Alhazred

by Donald Tyson

  He stopped when he stood near enough to strike with his knife. Its point angled in the direction of my heart. I resisted the urge to raise my sword. Upon the air I smelled a spice strange to me, but pleasant, akin to cinnamon. It was several moments before I realized that the fragrance came from the little savage.

  In a soft voice, much like the voice of a child, he spoke a few words, then repeated them, his intelligent dark eyes fixed on mine. It was a language unknown to me, and equally unknown to the dead Egyptian necromancer Nectanebus, whose desiccated flesh was my flesh. More than this, it did not resemble any language that I had ever heard.

  I glanced at the girl, who shook her head to indicate that she did not understand. When I looked back, the dagger was moving forward. The flinch of my muscles came automatically, but by good fortune my sword was not in a position to strike. Before I could raise it, the little man dropped his eyes, and still murmuring in so soft a voice that I could barely hear him, bent to his knees on the hard-packed mud of the clearing and laid his knife at my feet, with the point directed at himself.

  Chapter 42

  Silently, the other savages imitated their leader, and knelt to lay their stone knives on the ground, their heads bowed.

  I stared at them, perplexed. In the throne room at Sana’a I had often watched the king receive foreign delegations. The message of these little naked men could not be mistaken. They wished peace and friendship with us. Though I tried not to show it, I was greatly relieved. Small they might be, but had they wished they could have overwhelmed and killed us.

  “Put away your dagger,” I told Martala in a mild voice.

  Sheathing my sword, I gently touched the man at my feet on the shoulder. He started and trembled, but held his gaze down. Only at my insistent nudges did he at last look up and allow himself to be raised to a standing posture. I gestured for the other men to stand. They watched me covertly with their heads bowed, but not one stirred until their leader spoke a few quiet words. They got up and stood gathered together in silence.

  Bending, I picked up the stone dagger and passed it back to the leader, hilt first. This gesture pleased him. He smiled and turned to show the others what I had done. They nodded and grinned with approving noises, then retrieved their knives from the ground. Following the example of their leader, they slid their arms through the braided loop at the end of the hilts and pulled the slip knots tight above their elbows, so that the knives hung point downward from their upper arms.

  It appeared an awkward way to carry a weapon, but perhaps they did not regard the knives as weapons. With their downcast eyes and quiet voices, they formed an uncommonly peaceful group of savages. None of them would look at my face for more than a moment except their leader, and even he wore an expression of awe. I was glad that I had renewed the veil of glamour out of habit earlier in the day, or they might never have left the forest.

  Their initial terror abated by degrees. They were fascinated by the camel, and stood around it, caressing its hair. Its belly hung just lower than their heads, so that with only a slight bow and a bend of their knees, they could walk between its legs from one side to the other. The placid creature refrained from biting or kicking them.

  Women and children began to emerge from the trees. The women were as naked as their men, but in addition to the strings of amber beads, they wore colored bands of woven grasses in their hair, interlacing numerous fine braids. Their faces, which were attractive in a childlike way, bore no tattoos. The tiny breasts of the older girls and younger women stood away from their chests like the breasts of Nubian slave girls. Only in the older women did they sag. None had more than a small tuft of dark hair on her lower belly that failed utterly to conceal the outline of her sex. Their bodies were like those of normal women, but reduced in size, giving the curious illusion when I looked at them that they stood further away than was true.

  The women gathered around Martala and around me with the same enthusiasm the men displayed toward the camel. They chattered in their soft language and touched our tunics beneath our open cloaks with their fingertips. I realized they had never before seen cloth, and believed it to be an exceptionally fine weave of grasses.

  “Show them your silk scarf,” I told Martala.

  When she drew the red silk from her leather wallet, they gave exclamations of wonder and delight, holding the silk up to their eyes. They were fascinated at being able to see through it so easily. I noticed several sniff the silk and wrinkle their faces in disgust. Even though it had been washed along with the rest of our garments, it still smelled faintly of sweat, whereas every member of this tiny race smelled of spice.

  I discovered the reason for their odor of paradise when they invited us to share their food. The spice formed a staple of their diet. They probably ate it every day, and it mingled with the sweat on their skin, scenting it with a kind of perfume. We sat on small round mats of grass, woven with beautiful colors, that were arranged in a circle. The leader sat at my right side, Martala at my left. The men of the tribe took their places with crossed legs on the other mats while their women laid out wooden bowls and plates of various foods in the center, then sat down facing the men and ensured that everyone could eat what he wished by passing the vessels around the circle.

  As a sign of hospitality, I took off my wallet and offered them portions of our own rations. They made noises of appreciation at the figs and other dried fruit, but spat out the tiny bits of dried meat they tried on their tongues. In return for a taste of their spice, I let them sample the salt in our salt cellar, and this they also rejected. I judged that none of them had ever tasted salt in its concentrated form. Their own variety of fig was different in flavor from ours, having less sweetness. When I gave them sips of wine, they made faces but did not refuse a second drink.

  It was evident that of wine or beer they knew nothing, and possessed no milk other than what flowed from the breasts of their women. They kept no livestock of any kind that could be milked or butchered, and no fowl from which to gather eggs. Their diet appeared to consist in the main of soft roots, nuts and berries gleaned from the forest trees and plants. This they varied with uncooked patties shaped from coarse flour, made by grinding the heads of wild grain in their mortars, and allowing the pastry to rise by some natural process on flat stones in the heat of the sun.

  My speculation about the origin of the dried strips of meat we had found in the huts was satisfied when a group of laughing children dragged a wild pig, squealing in protest, from the forest on the end of two braided grass ropes that encircled its neck. Flowers of white and red petals that were bound to its ears, tail and legs gave it a festive appearance. Smiling, the leader of the tribe gestured for us to rise from our places of honor on the mats. The entire tribe stood up from the bowls and baskets of food and formed an irregular line in pairs behind the pig, while the leader of the tribe took up his solitary place in front. The children handled the ropes in such a way as to guide the grunting and squealing beast where they wished.

  I glanced at Martala and shrugged. We were their guests, and it was evident they wished us to accompany them. We fell into step behind the headman. The procession undulated along a well-beaten path through the dark forest, beneath the over-arching boughs of massive trees, to another clearing of compacted clay at no great distance from the huts. The clearing was roughly circular in shape, with a standing stone in its center. I studied it in surprise, for it was remarkably similar in color and shape to the pillar adored by the Beast of Babylon on its lonely mountain plateau, although this stone was only the height of a man. No mark of ax or hammer marred its irregular squared surface. It rose from a flat disk resembling a millstone, made of the common rock of the valley. Rusty stains surrounded the base of the pillar, and flies swarmed over it in unusual numbers. I recognized the scent but said nothing to the girl.

  I wanted to approach the pillar to see if it held the same fine veins of ruby ru
nning through its shiny jet surface as the larger pillar of the Beast, but the reverence shown to the stone by the savages made me hesitate. They came no nearer than a crescent of eleven smaller boulders of common brown rock that had been placed on the north side of the clearing. For a time I puzzled over their arrangement, then realized that they were set at the limit of the shadow cast by the central pillar. It was evident from their behavior that the clearing served them as a kind of temple.

  The excitement of the children overwhelmed their respect for the black stone. Laughing and crying out with delight, they dragged the uncooperative pig toward the pillar by pulling the ropes past it on either side, until the head of the pig touched the irregular glassy surface. The rest of the tribe gathered close to the crescent of small rocks that had the great stone at its focus. The leader went forward with a grave expression and raised his palms. He began to chant. I did not understand his words, but it seemed to my ears that the language was different from what he had spoken to me, both more ancient and harsher in its tone.

  When he finished, the members of the tribe began to sound a strange keening noise in their throats. This rose in pitch and intensity as the leader slid his stone knife down his arm and stepped behind the pig. Using a practiced motion, he grasped the pig by the snout and pulled back its head, then slit its throat so that its blood gushed out upon the base of the pillar. The other members of the tribe, including the children on the ropes, gave a final shout as the legs of the animal buckled and it fell dead.

  Martala stared at the blood with horror. I caught her eye and shook my head to warn her not to speak or show any sign of revulsion. She nodded her understanding and mastered her emotions as four women went forward and surrounded the body of the pig with their knives. In minutes they had cut from it numerous long strips of meat, which they laid in a wooden bowl. We returned with them and the majority of the men, leaving the children and a few of the elders to dispose of the remains of the carcass.

  In the village, the strips of raw meat were first sprinkled with dried herbs, then beaten on flat stones with rounded rocks. This was done with ritual precision, but with much talk and expectant laughter. We resumed our places on the mats of the feast circle. In due time, strips of pig flesh were brought to us on a wooden platter. I sampled it without hesitation, but without much expectation. The taste was a pleasant surprise. The beating had rendered the meat tender, and the herbs provided an agreeable sharpness to the taste. Even Martala did not refuse the offering. It was evident from the expressions of delight on the faces of the feasters that the meat of the pig was their greatest delicacy.

  While the meat was being enjoyed, some of the women went out of the feast circle and gathered a short distance away to sing in sweet high voices, surrounded by the younger children, who sat at their feet listening with avid expressions on their upturned faces. The song, if it was a song, extended itself in bewildering complexity without repetition. My mind was divided between the singing, and the soft conversation of the head man sitting beside me with the village elders, who did their best to make his meaning known to me by gestures and repetitions of his words.

  “What is he saying?” I murmured to Martala when I could do so without being impolite.

  “You are the speaker of lost tongues, you tell me.”

  “A good servant refrains from impertinence.”

  She rolled her eyes, and pondered the gestures for a moment.

  “I think he is asking whether we fell from the sky.”

  At once the meaning of his hand motions became plain. I shook my head and held up my hands with the palms flat as though pushing away. After a moment he seemed to understand. I pointed in the direction where I knew the fissure lay, and formed the shape of a narrow slit with my cupped and joined palms. One of the men on the other side of the circle laughed like a braying donkey, but the leader of the tribe silenced him with a word. He studied my hands and at last widened his eyes in comprehension. When he spoke softly to the men gathered around the circle, they fell quiet and stared at me with curious expressions, mingled awe and dread.

  By his repeated speaking of the words, I gathered that the name of the headman was Enoki, and that the valley or the village was called Edena in their tongue. By pointing at the strips of pig flesh and mimicking the shape of the black pillar, I drew forth the name Yad, which I took to be the name of the pillar, or of their god, or perhaps both. In curiosity, I uttered several names of the Old Ones, but they drew no reaction. This race knew nothing of them, or at least, nothing of their common names. On a chance inspiration, I voiced the name of the god of the Jews, Yahweh. In horror, Enoki touched his fingers to his lips. Several other elders did the same. This name they recognized, but it was not to be spoken aloud.

  The onset of twilight came without any attempt by the savages to murder us, which I took as a sign that our responses at the feast had been acceptable. I made no protest when Enoki led us to an empty hut and offered it to us in his gentle voice. Whoever was its owner, if this tribe understood the meaning of ownership, he gave no sign or word of displeasure when we passed through the doorless entrance with our own sleeping rugs, having entrusted the camel to the care of the children of the village.

  In the morning we were greeted with casual good humor by the savages, but without awe. The formal honors of the day before were not renewed. After eating from our rations, supplemented with some of the flat uncooked bread of our hosts, we left the camel and most of our supplies in the village and set off with our leather wallets on our shoulders in an easterly direction along one of the paths that led away from the clearing. I wished to explore the black wall that I had glimpsed from the mouth of the fissure. Without communication, but with a smiling countenance, Enoki accompanied us. I wondered if he was merely curious about our purpose, or felt an obligation to guide and protect us.

  Whatever his thoughts, a guardian proved unneeded. We kept to the winding but well-trodden path, and met nothing that threatened along the way. Once, a wild pig stopped on the path directly ahead and gazed over its shoulder at our approach with its weak eyes. When it caught Enoki’s scent, it snorted in alarm and darted through the tall ferns with an agility surprising for a creature of its shortness of limb. We stood and listened to the fading rustle of its progress.

  The forest felt warm and cool by turns as we moved from patches of sunlight into depths of shadow. All around us, the chatter and cries of unseen birds continued unceasing, mingled with the lazy drone of flying beetles and the occasional green and gold dragonfly. We walked in a line, me in front, followed by the tiny savage, and then Martala, who had not been comfortable when he tried to fall into step behind her. From time to time, Enoki gestured for us to stop and showed us some plant with an edible root, or a bush bearing berries. I made no objection to these delays. It is always wise to know how to live from the wildness of the land.

  His face was a curious mingling of youth and age. It would have been easy to mistake him for a child, both by his small stature and his nimbleness, but the gray streaks in the upper half of his three braids, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, showed that he was a man of middle years. Even had they been absent, there was a knowingness in the depths of his brown eyes that could only be acquired by the experience of life.

  He was fascinated by my water skin. When I paused beside a stream to fill it, after drinking deeply of its contents, he laughed out loud and clapped his hands in the rapture of his amusement, his dark eyes sparkling. The concept of carrying water in this valley of pure cool streams seemed so outrageous and absurd to him that it overcame his natural good manners. The skull of Gor on my belt also drew his attention. He tried not to look at it when my cloak fluttered open, but his gaze returned to it repeatedly, and once he brushed the rounded surface of the bone with his fingertips, as if by accident.

  The path grew narrower, the bushes encroaching on either side, as we traveled f
urther east. The mood of our escort also changed. He spoke and laughed less often, and began casting nervous glances between the shadowed pillars of the trees. The crack of a twig from the forest floor or the knock of one wind-blown branch against another overhead made him flinch and listen with his ear cocked. His unhappiness was plain, but he said nothing until we reached a fork in the path. The better-traveled track on the right bent south, but the thin and almost invisible left track continued east.

  When I took the left side, Enoki could no longer contain himself. He began to babble softly and make earnest apologetic gestures with his copper hands, indicating that we should turn southward. The other path he pushed away violently. The fear in his eyes was no longer concealed by the thick lashes on his half-lowered eyelids. He licked his lips and tugged gently at my sleeve, reminding me of a dog trying to communicate its wishes to its master.

  I shrugged away with impatience. The black wall lay somewhere in the direction of the left path, and I had no intention of being turned aside by a nervous savage. When he saw that we were determined to defy him, his face took on an expression of sadness mingled with resignation. He followed after me, head bowed, with the gloom of a funeral marcher.

  Abruptly, the forest ended. There was no gradual thinning of the canopy above us. We stepped out from the trees into the sunlight as though exiting the door of a house. On the other side of a clearing of no great width rose the wall I had seen from the fissure. It was just that, a wall the height of a tall palm tree, having no features other than a closed gate some distance to the north. On the opposite side, not far from where we stood, I saw that a tributary of the spring that watered the valley flowed beneath the wall at its corner and vanished beyond.

  I turned to speak to Martala. Enoki stood trembling so severely, he could only with effort sustain himself on his feet. Knees drawn together, he hugged his chest and stared past me at the wall with utter terror. He seemed to forget that Martala and I were with him until I laid my hand on his shoulder. At my touch he screamed and clutched my sleeve. Some sanity returned into his face as he met my curious gaze.