Norman, John - Gor 10 - Tribesmen of Gor.txt

by Tribesmen of Gor [lit]

  I looked about. “We do not trek alone,” I told him. “There is another who treks

  with us.”

  Hassan scanned the dunes. “I see nothing,” he said.

  “We are not alone,” I told him. “Out there, somewhere, there is another, one who

  treks with us.”

  We continued our march.

  The march of Hassan had as its object not Red Rock, northwest of Klima, but Four

  Palms, a Kavar outpost known to him, which lay far to the south of Red Rock.

  Unfortunately Four Palms was farther from Klima than Red Rock. On the other

  hand, his decision seemed to me a sound one. Red Rock was a Tashid oasis under

  the hegemony of the Aretai, enemies of the Kavars. Furthermore, between Klima

  and Red Rock lay the regions patrolled by the men of Abdul, the Salt Ubar, who

  had been known to me as Ibn Saran. Beyond this, though Four Palms lay farther

  from Klima than Red Rock, its route, it seemed, would bring one sooner out of

  the dune country than the route to Red Rock, and into the typical Tahari terrain

  of rock and scrub, where some game might be found, occasional water and possible

  nomadic groups not disposed to hostility toward Kavars. All things considered,

  the decision to attempt to reach Four Palms seemed the most rational decision in

  the circumstances. There was much risk, of course, attendant on either decision.

  We had no choice but to gamble. Hassan had gambled wisely; whether or not he had

  also gambled well would remain to be seen.

  I followed Hassan, he orienting himself by the sun and the flights of certain

  birds, migrating. We-bad, of course, no instruments at our disposal, no marked

  trails, and we did not know the exact location of Klima with respect to either

  Red Rock or Four Palms.

  We gambled. We continued to trek. The alternative to the gamble was not security

  but certain death.

  A consequence of Hassan’s plan was that we were actually moving, generally,

  south and west of Klima, in short, for a time, deeper into the most desolate,

  untraveled portions of the dune country, far even from the salt routes.

  I realize now that this was why the beast was pacing us.

  “We have water,” I said to Hassan, “for only four more days.”

  “Six,” he said. “We may live two days without water.”

  We had come to the edge of the dune country. I looked out on the rugged hills,

  the cuts, the rocks, the brush.

  “How far is it now?” I asked.

  “I do not know,” said Hassan. “Perhaps five days, perhaps ten.” We did not know

  where we had emerged from the dunes.

  “We have come far,” I said.

  “Have you not noticed the wind?” said Hassan.

  “No,” I said. I had not thought of it.

  “From what direction does it come?” asked Hassan.

  “From the east,” I said.

  “It is spring,” said Hassan.

  “Is this meaningful?” I asked, The wind felt much the same as the constant,

  whipping Tahari wind to me, no different, save for its direction.

  We had been fourteen days on the desert when the wind had shifted to the east.

  “Yes,” said Hassan. “It is meaningful.”

  Two Ahn earlier the sun’s rim had thrust over the horizon, illuminating the

  crests of the thinning dunes. An Ahn earlier Hassan had said, “It is now time to

  dig the shelter trench.” On our hands and knees, with our hands, we dug in the

  parched earth. The trench was about four feet deep, narrow, not hard to dig. It

  is oriented in such a way that the passing sun bisects it. It affords shade in

  the morning and late afternoon; it is fully exposed only in the hours of high

  sun.

  Hassan and I stood at the edge of the ditch, looking eastward. “Yes,” said

  Hassan. “It is meaningful.”

  “I see nothing,” I said. Flecks of sand struck against my face.

  “We had come so far,” said Hassan.

  “Is there nothing we can do?” I asked.

  “I will sleep,” said Hassan. “I am weary.”

  I watched, while Hassan slept. It began in the east, like a tiny line on the

  margin of the desert. It was only as it approached that I understood it to be

  hundreds of feet in height, perhaps a hundred pasangs in width; the sky above it

  was gray, then black like smoke; then I could watch it no longer that I might be

  blinded; I shielded my eyes with my hands; I turned my back to it; I crouched in

  the ditch; the wind tore past above me; there was sand imbedded in the backs of

  my hands; in places, where I dislodged it, there was blood. I looked up. The sky

  was black with sand; brush, like startled, bounding tabuk, leaped, driven, over

  my head; the wind howled. I sat in the ditch. I put my head on my arms, my head

  down, my arms on my knees. I listened to the storm. Then I slept.

  Toward night Hassan and I awoke. We drank. The storm raged unabating. We could

  not see the stars.

  “How long does such a storm last?” I asked.

  “It is spring,” he said, shrugging, in the manner of the Tahari. “Who knows?”

  “Am I not your brother?” I asked.

  He lifted his head. “It is not known how long such a storm may last,” he said.

  “It may last many days.” “It is spring,” he said. “The wind is from the east.”

  Then he again put down his head.

  He slept. In time, I, too, slept.

  Suddenly, shortly before dawn, I awakened.

  It was standing there, in the pelting sand, looming, looking down upon us.

  “Hassan,” I cried.

  He awakened immediately. We struggled to our feet, our feet buried in sand,

  swept into the ditch, our backs suddenly cut by the lash of the storm.

  It opened its great mouth, turning its head to the side. It was seven feet in

  height, bracing itself against the wind. Sand clung in its fur. It looked upon

  me. It raised one long arm. It pointed to the dune country.

  “Run!” cried Hassan. We leaped from the ditch, rolling from it into the storm,

  scrambling to our feet. We crouched down, trying to keep our balance, the ditch

  between us and the standing beast. It swayed in the wind, leaning into it, but

  did not attempt to approach us. It regarded me. It pointed to the dune country.

  “The water,” said Hassan. “The water!”

  He stood over the ditch, to protect me as he could. I slipped into the ditch and

  slowly, in order not to provoke the beast to attack, lifted the two bags to the

  surface. Hassan took them and, when I was clear of the ditch, we backed away

  from the beast, watching it. The wind and sand whipped about us. The beast did

  not move but remained, its eyes, half-shut, rimmed with sand, fixed upon me, its

  great arm pointing toward the dune country.

  Hassan and I turned and, stumbling, carrying the water, fled into the desert.

  Once, briefly, I lost sight of Hassan, then again saw him, no more than a yard

  from me in the darkness, in the pelting, driven sand. Together we fled. The

  beast did not pursue us.

  20 The Kur Will Re-Enter the Dune Country; I Accompany Him

  “It is there,” said Hassan. “But you are mad to approach it.”

  “It could have killed us in the trench,” I said. “It did not.”

  The storm, surprisingly, had abated. It had lasted only a bit less than one day.

  The
landscape seemed rearranged, but we had little difficulty in finding our way

  back to the trench. We had not been able to move far in the storm. We had gone

  perhaps less than a pasang when we fell, rolled from our feet, and lay in the

  sand, protecting our heads and the water. Almost as soon as it had come, it had,

  with a shifting of wind to the north, disappeared. “There will be other such

  storms,” said Hassan. “It was too short.” He looked at me. “We must move while

  we can, before another, a longer, occurs.”

  “I am returning to the trench,” I told him.

  “I will go with you,” he said.

  From a small rise, we saw the remains of the trench, filled with sand, to within

  six inches of its top. The sun was high. Beside the trench, on its back, half

  covered with sand, lay the Kur.

  When we approached it, it turned its head toward us. “It is not dead,” said

  Hassan.

  “It seems weak,” I said.

  “We, too, are weak,” said Hassan. “We have scarcely the strength to carry the

  water.”

  I walked about the Kur, which closed its eyes. Its fur was coated with sand.

  I crouched down near it. It opened its eyes, and regarded me.

  On its left forepaw, or hand, on one of the six digits, was a heavy ring,

  seemingly of gold.

  I had not seen such an ornament on a Kur before. I had seen rings of the sort

  worn on arms and wrists, and earrings, but no ring of the sort which might

  encircle a digit. Many Kurii are vain beasts.

  “I have seen this Kur before,” I said. I had seen it in a dungeon in the house

  of Samos. It had been apprehended months before apparently enroute to the

  Tahari. Samos had bought it as a beast from hunters. Six men had died in its

  capture. The eyes, rimmed with sand, were black-pupiled; the corneas, usually

  yellow, seemed pale, flattishly colored; the leathery snout seemed dry, the lips

  were drawn back about the fangs; the tongue, black, seemed large; it seemed thin

  for a Kur, haggard; I realized then that its tissues reflected dehydration. That

  the Kur had been bound for the Tahari had been a portion of the mystery, which

  had initiated my venture to the desert. What business had it in the Tahari?

  “It will die soon,” said Hassan. “Leave it.”

  I remained near the Kur, looking upon it. “It needs water,” I said.

  “Do not approach it!” warned Hassan.

  I supposed men had few enemies as terrible as the fearsome Kur, unless it be

  other men. Such beasts and Priest-Kings were locked in relentless war, two

  worlds, two planets, Gor and Earth lying at the stake. Men seemed puny allies to

  either species. Before me lay my enemy, helpless.

  “Kill it,” said Hassan.

  “It is a rational beast,” I said. “It needs water.”

  “Desist in this madness!” cried Hassan.

  I lifted the shaggy head, more than a foot wide. Between the rows of fangs, the

  bag over my shoulder, I thrust the spike of the water bag.

  The paws of the beast reached up, slowly, and placed themselves on the bag. I

  saw them indent the bag, the spread of the digits was more than fifteen inches

  in width. There were six digits, multiply jointed, furred. I saw the golden

  ring, heavy, strangely set, it seemed with a tiny square of silver, against the

  brown leather of the bag. It did not seem a normal ring. “This morning,” I said,

  “before dawn, it could have killed us and taken the water. It did not do so.”

  Hassan did not speak.

  Slowly the Kur rose to his feet. I closed the bag, twisting in the plug. There

  was only a gallon or so of water in the bag. It would last a human a day, then

  he must draw on his own tissues.

  Hassan stood back.

  The Kur turned away from us. Very slowly it lifted it’s head, as though

  literally feeling the water flowing through the vessels of his body. It was

  frightening in a way to see it. It was as though it was coming alive, and it was

  a Kur.

  “You are insane,” whispered Hassan. The desert would have killed it for you.”

  “It did not kill us when it could have,” I said. “It did not take the water.”

  “So it was mad from the desert, the storm,” said Hassan. “It will now be

  thinking clearly.”

  I watched the Kur. It fell to all fours; then it rose to a half-crouched,

  shambling position, knuckles to the dirt, as a Kur most naturally moves. It

  suddenly rolled in the sand. Then it stood up. It reached out with one paw, The

  paw encircled the heavy, twisted interlacings of stems of a thick clump of

  narrow-leafed scrub brush. Like most desert plants it is deeply rooted. With one

  motion the Kur tore the brush from the ground and lifted it over his head, and

  threw it from him. It leaped in the sand, and struck the sand with its right

  fist. Then, exposing the claws on its prehensile appendage, that heavy, six

  digited hand, it tore down into the dirt, and threw dirt behind it. Then it

  straightened its body and howled, and, dropping to all fours, turned toward us,

  observing us. Then, slowly, half-crouched, shambling, knuckles to the dirt, it

  approached us.

  The corneas of its eyes were vivid yellow now. Its snout wore a sheen of sweat.

  Its tongue moved about its lips, which were wet.

  It stopped a few feet from us. I had little doubt that it could kill two unarmed

  men in the desert.

  But it did not attack. Instead, it looked at me. And it pointed back, toward the

  dune country.

  It straightened up, perhaps to appear more like a man. I saw then that it had

  been wounded. In places its fur had been slashed away. Several cuts half-healed,

  marked its body. It must, at one time, lost much blood.

  “I know this Kur, “ I said. I regarded it. “Can you understand me?” I asked.

  It gave no sign that it could understand me.

  “I had it freed from a dungeon in Port Kar, “ I told Hassan. “In Tor, in a

  courtyard, several men waited to slay me. Havoc and slaughter was wrought among

  them, such that only a Kur might accomplish. In prison in Nine Wells, though

  strangely I could not see it, a Kur came to my cell. It could have killed me, I

  helplessly chained. It did not. I think it might have tried to free me. It was

  surprised by Ibn Saran and his men. It was nearly killed, trapped in the cell.

  It was much wounded. Ibn Saran told me the beast had been killed. It had not

  been. This is he. This is that Kur. I know him, Hassan. He is, if only for this

  moment, my ally. I think, Hassan, strange though it may seem, that we hold a

  cause in common.”

  “A man and a Kur!” protested Hassan. “It is impossible!”

  The Kur pointed to the dune country.

  I turned to Hassan. “I wish you well, Hassan,” I said.

  “It is madness to enter the dune country again,” he said. “The water is almost

  gone.”

  “Try to reach Four Palms,” I said. “Your first business lies with your tribe.

  There is soon to be war in the Tahari. When the Kavars ride, you must ride with

  them.”

  “It is a hard choice you impose upon me,” said Hassan, “to choose between my

  brother and my tribe.” Then he said, “I am of the Tahari. I must choose my

  brother.”


  “The water decides it,” I said. “Your tribe awaits.”

  Hassan looked at the Kur. Then he looked at me. “I wish you well, my brother,”

  he said. He smiled. “May your water bags be never empty. May you always have

  water.”

  “May your water bags be never empty,” I said. “May you have always water.”

  Hassan turned away. I wished him well. It was my hope that he would reach Four

  Palms.

  Already, loping, then turning back, then moving ahead again, the Kur moved

  before me, back toward the long, ragged edge of dunes which lay on our left.

  I followed him.

  21 What Occurred in the Dune Country

  The Kur was an incredible animal. Without it I would not have survived.

  The next day the water was gone.

  To my surprise, though the Kur had pointed to the dune country, he led me in a

  path parallel to the dunes, through more normal Tahari terrain. I realized then

  that he had been pointing to his destination, whatever it might be, which lay

  within the dune country, as though I might know what it was, but that the route

  which he wisely selected would parallel the dune country, until he reached a

  given point, at which point he would strike out overland, into the forbidding

  dunes, to reach whatever objective it was within them which might concern him,

  or us.

  “The water is gone,” I told him. I held the bag in such a way as to show him

  that no fluid remained within it. After his first drink, near the shelter

  trench, he had not had water.

  The Kur watched the flight of birds. He followed them, for a day. He found their

  water. It was foul. We gratefully drank. I submerged the water bag I carried. We

  killed four birds and ate them raw. The Kur caught small rock tharlarion, and on

  this plenty, too, we feasted. Then we continued our journey. I drank much for

  the Kur seemed hurried. Surely he knew that one should move only at night, and

  yet the beast seemed tireless, and would press me on, as though I needed neither

  food nor sleep. Did he not know I was not a Kur? He, shielded by the fur, was

  less exposed to the sun. He would move day and night, but I could not.

  Impatiently, he would crouch near me, when I fell to the sand, to sleep. He

  would, in an Ahn, awaken me, and point to the sun. Yet I did not think he wished

  to tell me the hour of the day, but call my attention to the passage of time. He