by Phillip Mann
Haberjin looked at Tank sharply. “Why do you say ‘You are free to leave’? Aren’t you coming with us?”
Tank shook his head.
“No. I decided that last night. I’ll take my chances on Thule. It is the best place for me. From here I can continue the fight against Erix directly. It’s a fight I’ve been engaged in all my life. He who would try and hold me back is no friend.”
“I’ll try not to hold you back,” said Pettet. “Do what you want. I don’t understand anything any more.”
Tank stood up. He offered his hand to each man in turn. Peron took his hand and squeezed it and then hurried across the cabin and picked up Tank’s sketchbook and box of pencils and handed them to him.
“You keep them, historian,” said Tank. “I’ll never use them again. You see, there is a point beyond art to which art is always leading. Last night I saw all my desires fulfilled a thousand times. All my loves … all the things I could never get quite right. That was what was born. So now goodbye.”
Tank turned and jumped down from the spaceship. They watched him as he began to beat a new pathway through the greenery away from the tree and towards the hills.
In the cabin there was a smell of burning. Peron had burnt their breakfast.
The ship came alive. One by one Haberjin switched in the relays. The vibration in the ship gave them hope. Finally he fed the main drive and the ship lurched slightly and then soundlessly began to lift.
“Go gently, Haberjin,” said Pettet. “I want to enjoy our departure.”
Haberjin turned the ship slowly until they were close to the giant hulk of the Fare-Thee-Well. “We never did get aboard, did we, captain?”
Pettet shook his head.
“And I don’t suppose we ever will now. Probably just as well. It might have been a great disappointment. Everything waterlogged and rusty. Ah well, at least I can tell my grandchildren I saw it. That is, if I ever get round to having any children to have grandchildren.”
“Shut up Haberjin and drive.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” Haberjin lifted them over the Fare-Thee-Well and then began a circuit of the tree. The rain had cleared and the tree stood stark and majestic and very still. The lake at its base was like a pool of black ink.
Something was moving down there. There were figures walking round the margin of the lake, close to where they had landed.
Haberjin took the ship down in a slow arc and he let it hover.
They stared down at the figures. One was a woman with a mane of black hair. She waved, beckoningly. It was Raleigh. The second was an old woman with grey hair and a sharp angular face. The resemblance to Haberjin was unmistakable. But his mother had been dead for fourteen years. The third figure was a child. It carried a blanket and had one thumb in its mouth. It waved in greeting.
With emotions too complex to describe, Peron recognized himself as a child.
“Get us away, Haberjin,” he shouted. “Get us away.”
15
ON BENNET
The killing was continuing in earnest.
In some corners it was conducted with an almost religious zeal and went far beyond the recommendations of the green-eyed Selena.
The decision, once made, was acted on by bureaucrats who devised timetables and schedules and the allocation of resources with bland efficiency. A massive publicity campaign throughout the domains of all the Families made sure that everyone from the humblest scrub farmer up to the petty monarchs of small worlds knew that it was now open season on the aliens. Units of highly-trained recruits surprised the holds of spiderets and fulfilled their quota. While he did not agree with the measures, Pawl could not stand against them. To do so would have been to invite the aggression of all the Families. But he held the killing to a minimum where he could and refused to take action against the Hammer.
Pawl had other problems as well. He needed to close down the world called Veritas. During the time of his father’s reign this had been the main administrative world. It was on this world that a one-time senior official of the Paxwax, Songteller by name, had practised deceit and laid the Paxwax open to attack. Since the installation of Wynn on Pawl’s Homeworld, Veritas was redundant, but it needed to be closed down formally and all its old records destroyed and former employees pensioned off.
Laurel felt contradictory feelings about Pawl’s departure. She would miss him. She had come to rely on him in a way that her father would have found difficult to imagine. At the same time she was glad to have some time on her own. As the new Mistress of Paxwax she knew that she needed time to establish herself in her own right. It was not good to shelter under Pawl’s long shadow. The memory of her father was a distant ache, almost like the memory of pain. She knew she could cope.
Since her marriage to Pawl, life had whirled her along like paper carried by the wind. Now she needed time to herself, to think, to plan, to adjust to the idea of motherhood. She was glad that Paris had decided to remain on Elliott’s Pocket and hoped that he would find happiness there. If she had one sadness it was that Paris and Pawl had not really joined in friendship. Perhaps that would take time too.
It was late in the afternoon when Pawl left Bennet Home world. He held Laurel close to him. “I will be as quick as I can,” he said. Laurel felt strangely tongue-tied.
“Take care, love,” she said.
“And you.” He swung aboard the shuttle and waved as it lifted, and then the windows became opaque as they sealed.
Alone now, Laurel wandered. The gardens were in full bloom and the air was sweet with the fragrance of the flowers and gum trees.
Frisky young horses, like little boys burning up the last energy of the day, galloped and gambolled round their paddock, kicking the soil to dust and rearing and whinnying. With them was Red, a woman whom Laurel had met only briefly. She was standing against the paddock fence. Laurel had felt an instant liking for Red when she met her.
“Your horses look keen,” said Laurel, coming up to the fence.
Red smiled and offered Laurel her hand and helped her to clamber up on to the paddock fence. The two women sat together. “Yes. The stock is coming right. But they’re not show horses. They’re workers, and they need work.”
Laurel said nothing, but nodded. How apt Red’s remarks seemed to her own situation. Laurel too was a worker not an ornament.
“Do you ride?” asked Red.
“When I was on Lotus-and-Arcadia. We used to ride horses when we went on picnics. I was never very good.”
“Would you like to ride out tomorrow morning? Shouldn’t do you any harm as long as you don’t do anything foolish. I’ll pick you out a quiet one.”
Laurel thought for a moment. She thought of the baby inside her. So long as I am careful. She thought of the wind in her hair and the clean bite of the sea air. Her mind was made up. “I’d love to,” she said.
“It’s best just after dawn. You feel you’re the first person in creation then. And the horses like it too. They like to feel the dew on their legs.”
“We’ll do it. We must go down by the sea. We’ll take some food.”
“A picnic?” said Red and laughed.
“Yes, a picnic. Why not?”
Laurel was up and dressed even as the first light brightened the windows of the Tower.
Outside the rambling courtyards and roofs of Bennet were coming alive. Smoke stained the air and there was the bright brittle laughter of children playing before they have eaten.
Outside the air was chill as she stepped from the Tower and the flagstones were wet. Autumn was coming quickly and with it heavy dew and mist in the valleys of the Mendel Hills.
She took the slideway through the echoing house, stopped at the central kitchens to collect two bags of provisions, and then walked out into the courtyard and crossed to the stables.
Red was already mounted and waiting. Tethered outside the stable and stamping its hooves and blowing noisily through its nostrils was a large grey. It was bigger than any of the horses L
aurel had seen on Lotus-and-Arcadia.
“Here you are. Her name’s Rimini. She’s as gentle as a kid. I’ve given her a bit of a run, so she should be settled now. You’ll soon be friends.”
Laurel stroked the horse’s neck and then swung up into the saddle. It tried a few tricks, walking backwards and trying to rub Laurel’s leg against the stable door. But Laurel gripped it with her legs and stroked its mane and whispered its name in its ear and soon the grey stood still, one leg forward.
“You’ve a way with you,” said Red admiringly. “We’ll have you aboard King here one day.” She slapped the neck of her black stallion affectionately. “Shall we go?”
They headed down a path beside the old part of the house and across the deserted landing strip. Beyond lay the open country, where gentle hills of grass sloped down to the scarlet sea.
“Shall we give them a run?” said Red and flicked her black horse with the reins. It reared, as she had taught it to do, and then set off like a black arrow, its tail streaming behind it.
Laurel urged her mount forward cautiously and it began to trot, which she found uncomfortable. She urged it more and it lengthened its strides into a gallop. She could feel the raw strength of the horse and was amazed that it reminded her of Pawl. The wind pulled her hair back from her scalp and in a moment of abandon she gave the horse its head. For a few moments horse and rider were one and then she lost the rhythm. She felt her leg weaken and the stirrup come loose. Suddenly she was sliding. She pulled on the reins and succeeded in slewing the horse’s head round. It began to panic and buck and toss. With one shift it threw Laurel.
Laurel came to with the sound of drumming hooves in her ears. Red was racing back down the track, her body low over the neck of the giant black horse. She pulled up and slid from the saddle in one movement.
“Are you hurt?” she asked as Laurel tried to sit up. “Take care. Move carefully. Try and turn your head.” Laurel turned her head, working the neck joint. Quickly Red moved Laurel’s arms and legs. There was no sudden pain. Only a dull ache and muzziness. “How do you feel inside?”
Laurel pressed her hands to her belly. “All okay. Just a bit shaken.”
“A bit shaken! You were lucky. You came off like a rag doll. Come on, we’ll get you back to the house.”
“No. We’ll go on. My pride’s a bit dented, that’s all. I came out to ride to the sea, and that’s what we’ll do. I’ll just sit for a moment.”
She sat with her head between her knees and felt the world turn and come to steadiness. Close by, the grey was peacefully cropping the grass. The large black nuzzled her with his head and then began grazing himself.
Sitting there in the morning sunshine with the sturdy Red at her side, Laurel became aware of a strangeness. There was something that did not belong. She could feel it. Something was moving in the long grass off the road. At first she thought of a wild animal, but there were no wild animals on Bennet Island.
A small black-garbed figure emerged, working its way steadily up the hill towards the main buildings, following the thick green grass of the water course.
The horses raised their heads and whinnied. Red stood still watching the small creature. There was something defensive in her stance. Laurel made her mind a blank. Despite Pawl’s pleading, she had never come to accept Odin. She could sense the creature questing about her, waiting for an opening.
For his part Odin was aware of the accident. He had spent the night by the shore, his long basal tendrils dug deep into the stony soil, drinking the rich seepage from the sea. Such was his comfort.
Working his way up the hillside he had felt the thrill in Laurel as the grey began to gallop. Then the panic as she lost control. Odin was with her when she fell. Now, he thought. Shall I do it now? Now, when a broken neck would seem most casual? And at the same moment he realized that he could not kill Laurel like that. The killing must not seem an accident.
He caught her in the air, drew her sinews together, turned her and brought her down on her side with a thump. There were no bones broken, but there would be bruises. He stilled the mind of the horse, which in its fear might have turned and trampled Laurel. Then he moved on, gliding through the grass with the same effortless grace as a snail.
Laurel’s mind was a glittering mirror to him.
Odin knew the moment the two women stared at him. He saw Laurel’s fear and recoiled from the disgust he saw in Red’s mind. That woman wanted to pick up a stone and throw it at him.
The fall had put greater spirit into Laurel. She stood up and approached the grey, her hands high and open. She rubbed its head and picked up the trailing reins and then swung up into the saddle. She ignored the pain in her leg. The horse seemed to sense a change in the rider and stood still with its head raised ready to move.
Red remounted and joined her. “If we cut across country here we will come to the sea north of the landing. There are some rocky bays and a river mouth and there’s a reef about half a mile out, keeps the red froth away. The water’s usually quite calm. I like it. Then there’s a coast path leads up the island to a spit under the cliffs. I’ve gathered shells there.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” said Laurel. “Come on, let’s go.”
Together they turned their horses and headed down the hill and into a small copse. “I often ride out here,” said Red. “Especially when I’m feeling a bit upset. You know.”
Laurel did know. She wondered just how much Red had guessed. “Do you like it here, on Bennet Homeworld?” she asked as their horses picked their way slowly between the trees. They were now within earshot of the sea.
“Sometimes yes. Sometimes no,” replied Red with a shrug. “At home on Molier I lived close to the deserts. My father had a little farm. Oh, we did all right, and I could ride for miles and miles without ever crossing another set of footprints, except the desert bear and the wild dogs. I loved the open space, but it wasn’t a good place for horses. Their hooves began to crack. This is a lot better. Then again, I sometimes miss the openness and the solitude. Here there are always people and I need to be alone sometimes … quite often. I need to feel that the universe is here, close to me. Do you know what I mean?” Red asked this shyly.
“Where I came from,” said Laurel, “there was only the sea and millions of islands. You could have ridden round the largest of them in a day. If I wanted to get away from everyone, I could take a boat. We had things called submersibles. They were seed pods from some planet. You could lie down in one of them and let the sea take you where it wanted.”
“Weren’t you afraid?”
“The sea was my mother, my cradle, and I hope it will be my grave.” How simply those words came to Laurel. “I was not afraid, though I was often in danger. Once I took some food and let myself drift for a week. At night the stars were like spears. It was wonderful. Then my father came in his great house and found me and I went home quite happily.”
“Perhaps the sea is like the desert,” said Red.
The trees ended abruptly and they found themselves on a narrow bank of grass high on the cliffs. They looked down on the scarlet sea which was still warming. Far out a Maw blew, sending a spew of crimson high into the air. Below them the coast was protected by a reef and the water had been cleared of any red algae. Pawl had plans to make this into a special swimming place for Laurel.
Standing on the rocky margin were large black Way cartons. They looked alien and strange. These had been delivered from the Shell-Bogdanovich Conspiracy while Pawl and Laurel were off world. They contained the seedlings and cuttings for an exotic marine garden. It was to be a surprise, but the work had been held up. The water that had been cleared was grey with salts and the small waves broke sluggishly.
“That frightens me sometimes,” said Red. “The sea.”
Laurel looked at her. She saw the blond hair drawn back, the strong face, the wide shoulders and breasts which strained against her thick bodice. It was hard to imagine Red being afraid of anything; she seemed s
o complete, so at home in herself. “Why?” asked Laurel. “Why afraid?”
Red grinned. “I can’t swim,” she said, and urged her horse over the cliff and on to a narrow path which led zigzag down to the stony beach.
It was the smell that captured Laurel. It was the smell of home. She breathed deeply through her nostrils and let the smell curl inside her. The rank seaweed, the dead bird with matted bleached feathers, the small flies, the rounded stones, the roar and caress of the waves; all spoke to her. She urged her grey horse out into the surf, until the waves slapped up over her boots and filled them and the horse’s belly shivered.
Overhead a seagull hung in the wind, turning its black-eyed head, eager for food. It keened. And the sound cut Laurel like a knife. Something inside her had been waiting for that sound. It freed her. She felt she could cry and willed the tears to come. She let her sadness and happiness flow through her. A father, a world lost. A child to come.
Red, patrolling the shore where her big black stallion sank up to its fetlocks in the soft foamy sand, knew nothing. All she saw was a lady on a horse who sat rather stiffly and who stared out to sea.
Minutes passed and then the grey began of its own volition to push through the waves back to the shore. Laurel breathed deeply. She felt more at ease. In those few moments she had accepted something of Pawl’s Homeworld. From now on everything would become easier.
