by David Grace
Best not to tarry here. It was well known that Nefra was Hazar's most implacable foe. Perhaps even now Hazar's spies watched her for some sign of treason. For a brief instant Mara studied the Gate of Pain, then turned to the Fourth Spoke Road and headed for the Second Circle. Reaching the end of the passage, she cut sharply to the right to place the bulk of the second wall between her and Nefra's gate.
Mara had barely turned the corner when a yielding object struck her in the waist, mid-thighs, and ankles. Abruptly she pitched forward wildly, grasping at thin air. The impediment fell with and beneath her and cushioned her fall. When she managed to right herself she saw that she had run into an Ajaj, who was now futilely clutching the open end of a sack of poundfruit. Several of the large yellow spheres had bounced from the bag during the collision and now rolled free.
From the grizzled fur around his muzzle and the snappings of his uncoordinated arms, Mara discerned that this was an aged Gray. With painful, spastic motions he slowly raised himself into a sitting position, then, spying Mara, exerted himself with astonished horror. Many an Ajaj now adorned a Gogol matron's collar for a lesser insult than this. Heedless of his own scrapes and obvious pain, the Gray rushed to Mara's side and sought to help her to her feet.
"I am sorry, my lady. Excuse me, please. It was all my fault. I didn't mean it. Are you hurt? Please excuse me. I'm sorry, really I am. Forgive me. Please forgive me." The Gray fairly cringed in abject horror at Mara's expected wrath.
"No, I'm all right. It was my fault. Accept my apologies," Mara said, rising to her feet.
"Your fault--oh, how gracious of you, my lady! How magnanimous, how wonderful. No, it could not possibly be your fault. The error was all mine. How fortunate of me in my clumsiness to chance upon a great lady such as yourself. Here, at least let me give you some small token of my sincere sorrow for this incident."
The Gray hobbled to his sack and removed a fine, mature specimen from the bottom of the bag.
"You're limping. Are you badly injured?"
"Oh, thank you, ma'am. No. I've had this limp for many a year now. Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine. Allow me to make a present to you of this fine poundfruit. I hope in some way it will make up for the inconvenience I've caused. Perhaps after enjoying it you'll think kindly of poor old Buster."
"Buster--is that your name?"
"Yes, ma'am, and many a year I've served in Lord Hazar's scullery preparing meals for fine ladies such as yourself."
Mara hefted the fruit and smiled approvingly.
"Thank you. Buster. I will remember your kindness."
"Thank you, my lady. I hope to see you again under more pleasant circumstances. Good day."
Buster, with some effort, hoisted the sack over his shoulder and disappeared down the Second Circle. After a moment or two, Mara followed. In a few minutes she reached the entrance to her apartments, again passed the grinning sentry, and made her way upstairs. The walk had cleared her head and drained the tension from her muscles. Also, she noticed, it had given her something of an appetite.
Setting the poundfruit down on her table, she brought forth a dirk and slit a wedge-shaped portion from the rough, waxy skin. After pulling back the rind she sliced more deeply into the meat and pulled out a dripping chunk, the inner edge of which was encrusted with small black seeds. After shaving off an inch or so of the section she was able to carve the remaining trapezoidal piece into bite-size fragments which she ate with great satisfaction.
Mara picked up the discarded rind and prepared to reinsert it into the fruit to keep the rest of the delicacy fresh. In a few minutes the skin would heal over, the cuts becoming invisible and airtight.
She had just succeeded in affixing the lower edge when she noticed an unusual addition to the core. There amid the seeds and the blushing pink meat was a white shape. Reaching inside, her fingers touched an object that was smooth and brittle. In a second she had extracted a folded piece of heavy white paper and read its message:
Mara, you do not sit high in Lord Hazar's favor, but a woman such as you has many friends. Allow me to extend my power and generosity to you. I offer myself as a friend in need. Should you wish at any time to avail yourself of my comradeship give your message to the one from whom you received this item.
With great sincerity,
Nefra
Chapter Twenty-Five
At dawn Grantin made good use of Shenar's pantry. His eyes red-rimmed from the combination of bloodstone-generated dreams and a stomach-wrenching fear of what lay before him, he began his preparations. To one side he laid two loaves of coarse bread and a block of cheese. Rejected were the remnants of the crossberry pie and the roast chicken liberated from Shenar's coldbox. A packet of dried meat joined the bread and cheese as well as four barely ripe jelly apples and a sack of dried corn. Grantin had almost finished his selection when Chom joined him in the kitchen.
"I know what you are doing," Chom announced proudly. "It's called 'packing,' is it not?--the ritual by which you gather together sacks of items which you must bring with you when you travel."
Not without cause did Grantin detect in the Fanist's announcement an undercurrent of derision.
"It's easier to carry food than to hunt for it along the way, and more conducive to regular eating as well," Grantin lectured as he busied himself wrapping the foodstuffs and placing them in a knapsack he had earlier discovered. "Surely you didn't travel all the way here without supplies of your own?"
"I have no need of them. There is always sufficient food available for me."
"You have special spells for hunting, then?" Grantin asked, halting his packing. Perhaps if the Fanist could teach him an easy incantation for catching game it would not be necessary to lug around the heavy pack.
"No, not at all. I mean we are not so picky about what we eat as you humans. Were you willing to follow my example you would not need provisions either."
"What things aren't you picky about?"
"Almost everything that is nutritious: lily pads, salad-tree leaves, wortgrass, and much nutrition is contained in bone, skin, and gut."
"You mean you eat the whole thing, everything? You don't even . . ." Grantin blanched as Chom gave affirmative nods to his questions. With increased fervor he continued to fill the pack.
"Is another one of those bags available?" Chom asked.
Grantin pointed to a partially opened drawer at the base of the cabinets. Chom found another crudely woven knapsack and deftly removed it with his two lower arms. The Fanist then returned to the table and began loading the bag.
"I thought you didn't carry food. Don't tell me I've converted you to the human style of eating."
"It is pleasant, I admit, but, I am afraid, far too impractical for continued use. No, this is for you."
"I can't carry two packs. This first one alone is enough to bend my bones to the breaking point."
"No, I am going to carry the pack and you are going to eat the food." Chom stared fixedly at Grantin as one would study a slow-witted pet to see if it had understood a command.
"You're coming with me? You were going to Cicero, then, before Shenar captured you?"
"No, that was not my intention."
"But this is a very dangerous trip. Every time I let myself think about it 1 see visions of brigands gnawing on my bones. Why in heaven's name would you want to come along?"
"It is dangerous for you alone--have you not just said so? It will be safer with a companion. Could I allow you to undertake this journey alone? Did you not save my life? Are we not comrades? . . . By the way, do you want these broiled inknuts?"
For an instant Grantin fixed an astonished gaze upon the Fanist, who, at that point, held the box of inknuts in his upper left arm while the lower right grasped an extra loaf of bread and the bottom left and upper right were busily engaged in rearranging the parcels inside an already overstaffed sack. Not one to poke good fortune in the eye, Grantin quickly recovered his composure.
"Of course, my dear fri
end. Roasted inknuts will make quite a nice after-lunch snack."
A few seconds later Chom's busy hands had filled the pack and, mindful of the danger of Yon Diggery's return, the Fanist and human slipped through the castle's back door.
"A moment before we leave, Chom. There is one further human ritual having to do with packing which you may take note of now. Before one departs one takes stock of the needful items. Food--well, that's taken care of. Money--" Grantin patted a pleasantly full pouch containing four silvers, fifteen coppers, and two irons which he had liberated from Shenar's personal effects. "Knife, lucifers--" Here Grantin touched the pocket of his tunic which contained several crude, handmade matches. "Let's see, what else, what else? Drink, of course, an appropriate fluid to complement our rustic meals. Chom, my friend, have you anything in your knapsack for us to drink?"
"Yes. I brought a container of liquid and two leather cups."
"Excellent. Lastly, then, there is this fine map so generously provided by our departed host, and we're ready to take our leave."
Sliding the rear door open a crack, Grantin peeked out. Detecting no hostile activity, he and Chom scurried across the meadow to a point where the westbound trail entered the forest. Now, in the full light of early day, Grantin's fears seemed as insubstantial as the morning mist. He was now well fed, well supplied, and well protected both by the bloodstone upon his finger and by the strength of his new friend. The fears which had tormented him the night before had been magnified many times over by his belief that he would be facing them alone. Now, more than anything else, Chom's aid and companionship had reduced his terrors to a bearable level. In fact, in the midst of the pleasant smells of the sun-dappled forest Grantin experienced a feeling akin to that of thrilled excitement.
Grantin and Chom entered the forest. Above them the faint screeching caw of a hawk echoed through the woods. The call merged with the tapestry of yelps, cries, screeches, and chirps of the other forest dwellers. The bird's sedate circling glide went unnoticed by the two travelers. Grantin and Chom disappeared from view where the trail plunged beneath a dense grove of cone trees. Anticipating their point of re-emergence, the hawk steadied its wings and slipped forward to continue its lazy circle a quarter of a mile to the west.
The effortless thrill of unpowered flight was a new sensation to Yon Diggery. He felt what the hawk felt and saw what the hawk saw. With the merest thread of control he directed the creature along the desired line of flight. A few minutes later the human and the runaway Fanist slipped back into view.
What a wonderful spell, an exquisite spell! The incantation alone justified his acceptance of the Gogol defector. And Rupert hinted that he had other sorcery to share with his new comrades. True, the man was impetuous, overcome with a vindictive rage against the young Hartford, but Diggery and his men could keep that under control. Obviously Rupert intended to manipulate them for his own ends. He knew more than he was telling, but only a fool disclosed all he knew.
Rupert had wanted to capture the two at once. He accepted with ill grace Yon Diggery's insistence that the ambush must be delayed. They were dangerous, obviously, a caster of spells as competent as Rupert would have overcome the young man easily were he an ordinary person.
Today and tomorrow the two would make good time, but the next day they would reach the edge of the Weirdlands. Their passage across that strange country would be slow and tiring. When they reached its far boundary, if they reached it, that would be the time and the place for the ambush. In the meanwhile Yon Diggery and his men would use the animals of the forest to keep the travelers under constant surveillance.
The bandit returned his attention to the landscape which rolled beneath his surrogate's eyes. While his concentration wandered the hawk slipped off course. Diggery sought to correct its path. In response to a sharp mental prod the great bird screamed, wheeled over, and dived down on the trail where the human and the Fanist walked contentedly toward Cicero.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Within a few hours Grantin was again hungry and footsore, and he insisted on halting for lunch. Both he and Chom made a meal from the packs, although the native augmented the human food with several crickets, two dragonflies, and six pink flowers. When describing the Fanists, Grantin decided the word "omnivorous" took on an entirely new meaning.
Pyra's glow warmed Grantin's bones. He stretched out on the soft bed of grasses to take a nap, only to be roughly shaken from his rest. Sleepily he looked up to see that Chom had already strapped on his pack and was ready to resume the hike.
"Not now, Chom, I need to rest," Grantin said, rolling over onto his back amid the flowers.
"No, we must go," the Fanist replied, shaking Grantin anew.
"Chom, just a few minutes...."
"No, we must get away from the river before night," Chom insisted. "This is a game trail. Animals use it to feed. Also, the nightbirds fly here. I have seen their signs, and the stingwings, too. We must leave now."
Reluctantly Grantin crawled to his feet and flung the pack across his shoulders. Again Chom led the way, setting a brisk pace.
"Chom, what's it like where you live? Your people live in the forest, don't they? Are the forests like this one?"
"No, not like this. There are no hometrees here."
"What's a hometree?"
"It's what we build our homes in, where we live. How we live together."
"You mean you hollow out the trees? Wouldn't it be just as easy to live in buildings?"
"Hollow out the trees? You mean kill them and live inside a dead shell? No. No Fanist could live that way. The trees are our homes, our friends, our protection, our companions. We care for them. They care for us. They are part of our life. We would not be what we are without them. We would be something different. The Fanist without his community, without his hometree, is an outlaw and renegade."
"You mean a criminal? I didn't know you had them. I've never heard of a Fanist going bad."
"Not a criminal, an outcast. Often they settle near human villages as weather predictors. They are out of harmony, ones who are so different, who think so differently, feel so differently, that they are not of us any longer."
"I don't understand. You mean an outcast does not follow the rules? If he obeys the laws, what does it matter if he lives in a tree or a house?"
"We are so different. I do not know if you can understand me or if I can understand you. Let me tell you about how we live, how a community is born, and perhaps you will see what I mean.
"A community exists. Call it a village or a town. It is not either of those things, but, in any event, it exists. Like any other people we are born and we age. Each of us, when we reach a particular stage in our life, is overtaken by the urge to explore--but explore is not the right word. There are no exact human words, you understand. I simply translate into the nearest human equivalent.
"This urge ranges from a mild curiosity in some individuals to an all-consuming obsession in others. The individual discusses these feelings with an adviser or mentor or parent--again, none of the words is quite right. Each person looks to a particular older member of the community whose attitudes, learning, wisdom, whose entire personality for some reason appeals to and gains the respect of the young one. This person then becomes someone to whom he goes for advice.
"The mentor discusses the feelings of the young person with him and suggests several prospects--not just a particular place to explore but a philosophy of exploration: should the young one look for new foodstuffs, spectacular landscapes, dangerous adventure, the learning of a new craft or skill. You see, the mentor must find an area of challenge which will both satisfy the urge for exploration and also yield some benefit both to the individual and to the community.
"Once the path has been chosen the person commences the journey, the trip of life. For some it might be no more than a study of the berry fields a league or two from the community, while another might set off across the Island Sea for a trek into the Hidden Lands."
"Then that's what you're doing--you're on your trip of life?" Grantin interjected.
"It is my time."
"Well, what is your mission? Surely you didn't start out with the idea of helping me?"
"A trip of life is a very personal thing which may not be discussed," Chom replied hastily, remembering Ajax's warnings of the need for secrecy. "Perhaps you will understand if I explain further. The more adventurous, strong-willed, and determined the individual, the more ambitious his trip of life. Those who are adventurous but foolish or unlucky or weak often fail to return. That is a good thing, for it improves the race. The dangerous, the weak, and the foolish do not return to found a family. Each of us is enjoined by the highest strictures to return with our report, and in this way we increase the knowledge and wisdom of the community."
"Your theory's not necessarily correct," Grantin said. "What about the timid ones who only go as far as the berry patch? They always return to breed. Doesn't that result in your becoming a race of timid weaklings?"
"An intelligent observation, but no. All those who return do not necessarily found a family. The more dangerous the trip of life, the more useful the wisdom returned, the easier it is for the individual to find a mate. Those who visit the berry patches often are unable to find mates and breed not at all. But who knows? Upon occasion startling knowledge has been obtained by quiet and contemplative individuals, and they have earned great respect by reason of their scholarly reports. Also, there is even a further benefit to our custom.
"Sometimes on the trip of life an individual finds a place which he prefers to his own community. After making his report the individual, if he is sufficiently bold, resourceful, and ambitious, leaves the community to found a new settlement in such a place. Upon the satisfactory establishment of a home the individual then takes a mate. If he is successful and the place is good a new community of strong stock is founded. If he has underestimated the hardships or picked a bad place he dies or fails to find a mate, and, again, the race is strengthened. In this way have we prospered through the ages."
