Watson, Ian - Black Current 01

by The Book Of The River (v1. 1)

  That afternoon Andri, Jothan and I set off along the trail to the north-west. We left Harld and the other two men to get on with whatever business my arrival had interrupted—business which just had to be intimately connected with the forbidden river. Whose daughter had now fallen into their hands like a ripe peach.

  Ripe? Ah well, perhaps "ripe" is an exaggeration! After my many weeks alone on sparse rations I was more like a shrivelled twig. Still, they loaded me up for the journey (I only realized later that they had burdened me lightly compared with the way a woman of the west would ordinarily have been weighed down). Andri and Jothan wore heavier back-packs.

  Yet I stepped out relatively lightly. The trek wasn't so bad now that there was a definite path to follow, in the company of guides. That evening we made genuine camp, amidst jungle which seemed far less wild and chaotic.

  * * *

  Marching in single file allowed few opportunities for chattering. When we sat round a fire that evening Andri and I talked again, whilst Jothan busied himself boiling soup.

  "Do you really think you're a puppet?" I pressed Andri. "Or a dummy-body, or whatever?"

  He scratched his beard a while. "Look: our forebears weren't bom here, for a fact. If you plunge into water, does that turn you into a fish? Likewise, if you plunge into a foreign world, why should you suddenly be at home?"

  "We live here. We are at home."

  He nodded at the cookpot. "Why should we be able to eat what's here, and live on it?"

  "Well, we do."

  "That's no answer."

  "We must have brought a lot of things with us to eat. Chickens, for instance! Some ancient writings mention chickens."

  "Do they? How d'you know they're the same sort of chickens, eh? And why should chickens be able to peck around and live here? Unless, girl, unless we've all of us—chickens and people—been made into the sort of bodies as can live here. The Deotheorists say if you just dump a man of Eeden down on a strange world exactly as he is, he'll starve in a few days. He can't digest the local food. Or it poisons him. Same applies to the air and water."

  "It couldn't have been too different here."

  "Happen not. Otherwise maybe we'd have needed scales on our skin, or shells on our backs."

  "That's silly."

  "No, it ain't. We'd have been made differently. As would the chickens and cucumbers and everything else as came from Eeden. The Deotheorists say that all the kinds of life there are, are spelled out by different words. These aren't like our words, that we speak. They're very long magical words—so long, it would take you ten thousand pages to write but a single one of 'em. These words are written in our flesh. If you change the spelling, you change the shape of life.

  "When we arrived here, whatever it was as brought us read all the words of this world back to the God-Mind. He thought about them, learned the language of life here, then he changed the spelling of our own words so as we would fit in.

  "And on a hundred other worlds elsewhere, other words were read. And other shapes was bom.

  "Only the God-Mind can understand these words and change our spelling. It only takes Him minutes. Hours at the most. It would take us hundreds of years. I'll warrant He changed our stomachs and our blood quite a bit. Though not our outward looks. We look the same as we would back in Eeden."

  If the God-Mind hadn't changed our appearance, why assume that he had changed us in secret, hidden ways? This seemed to be a completely unnecessary theory, in high need of the "razor of logic" to cut it out. I said so.

  "Why is the idea handed down, if it's unnecessary?" demanded Andri.

  "Because it gives the Brotherhood an excuse to rule the roost."

  He grinned broadly. "Ah, you've solved it all in a twinkling! Simplicity itself!" He leaned closer. "Simple as a fellow shoving his squirter in a woman and making a baby pop out nine months later! Would you care to explain just how a baby is made, eh? Or how does a seed make a plant? Come on: tell me the recipe."

  "A plant makes itself out of soil and water. A baby makes itself out of its mother and the food she eats."

  "How? How does it make itself?"

  I knew how to stop a baby, with a draught of Safe. But actually I was floundering. It occurred to me that maybe Andri's "long words" were what "genes" were; but "genes" was only a word itself, without much meaning. "It starts out tiny and gets bigger," I said.

  "So this here fellow squirts a tiny baby into the woman, does he? Too tiny to see with the eye? How does he make it in the first place?"

  "No, the woman has a tiny egg in her—"

  "How does the egg become a person? What tells it?" Andri guffawed. "Look, girl: words—very long words written very small with a million million letters in each word—that's what makes a baby. The word of God. Made flesh." He gazed at me. "Don't have any such notions, do you? Never even give it a thought. Just get on living soft lives—"

  "Hey, I resent that! Working a boat isn't any holiday."

  "Like beasts, that don't question."

  "We're beasts, are we? So now we come to the nub of it. What hatred you must feel for women! What a load of fear! Yes, I said fear. Let me tell you something, mister: you're no better than the rest of those Sons. Worse, probably. Whatever it is that you re after, you're screwing yourself up twice as bad."

  "Maybe it is in Man's nature to torment himself, for truth. To strive."

  I snorted. "And not in Woman's nature, I suppose."

  "Yourself excluded. Naturally?"

  This exchange seemed to be taking rather a vicious turn. Partly my own fault, I admit.

  Just then Jothan cut in. "You've failed, girl. You wouldn't last ten minutes. You'd be in the ducking stool. Shrew. Scold. Argumentifier. Heretic. Disobeyer." Placidly he stirred the soup. "Why, you ain't even doing the cooking."

  Andri actually winked at me. " 'Tis true, what he says. You'll have to watch that tongue of yours. Or you'll end up pickled or cooked, yourself. The Brotherhood don't brook opinionated females. Us, of course, we're broad-minded. And we're still way out in no-man's- land."

  "You'll have to act more appeasing," said Jothan. "Truesoil is, you'd better just stay shut up."

  "Okay, point taken," I said. "No one's eavesdropping on us here. So, Andri, do you or don't you believe that you're an artificial person, a dummy? Tell me: I'm fascinated."

  "Whatever you start out believing, Yaleen, you'll believe to the end of your days—even if you convince yourself you've changed your mind a dozen times, and turned all your thoughts inside-out. 'Tis true. You can't wash out the dye you're first dipped in. The best you can be is aware of this. Then at least you'll know what stains you always, even when you're going against the grain."

  "Dipped in dye, is it?" And I had been dipped in the black current. . . .

  How I rejoiced that I'd been bom in the east, where people could be happy. Nobody could be happy on this other shore. They must be mad to give themselves up to such misery, when they could have used the river as the highroad to prosperity, variety, civilized lives. As I thought this, something deep in me and far below the surface seemed to agree and flood me with a wry euphoria.

  "Soup's ready," Jothan announced.

  We walked for the best part of another day till we reached a rough road running north and south. The trail stopped short of this road, leaving a mask of undergrowth. We must have veered quite a way inland, far from the river.

  Andri jerked his thumb southerly. "Worlzend's that-a-way. We head north. We'll come to Pleasegod in a couple of hours. You'll stay out of sight with Jothan, till I End you decent raiment. If we meet someone beforehand—"

  "I know. I'll dive into the nearest bush."

  "That might look furtive. Just keep your trap shut. Glance demurely at the ground."

  We did soon pass a curious contrivance: a cart loaded with packages, drawn by two huge hairy hounds, the like of which I'd never seen before. A skinny man trotted behind, clad in doublet and breeches, cocked hat and wooden clogs, flicking the air
with a whip. He paid us scant heed, beyond a nod and a raking glance across me. Averting his gaze from my companions' machetes, he stepped up his pace and lashed the hounds.

  "He didn't seem any too curious," I said when he'd passed.

  Jothan grunted. "He couldn't be fool enough to fancy we'd rob him on the high road. I've no wish for a gibbet."

  "What's that?"

  "Gallows, girl, gallows! Hung up high to rot. God's Peace guards the high road. Sons of Adam hunt you down, if you transgress it."

  "The way they hunt witches down? How many women do disobey?"

  "Not many. A few. Those as get seduced to the river, as if it sings 'em a song. Enough for entertainment once or twice a year, most places."

  "You call the burning of women entertainment?”

  "I don't, specially. Mobs do. We're all bloody ignorant savages compared with you, clever cocky superior Yaleen. 'Cept on certain matters such as Andri mentioned. Such as why we're here at all; and how."

  An hour later we approached a laden barrow, pushed by a stout, black-cloaked woman. Her man strolled along with a single parcel tucked under his jerkined arm. Presumably it had bounced off the barrow and couldn't be fitted back on. The woman eyed me venomously, no doubt on account of my male attire.

  "Ho," said the man, halting. He wore a bronze medal round his neck, with a circle and arrow design. In his belt was tucked a hollow tube of metal with a handle, which I assumed must be some sort of cudgel. "God's Peace, save you from Satan!"

  "Save you," replied Andri with a smile.

  "Who's she? Brotherhood business?"

  "No, no. No problem, Brother." Andri made to move on.

  "Wait a bit. I asked who."

  "Oh, we're prospectors, Brother. We took her with us to cook, carry and comfort. Piranha-mice got her clothes. Had to lend her some." Andri had already told me that's what they called those ravenous little beasts.

  "Piranha-mice? Close by?" The man looked dubious.

  "Close enough. Better push on. Getting dark soon, isn't it?"

  "I'm safe enough."

  "Not from mice."

  The man scrutinized me. Remembering advice, I glanced briefly at the ground. "What kind of cook is a skinny wretch without an ounce of fat? What comfort's she?"

  Andri grinned wickedly. "Thieving cook. Had to teach her a lesson."

  "Thieving cooks wax plump."

  "Not if they're fasted."

  "Doesn't figure. You cook the meals yourself, keep her tethered?"

  "Oh, he's a bom joker, this one." Jothan nudged Andri aside. Suddenly he looked alarmed, and cocked an ear. "Hark . . . Thought I heard a rustling."

  "Mice, this far north?"

  "First time for everything, Brother!" Jothan shoved me. "Get along, hussy, while there's still flesh on those bones. God speed," he called over his shoulder. And on we walked; though the man stood watching us till we rounded the next corner.

  "Busybody," muttered Andri, once we were out of sight. "At least there ain't nothing like your mirror and lantern signals over here. Though one thing the Sons do have, is pistols."

  I repeated, "Pistols?"

  He stuck a finger in his belt, where the man had stowed his tube, pulled it out and said, "Bang. Kill you at a hundred paces. Hopefully. Cost a bit, take weeks to craft."

  "Oh."

  "I'd trust myself to throw a knife first. Pompous things, pistols. As soon explode your hand, as kill your enemy. In my opinion." His eyes narrowed. "Don't know about pistols, hmm? Mentioned none in your account of the east."

  "You never asked," said I quickly. "Can't mention everything."

  He caught and shook me. "Don't tell any lies, Yaleen! Lies catch you out!"

  Soon, at dusk, we arrived on the outskirts of Pleasegod. I stayed in hiding with Jothan while Andri sallied into the town, returning after half an hour with a bundle for me: a ghastly ankle-length frock, with cowl, wrapped around a pair of rope sandals. It was pretty dark by now but I could still tell how hideous the costume was. Surrendering my own well-made serviceable boots and breeches from behind a bush, I watched them disappear into Andri's backpack. I never saw them again.

  Being now in disguise as a penitent, slavish female, I attracted no attention in Pleasegod, where we spent that night at the Gladfare Inn. The size of this institution puzzled me at first, till I realized that over here men must be on the hoof constantly. Our own eastern inns were simply places where you caroused. Most eastern travellers had their own floating homes along with them. Those women and girls who hadn't, rented private rooms chosen from the town register.

  The Gladfare Inn was boisterous with boozers, in its long hall and out in its colonnaded courtyard. Above the hall rose two storeys of shabby bedchambers equipped with straw mattresses on trestles, ewers of water, soap like chunks of yellow rock. That evening I stayed in my room with the door barred, occasionally peeping down at the lantem-lit courtyard where Andri and Jothan had repaired to amuse themselves. Down below was a jollity in which I could not join. Apparently "a certain type" of woman drank in taverns. Subsequently I heard thumping and crashing on the stairways and corridors, shrieks, and giggles.

  In the morning Jothan confessed that there was a more salubrious inn located behind the Donjon, where respectable men with respectable wives would stay. But we weren't seeking the company of pillars of society, were we?

  Pleasegod in the morning was a sprawling, tatty, smelly place, with rubbish lying around in the streets, disconcerting nobody but me. Yet from early on it was bustling with barrows, porters, carts, costermongers—all the more bustling, I suppose, because of the low level of technical aids. In other circumstances I might have accounted the enormous marketplace as picturesque, but for me it was overshadowed by two of the buildings flanking it: the great brick prayerhall, and yes, the stem stone Brotherhood Donjon, before which lay a patch of ashes where no one trod.

  The heart had quite gone out of travelling, for me. I, who had wanted to see the whole world! Never would I desire to add Pleasegod to the roll-call of other towns I'd visited—blessed names like Aladalia and Ajelobo. Even dirty Guineamoy and neglected Port Barbra seemed paradises by comparison.

  I felt the same about the succeeding towns along our route: Dominy, and Adamopolis, each of them spaced apart by half a dozen intervening hovel villages. Life went on there, true; but it wasn't my idea of living.

  North of Pleasegod we met an increasing volume of traffic on the high road; and travellers tended to gang up in bands of six to ten folk to while away the trudge convivially with songs and tales. But company was the last thing we wanted. We shrugged off invitations to join a party and attempts to tag along with us.

  It had been ages since I had caught sight of the river even distantly. Once we left Adamopolis behind, though, the high road climbed up through hills verging on mountains. The jungle dwindled; and I thought I knew where we were now, for when I'd been sailing north of Spanglestream I had spied peaks inland to the west.

  The highest point of our climb afforded a grand view east across leagues of land.

  How could anyone enjoy the view? A grisly monument marked it. Boulders were piled together. From their midst rose a pole which supported a rusty cage in the shape of a human body: an iron suit, with a padlock fastening it. Within, a skeleton. This death-cage creaked and grated in the wind. But had the condemned person been dead before their body was locked in—or not? I didn't ask. A group of travellers had stopped to mumble and make signs, and glance furtively at the vast perspective. . . .

  Far away, sunlight glinted from a long strip of water, thin and insignificant at such a distance. Even further to the north-east I noted a vague grey fuzz, like a blur in my eye. Could it be the smoke of Guineamoy?

  "So here's Lookout Gibbet," Andri muttered sourly. "Don't stare at the river, Yaleen."

  We hastened by.

  Soon we were descending, somewhat riverwards, into forested terrain where I could see our destination nestling in the foothills.

&n
bsp; * * *

  Manhome South was a substantial town lying in the cup of a valley, fronting a thin crescent-shaped lake. From above, it almost looked civilized. Broad streets of two- and three-storey timber houses were set out in a grid pattern. These residences petered out into a mass of humbler dwellings built with mudbricks and roofed with reeds— though the grid persisted throughout. By the lakeside rose several large edifices of stone and proper brick.

  Jothan pointed. "There's the Tithe Exchequer . . . That's the Brotherhood Donjon, and the Theodral nearby. . .

  "Theodral?"

  "The Deotheorist HQ. And over there's the Academy of Techniques."

  Quite a centre of administration and learning! On such matters as how to build death-cages, or bore metal tubes which could kill people from afar. . . .

  Once down in the outskirts of Manhome South, we loitered in a scrofulous public park till nightfall. Then we made our way through the blacked-out streets—lit only by whatever glow escaped from houses, plus starlight—till we arrived at a three-storey dwelling surrounded by bushes and a fence.

  Jothan and I stayed outside while Andri slipped in through the gate. He was immediately greeted by the savage raving of a hound— which he must have known well, since it shut up quickly. Presently he reappeared, to conduct us round in the darkness to the back stoop where a door stood ajar, spilling dirty amber light. We entered a kitchen. A tall, freckle-faced man awaited us, dressed in a loose grey linen robe. Bunches of gingery hair like thin rusty wire sprouted from the sides and back of an otherwise balding, spotted cranium. On his upper lip grew an incongruously neat little ginger brush of a moustache. Standing there with his big hairy knuckles loosely clenched, he looked as tough as a plank. But he wore spectacles, too, glassy windows behind which his watery eyes were thoughtful.