Atta (1953) by Francis Rufus Bellamy

by Atta (pdf)

  a symbol of the futility of fame.

  The rest of that last morning I spent with my Fire

  Feeder officers again, simulating in drill formation the

  line of march through the various sections of the city and

  discussing with the company commanders the best methods of holding a full-scale dress rehearsal of Fire Feeders in action in the Great Oval. By noontime I felt fairly confident that every order would be faithfully carried out

  on schedule, and to make sure I called for one final rehearsal. As a matter of fact I did not leave my well-instructed officers until the sun was past the meridian, and by that time every last detail of the fateful maneuver had

  been reviewed and rereviewed, even down to the smallest movement of the gangs of workers trained to carry the immense amounts of dry tinder required.

  I was supremely conscious that the hour of genuine

  action was fast approaching, and I actually recall little of

  my final hour on the drill ground in the warm sunlight.

  I remember watching the last mechanical evolutions of

  my troops with a feeling of grim contempt because it did

  not occur to a single Fusan that nothing prevented me

  from putting Trotta to the gallop and disappearing beyond the grain fields into the greenness of the high bamboo woods. I remember, too, indulging in a kind of cynical satisfaction at the thought that neither Nuru nor Draca nor any of the leaders could even suspect me of

  trying to save Atta out of friendship. Such an idea was

  far beyond their limited perceptions.

  This was my last simple thought, I remember, when in

  the early afternoon, I tethered Trotta outside the Great

  Oval, made a final survey of the various exists and entrances, and sauntered into the dimly lit, crowded arena.

  Here I beheld one last picture of the leaders of Fusa,

  and it still remains very clear in my memory: Draca lean-

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  mg confidently against the dais, his black brows bent

  toward a witness in the box—it was Nuru—while above

  him the implacable faces of the leaders appeared like so

  many Stygian masks.

  Nuru was well in front, I noticed, but in back of him,

  in the center, was a prisoner s pulpitlike dock, and in this

  sat Atta. I stole a covert glance at him while I made my

  way down the crowded Oval toward Halket, and his appearance nearly deprived me of my composure as I stood below him in the arena. My friend sat in the dock like any

  prisoner, but his front arms were folded on his chest, his

  head was raised high toward the distant ceiling, and in

  his pale eyes was an expression of the utmost resignation.

  He did not look like a prisoner who would rise and make

  a dash for freedom. He looked like a martyr who has already resigned himself to death.

  He gave no faintest hint of fear, however. He was conscious of the slight stir my entrance made among the crowd, and he turned and gazed at me with such a gentle

  and enigmatic expression that for the first time I felt for

  him an infinite compassion. He was only a Formican himself, I saw sudddenly; he was small and alone. Once he was dead, no other creature of his race would ever dare

  to doubt the changless perfection of Fusa. The realization affected me strangely as I made my way to the front benches below the dais. It diminished my hatred

  of the Fusans themselves, but it hardened my determination to leave their city forever and to take Atta with me. For the Formicans themselves could scarcely be

  blamed for Atta’s tragic situation; I realized that. They

  were the helpless products of their own past and incapable of changing. But one Atta was worth more than ten thousand, yes, a million such creatures. Did it matter,

  then, if ten thousand lives were lost in smoke and fire,

  provided Atta himself were saved? This was the specific

  question that I asked myself as I sat down below the

  dais; and to this day I have never been able to change

  the answer.

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  Meanwhile Nuru had stepped down and Draca had

  begun his outline of the case to the leaders. He spoke

  rapidly and confidently. He called attention briefly to the

  flute and to the carved figures. Only over the chessmen

  and the chess board did he linger, with careful explanation of the symbolism of the king and queen in a world that obviously saw such family figures as criminal. Then

  he called for judgment sentence.

  The swiftness of his action filled me with despair. For

  my Fire Feeders were still many moments away, and I

  knew it. Indeed, without some form of delay, some statement by Atta, I saw grimly, all of my optimistic plans would come to a swift, ridiculous end. Atta would be

  sentenced and led down to face a Monster before a single

  Fire Guard arrived.

  I need not have worried, however, if I had possessed

  more imagination. For whatever I might have done or left

  undone, Atta himself had no intention of leaving unfilled

  the pit his apostasy had dug for me, and I can see now

  that from the beginning—perhaps from the hour of his

  arrest—he had thought of little else but how he could

  avert from me the fate that was already his.

  This it was that he must have been turning over in his

  mind as he stared so steadily at the ceiling, awaiting the

  spider. This it was, and only this, that he was waiting to

  say. And it was this quality of selflessness, I suppose, that

  made his words so moving to me when at last he faced

  Oban and that heavy-lidded Fusan asked him in measured tones if he were ready for judgment and if he had anything to say.

  Absolute silence fell upon the crowd as Oban asked

  this question, and I, for one had the sensation that I had

  lost my breath and should never recover it unless Atta

  made some reply. Then Atta turned slowly and faced his

  accusers, and to my great relief I knew that he meant to

  speak. Our last chance was not yet gone.

  Even so, his first words made a sound like the thin

  even dripping of water on a solid wall. He did not seem

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  to be answering an accusation; he seemed to be merely

  trying to arrive at some kind of truthful statement, as if

  Draca’s accusation had never existed, as if the sincerity

  of his own halting earnestness were all that mattered.

  Not until he came to his denial that I had had any part

  in his actions or thought did his voice suddenly ring out

  clear and strong; and even here it was as if he were

  trying to be heard above the commotion his words

  roused. Indeed, for a moment I was puzzled that any

  Fusan should care what part I had played. I thought

  that a Monster had already been brought to one of the

  gateways—that Atta himself had seen it and was making

  a last effort to be heard above the din that the beast’s appearance had raised in the crowd. Then I followed Atta’s gaze down the Oval, and I knew that something more

  powerful than the mere impact of words was causing a

  kind of tremendous confusion at the gateways to the

  street. Louder and louder came the sound of tramping

  feet, the sound of marching Formicans, penetrating the

  entrances to the Great Oval, piercing the ears and assaulting the brain. And a great hope rose in me.

  “Soldiers!” someone shouted from
the benches. “Fire

  Feeders!” The effect on the crowd was electric. As one

  man they rose. They forgot Atta and the leaders. The

  long lines of the Fire Guards appeared, carrying my fire

  bowls and endless bundles of tinder, and preceded by

  fierce warriors. Into the Oval from a dozen gateways they

  marched, heading directly for the dais. It was an imposing sight.

  Only Halket comprehended instantly what it meant.

  He turned to me with an expression that I have never

  forgotten: the Formican mask shattered into a thousand

  pieces. “You will pay for this,” he said with fury. And before I could make the slightest move to set alight the fire bowls nearest me he turned to summon his own

  men from the dais. It was Armageddon at last, I saw,

  and I felt neither honor nor pity.

  Even as Halket turned his back I drew my hatchet

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  from my belt and struck him a mighty blow on the back

  of the head. He fell against the Formican next to him. I

  did not hesitate. I drove my dagger deep into his body

  and leaped up on the dais.

  “They mean to burn us!” I shouted. “Fire in Fusa!”

  Twice I shouted this and pointed at the high doorways to the street, where great piles of tinder were already beginning to appear. And that alone was enough to turn the Oval into a hysterical, milling confusion of

  terrified Formicans.

  “The fire will scorch us!” some fool shouted in the rear.

  “To the streets!”

  “Let me out!” shouted a dozen others. “Fire Feeders!”

  screamed a thousand shrill voices. “Fire! Guards!”

  And for Atta and me Armageddon had indeed begun.

  Chapter 14

  O n ly D raca remained cool, as I remember it now. H e -

  stood on the dais like some kind of dark, implacable

  hornet.

  “Remove the prisoner!” he shouted to the two shakoed

  soldiers who stood near Nuru. And he himself started toward the rear exits, whither Oban and the rest were pushing.

  Not all the immediate spectators were such cravens.

  The front row had seen me assault Halket and seen him

  fall, and they began climbing up onto the platform where

  I now stood. I had only an instant or two before they

  could reach me, and I made the most of it.

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  “To the side exit, Atta!” I shouted above the din.

  “Trotta’s waiting!”

  Then I unloosed my lasso from my shoulder, whirled it

  in loops above my head, and sent it snaking after the

  the soldiers who were striding toward Atta. It snared

  them like two rabbits when I pulled the noose tight and

  snubbed my end of the rope around the nectar stand

  beside me.

  “Atta!” I shouted again. “To the side exit!”

  I turned and struck with my hatchet at the first For-

  mican to reach me. He fell like a log; he was only an

  innocent worker, I suppose, but he was one of at least

  a dozen who were pulling themselves up to get at me,

  and my prospects seemed suddenly very dim. For no one

  is able to hold back a dozen Formicans bunched in a

  small space, and their ability to grapple is incredible.

  Yet I should have known better than to expect Atta to

  leave me to my fate while he saved himself. Almost before I knew it he was beside me, and the old light of battle was shining in his eyes.

  “Save yourself!” he shouted to me. “I’ll hold them!”

  And, like any two citizens fighting a gang of hoodlums,

  we began our last fight.

  Even now I have not the faintest notion how it might

  have turned out had there been no intervention. Despite

  the increasing confusion Fusan after Fusan saw the

  struggle and came leaping up onto the dais to pull us

  down. Eventually we must have been overcome in that

  wild, choatic malestrom. But my Fire Feeders were true

  to their orders. From the side exit where Trotta stood,

  dozens of them now appeared and rushed for the dais.

  “Drive back this crowd!” I shouted to them; and they

  obeyed me instinctively, precisely as if we had been before the burning towers of Natissia and not in Fusa’s Oval.

  “Now!” I shouted to Atta. “Together!”

  And while the Fire Feeders rushed fiercely on the jostling and menacing crowd Atta and I made for the side

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  doorway. In a few seconds we were through it and in the

  square outside.

  It was a terrible sight that confronted us there: thousands of fear-crazed Fusans fleeing in wild confusion from the doorways of the Great Oval, trampling the rear

  of other milling, pushing Formicans who were trying to

  get through the lines of Guards and escape down the

  streets and avenues. But I had no time for pity or regrets.

  “Mount behind me!” I shouted to Atta. “No one will

  stop us!”

  He nodded, grasped my lance, and vaulted into the

  second saddle that my bundle of armor made. I followed

  him into my own saddle and dug my heels into Trotta’s

  sides, and a second later we were galloping through the

  long lines of saluting Guards, down the cleared and

  guarded avenue, past the gaping crowds of the still unaware lower city, and thus to the South Gate and freedom.

  Such was my farewell to Fusa. I could wish now that

  the moment could have been prolonged forever; that

  Atta and I could ride eternally down the city’s wide

  avenues, two loyal adventurers carved in obsidian or

  painted on some rude Formican vase, riding, riding, and

  never reaching journey’s end.

  So I feel now, when everything is over.

  But on that summer afternoon I was still in the flush

  of triumph. I even had fleeting dreams of greater conquests—of leading the rest of the faithful regiments of the Natissian campaign from their post at the gates back

  up the avenues; of toppling Fusa to its annihilation. But

  no such revenge was mine, then or ever.

  I had only to mention the idea to Atta as we rode to

  realize that he would have none of such a proposal; and

  his dissent ended my own desire for reprisal. Indeed, it

  made me feel strangely happy and light-hearted. For

  with it the cold armor of my own hatred fell from me;

  and thereafter I devoted myself cheerfully to seeing that

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  Trotta stayed in the middle of the road and took the right

  avenues to the South Gateway.

  Here, once through, it was necessary only to guide her

  past the drill grounds—she tried hard to take that familiar lane—and past the slanting fields of growing grain where the planters still worked in the afternoon sunshine; and soon we were at the line of gorse and bamboo woods whence I had first glimpsed Fusa with Atta beside me. At this point he dismounted and led the way

  with the certainty of the old scout; and in a few minutes

  the tangled woods had closed behind us.

  Thereafter he steadily led the way, and Trotta and I

  as steadily followed. We stopped once, munched some

  mushrooms, and took a few swallows of nectar. But we

  did not delay overlong, and not until darkness fell did

  we halt at last and make camp in a cave beside somer />
  boulders.

  Here we were still many days’ journey from our abandoned walnut hut But the danger of immediate pursuit seemed reasonably remote. And already the lowering

  weather had disturbed Atta. All afternoon, he pointed

  out, huge clouds had been gathering in the west, and

  from the darkening horizon an occasional zigzag of lightning struck down at the rim of the world. A real downpour might be coming, he predicted, and we should do well to avoid being caught in any river valley.

  This danger was the reason for our last camp, and it

  seemed good and sufficient to me. Comfortably ensconced

  as I had been for many months in my Fusan gallery, I

  still remembered those stupendous rains of my early adventures. Caught in a valley, one could be easily drowned; a cave on a hillside was a far safer refuge.

  There was even room for Trotta, I found, under an overhanging shelf, and this removed my last worry.

  We had still not discussed our last hours in Fusa or

  our separate individual adventures after Atta’s arrest. It

  is one of my great regrets that Atta, on our last evening

  together, told me neither all that had happened to him

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  nor the thoughts that had been his while he sat in his

  cell in the Oval awaiting punishment,

  “Who cares what I think?” he exclaimed. “Let us drink

  a toast to the fact that there is not one of us here, but

  twol”

  This, over a gourd of nectar, was the only statement

  he made on the subject of Fusa. The monstrous rain

  roared down upon us soon after that, and we spent nearly the whole night plugging chinks in the cave’s walls and changing Trotta and our belongings from place to

  place as streams of water descended the hill and trickled

  over the rocky floor of our refuge.

  Even so, we were fairly comfortable. Once or twice

  huge boulders above us become undermined and went

  crashing past our ledge. But they could not strike us in

  our cave, and after Fusa’s false security our refuge took

  on an illusion almost of home.

  “A good thing your Fire Feeders didn’t ever have to