The Man Who Talled Tales: Collected Short Stories of R.A. Lafferty

by R. A. Lafferty

  The Camiroi believe in the necessity of the frontier. They control many primitive worlds, and I gather hints that they are sometimes cruel in their management. The tyrants and proconsuls of these worlds are young, usually still in their teens. The young people are to have their careers and make their mistakes while in the foreign service. When they return to Camiroi they are supposed to be settled and of tested intelligence.

  The earning scale of the Camiroi is curious. A job of mechanical drudgery pays higher than one of intellectual interest and involvement. This often means that the least intelligent and least able of the Camiroi will have more wealth than those of more ability. “This is fair,” the Camiroi tell us. “Those not able to receive the higher recompense are certainly entitled to the lower.” They regard the Earth system as grossly inequal, that a man should have both a superior job and superior pay, and that another man should have the inferior of both.

  Though official offices and jobs are usually filled by lot, yet persons can apply for them for their own reasons. In special conditions there might even be competition for an assignment, such as directorship of trade posts where persons (for private reasons) might wish to acquire great fortunes rapidly. We witnessed confrontations between candidates in several of these campaigns, and they were curious.

  “My opponent is a three and seven,” said one candidate, and then he sat down.

  “My opponent is a five and nine,” said the other candidate. The small crowd clapped, and that was the confrontation or debate.

  We attended another such rally.

  “My opponent is an eight and ten,” one candidate said briskly.

  “My opponent is a two and six,” said the other, and they went off together.

  We did not understand this, and we attended a third confrontation. There seemed to be a little wave of excitement about to break here.

  “My opponent is an old number four,” said one candidate with a voice charged with emotion, and there was a gasp from the small crowd.

  “I will not answer the charge,” said the other candidate shaking with anger. “The blow is too foul, and we had been friends.”

  We found the key then. The Camiroi are experts at defamation, but they have developed a shorthand system to save time. They have their decalogue of slander, and the numbers refer to this. In its accepted version it runs as follows:

  My opponent (1) is personally moronic. (2) is sexually incompetent. (3) flubs third points in Chuki game. (4) eats Mu seeds before the time of the summer solstice. (5) is physically pathetic. (7) is financially stupid. (8) is ethically weird. (9) is intellectually contemptible. (10) is morally dishonest.

  Try it yourself, on your friends or your enemies! Works wonderfully. We recommend the listing and use to Earth politicians, except for numbers three and four which seem to have no meaning in Earth context.

  The Camiroi have a corpus of proverbs. We came on them in Archives, along with an attached machine with a hundred levers on it. We depressed the lever marked Earth English, and had a sampling of these proverbs put into Earth context.

  A man will not become rich by raising goats, the machine issued. Yes, that could almost pass for an Earth proverb. It almost seems to mean something.

  Even buzzards sometimes gag. That has an Earth sound also.

  It's that or pluck chickens.

  “I don't believe I understand that one,” I said.

  “You think it's easy to put these in Earth context, you try it sometime,” the translation machine issued. “The proverb applies to distasteful but necessary tasks.”

  “Ah, well, let's try some more,” said Paul Piggott. “That one.”

  A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, the machine issued abruptly.

  “But that is an Earth proverb word for word,” I said.

  “You wait until I finish it, lady,” the translation machine growled. “To this proverb in its classical form is always appended a cartoon showing a bird fluttering away and a man angrily wiping his hand with some disposable material while he says, “A bird in the hand is not worth two in the bush.”

  “Are we being had by a machine?” our Charles Chosky asked softly.

  “Give us that proverb there,” I pointed one out to the machine.

  There'll be many a dry eye here when you leave, the machine issued.

  We left.

  “I may be in serious trouble,” I said to a Camiroi lady of my acquaintance, “Well, aren't you going to ask me what it is?”

  “No, I don't particularly care,” she said. “But tell me if you feel an absolute compulsion to it.”

  “I never heard of such a thing,” I said. “I have been chosen by lot to head a military expedition for the relief of a trapped force on a world I never heard of. I am supposed to raise and supply this force (out of my private funds, it says here) and have it in flight within eight oodles. That's only two hours. What will I do?”

  “Do it, of course, Miss Holly,” the lady said. “You are a citizen of Camiroi now, and you should be proud to take charge of such an operation.”

  “But I don't know how! What will happen if I just tell them that I don't know how?”

  “Oh, you'll lose your citizenship and suffer mutilation. That's the law, you know.”

  “How will they mutilate me?”

  “Probably cut off your nose. I wouldn't worry about it. It doesn't do much for you anyhow.”

  “But we have to go back to Earth! We are going to go tomorrow, but now we want to go today. I do anyhow.”

  “Earth kid, if I were you, I'd get out to Sky-Port awful fast.”

  By a coincidence (I hope it was no more than that) our political analyst, Paul Piggott, had been chosen by lot to make a survey (personally, minutely and interiorly, the directive said) of the sewer system of Camiroi City. And our leader, Charles Chosky, had been selected by lot to put down a rebellion of Groll's Trolls on one of the worlds, and to leave his right hand and his right eye as surety for the accomplishment of the mission.

  We were rather nervous as we waited for Earth Flight at Sky-Port, particularly so when a group of Camiroi acquaintances approached us. But they did not stop us. They said goodbye to us without too much enthusiasm.

  “Our visit has been all too short,” I said hopefully.

  “Oh, I wouldn't say that,” one of them rejoined. “There is a Camiroi proverb—”

  “We've heard it,” said our leader, Charles Chosky. “We also are dry-eyed about leaving.”

  FINAL RECOMMENDATION: That another and broader field group be sent to study the Camiroi in greater detail. That a special study might fruitfully be made of the humor of the Camiroi. That no members of the first field group should serve on the second field group.

  —Holly Holm

  Cliffs That Laughed

  “Between ten and ten-thirty of the morning of October 1, 1945, on an island that is sometimes called Pulau Petir and sometimes Willy Jones Island (neither of them its map name), three American soldiers disappeared and have not been seen since. “I'm going back there, I tell you! It was worth it. The limbs that laughed! Let them kill me! I'll get there! Oh, here, here, I've got to get hold of myself.

  “The three soldiers were Sergeant Charles Santee of Orange, Texas; Corporal Robert Casper of Gobey, Tennessee; and PFC Timothy Lorrigan of Boston which is in one of the eastern states. I was one of those three soldiers.

  “I'm going back there if it takes me another twenty years!”

  No, no, no! That's the wrong story. It happened on Willy Jones Island also, but it's a different account entirely. That's the one the fellow told me in a bar years later, just the other night, after the usual “Didn't I used to know you in the Islands?”

  “One often makes these little mistakes and false starts,” Galli said. “It is a trick that is used in the trade. One exasperates people and pretends to be embarrassed. And then one hooks them.”

  Galli was an hereditary storyteller of the Indies. “There is only one story in the world,” he
said, “and it pulls two ways. There is the reason part that says ‘Hell, it can't be’ and there is the wonder part that says ‘Hell, maybe it is.’ ” He was the storyteller, and he offered to teach me the art.

  For we ourselves had a hook into Galli. We had something he wanted.

  “We used the same stories for a thousand years,” he said. “Now, however, we have a new source, the American Comic Books. My grandfather began to use these in another place and time, and I use them now. I steal them from your orderly tents, and I have a box full of them. I have Space Comics and Commander Midnight; I have Galactic Gob and Mighty Mouse and the Green Hornet and the Masked Jetter. My grandfather also had copies of some of these, but drawn by older hands. But I do not have Wonder Woman, not a single copy. I would trade three-for-one for copies of her. I would pay a premium. I can link her in with an island legend to create a whole new cycle of stories, and I need new stuff all the time. Have you a Wonder Woman?”

  When Galli said this, I knew that I had him. I didn't have a Wonder Woman, but I knew where I could steal one. I believe, though I am no longer sure, that it was Wonder Woman Meets the Space Magicians.

  I stole it for him. And in gratitude Galli not only taught me the storyteller's art, but he also told me the following story:

  “Imagine about flute notes ascending,” said Galli. “I haven't my flute with me, but a story should begin so to set the mood. Imagine about ships coming out of the Arabian Ocean, and finally to Jilolo Island, and still more finally to the very island on which we now stand. Imagine about waves and trees that were the great-great-grandfathers of the waves and trees we now have.” It was about the year 1620, Galli is telling it, in the late afternoon of the high piracy. These Moluccas had already been the rich Spice Islands for three hundred years. Moreover, they were on the road of the Manila galleons coming from Mexico and the Isthmus. Arabian, Hindu, and Chinese piracy had decayed shamefully. The English were crude at the business. In trade the Dutch had become dominant in the Islands and the Portuguese had faded. There was no limit to the opportunities for a courageous and dedicated raider in the Indies.

  They came. And not the least of these new raiding men was Willy Jones.

  It was said that Willy Jones was a Welshman. You can believe it or not as you like. The same thing has been said about the Devil. Willy was twenty-five years old when he finally possessed his own ship with a mixed crew. The ship was built like a humpbacked bird, with a lateen sail and suddenly-appearing rows of winglike oars. On its prow was a swooping bird that had been carved in Muskat. It was named the Flying Serpent, or the Feathered Snake, depending on what language you use.

  “Pause a moment,” said Galli. “Set the mood. Imagine about dead men variously. We come to the bloody stuff at once.”

  One early morning, the Feathered Snake overtook a tall Dutchman. The ships were grappled together, and the men from the Snake boarded the Dutch ship. The men on the Dutchman were armed, but they had never seen such suddenness and savagery as shown by the dark men from the Snake. There was slippery blood on the decks, and the croaking of men being killed. ‘I forgot to tell you that this was in the passage between the Molucca Sea and the Banda,’ Galli said.

  The Snake took a rich small cargo from the Dutch ship, a few able-bodied Malay seamen, some gold specie, some papers of record, and a dark Dutch girl named Margaret. These latter things Willy Jones preempted for himself. Then the Snake devoured that tall Dutchman and left only a few of its burning bones floating in the ocean.

  ‘I forgot to tell you that the tall Dutch ship was named the Luchtkastell,’ Galli said.

  Willy Jones watched the Luchtkastell disappearing under the water. He examined the papers of record, and the dark Dutch girl Margaret. He made a sudden decision: He would cash his winnings and lay up for a season.

  He had learned about an island in the papers of record. It was a rich island, belonging to the richest of the Dutch spice men who had gone to the bottom with the Luchtkastell. The fighting crew would help Willy Jones secure the island for himself; and in exchange, he would give them his ship and the whole raiding territory and the routes he had worked out.

  Willy Jones captured the island and ruled it. From the ship he kept only the gold, the dark Dutch girl Margaret, and three golems which had once been ransom from a Jew in Oman.

  ‘I forgot to tell you that Margaret was the daughter of the Dutch spice man who had owned the island and the tall ship and who was killed by Willy,’ Galli said, ‘and the island really belonged to Margaret now as the daughter of her father.’

  For one year Willy Jones ruled the small settlement, drove the three golems and the men who already lived there, had the spices gathered and baled and stored (they were worth their weight in silver), and built the Big House. And for one year he courted the dark Dutch girl Margaret, having been unable to board her as he had all other girls.

  She refused him because he had killed her father, because he had destroyed the Luchtkastell which was Family and Nation to her, and because he had stolen her island.

  This Margaret, though she was pretty and trim as a kuching, had during the affair of the Feathered Snake and the Luchtkastell twirled three seamen in the air like pinwheels at one time and thrown them all into the ocean. She had eyes that twinkled like the compounded eyes of the devil-fly; they could glint laughter and fury at the same time.

  “Those girls were like volcanoes,” the man said. “Slim, strong mountains, and we climbed them like mountains. Man, the uplift on them! The shoulders were cliffs that laughed. The swaying—”

  No, no! Belay that last paragraph! That's from the ramble of the fellow in the bar, and it keeps intruding.

  ‘I forgot to tell you that she reminds me of Wonder Woman,’ Galli said.

  Willy Jones believed that Margaret was worth winning unbroken, as he was not at all sure that he could break her. He courted her as well as he could, and he used to advantage the background of the golden-green spicery on which they lived.

  ‘Imagine about the Permata bird that nests on the moon,’ Galli said, ‘and which is the most passionate as well as the noblest-singing of the birds. Imagine about flute notes soaring.’

  Willy Jones made this tune to Margaret:

  The Nutmeg Moon is the third moon of the year.

  The Tides come in like loose Silk all its Nights.

  The Ground is animated by the bare Feet of Margaret

  Who is like the Pelepah of the Ko-eng Flower.

  Willy made this tune in the Malaya language in which all the words end in ang.

  ‘Imagine about water leaping down rocky hills,’ Galli said. ‘Imagine about red birds romping in green groves.’

  Willy Jones made another tune to Margaret:

  A Woman with Shoulders so strong that a Man might ride upon them

  The while she is still the little Girl watching for the black Ship

  Of the Hero who is the same age as the Sky,

  But she does not realize that I am already here.

  Willy made this tune in the Dutch language in which all the words end in lijk.

  ‘Imagine about another flute joining the first one, and their notes scamper like birds,’ Galli said.

  Willy Jones made a last tune to Margaret:

  Damnation! That is enough of Moonlight and Tomorrows!

  Now there are mats to plait, and kain to sew.

  Even the smallest crab knows to build herself a house in the sand.

  Margaret should be raking the oven coals and baking a roti.

  I wonder why she is so slow in seeing this.

  Willy made this tune in the Welsh language in which all the words end in gwbl.

  When the one year was finished, they were mated. There was still the chilliness there as though she would never forgive him for killing her father and stealing her island; but they began to be in accord.

  ‘Here pause five minutes to indicate an idyllic interlude,’ Galli said. ‘We sing the song Bagang Kali Berjumpa if you know the
tune. We flute, if I have my flute.’ The idyllic interlude passed.

  Then Willy's old ship, the Feathered Snake, came back to the Island. She was in a pitiful state of misuse. She reeked of old and new blood, and there were none left on her but nine sick men. These nine men begged Willy Jones to become their captain again to set everything right.

  Willy washed the nine living skeletons and fed them up for three days. They were fat and able by then. And the three golems had refitted the ship.

  “All she needs is a strong hand at the helm again,” said Willy Jones. “I will sail her again for a week and a day. I will impress a new crew, and once more make her the terror of the Spice Islands. Then I will return to my island, knowing that I have done a good deed in restoring the Snake to the bloody work for which she was born.”

  “If you go, Willy Jones, you will be gone for many years,” said the dark Dutch Margaret.

  “Only one at the most,” said Willy.

  “And I will be in my grave when you return.”

  “There is no grave could hold you, Margaret.”

  “Aye, it may not hold me. I'll out of it and confront you when you come back. But it gives one a weirdness to be in the grave for only a few years. I will not own you for my husband when you do come back. You will not even know whether I am the same woman that you left, and you will never know. I am a volcano, but I banked my hatred and accepted you. But if you leave me now, I will erupt against you forever.”

  But Willy Jones went away in the Flying Serpent and left her there. He took two of the golems with him, and he left one of them to serve Margaret.

  What with one thing and another, he was gone for twenty years.

  “We were off that morning to satisfy our curiosity about the Big House,” the fellow said, “since we would soon be leaving the island forever. You know about the Big House. You were on Willy Jones Island too. The Jilolos call it the House of Skulls, and the Malaya and Indonesia people will not speak about it at all.