he’d fooled the ensign, but at least he’d tried. By then the sun had reached the peaks of the western mountain range. A moment later it sank, and the valley thundered with the eruption of the copiastones along the banks. Dinner was ready.

  Stafford and his council were sitting at a round table of pine on a platform at the far end of the hall. Between this and the entrance was a long rectangular table with many bamboo chairs around it. Trap doors in the ceiling were open to let in the light, but this was fading fast. Pine torches impregnated with fish oil had already been lit and set in brackets on the walls or in stands on the dirt floor. The smoke rose toward the high blackened beams and rafters, and the stench of fish heavied the air. Underlying it was another stink—unwashed human bodies. Mix thought that there might have been an excuse for this uncleanliness in seventeenth-century England, but there was none here. The River was within comfortable walking distance. However, he knew that old habits clung hard, despite which they were changing slowly. With the constant passage of people who came from cultures which did bathe frequently, a sense of cleanliness and the shame associated with uncleanliness were spreading. In ten or fifteen years these Englishmen would be soaping regularly in The River. Well, most of them would be, anyway. There were always persons in every culture who would think that water was for drinking only.

  Actually, aside from the offensiveness of body odor and the esthetics of a clean body, there was no reason why they should wash frequently. There were no diseases of the body on the Riverworld. Plenty of diseases of the mind, though.

  The ensign halted below the platform and reported to Stafford. The others at the table, twenty in all, stared at the newcomers. Many smoked copia-supplied cigarettes or cigars, unknown to them in their time on Earth when pipes only were used.

  Stafford rose from the table to greet his guests courteously. He was a tall man, six feet two inches, broad-shoulde
red, long-armed, slimly built. His face was long and narrow, his eyebrows very thick and tangled, his eyes gray, his nose long and pointed, his lips thin, his chin out-thrusting and deeply cleft. His brownish hair hung to just below his shoulders and was curled at the ends.

  In a pleasant voice thick with a Nothern burr—he was a native of Carlisle, near the Scotch border—he asked them to sit at the table. He offered them their choice of wine, whiskey, or liqueur. Mix, knowing that the supply was limited, took the offer as a good sign. Stafford would not be so generous with expensive commodities to those he thought were hostiles. Mix sniffed, smiled at the scent of excellent bourbon, and sipped. He would have liked to pour it down, but this would have meant that his hosts would have to offer him another immediately.

  Stafford asked Tom Mix to make his own report. This involved a long tale, during which fires were lit in the two great hearths on each side of the central part of the hall. Mix noticed that some of those bringing in the wood were short, very swarthy Mongolianish men and women. These, he supposed, were from the other side of The River, which was occupied by Huns. From what he’d heard, these had been born about the time Attila had invaded Europe, the fifth century A.D. Whether they were slaves or refugees from across The River, he could not know.

  Stafford and the others listened to Mix with only a few comments while they drank. Presently, their copias were brought in, and all ate. Tom was pleasantly surprised by this evening’s offering of his bucket. It was Mexican: tacos, enchiladas, burritos, a bean salad, and the liquor was tequila with a slice of lemon and some salt. It made him feel more at home, especially when the tobacco turned out to be some slim-twisted dark cigars.