‘My friend,’ said Paul, ‘there is nothing new under the sun. In the story of my own people there has been much needless and futile strife.’
‘The war of the fingers reaches to the other side of the sky, then?’ asked Shon Hu in surprise.
‘No,’ said Paul, ‘the people of my own race are fortunate enough to possess the same number of fingers. So they found different reasons to inflict death and cruelty. They fought among themselves because some asserted that one particular god was greater than all other gods, or that one particular way of life was greater than all other ways of life, or that a white skin was better than a dark skin.’
Shon Hu laughed. ‘Truly, your people, though great in strange skills, must have been very simple of heart.’
‘Perhaps no less simple than the Bayani,’ retorted Paul gravely. ‘Proceed with your story, Shon Hu.’
The hunter seemed, now, to be more relaxed. ‘Lord, it came to pass that there was seen more anger among the Bayani than there was love. Also, there was much fear. The crops were not tended because it was dangerous to go alone into the fields. The hunters found more profitable employment as hunters of men. Women prayed that their wombs might bear no fruit, for they were afraid to count the number of fingers on the hands of the babies they might bring forth. Few people died of great age, many died violently. And in time the number of the Bayani shrank, for the number of those who died became greater than the number of those who were born. It was clear that Oruri was displeased and that unless he could be brought to smile again, the people of the Bayani would be no more.’
Paul sighed. ‘And all this because of the number of fingers on a man’s hand.’
‘All this,’ repeated Shon Hu, ‘because of the number of fingers on a man’s hand … But an answer was found, lord. It was found by the first oracle, who fasted unto the point of death, then spoke with the voice of Oruri. And the voice said: “There shall come a man among you, who yet has no power and whose power will be absolute. And because no man may wield such power, the man shall be as a king. And because none may live for ever, the king shall be as a god. Each year the king must die that the god may be reborn.” This the priests of Oruri heard, and the words were good. So they approached the oracle and said: “This surely is our salvation. How, then, may we recognize him who will take the form of a god?” To which the oracle replied: “You shall not see his face, but you shall see his beak. You shall not see his hands, but you shall see his plumage. And you shall hear only the cry of a bird that has never flown.” ’
To Paul Marlowe the story was fascinating, not only because it explained so much but because of its curious similarity in places to some of the ancient myths of Earth. ‘How was the first god-king revealed, Shon Hu?’ he asked quietly.
‘Lord, the priests could not understand the oracle, and the oracle would speak no more. But after many days, the thing came to pass. A priest of the Order of the Blind Ones – who then did not wear a hood, for they had yet to look upon the face of the god-king – was going out to the kappa fields when he saw a great bird covered in brilliant plumage. The bird was uttering the gathering call of the Milanyl birds which, though birds of prey, were nevertheless good to eat … But, lord, this Milanyl bird had the legs of a man. It was a poor hunter named Enka Ne, who, too weak with hunger to hunt as a man, sought to entice game in this manner.’
‘And this, then, was the god-king.’
‘Yes, lord, Enka Ne was truly the god-king. For he was granted the wisdom of Oruri. On the day that he was shown to the people, he gathered many hunters about him. Then he took off his plumage before the Bayani for the first and last time. He held out his hands. And the people saw that on one there was three fingers and a thumb and on the other four fingers and a thumb. Then, in a loud voice, Enka Ne said: “It is fitting that there should be an end to destruction among us. It is fitting, also, that the hands of a man should be as the hands of his brother. But a man cannot add to the number of his fingers. Therefore let him rejoice that he can yet take away.” Then he held out his right hand and commanded a hunter to strike off the small finger. And he said to the people: “Let all who remain in this land number their fingers as is the number of my fingers. Happy are they whose fingers are already thus. Happier still are they who can make a gift of their flesh to Oruri. Wretched are they who do not give when the gift is required. Let them go from the land for ever, for there can be no peace between us.” When Enka Ne had spoken, many people held out their hands to the hunters. But there was also much fighting. In the end, those who refused to give were either slaughtered or driven away.’
Patches of light were beginning to show through the tree-tops. The last watch of the night was over. Paul stood up and stretched himself. Suddenly he was pleased with himself. He felt that he had found a missing piece of the puzzle.
‘That was a very wonderful story, Shon Hu,’ he said at length.
‘It is also a terrible story, lord,’ said Shon Hu. ‘I have spoken it once. I must not speak it again. As you have discovered, the shadow of the fingers still lies over Baya Nor; and blood continues to be spilled even after many years. The god-kings have never loved those with too much knowledge of this thing. Nor do they love those who, contrary to the desire of Oruri, are born with too many fingers.’ Shon Hu also stood up and stretched.
‘I see … I am grateful that you have told me these things, Shon Hu. Let us speak now of the Lokhali.’
‘There is a Lokhali village,’ said the hunter, ‘perhaps the largest, near the bank of the river no more than a few hours of poling from here. Fortunately, we may leave the Watering of Oruri and strike through the forest before we reach it.’
‘Do the Lokhali have barges, Shon Hu?’
‘Yes, lord, but their barges are very poor and very small. They only use the river when they are in great need. For they are much afraid of water.’
‘Then surely it is safer to voyage past their village in the water than to pass through the forest?’
‘Lord, it may be so. But a man does not care to come near to the Lokhali.’
‘Nevertheless, I would pass the village … I think I know why the Bayani and the Lokhali have hated and feared each other for many years. The word Lokhali means accursed, wretched, cast out – does it not?’
‘That is so, lord.’
‘And the Lokhali,’ went on Paul relentlessly, ‘do not appear to find four fingers and a thumb offensive … It seems to me, Shon Hu, that the Lokhali and the Bayani were once brothers.’
THIRTY
Compared to the city of Baya Nor, the Lokhali village was a miserable affair. There was only one great hall, or temple, of stone. The rest of the buildings – though many of them were reasonably large – were of mud bricks, wooden frames and thatch. Many of the bricks were decorated with pieces of flint that had probably been pressed into them while they were still wet.
All this Paul noticed as the barge passed the village, keeping well to the far side of the Watering of Oruri, out of the range of spears and darts.
In fact, if size were any criterion, the village could more properly be called a town; for though the houses were primitive there were many of them and they had been carefully arranged with a certain amount of symmetry.
It was mid-morning, and a great many of the Lokhali were about, including a few dozen womenfolk at the water’s edge, some washing and bathing while others were apparently cleaning food, utensils and even children. Those who were actually in the river scrambled rapidly ashore at the approach of the barge. Their cries brought more people down from the village, as well as a party of warriors or hunters. One or two of these roared and shook their weapons ferociously; but none seemed inclined to take to the few small, unstable-looking canoes that lay on the bank.
Paul realized the hopelessness of trying to find out anything of the rest of the crew of the Gloria Mundi. From that distance it would have been impossible to distinguish between European and Lokhali – unless the Europeans were wearing their own
clothes. And as he himself had, of necessity, long ago taken to Bayani costume, it seemed reasonably certain that any survivors of the star ship would similarly have adopted the brief Lokhali garments.
It was tantalizing to be so near to a possible source of information and yet to be able to do nothing about it. But was there really nothing at all he could do? He thought carefully for a moment or two. Then he picked up his sweeper rifle and aimed at the water about twenty metres from the line of Lokhali on the bank. He pressed the trigger.
The rifle vibrated, producing its faint whine, then a patch of water began to hiss and bubble until it produced a most impressive waterspout. There were cries of awe and consternation from the Lokhali on the bank. Some ran away or drew back, but most seemed almost hypnotized by the phenomenon.
The display would serve two purposes, thought Paul with satisfaction. It would discourage the Lokhali, perhaps, from following the barge along the bank while at the same time the demonstration of such power – or the news of it – would convey to any surviving Europeans that there was yet another survivor.
He put down the rifle then cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted loudly across the water: ‘I will come again … Je reviens … Ich komm wieder.’
Soon the barge was well past the village. Paul continued to gaze back intently until the river bent slightly and the Lokhali village was out of sight.
Shortly before the sun had reached its zenith, Shon Hu selected a suitable spot on the river bank and guided the barge in towards it.
‘We must now pass through the forest, lord,’ he said. ‘To travel farther along the Watering of Oruri would only increase the journey.’
‘Then let us eat and rest,’ said Paul. ‘Afterwards we will divide that which we have brought into packs that a man may carry.’
When they had eaten and rested, they took the water skins, the dried kappa, the smoked strips of meat, the skins they had brought to protect themselves in the cold uplands, and the sling that had been made for Nemo, out of the barge. Then they deliberately capsized it and weighted it down to the river bed with heavy stones. It was, perhaps, unlikely that the Lokhali would discover the barge, anyway; but if it were submerged, there would be even less chance. The only real problem, thought Paul grimly, would be in finding it themselves when they returned from the Temple of the White Darkness. It was true that they could get back to Baya Nor without the barge, but the journey would be considerably harder – and more dangerous.
As the afternoon shadows lengthened, the group moved away from the Watering of Oruri with Shon Hu in the lead. Paul followed immediately behind him, and after Paul came Zu Shan with Nemo slung like an awkward child from his back. The rearguard consisted of the two remaining hunters.
Remarkably enough, Nemo seemed to have almost completely recovered from the death of Mien She. But Paul noticed that at all times he stayed very close to Zu Shan. The two had come to depend on each other. Though Zu Shan was half a man, he was also still only half a boy. Basically, he found much more satisfaction talking to Nemo than to Paul or the hunters.
The two of them liked to demonstrate their assumed superiority over the Bayani by jabbering away to each other in English; interlaced with a few Bayani words and phrases. The resulting medley was very odd and, at times, amusing. It brought the boys closer and closer together. Originally, the plan had been that everyone should take turns in carrying Nemo. But this neither Nemo nor Zu Shan would permit. Fortunately, Nemo, being hardly more than a small bundle of skin and bone himself, was no heavier – and probably not quite as heavy – as the bundles that the rest, including Paul, were carrying.
Despite the fact that the group had to travel slowly, and somewhat noisily – if the pained expression on Shon Hu’s face was any indication – along the perimeter of what was clearly regarded by the Bayani as Lokhali country, the fierce warriors of the forest were never seen. Nor, surprisingly enough, were many wild animals. Perhaps it was as Shon Hu claimed – that the great noise of their passing was sufficient to send any wild things other than belligerent carnivores far out of range of the intruders.
Whatever the reason, they passed two nights and the best part of three days safely in the forest – the only disturbing incident being when a tree-snake fell on Paul. But the small, fearsome-looking creature seemed quite as shaken by the encounter as he was, and rapidly disappeared.
The forest did not end abruptly. It simply began to thin out, so that the leaves of the trees no longer created an interwoven roof that shut out the sky. Paul noticed that the ground became more firm and less damp. The air was growing cooler, and it became obvious that the ground ahead was rising slowly. Presently, large patches of blue became noticeable between the tree-tops. Paul realized then how much he had been missing the open sky.
The forest gave way to savannah – rich grassland where the trees were few and scattered and were often no higher than the grass itself, which frequently came up to the shoulders of the small Bayani. Far ahead, Paul could see the uplands. Beyond them, now and again becoming briefly visible in the haze of late afternoon, there seemed to be a shimmering range of white-tipped mountains. Was it a trick of his imagination or was there really one that stood far higher than the rest? One that he knew instinctively was the Temple of the White Darkness.
Shortly before the sun set, they made camp in the middle of the rolling savannah. Now that the forest was behind, making the death of Mien She seem oddly remote, and now that it was possible to see the stars and the nine sisters – the nine moons of Altair Five – once more, the spirits of the hunters rose. After their evening meal, they wrapped themselves in skins against the cool night air and told stories to each other as before.
Paul had hoped that it would have been possible to make a fire. But to have started a fire in the middle of the savannah would have been very dangerous indeed – besides which, it would have been difficult to find sufficient fuel for one. So he was content to lean against his pillow of skins, himself warmly wrapped, and listen vaguely to the chattering of the Bayani.
As he gazed idly at the stars, he began to think. In the journey through the forest – a timeless journey through time – he had apparently cast off the personality and conditioning of Poul Mer Lo. For some reasons he could not understand, in some way he could not understand, he had become very consciously Paul Marlowe, native of Earth, once more.
And the surprising thing was that it no longer hurt. He was a castaway, far from home, and with no hope of returning. Yet, it no longer hurt …
He was amazed at the discovery.
Presently, the talk of the hunters died down and they made ready for sleep. Zu Shan and Nemo were already asleep, having tired themselves out with the day’s journey. Presently, Paul and Shon Hu shared the first watch.
They did not talk. Shon Hu, though satisfied with the day’s progress and relieved now that the forest was behind them, was not inclined to be very communicative. This suited Paul who was able – pleasurably for once – to contemplate the night sky and let his thoughts drift among the stars.
When it was time to wake the two hunters for their spell of watch, Paul felt more exhilarated than tired. Perhaps it was the effect of the cooler, bracing air. Or perhaps it was because they were nearing the end of the journey.
Nevertheless he very quickly fell asleep when at last he lay down.
THIRTY-ONE
He was aware of words being spoken loudly and urgently in his head. Vaguely and sleepily he tried to dismiss them as some aspect of a dream that he was not aware of dreaming. But the words would not be dismissed. They were not to be abolished either by sleepiness or willpower. They would not be ignored. They became louder, more insistent.
Until he sat bolt upright, listening to them with a sensation of panic that it was hard to fight down. In the starlight, he could see dimly that the others were also sitting upright. They, too, were listening – motionless, as if the sound that was not a sound had frozen the living flesh. There was also another sound
– a real sound – that seemed very far away. With an effort, Paul concentrated on it. With an even greater effort, he managed to analyse it – the sound of Nemo whimpering. Then his thoughts were snapped back by the loud, imperative and utterly soundless message.
‘Hear, now, the voice of Aru Re!
If you would live to a ripeness, go back!
If you would toil in the fields,
if you would hunt in the forest,
if you would rest in the evening, go back.
If you would look upon women and beget children,
if you would discourse with brothers and fathers,
if you would gather the harvest of living,
if you would pass your days in contentment,
having heard the voice of Aru Re,
go back! Go back! Go back!’
The words without sound became silent. No one moved. Shon Hu was the first to speak. ‘Lord,’ he said shakily, ‘we have heard the voice of Oruri and still live. This journey is not favoured. Now must we return.’
Paul tried desperately to marshal his racing thoughts. ‘The voice spoke to you in Bayani, Shon Hu?’
‘Most clearly, lord.’
‘And yet it spoke to me in English – the language of my own country.’
‘Such is the mystery of Oruri.’
Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset Page 53
