The Face of Heaven

by Brian Stableford

  It was not smiling.

  Neither was Camlak, who came slowly up the gully, deliberately relaxing his muscles and his mind, tautening his spirit and trying to attract his Gray Soul out of the wilderness of nowhere and into the battle.

  The drums slowed and stopped, and the last mournful notes of the horns died a lingering death. The warriors of the Children of the Voice aligned themselves along the gaping, twisted lips which ridged the gully, and they looked down from their vantage, eager to appreciate the coming conflict. The combatants seemed to be a long time coming to the climactic moment of their meeting. The harrowhound moved not at all, and Camlak seemed as though he were walking through water.

  The great beast stood nearly as tall on four legs as Camlak stood on two. Only its head seemed out of proportion (too small) and even this impression was offset by its vast luminous brown eyes. Camlak wore a little armor, but it was only hide and bone—the natural armor of the harrowhound (thick, matted hair) was probably more efficient, and certainly more comfortable. Camlak also carried weapons, but these too seemed little enough compared to the natural weapons of the beast—the knives set in the hound’s jaws were as sharp and strong as his, and alive. The massive callused paws were frightening clubs.

  They faced each other, locked eyes, and showed themselves. Camlak did not stop his slow march forward. He was balanced lightly on his feet, his short tail held rigid, his own tiny jaws held slightly agape.

  The beast looked at him somberly, fearlessly. It sensed, somehow, that even the assembled crowd was in the balance. They were not committed to Camlak—they did not know whether or not they wanted him to win.

  The harrowhound moved forward, closing the distance between itself and the oncoming hunter in a couple of long, loping strides. It expected the man to pause, or even to fall back, jockeying for position, trying to spy a mark for the spear, preparing a sequence of moves which might inflict a blow without taking one in return. But Camlak did not fall back and try to set himself up to receive the charge. On the crest of a sudden wave of terror, Camlak surged forward.

  The harrowhound howled with terrifying volume as it launched itself from its back legs, already too close for the leap to be timed to perfection.

  Camlak’s soft hiss was lost in the howl, and to the watchers on the ridge it seemed that his body was lost too, disappeared into the belly of the hound as the hunter moved the wrong way.

  The head of the beast came down, jaws reaching apart, the whiteness of teeth gleaming in the starlight.

  The closeness of the bodies made it difficult to see what might be happening. The warriors expected that Camlak would have plunged his spear into the off-white underbelly of the beast, and thrust his knife up at the threatening head. They knew, as the beast must have known, that neither attack could do any lasting damage. The spear-point would stick in the muscle if it penetrated the hide. It could not get past the ribs to the pleural cavity. The thrust into the mouth might draw blood and cause pain, but the blade could not possibly reach a vital point via the skull. But the watchers could not see what Camlak did—they could only guess.

  For a fleeting second Camlak believed that he was lost and dead, but he was not. Somehow he avoided the sweep of the massive jaws. He had not lost or broken his spear. He still held his knife. He swung away to one side, out from the shadow of the monster, slashing at it with a frantic sideways stab. The blow cut skin and seared tendon, and when Camlak was clear and the hound came down its leg buckled under its weight. As the combatants drew apart the beast seemed almost to limp.

  The warriors fastened their stares on Camlak to see how he was hurt. But Camlak still moved easily—without speed, but without brokenness. Camlak surged into the shadow of the beast for a second time, and this time the beast had little enough grace in its leap. There had been no pause to draw breath, no hesitation of fatigue or fear. The harrowhound’s head ducked once, twice, almost pecking at the hunter. Somehow, the teeth missed Camlak both times. The jaws could not close.

  Camlak, right inside the beast’s spring, thrust this left hand up to the fold of skin beneath the chin and wound his slender fingers into the hair with a single convulsive twist. He pivoted on his arm, keeping his head low, and simply pushed the jaws aside as they reached for him. His knife slashed furiously, and with the same short-armed backhanded stabbing motion he lacerated the flesh of the legs which buffeted him. The point of his spear had gone down into the groin of the animal and the shaft had broken. He had aimed for the muscle of the hind leg and missed.

  The full weight of the beast came down on Camlak from directly above, and he was crushed onto the hard stone. But he did not relax his grip on the hair beneath the animal’s neck, and his own head was still low, still protected by the arm from the dip and snap of the jaws.

  Camlak had difficulty breathing, and the reek of the beast’s fur filled his nostrils. The harrowhound was confused and in pain, but it would have made no difference if it had been able to clear its fugitive mind and formulate some kind of plan. It had no resources with which to do that but instinct, and its instinct was not adapted to the present situation.

  As the harrowhound thrashed its legs, man and beast rolled. Camlak still slashed with his knife, not daring to make any more positive thrust in case the blade was lost like the spearhead. The beast’s teeth finally made contact with the man’s shoulder, but they could do no more than rake the flesh. Camlak sank his own teeth into the stripped flesh of the leg he had attacked with his knife. The taste was foul and there was enough hair left to fill his mouth like a gag, but he bit as deep as his jaws had strength.

  The hound bayed again.

  Camlak took advantage of the roll to get free of the monster before the full weight pinned him for a second time, and he scrambled sideways, regaining his feet on the bank of the stream. His mouth was dripping blood which was not his own. The beast tried to right itself in a single convulsive bound, but one foreleg at least was hurt badly, and it had to turn away and dance backwards or it would have staggered toward Camlak’s eager knife. The beast sought the slanting stones at the back of the fault in order to launch itself again but Camlak, still impelled by persuasive terror, had not stood still for a moment. He had come forward while the beast went back, and it was the man who closed the gap between the two.

  But this time the monster was not to be caught. Flailing its forepaws, it knocked the little man flying. Camlak was tumbled backwards from the flat stones into the stream. His fingers scraped the bottom as the water soaked into his clothing, and they came free of the surface with a handful of fluid mud and thin weed. As the harrowhound’s jaws widened above him, Camlak threw the handful of sodden debris into the beast’s face. Then he dropped flat, back into the water. The hound lurched over him, giving vent to a single titanic sneeze. But it had no sooner landed in the stream than it was turning, blinded and maddened.

  Camlak grabbed the loose fold of skin and tangled fur yet again, and jammed the blade of his knife upward through the tightly pulled hide into the beast’s throat. He pressed as hard as he possibly could, and then leapt backwards, leaving the knife buried. The harrowhound reared up on its hind legs and plunged wildly, missing him by a considerable margin. Camlak looked round for the shaft of his lost spear. He found it and went for it, and the weight of the beast came down on him as it bounded the same way. The collision was almost accidental, and the jaws closed on air, but Camlak felt his left arm break as he was hurled to the ground again.

  Nevertheless, he was free and clear, and the beast was still half-blind. Its breathing was cut off and it was furious. It leaped again, and once more Camlak evaded the leap, and this time he had the shaft of the spear in hand. As the monster came at him again he dealt it a heavy blow on the skull, which seemed to have no effect at all. Once again, the hunter was knocked flying.

  The hound blinked its eyes clear, but it was still leaping without pause, and it missed again. As it landed it was seared by pain from the wounds in its leg and in its
groin, both of which it had aggravated considerably by its frantic movements. It staggered and fell forward, and as it sagged on to the rocks it turned the knife in its throat. Camlak hit it again and again with the stick, and though the blows did no damage at all, the beast gave way beneath them.

  Camlak, exhausted though he was, found the strength and the presence of mind to hurl the stick away and pick up a sizeable rock from the shallow bed of the stream. Though he had to pluck it out of the water one-handed he managed to raise it high above his head and then bring it down edge-first on to the back of the harrowhound’s head.

  The beast was already choking, and it was hammered to the ground by the blow.

  Camlak followed, recovered the stone, and hurled it down again on the beast’s head.

  The harrowhound would not die, but it could not rise. It had to lie, twitching and uselessly snapping its jaws, while the new Old Man of Stalhelm smashed it slowly with the flat stone.

  It still had not died when the warriors came into the gully to accept the verdict of the test. Camlak sagged into Cicon’s arms, but after a few moments rest he was able to stand again and walk back to Stalhelm. Chemec the cripple was allowed to carry the harrowhound’s head, after they had managed to cut it off with steel knives.

  His arm was broken and his body was covered with bruises but Camlak was undoubtedly the leader of his people. The time had come for the Children of the Voice to learn Camlak’s way.

  Chapter 44

  Enzo Ulicon made very little progress at all in finding out more about Magner’s nightmares. As data accumulated, his early suspicions were confirmed, but he made no significant discoveries. The need for diplomacy in approaching medical sources, and the need to be evasive in pursuit of what he actually wanted to hear, slowed him down and made him tired.

  He checked cases of dream disorders going back some centuries, but discovered that the number of cases where no clear pathological reason for the disorders had been traced were very few and in no way helpful. He could find no convincing evidence that anyone else was suffering, or had suffered, visions of Hell during their sleep.

  His scientific advisers, familiar with both the theory and the practical application of the i-minus effect, offered him ideas, but nothing concrete. In the end, he had only logic and suspicion to guide him in reaching the most tentative of conclusions.

  “There’s no evidence to suggest that Magner is a genetic freak,” he reported to Heres. “And in his waking life he appears to be quite ordinary—or did, until the dreams started to get the better of him. I think it’s real, Rafael. We’re not dealing with brain damage or with instinctive resurgence. This is something else. It’s real, and it’s meaningful, if only we can figure out what the meaning might be.”

  “You think that Magner’s a telepath?” said Heres.

  “I do.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “No. But something’s getting into his head and we can’t find any source for it inside him. It has to come from outside. The question is, where? And how, and what does it mean?”

  “That’s a lot of questions,” said Heres. “How about some answers?”

  “Guesses,” said Ulicon. “It’s all we have.”

  “Go on.”

  “All right. Number one. The source of the trouble is probably the pons. Magner awake doesn’t suffer from visions—at least, he hasn’t so far. Thus, the visions come to him via some process active during sleep. The pons is the body which decouples the motor responses from the dream-simulation. The pons might be the receiver in the telepathic link. What kind of radiation is involved we obviously have no idea. The cytoarchitecture of the pons might offer us some suggestions. That research will take years, though.

  “Another guess. If we assume that the input into Magner’s dreams is coming from outside then it seems like a good working assumption to say that it’s coming from where Magner thinks it is—the Underworld. Someone—or something—down there is transmitting. New question: are they doing it deliberately? If so, is their message beamed specifically at Magner or is he the only man capable of picking it up? Personally, I find the idea of a deliberate transmission hard to swallow. I don’t think that Magner’s picking up messages at all. My guess is that it’s some kind of leakage. He’s getting vast assemblies of incoherent images which build in his mind to the visions he’s written down in his book.

  “The big hitch in all guesses is just this: what contribution is Magner making to the organization and interpretation of this input? How much of what Magner has written is raw input and how much is his personal reaction to it? We have no possible way of making a guess at this point. Not without another subject or another input. We have no basis at all for any sort of comparison.”

  “It’s just not convincing,” said Heres.

  “I know,” said Ulicon. “Don’t you think I realize that? I wish it were convincing. I wish we had a few more puzzling facts to help make a pattern. I wish we had a few more definite data to help us rule out some of the possibilities. But we just don’t have enough.”

  “So what do you think we should do?”

  “Nothing. What can we do?”

  “I agree,” said Heres. “Nothing. But you know that some might not see it that way. The important thing is to avert any kind of a panic. We don’t want to be rushed into action by something we can’t understand, and which might turn out to be completely meaningless. Our top priority, as I see it, is to get on top of the whole thing so that we can do nothing. We have to squash the whole affair.”

  “Publicly, yes,” said Ulicon. “But whatever we do in public we mustn’t allow this thing to drop in private. We can do nothing as yet, but I’ll bet my life on the fact that sooner or later this plot is going to thicken. Tomorrow or next year or Heaven knows when, there’ll be another Magner, or another message, or another problem entirely. This thing is only just beginning, Rafe. You and I might not see the end, but we’ll sure as hell see more than we’ve seen so far.”

  “But in the meantime,” said Heres firmly, “we have to keep everything under control. We can’t afford to let this thing blow up out of all proportion until we know more about it. Much more. We need something to divert attention from Magner. Either that or a way to silence him.”

  “That’s up to you,” said Ulicon. “But if I were you I wouldn’t turn my back on the Underworld just at this moment. I’d worry. I do worry.”

  “I worry too,” Heres assured him.

  Chapter 45

  Later in the day, Dascon contacted the Hegemon with news of Randal Harkanter’s party, which was just about to leave for the Underworld. Heres hardly listened to what the other man said. Whatever Harkanter’s small expedition discovered, it was hardly likely to add much to the solution of the problem, which, if Ulicon was even half-right, had moved into an entirely new dimension.

  For the first time in his life, Heres felt the strange sensation that beneath his feet there was a gulf, and that if he did not tread lightly the floor might crumble beneath him and send him hurtling into the abyss,

  Rypeck was frightened, and that was something Heres could ill afford, especially since it seemed there really might be something for Rypeck to be frightened of. If Rypeck took things into his own hands and talked about the i-minus effect it would be the end of his political career.

  Heres knew that the interests of stability had to be placed first. The interests of the community—Euchronian interests. Fear of the Underworld simply must not be allowed to spread. There were factions which would undoubtedly benefit from such fear, and which might even try and foment anxiety. It was by no means a good thing that the expedition to the world below was in the hands of a man like Harkanter, who was something of a scaremonger even over and above his heretical leanings. And there was Emerich, too. Emerich fed on the ripples in the Euchronian pool—he was a glutton for strife and distrust. If only Emerich could be replaced by a man with a greater sense of responsibility...but it was in the very nature of the media t
hat they existed to shock and excite and stimulate. Emerich’s part in the drama of life was altogether too popular to be threatened. An Emerich would only be replaced by another Emerich. That was the way of life....

  Heres worried, all right. But he would find an answer. Some kind of answer. There was always a way of sweeping the dust under the carpet.

  Always.

  Chapter 46

  The outstanding thing about Camlak was his toughness. In Stalhelm he might find those superior in strength, in courage and in intelligence. But there was no one else with Camlak’s refusal to bend and his capacity to withstand pressure of every kind. In a sense, he was like his father, but while Yami’s toughness and inflexibility had thrived on a policy of destroying all conceivable threats, Camlak’s rested on a carefulness of a rather different kind. Camlak was not a destroyer.

  The key to Camlak’s character was an unusual predilection for doubt. He withstood the pressure of education; he refused to accept common opinion and custom. He would not admit that precedent was adequate justification. Camlak had to be tough, to have survived with his doubt. Under normal circumstances a fighting man cannot afford doubt—in the struggle for existence certainty is usually a powerful survival factor. But doubt is the doorway to discovery and Camlak’s discoveries, assisted by a certain serendipity, kept him ahead of the race. He survived. He was not well liked, because he was not well understood, but he commanded some sort of respect.

  The Children of the Voice were not, by and large, a cogitative people. Evolution had given them intelligence, a high degree of sentience, and the capacity for conscious, rational thought which is the road to self-change. But the use to which the Children of the Voice had put these gifts tended to be rather narrow. In the early days of their “rise” as a species they had been overimitative of the True Men and in the latter days they were overdependent upon the beings which they called their Gray Souls.