Alhazred

by Donald Tyson

  “Poamala yaida raas,” he said, pointing at the gate, and repeated the words over and over.

  When he saw that I intended to approach the wall through the tall grasses and thorny plants that grew in the clearing to the height of our waists, he made a motion to leave us and return into the forest. I caught his elbow and shook my head, indicting as well as I could that I wanted him to stay. It occurred to me that his knowledge might prove useful. He writhed in my grasp like a child, but made no attempt to strike me with his fists or stab me with his stone dagger. With tears springing into his brown eyes, he let me pull him into the clearing.

  It was curious that the thorns pricking my thighs through my cloak grew no where else in the valley that I had seen. The grass showed little evidence of the passage or browsing of large beasts. I stopped ten paces from the wall and examined it. No joints between its blocks were visible. It seemed to soak up the light of the sun and return nothing other than a dull luster similar to obsidian that has been polished with sand. Its surface was not perfectly flat, but rippled gently like a pool of black water frozen in its motion. The thought came to me that the wall had been poured into place, but I dismissed this notion as fanciful.

  I had to drag the trembling Enoki northward through the thorns toward the gate. Over and over he babbled poamala yaida raas, and sometimes he added in his shrill voice oxiayal teloc, but what these strange words might mean I could not guess. They were not in his own language, so much I could judge from their sound. As we neared the gate, his legs failed him. He lay rolling in the grass and the thorns, keening like a frightened child. Nothing I could do would force him to his feet, even though the thorns cut his naked skin and made him bleed in innumerable places.

  I turned to study the gate. It stood twice the height of a man and equally wide, its double doors of black wood bound with what appeared to be heavy iron straps, although they showed no appearance of rust. The heads of the nails that secured the straps of the hinges to the massive planks were as large as my fist, and in shape like a pyramid. It was evident from the undisturbed growth of grass and thorn bushes that the gate had not been opened for many years.

  “I do not like the look of it,” Martala murmured.

  “What is to like or dislike? It is a door.”

  The brooding black surface of the ebon planks and the threatening points on the nail heads mocked my careless words.

  There was little hope that I could force the gate, even should it be unbolted and open inward, yet I determined to make the attempt. I looked around in the grass for a stone, and dug one half-embedded from the sod that was so heavy, I could only with difficulty hold it in one hand.

  “I will bang on the gate and try to arouse a gatekeeper, if there is such a being.”

  Enoki must have divined my intention from my purposeful motion toward the gate, for he could not have understood my words. He leaped to his feet with a scream and ran past Martala before she could move to catch him. He ran back toward the forest along the track we had made in the grass. When he was near the trees, he turned. His head and shoulders were visible above the grass. Anger replaced terror on his childlike, yet strangely knowing, countenance. He pulled his stone knife from his arm and held it pointed toward me. Babbling in his own tongue, he made thrusting gestures that conveyed his meaning. We were no longer welcome in his village.

  Replacing his knife, he turned his back upon us and walked with dignity into the shadows of the trees.

  I paid little attention to his departure, but turned to search for an easy approach to the portal. The grass was taller, the brambles thicker, at the base of the gate, and in addition there grew a profusion of bright red flowers on wiry stems. I started to press them apart, trying to avoid the thorns that pricked and pierced my cloak.

  Martala grasped my shoulder and jerked me back a step, just as I raised my hand to the amazingly smooth planks. I shrugged off her grasp with annoyance.

  “Alhazred, the flowers.”

  Her words meant nothing to me, but her tone of warning was plain enough. I met her gaze, then turned to look past her at the clearing. Not a single red blossom grew elsewhere amid the tall grasses.

  “What makes the flowers grow?” she asked, as though posing a riddle.

  “The dung of the camel, or the horse,” I murmured thoughtfully.

  “Or the dead flesh of beasts,” she said, finishing my thought.

  I dropped the stone, and bent my knees so that I crouched amid the grass. Taking care to avoid thorns, I parted the shoots to expose their roots. Amid them were innumerable bones of animals, some small, others large. Many were the bones of birds, but I saw what appeared to be the skull of a wild pig. With care, I stood and backed another step away from the gate.

  We set out walking north through the clearing with the wall on our right side, and in time reached a corner similar to the corner in the south under which the stream ran. Rounding it, my heart fell. The wall continued eastward into the distance, unbroken by door or window.

  “If we walk to the far end, we might find another gate,” Martala suggested.

  “Yes. And it might be as treacherous as the first. I am hot, and not in a humor to walk for miles through this thicket.”

  I retraced our way along the path we had beaten down, continuing past the gate, and past the place where the track of our feet bent into the forest. Martala followed without comment. I stopped on the bank of the stream. As I had hoped, there was a space between the surface of the bubbling water and lower foundation of the wall, the footing of which extended but a little way into the soil of the plain.

  For the sake of satisfying my own curiosity, I squatted and clutched the sod with my hand as I let my boots slip off the lip of the bank and into the icy water. It swirled around my thighs. I waded to the opposite bank and with difficulty pulled myself out. As I had suspected, the black wall beyond the corner extended just as far and as straight as it had in the north. It must enclose a rectangle of considerable land. Martala waited patiently until I returned to the stream and slid my legs into its waters. Silver fish darted away from my heels, flashing as they rose near the surface of the swirling dark flow. This was a favorable omen. What did not kill the fish would not kill us.

  I started wading through the water toward the wall. With a shrug, Martala let herself into the stream and followed. There was little reason to fear the wall itself, since no flowers grew along its base. Even so, some undefined dread made me hesitate as I extended my hand to touch its lower edge. The chill surface lay inert beneath my fingers.

  Untying my wallet, I doubled it and slung both pockets over my shoulder with its strap in my left hand. I bent forward and crawled beneath the wall, half floating on the current, my free hand clutching the slime-covered domes of submerged stones. The underside of the wall rubbed my wallet and the water lapped at my face and blinded me. Through the swirl of bubbles I saw a patch of brightness ahead and pulled myself along in that direction, letting the swiftness of the stream carry me forward.

  The wall could not have been more than ten paces thick, but seemed nearer a hundred. With intense relief, I lifted my face from the icy kiss of the stream and shook water from my hair and ear-holes.

  In spite of my lack of expectation, I felt disappointment. A short distance from the bank grew a forest of tall trees, in every visible respect identical to the forest on the other side of the wall. The stream wound its way in a northeasterly direction between the trunks, the overhanging boughs of the giants almost cutting off the blue of the sky above it.

  I pulled myself out on the northern bank and sat in the short grass to empty my boots. Martala sputtered and cursed as her face broke the surface, then began to cough. She threw her wallet down beside me and sat on her rump to pull off her boots, which were uncommonly tight. How she could walk in them was a mystery to me, but she had sworn several times in the past that they fit
ted her well. I decided to take advantage of the small patch of sunlight that reached the banks where the stream exited the wall, and drew off my cloak and tunic to dry them. If we walked in our wet clothing amid the deep shadows of the forest, we might not be dry before nightfall, or even by the following day.

  The shriek of the girl made me clutch the place where the ivory hilt of my dagger should have been as I whirled on my bare heel. She sat squealing her delight, a sodden boot in one hand, and in the other a stone the size of a grape that gleamed like old wine in the sunlight. Laughing, she raised it to her eye and looked at me through its rounded sides. I stared at her and cursed. We both dove for the stream at the same instant, and for several moments floundered around in its chill depths with our faces beneath its surface. When I unbent my back I held five lumps of amber in my left hand and three in my right. Martala’s cupped palms overflowed.

  Chapter 43

  The sun moved slowly past its zenith. Its strong rays drove the water from the linen tunics and raised wisps of steam from the darker cloaks. I let my thin undershirt dry on my body, but the girl stripped to the skin and carefully laid all her garments in a row along the grassy bank with the fastidiousness of her sex. Her limbs gleamed in the sunlight, singing a wordless song of vitality and youth.

  The amber lay in heaps on the grass. There was more than we could carry on our backs. It littered the bed of the stream, some pieces larger than my fist. I decided to select the best lumps of a convenient size for trade and of the highest quality. We could come back for what remained with the camel, assuming we were able to persuade the savages to return our mount. I picked the piles over while Martala watched, then divided the chosen stones and put half into my wallet wrapped in a scrap of rag to protect them from scratches. The girl loaded her wallet with the rest.

  A female antelope of the same diminutive kind that we had seen on the other side of the wall came from the trees while we were occupied with the amber. She glanced once at us, then went to the edge of the water and spread her front legs, stretching down her long neck to drink. She raised her head, wiggled her enormous ears, and walked back into the forest without sparing us a second glance. I wondered if she had ever seen a human being.

  We dressed without haste and followed in the same general direction. The forest floor was open and easy to walk upon, apart for wind-downed trees that lay like moss-covered leviathans, their supine trunks higher than our heads. The upper canopy of leaves was hidden in shadows, save here and there, when the sun forced its slanting way through some small gap, illuminating the mists like smoke. I was able to judge the passage of the hours by the angle of its rays. Moss swallowed the sound of our footfalls. We heard many birds but saw only a few, when they chanced to flit through sunbeams from one treetop to another with flashes of their brightly colored wings.

  At length, we came upon a path, or more properly a road, for it was ten paces broad, and made from enormous brown paving stones each wider than a man is tall. So tightly were they fitted, not a single blade of grass or tuft of moss grew up between them. The overhanging trees covered them in deep shadows, so that the stones felt cool to the touch. The path was broad enough to accommodate a marching army. Since we had encountered no trace of humanity within the wall, I wondered what creature walked it, and hoped that other affairs occupied it today.

  We followed the paved path as it wound between the great trees, and came to a place where it divided into two branches. Without hesitation, I took what I judged to be the more easterly way, for I wished to penetrate to the east end of the enclosure to determine it if possessed a gateway that might lead to a passage out of the valley. It was no simple task to maintain a direction, for the path wound back upon itself like the body of a dragon. Repeatedly we encountered branches on the walkway that led into the shadows. It was with relief that I recognized the gentle gurgle of the brook somewhere beyond sight on my right. The waters of the valley flowed eastward, so I knew we must still face that direction. It was all too easy a matter to become lost amid the maze of the pathways.

  I had given up all expectation of anything but forest inside the black wall, when without warning the trees ceased and gave way to a large meadow with two gentle grass-covered hills, between which flowed along a deep crease the swift waters of the brook. We stood at the edge of the clearing and gazed at it in wonder, for it was not a natural landscape, but had been crafted by some cunning mind. The hills were exactly equal in height, their rounded domes like soft breasts on a reclining woman. On the crest of each hill grew a single enormous tree, larger even that the trees of the moss-cloaked forest behind us. The tree on the left hill was green with leaves and flourishing, but the tree on the right hill projected into the blue heavens like a skeleton, its leaves and bark long since perished, leaving only naked limbs that resembled bones. Branches broken from it by the wind littered the ground beneath it like the ribs of some ancient monster. Between the hills, a stone bridge with an ornately carved panel arising at the center of its parapet spanned the brook in a shallow arch.

  At the limit of the forest the paved walkway ceased. The grass in the meadow grew no higher than our ankles, and had a mowed appearance, being regular in its height. No boulders or stumps marred its smooth expanse. Surely it was a kind of park maintained by a keeper, or saplings from the forest would have covered it within the span of a dozen years. As we walked from beneath the long shadows of the trees at our backs, I looked for a caretaker’s house, but the vast meadow stretched to the margin of the wood on either side and gave no sign of occupation. At the east end the grassy expanse was limited by a black wall, unbroken by any gate. The watercourse flowed beneath it and in this way passed out from the enclosure. The hills of the valley rose steeply just beyond the wall in two distinct peaks.

  “What is this place, Alhazred?” Martala asked in a hushed whisper.

  Having no answer, I said nothing. The meadow possessed the solemnity of a holy place and impelled deference. The wall of leaves behind us dimmed the ceaseless cries of birds. Even the gurgle of the brook was muted by its deep course between overhanging banks. The warm air lay still and hushed. I welcomed the sun after the gloom under the trees, but felt unease in my heart. Every instinct informed me that I did not belong here, that it would be in the interests of my health to depart at once.

  As we approached the northern hill with the living tree, I saw that ripe red fruit weighed down its massive boughs. So many globes grew on each limb that the lower branches brushed the grass.

  Martala went forward to pick one that hung within easy reach. Some memory caused me to stop her with a harsh word. She turned with a look of inquiry. Behind her shoulder, a slender serpent, its ebon body spotted with irregular patches of orange and yellow, slid over the curve of the pear-shaped fruit she had been about to take between her fingers. At the sight of the serpent, I remembered.

  “This place is described in a book by Ibn Schacabao that I read several years ago while at Sana’a. The sage reports that the fruit of this tree is poisoned by the venom of serpents, and is deadly to eat.”

  She returned her gaze to the tree, and flinched away from the viper that extended its bobbing head toward her. The distance was great enough that the snake could not strike, but she stepped quickly back. As though in disappointment, it curled its lurid body around the fruit. A single blue drop fell from its open mouth and ran down the sun-warmed side.

  The entire tree was filled with snakes. Now that our eyes were looking for them, we saw them everywhere amid the thick leaves. Each red globe had its own guardian. In places, tangled masses of newborn serpents writhed like the head of a gorgon, watched over with maternal care by the one that had given them birth. The babies were like worms, but even the fully-grown vipers extended no more than a cubit from nose to tail.

  “Schacabao wrote much concerning the virtues of their venom as a poison, the details of which I will not bore you with. It is enough to k
now that it is deadly to consume, and that a single scratch from a blade steeped in it will bring death in seconds.”

  “I am no longer hungry.”

  We laughed from nervous relief. It would have been so easy to plunge our arms into the foliage of the tree seeking the luscious fruit. Such are the practical benefits of scholarship, where information gained in hours of leisure may prove useful during times of uncertainty.

  Did you see the serpents, Sashi?

  Of course, my love.

  Yet you said nothing.

  You were not in danger, dear one.

  This remark, unheard by Martala, I set aside on the shelf of my memory for future consideration. What affection or lack of it Sashi felt toward Martala was not a matter into which I had troubled to inquire, but it might become necessary to do so. The girl was useful to me, and I would regret to have her killed through the negligence of my spirit lover.

  “I wish we had some vessel into which we could collect this poison,” I murmured. “Schacabao writes that it dries in the sun into blue crystals that may be diluted to a near infinite degree without loss of potency.”

  “Why would we want it? You are not a poisoner.”

  “No. Poison is a weapon of the royal court, not of the countryside. Its use on a blade is an expression of malice, nothing more, since common poisons act too slowly to determine the outcome of a battle. However, this venom is uncommon and would be a valuable commodity for trade.”

  “I have nothing that would hold it,” Martala said with complacency.

  “Perhaps if I emptied out the salt cellar—”

  “Alhazred, no! We would have no salt with our fresh vegetables. You know the salt would spoil if you tied it in a cloth. Our sweat would turn it to a lump of stone.”