Masters of the Maze

by Avram Davidson

  She cried out, “Oh, don’t!” and turned aside her head, because she was suddenly certain that this was a cruel and elaborate joke; such acts were not common in Red Fish Land, indeed, they were scarcely known … known, though, and though she had thought no one would or could know, but known clearly: her hopeless and ridiculous lust for Far-ven-Sul — she who could easily be his mother and, almost, his grandmother. Someone must have noticed her covert looks, someone must have marked the very quickening of her breath as he passed by … someone … Who …? Who …?

  Who was this pale stranger in black?

  No, no, it was absurd even to think in passing of such old legends and folk tales: the joke was simply that: a joke. Who was engaged in the masquerade, she couldn’t guess, but the whole thing — archaic greeting, costume, and all — must be part of some jest. Perhaps it was connected in some way with the celebrations attendant upon the coming up river of the great red she-fish. It was accident, that was all; it could only be by accident that her name and his name were coupled.

  Still, it hurt. It still hurt.

  “Very well.” Tas-tir-Hella forced her face into a smile. “I have given you assistance, and you will give me Far-ven-Sul. Where is he?”

  The directions were specific enough, by the sound of them. She shrugged, she followed them, her basket dangling from her limp, indifferent hand. It would be too bad, really, if Far-ven-Sul were also engaged in the joke. But she’d see it through … If the experience proved too painful, well, she could always return earlier to her Centra. Or even go somewhere else till that be time.

  He was there, sitting on a rock, idling his weapon in his hand, and looked up, somewhat sullen, but not unfriendly, as she approached. Gesturing toward her basket, he said “What, found no mushrooms?” She shook her head, not speaking, realizing that even if this were a … a hoax … even if she were doomed to be a butt and a victim (though unable to guess why), she still felt the same toward him. His light brown hair fell into his dark brown eyes, and he brushed it away, impatient.

  “No … No mushrooms.”

  “An unlucky day. No game, either. One would think it would be a lucky day, though — wouldn’t you? The mother-fish, I mean.” He gave an impatient exclamation, struck his thigh. “The whole day wasted! And no game, that means no meal. Curse!”

  What difference did it make, hoax, joke, whatever — ? She was face to face with him, close to him, talking to him. Tas-tir-Hella swallowed, held her breath, then said, cautiously courteous, “I’m sorry we’ve both had bad luck — ” (Bad luck?!) — “But, you know, I always bring along more than I need to eat. Look. You see?”

  He ceased to be the petulant hunter, then, became altogether the young man with healthy appetite. Indeed, he gave her a quick hug before they settled down to eat. She ate little enough, excusing herself; but nothing was left in the basket when they were through. Then they talked — Far-ven-Sul talked; she listened, in a happy daze — talked of things of no consequence. Finally, with some hesitation, he proposed that they make love. He was sure that she had so many, such more mature lovers — she would probably find him gauche. Still … if she did not mind … it would make him happy….

  It was not, after all, an unlucky day at all, really.

  Afterward, feeling so euphoric that even mysteries made no matter, she mentioned something (but only something) of the stranger. Far-ven-Sul, stroking her relaxed body, assured her that he had never seen the man, heard nothing of him. “Sounds dull,” he murmured. “Never mind about him …”

  The stranger’s final words to her, however, still were in her ears. Afterward, you will bring him to me, here. In a way, she was fearful of not complying. And in a way she felt grateful. More — could she hope for more? — yes: she could hope that it would not be ended and over soon, so — more.

  “He isn’t dull at all,” she said. “And he … he has a strange talent. Yes,” she disengaged herself gently but continued to hold his hand, “I think we should go up there.”

  Afterward, in the waning daylight, Tas-tir-Hella and Far-ven-Sul came down to the village in silence; she, happy almost to serenity, but between the almost and the serenity there was an uncertain, vague feeling which interposed itself like a mountain between the sunlight and the plain. And he, the hunter, hardly seemed to be aware of outer things, a fierce and prideful hope burned in him, visible and hot. When they saw ahead the first lights go on in the village, he spoke up as though to himself. “He knew what it was that I wanted, and I never spoke of it to anyone. I know that he knows, I know that I never spoke of it. This much I know, and so the rest I will believe. He asks very little, but if that’s all he wants, I can do it. I know where there are such caves, no one else knows. And — and then — if he can arrange to do as he says — oh, if he can do that — ”

  His breath hissed, his breast rose, his hands moved. Then he became silent again.

  When they came to the lane where she would turn off and he would not, Tas-tir-Hella touched his arm. “When shall we see each other again?”

  He looked at her blankly. Then he said, partly amused, partly annoyed, “Because I ate from your basket once, must I eat from it forever? No … Laying is like lunching, and I can do it every day. Thanks,” he added, carelessly, turning away, not seeing her shrink back as the dream turned to ashes. “There is only one thing that I want, and I must have it and I will!” he walked on, still talking as though to himself.

  “And that is to be the one who kills the great red fish!”

  • • •

  Least, least, infinitely the least of all the cognate concerns which vexed Arrettagorretta was the reported disappearance of the Na 27 ‘Parranto 600. His absence had finally been explained — up to a point — by the discovery that he was not only dead but had been ingested by the young fry in the nursery. Piece by piece the evidence accumulated: an old work-Ma (much too old, she had since been directed to cease to take food), when questioned, reported that this was the second superfluous body brought in by the Na 14. The question of the previous one proved to be no question, it was of an old and superannuated work-Na who had died as properly directed.

  But the report of the low-nest sweeper-Na was almost incredible, but, once credited, explained — though it did not excuse — the terror of the witness and his failure to report what he had seen until the massive search and questioning reached him in turn.

  “The Na 14 placed two of his hands about the throat of the Na 27, having approached him from behind, following him when the latter arose in the night to ease himself. He, the Na 14, held him, the Na 27, with his other hands. The latter struggled a while and then ceased to do so.” Such was the report of the witness, which had to be believed. But what reason could the Na 14 have had to commit an act for which there was not only no explanation, but not even a name? To destroy a fellow Chulpex as though he were some lower form of life?

  The Na 14 himself could not be questioned, having departed on his mission along the many-pathed way. His having committed such an act raised an infinity of questions concerning the success of his mission and fitness for it, particularly since the act in question — the destruction of the Na 27 — was committed during the long rest period the night before his departure. It was while musing on this that the ultimate report was brought Arrettagorretta.

  He remained in silence, trying to make sense of it.

  “The egg-count cannot have been mistaken …” It was half-statement, half-question, and the Chief Supervising Ma interpreted it as the latter.

  “The count was made one hundred times and manually and mechanically,” she replied. There was no mistake, clearly.

  “It follows no logic,” the ‘Gorretta-Sire said, slowly aloud, “that eggs should be missing. Could they have not adhered to one or more of the attendants through carelessness.”

  Defensively, the Chief Supervising Ma said, “On very rare occasions this has happened, but it has always been accounted for. On no occasion has any such number, or even approaching
it, adhered to an attendant through carelessness.”

  Sometimes, the Sire had found, in dealing with an illogical situation, that a seemingly-illogical approach might reveal the existent though not priorly apparent logic. “Had anyone passed through or into the hatcheries who had not been authorized to do so? Only an accurate reply,” he cautioned, “can be of service.”

  The Ma hesitated. “An accurate answer can be given,” she said, “only after defining the term itself. Precision and accuracy are not always — ”

  “Reply at once, the Ma! Who entered?”

  “It is always authorized for any to enter, indeed, it is but duty, to bring food consisting of bodies which have ceased to contain life; therefore the entrance of the Na 14 — ”

  The Na 14!

  Instantly the great ‘Gorretta-Sire perceived all, understanding that the Na 14 had destroyed his fellow in order to have a body whereby to gain entry to the hatcheries and that therefrom he had stolen the eggs immediately before his departure: and with what purpose? What possible purpose other than the hideous one of becoming himself a Sire, independent, ruling his own swarm, making his own terms … his own plans … his own conquests … indifferent! indifferent! to the needs, the terrible, urgent needs of all the great Chulpex race! He would never report back, even if capable! Not only had his training gone for nought, it might have gone only into making and raising up an enemy: the Na 14 ‘Parranto 600 would not only nevermore assist invasion, he might well at some future date lead an invasion of his own! He who has slain one, will he abstain from slaying many?

  All, in one mind-searing second, this raced through the brain of the great ‘Gorretta-Sire. Huge, immense, immediate, was his need for anger-outlet. With a roar that shook the charts upon the walls of his chamber, he leaped from his dais and tore the Ma in half; then, bellowing his rage and fear and grief, he hurled his vast body out into the corridors and, trampling and tearing all who failed to flee in time, he made his furious and frantic way to the pen where a sufficient number of the unfit and the superfluous were kept for just such moments.

  At length, sated, recovered, he sent messages revealing the matter to all his fellow Sires. The conference which followed was long and troubled. It was entirely possible that the wretched Na 14 had failed to get through to his destination, in which case no danger need be feared that he and any swarm he might raise would ever retrace the incredible difficulties of the journey and mount an invasion of the Chulpex world. They might hope this to be the case — but if it were the case, they would be no better off. Happen what had, happen what might, again there had been a loss of time and time was as precious as life; indeed, it might be said that time was life.

  Arristemurriste broke the silence. “It might be well that this has happened,” he said. “It has shocked us from our accustomed thought patterns. A new thing has occurred, a new possibility has arisen, a new threat. Now, before we become accustomed to it and sink again into our old dull ways while the world continues to grow cold about us, let us consider a new plan.

  “Everything must be changed, every emphasis placed upon breaking through. The number of mission groups, of trained agents, must be — not only doubled, tripled — but squared, cubed, increased again and again. Let the classrooms never be empty by day or by night. Pour forth our scouts until our swarm-houses sound to the echo of their emptiness. We can no longer wait.

  “We cannot wait!”

  • • •

  “Let us consider the possibility,” said King Wen, “that the Maze was not created in the past, but will be created in the future. As it occupies — and the verb, to occupy, is here used as a mere convenience — as it ‘occupies’ all time or is occupied by all time, this is possible.”

  Benjamin Bathurst shook his head. “This is not possible,” he said, agreeably.

  Enoch ben Jared said, “He is called The Place, for He is the place of the universe; but the universe is not His place. Surely it is but a commonplace, thus, to point out that He who is everywhere is also of necessity everywhen? — though is He bound to any necessity? only if He chooses to be — therefore He even now presides over the Last Judgment and even yet His spirit hovers over the face of the deep at First Beginning.”

  “It cannot be created henceforth,” said Appolonius of Tyana, “for we are too near the end of time, near entropy. Unless we are correct in that time is infinitely divisible and therefore we ourselves will be and in fact already have been.”

  Caressing the muzzle of his bull, the Old Chap murmured that the secret of the Maze lay in its having no secret, the universe being in fact non-serial.

  The Masters smiled at one another, and prepared to meditate calmly for an aeon or two.

  • • •

  But when the Chulpex Sires sent for the ward, living and pulsing fragment of the living and pulsing Maze, they learned that it, too, was gone. They had wondered how the Na 14 had dared. Now they knew. He had thought himself quite safe from pursuit, thus; he must have considered that he had climbed a height and pulled the ladder after him, or crossed a chasm and withdrawn the bridge. He surely believed he had left his Sires and fellows blind and stumbling, unable to know where he had gone, unable to follow.

  “The blow is grievous,” said Arristemurriste, in a muted voice.

  But the ‘Gorretta-Sire, calmed and refreshed by his anger-outlet, lifted an arm and pointed. “He has not taken the charts,” ‘Gorretta said. “He may have already passed onto ways which are not charted …

  “Yet, again, he may not.”

  The conclusion, the decision, was obvious: The Na 14 had to be pursued, and with all power and with all haste.

  As the vote concluded it was now Arrettagorretta who repeated the warning and the words. “We cannot wait. We cannot wait.“

  CHAPTER SIX

  Joseph Bellamy had said good night to his guest and now intended to take his ten o’clock medications and retire for the night himself. It was perhaps too early to tell what, if anything, he might expect from the young man … but the impressions seemed not unfavorable. Gordon appeared a serious and sober type, though inclined to be a bit vague on the precise nature of his writings. Not that Bellamy had been altogether precise, either. But that was not to be expected. One did not blurt out such a matter. One did not say — one could not say — I belong to a secret society, membership in which is limited to freemasons but which does not have any other connection with official or so-called “clandestine” freemasonry. One could not, at a first meeting and over cocktails or dinner or cigars and brandy, reveal that this secret society held in its hands the fate of humankind, which it guarded at great and terrible cost from greater and more terrible disaster. Not yet … Not yet …

  Bellamy knew this as he knew his own name; yet his illness and his weariness and the knowledge that every year the average age of the Esquires of the Sword rose and that every year there were fewer of them — thus the burden increased while the bearers dwindled — made him repeat, unwittingly, the words of the Chulpex Sires: “We cannot wait. We cannot wait.”

  He took his medications and shuffled about the great, chill room gathering things together. He had glanced automatically at the ward-stone on entering; fortunately, all appeared well, no manifestations along the glowing lines of light required his attention. He hoped it would remain so at least until midnight, when his own watch ended, and that of Ralph Wiedemyer began. He hoped, too, that Ralph’s own health at least grew no worse. It should not, if loneliness was “a contributing factor” (cant phrase!), for Ralph lived and always had in a house full of family … family which knew only that “Uncle is a little bit … you know? — but perfectly harmless and really very nice: only he has to be left alone at nights; that’s all …”

  He looked out of the window, seeing that which he knew lay in the direction he looked, though he could not see it even in the daytime, not that it was all that far away in space. Geography rather than distance blocked what was a theoretically possible — should someone only cl
ear away a range of low mountains and straighten out a river valley — view of the Flint lands. They, too, kept (at least Bellamy supposed they still kept) a Vigil, though a short-sighted and thoroughly selfish Vigil it was; had been since the days when General Flint, appropriately enough a friend of Colonel Burr, had broken with the Elected Esquires and founded his own degrees and order.

  Once a year Bellamy received an investigator’s report on the current Flint, a major in the militia or whatever they called it nowadays, or had been; but he had no great faith in it. What the man did in New York was hardly comparable in importance to what he did or hoped to do back there in the pitted hills behind Flint’s Forge — although the report contained general references on this subject, too; Bellamy supposed the investigation firm had some yokel on their gratuities list — ah, well.

  What had that last creature mumbled and whined at him? Much old, much cold. Yes, yes. And not just them, alone. Much gold: that was of course a lie, still, how often must that lie and others like it have been believed, legends of faërie gold which turned to ashes with the setting sun. And not that legend alone, no, the Chulpex were hardly pleasant or innocuous creatures, disliked from mere bigoted ignorance of their mores or folkways: faërie gold, what else? ghouls, ghosts, vampires. But — and this was a perpetual but — the Chulpexes were not the only, though they seemed the greatest, menace posed by the ever-guarded Maze. No —

  Something flickered, something fled, moved like a fluid along a line on the “stone” surface of the ward, which changed color slightly but perceptibly. So near! And then he realized, with astonished horror, that the movement indicated was not on one of the usual lines. Automatically, he started for the “sword,” the thin, thin thing with the short crossbar — But of what use was that, there? It was then he felt again the warning in his chest, the sick and painful swelling of his heart. He had been cautioned. He dared not move. He dared not not move. If he should fail his trust, what might happen? And if he were to die — in there? Helplessly, his mind darted about. His eyes, too. The feeling of joy was like cool water on hot skin. Slowly, ever so slowly, he made his way, hands spread out like a blind man’s, over to the table.