Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  The days drifted by, and nothing came to trouble him. All of the local predators found him intimidating—an abnormally large phant, with great jaw sabers that looked as if they had been carved from pieces of a wrecked moon. Sometime after the pain had passed and his senses seemed returned to normal, he wondered, for the first time, whether there might be others of his kind in the vicinity. He had known many herds over the years, and he realized now that he missed their company. Perhaps more than just company. It would be good to have a mate again. His symptoms had been gone for a sufficiently long while now that it was unlikely they would recur in the near future.

  And so he sought. First he must find a herd. His kind were generally of a herding persuasion. While he was often an exception to this rule, the desire for company returned to him periodically, causing him to seek, as he sought now, after a group of the others. Of course, merely finding them would hardly be sufficient. He would have to persuade them to take him in. Traditionally, this meant a lengthy probationary period as a classless hanger-on. Too long, this always seemed too long. Still—there was an etiquette, a set of rules to follow in these matters. And the first thing, really, was to locate a herd.

  He trumpeted, long and loud, then listened after the echoes had died. There was no response, not that he had expected one the first time he made inquiry. He sounded his call again, then browsed for a long while. Afterwards, he drank his fill at the water hole.

  It seemed that he would have to go and find them. Since the only spoor in the area was quite ancient and no one had answered his inquiry, one direction would seem almost as good as another. Except for the west. The jungle lay to the west.

  The present area showed signs of recent recovery from overbrowsing. His kind had been here and had moved on. The land was now well on the way to recovery, so he knew that they would return eventually, when they had exhausted new ranges. Of course, the plain was vast, and it could be a very long while; on the other hand, there were other herds upon the plain… He pondered this for only a short while.

  Now that he felt his stamina and full rationality returned, he did not wish to wait upon a chance encounter. It would be good to smell the others, to rub shoulders as he browsed. There was no real reason to wait around here and ample reason to depart. He would go looking. He would find them.

  He turned slowly. North, east, west, south… Yes, south. There was an old trail.

  He began walking in that direction. He only half followed the dried trail. There were phants somewhere in the south and that was sufficient. There was no real need to hurry. Once he made a decision and began acting it was as if some natural law had been invoked. His patience was as legendary as his wrath.

  His memory was excellent, also. As he traveled, he recalled stony lowlands that he passed as things seen when he was smaller and they had seemed bigger. He was, however, not consciously given to sentimentality, for he had never learned the concept. He trudged steadily southward, and predators whose territory he crossed went and hid until he had gone by. He browsed amid long grasses, slaked his thirst at water hole or forest stream. Dark birds came and walked upon his back, grooming him of insect pests. Occasionally, they chatted:

  “Nasty scar there, big fella. How’d you get it?”

  “Main pole of a circus tent scraped me, when I knocked it down. May 11, 2108.”

  “Oh, you’ve been to the big city!”

  “Indeed.”

  “Never knew anyone to come back.”

  “Now you do. Seen any of my kind of people in the neighborhood recently?”

  “Recently, no. They come and go.”

  “Know of any to the south?”

  “That’s the way they headed. I may be flying down that way soon, what with the bug shortage here. What about this one?”

  “That’s from a spear wielded by a gooey man.”

  “Gooey man? What’s that?”

  “That’s how he got after I walked on him. August 7, 2105.”

  “Ever have any trouble with eeksies or bounties?”

  “Yes, but not recently.”

  “There are lots of them moving about in the jungle just now.”

  “Which kind?”

  “Bounties. But there may be some eeksy observers.”

  “Bounties are tougher. One almost nailed me back when there was a price on my head. September 17, 2113. Lady. Big Betsy, they called her.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Good. I sometimes dream she’s still after me. What killed her?”

  “Sayjak of the tree people. Took her head. Still has it.”

  Tranto snorted.

  “Name sounds familiar.”

  “He’s boss of the biggest clan. Fast. Can catch a flying bird in his hand as he swings through the trees. I’ve seen him do it. Strong. Dangerous.”

  “They get gooey, too, if I walk on them. Big Betsy favored ambushes, though. Got one of her scars, too. What do the bounties and eeksies want now?”

  “Sayjak’s head, I think. Mad about Big Betsy and the others he made short.”

  “If they stayed away they wouldn’t have these problems.”

  “True.”

  “This is a land they didn’t design, where things just went their course. Now, all of a sudden, they act like it’s theirs.”

  “They’re never happy.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Maybe I’ll see more of your scars later. I’m heading back to the jungle now. Want to see what happens.”

  “Don’t fly near Sayjak when he’s swinging through trees.”

  “No. Good luck in your search.”

  “Thanks.”

  He plodded on. All that day, stopping only to eat and drink his fill at a water hole, he continued southward. At night, he browsed beneath a sky full of bright stars.

  Days passed easily in this fashion. He endured a long, dry stretch where even the grasses were parched. Day after day this went on, to be followed by a cloudburst which filled every declivity with water. After that, the terrain became stonier. He continued into the south and that evening he passed a walking man and a woman upon a trail bordered by white markers, wavering, as through a heat haze. It appeared to be the same man who had helped him in his extremity recently. When he approached them, however, they faded, to appear high overhead where they spiraled amid red sun rays for perhaps ten minutes before vanishing. Before the day ended he came upon a trail fresher than any he had yet encountered—phant spoor—heading southward.

  For three days he followed that track. On the third he caught a scent out of the east. His own kind. Phant. For the first time, now, he hurried.

  That evening he came to an area which they had traversed very recently. The next morning he found an easy trail. The breezes shifted, but when they bore him the scents they were stronger.

  By noontime, he had sight of them, great dark masses shifting slowly on the distant plain. He slowed, then halted, regarding them. For the first time in a long while, something like joy rose within him. The company of his fellows… It was immediately tempered by a certain bittersweet realization: It was not that easy for a stranger to be accepted into a herd.

  One way of going about it was to hang around the periphery of the group, obsequious, waiting to be noticed. Gradually, after a long period of waiting, one might be accepted into the bottom of the society.

  At some buried level of his being Tranto knew that he was probably older than any of them. It seemed that he had been around for a very long while. It suddenly seemed possible to him that he could have been a member of this herd before, that it may well have been his original herd, and that he could have survived all of the others in it. The thought of returning now, unknown, as an outcast, irritated him. True—if it were the case—it was to be expected of one with his wandering ways. Yet, it rankled. Pacing and snorting, he became more and more convinced that it was indeed the case. He belonged here, and they would deny him his rightful place. The more he thought about it the more irritated he became, thoug
h he had not yet made contact.

  He paced them for a day, keeping his distance but allowing himself to be seen. His anger grew as he followed. Yes, it certainly seemed possible that this had once been his band. There were so many here who resembled those others. Then he thought of his anger. While it had often gotten him in trouble in the past, that was the anger born of pain-madness. This hardly seemed on that scale.

  The second day he moved nearer, browsing much closer to the leeward fringe of the herd. That afternoon a runt male, doubtless the bottommost phant in the band’s hierarchy, moved near. A little later he glanced up and said, “My name’s Muggle.”

  “I’m Tranto.”

  “A legendary name, that. Father of the herd.”

  “Who’s in charge now?”

  “Scarco. That’s him over by the grove.”

  Tranto glanced in the direction indicated, to behold a large phant engaged in the sharpening of his tusks upon an outcropping of rough rock.

  “Has he been boss long?”

  “For as far back as I can remember.”

  “Is he ever challenged?”

  “Regularly. The plains are strewn with the bones of those who didn’t make it to the graveyard of our kind, famed in song and story.”

  “Indeed. What’s his policy on admitting new members to the herd?”

  “In general, the usual. The newcomer follows us around for a couple of seasons taking a lot of shit and gradually being accepted into the lowest ranks. A few more seasons and he may work his way up a little.”

  “A little?”

  “Well, as far as he may—which isn’t very—from just being on hand. Unless, of course, he’s a fighter. Then he can go as far as it’ll take him.”

  “In other words, it’s just like everywhere else.”

  “So far as I understand it.”

  “Good. Has everyone in the herd noticed me?”

  “Not the near-sighted ones, I suppose, or the ones farther off to the west.”

  “Well, I do want them all to at least recognize me. How long do you think that’ll take?”

  “I’d say about three days.”

  “You’ll mention my name to the others?”

  “Of course. They sent me to learn it. I get all the jobs like this. I can’t wait till you join up and I have someone I can push around.”

  The next day many of the phants wandered by, glancing at him. When Muggle came by again, he paused.

  “They know your name,” he said, “and I’ve learned that it’s not at all a common one. I’ve been asked to see whether you have chain marks on your leg and to find out whether you were ever boss of your own herd. Apparently, there was once a Tranto who got hauled away to be exhibited. There’s some story involving a tall building he did something terrible at.”

  “Yes, I was boss of my own herd,” Tranto replied.

  Muggle moved to inspect his legs.

  “Those do look like the marks he described to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Scarco.”

  “Oh, the boss was wondering?”

  “Yes. He wanted to know what you planned to do here.”

  “Oh. I planned to wait three days, till everyone at least knew who I was, and then challenge him for leadership of the herd.”

  “Combat? Tusk to tusk? Body to body?”

  “The usual, yes.”

  “To the death?”

  “To whatever is necessary.”

  “You ever do it before?”

  “Yes.”

  “To the death, I mean.”

  “Yes. That, too. Though it seldom goes that far.”

  “Really?”

  “You ever seen one end in death?”

  “Well, no. But I’ve seen some pretty nasty fighting.”

  “Exactly. We usually knock off when it’s pretty obvious who’s the better phant.”

  “Three days, you say… When did you start counting?”

  “Well, there was yesterday, and then there’s today.”

  “Tomorrow? Tomorrow you give the challenge?”

  “The day after. I meant three full days. Everybody will have an idea what I look like by then. It’s the closest I’m going to get to being introduced.”

  “But that’s just not how it’s done. Usually, they start out fighting some lower phant and work their way up. Somewhere along the line they find their level, and that’s that.”

  “I’ve a pretty good idea where I’ll wind up. I’m just cutting out the middlemen.”

  “That’s dangerous.”

  “I’m glad he appreciates it.”

  “Excuse me.”

  Continuing his browsing, Tranto noted after a time that Muggle had moved into Scarco’s vicinity as if in the accidental course of his breakfast foraging. They were together for some small while. Then a black bird came and sat on Scarco’s head.

  Later in the day, Muggle wandered his way again.

  “I was talking to Scarce a bit ago…” he said.

  Tranto grunted.

  “He thinks it rather ill-considered for you to do a thing like that when you’re not even familiar with the group. What if—speaking hypothetically, of course—you fought him and won and then discovered that you didn’t even like the job or the area or your constituents?”

  “We could always move to a different area,” Tranto said, “and, as for the job, I think I indicated I’ve held the like before. Never had any-trouble with my herd then, either.”

  Muggle nodded.

  “The boss had anticipated your saying something like that. He’s pretty smart as well as tough, you know. Tough just isn’t enough to have kept him where he is for as long as he’s been there. Now he felt you might need a little time to make up your mind about whether you were really doing the right thing.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Bear with me a moment. Scarce appreciates your feelings—as an outcast looking for a home, as a phant so desperate for acceptance that he’s willing to risk his life for a herd. So he asked me to make you a proposal: Hold off on the challenge and he’ll waive the waiting period. You won’t have to wander about the fringes of the herd looking pathetic and sucking up to everybody. You’ll be in, effective immediately, with all the rights and privileges that entails.”

  “That would still leave me at the bottom of things, which is unacceptable.”

  “You could still fight your way up, a rung at a time, whenever you felt up to it.”

  “Too slow. No thanks.”

  “He will be sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m certain.”

  Muggle lumbered off. Tranto watched him browse his way toward Scarco again. Later in the day he came back.

  “How’s about this?” he asked. “He lets you in at the middle level. No getting dumped on like the guys at the bottom. In fact, you’ll have plenty of guys you can push around yourself then. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Acceptance and a little fun?”

  “What about the guy I displace?”

  “The boss just tells him to eat a little shit. He’ll do it. That’s what life is all about.”

  “What about the ones I’ll suddenly be over?”

  “They eat a little, too. But they’ll get over it.”

  “Whoever would be right above me and right under me wouldn’t accept me, seeing how I’d gotten my position. I’d have to fight them to consolidate things.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “True, and since it means I’d have to fight anyway, I’ll just start at the top.”

  “Scarco’s awfully tough.”

  “I never doubted that.”

  “Did you really get that scar knocking down a—what do you call ‘em?—circus tent?”

  “No, that’s the one over on this side. I got that one tearing a fighting vehicle apart.”

  “I’m not sure I know what that is. But I’ll go and pass along your answer now, if it’s final.”

  “It is.”

  Muggle moved away. Tra
nto foraged some more, wandered over to the water hole and drank, climbed a hill, and watched the day end. As the shadows drifted about him, he descended its far side, lowered his head, and drowsed.

  Somewhere in the middle of the night he was roused by the sense of a large presence moving nearby. Despite their great bulk, phants can move with ghostlike stealth. Yet it is not that easy to surprise a fellow phant who is experienced in that area himself.

  “Good evening, Scarco,” Tranto said.

  “How did you know who it was?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “True. I guess we’re the only two with anything to talk about at this hour.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “The bird. I saw it.”

  “I might have guessed without it, Ancestor.”

  “Well, I’ve been around a lot, that’s true. I don’t know that it matters, makes me special some way.”

  “Ah, but it does. As a child, I heard stories of you. I still hear them. I often wondered whether you were truly real, or but a legend. I confess I felt it to be the latter. Now, it appears that I must fight you for the leadership of the herd.”

  “Well, yes. I’m not giving you much choice. But look at it this way: When we’re done, you’ll be Number Two. That’s not bad. Takes a lot of the pressure off, in a way, I understand.”

  Scarco made a polite noise, then, “That’s not entirely it,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are right that being Number Two might not be bad. After all these years it might even be something of a relief. I could stop worrying about challenges, stop worrying about all the big decisions, take life easy for a change, and still enjoy everyone’s respect. The position does hold considerable appeal.”