Galen was genuinely interested. This was a problem he had never before considered; he was, after all, an ape with a considerable background and interest in science. He loved learning things, and, whatever else she might be in the peculiar circumstances, Fauna was also a source of interesting information. “That’s very fascinating,” said Galen. He bent to take some of her load of wood. “Here,” he said, “let me help you.” He took the firewood and followed her as she walked into Sestus’ house.
Fauna dropped her part of the load in a woven basket near the fireplace. She moved aside so that Galen could do the same. When they stood up, Fauna brushed bits of wood and dry leaves from her clothing. “Did you get your water?” she asked.
Galen, of course, didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. “Water?” he said. His voice was hollow and a little apprehensive. One of the difficulties with Virdon’s plan was that Galen would be out of touch with the humans for great amounts of time. Neither he nor they would know what had happened in their separate situations.
“Pago said that you and Alar went to get some,” said Fauna. “He was very worried because you hadn’t returned on time. In fact, he went out looking for you. You didn’t run into trouble, did you? I told Pago that you were probably splashing in the stream with Alar or something, and that he didn’t really need to be concerned.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” said Galen quickly, recovering and playing along with Burke’s story. But something disturbed Galen. “You were with Pago earlier today, then?” he asked.
“At the cave,” said Fauna, not catching Galen’s sudden change in tone. “He told me a story about an ape named Robinson Crusoe.”
Galen stared off into the distance, his expression unseen by Fauna, but his audible movements conveying anxiety and distrust. “Pago has a way with females,” he said.
Fauna did not seem to hear Galen’s last comment. “I think I’m in love with him,” she said hesitantly.
Galen reacted with a burst of outraged anger. “Isn’t that kind of sudden?” he asked, trying to keep his voice under control.
“I know that he reminds me of someone else,” said Fauna, pacing across her uncle’s living room. “But it isn’t just that. It’s a gentleness in his voice. A warmth all his own that makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in a long time.”
Galen was becoming deeply disturbed. This was something that no one had counted on. It was something that Galen had to quench. “Fauna, you must be careful,” he said. “You can’t trust love that happens so quickly.”
She laughed delightedly. “That’s nonsense, Phoebus,” she said. “Is time any guarantee that love will be binding? Oh, surely I know that it’s asking a lot for him to love someone who is blind. But do you think it’s possible?”
Galen looked at her pityingly. “Do you want an honest answer?” he asked in a solemn tone of voice.
“Of course I do,” said Fauna.
“No, I don’t think it is possible.”
Fauna answered proudly. “I can do anything a female with sight can do,” she said.
The matter was growing beyond a dangerous point. Galen flared furiously again. “Except to recognize the truth, Fauna. Can’t you see? Pago is not an ape—” Galen was amazed at what his emotions had made him say. He coughed, as though to clear his throat. “Not an ape you can trust,” he finished lamely.
Fauna turned to face Galen. She could hardly believe what she heard. She had been fond of Pago; now, Galen’s words forced her to defend Pago, making her attachment that much stronger. She identified herself with Pago against what she felt to be unwarranted attacks by a false friend.
“I don’t believe that,” she said. “I think you’re the one who can’t be trusted. He’s supposed to be your friend, yet you talk about him like an enemy.”
Galen realized that he had made an error in judgment. Burke and Virdon had cautioned him many times that anger was their greatest enemy. Now, glumly, he realized that they had been right. He would have to work hard to restore the breach he had made. “He is my friend,” he said, trying to soothe her. “But I know him better than you do. I’m concerned about you.”
Fauna flared into rage. She wouldn’t listen to any of Galen’s improbable explanations. “I don’t want to hear any more from you,” she said in a tight, even voice. “Leave me alone.”
Fauna turned around abruptly, leaving Galen standing in the room, his mouth open, ready to make another reply. He saw her sad form, shaking a little as though she were crying; he recalled that she had kept the tears back, even at her father’s graveside. Galen blamed Burke for this gloomy affair; but there was little that anyone could do now. Angry, and at a loss for words, Galen left Sestus’ house.
The walk back gave Galen awhile to collect his thoughts. The entire matter of the Dragoons and what they would expect of him later that same day was pushed to the background. As he walked, Galen’s imagination worked quickly, building more and more unlikely scenes involving Fauna and Burke. Even though the need for deception prevented the most harmless kiss, Burke still might not be trusted to avoid feeding his own ego at Fauna’s expense. Might he not lead her on, knowing that eventually there would be no harm in the situation—for him? Would he be so callous, so cruel, as to play with the affections of a blind, orphaned ape girl?
Galen thought that he knew Burke well enough to answer “no” to these questions. And, certainly, he wanted to. But what he had heard from Fauna, and what his own active mind invented, had him convinced of the opposite before he arrived at the cave.
As he entered, he was still grim and furious. “You were right, Alar,” he said. “Sestus not only knew all about the Dragoons, he’s one of them himself.”
Burke and Virdon laughed. “How about that!” said Burke.
“I’ve won their confidence,” said Galen in short, clipped words. “They’re bringing me up for membership at a meeting later tonight.”
“Good work, Galen,” said Virdon.
“Yeah,” said Burke, “we knew you could pull it off.”
Galen looked at him caustically. “We should all be proud of ourselves.” His brows contracted in a deep frown. “Right, Pete?” he asked pointedly.
Burke, of course, had no idea what Galen was talking about. But he could sense that something was bothering the chimpanzee. “Well,” he said, thinking that Galen must mean something about the matter of the Dragoons, “I can’t take any of your credit. I haven’t done anything.”
Galen snorted at what he thought was Burke’s coy answer. “Oh, but you have,” he said. “Don’t be so modest. You have, indeed.”
Burke was tired of Galen’s baiting. “Hey,” he said, “stop it. I’m not up to game-playing right now. What’s eating you, anyway?”
“I’ll tell you,” Galen snapped. “Here’s what’s eating me—what a disgusting figure of speech. I think you ought to stay away from Fauna!”
Burke was frankly puzzled. He was a human. Fauna was an ape. It was almost as though the parent of a tree had warned Burke to stay away from its child. “I’m sorry, officer,” he said to Galen. “I just don’t read you.”
Galen glared at the bewildered astronaut. “She’s in love with you!” he said resentfully.
Burke laughed aloud; but when he saw that neither Virdon nor Galen were joining him, he stopped. “Love?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”
“She told me. She wanted to know if I thought you could love her.”
“Galen,” said Burke, “let me remind you. I’m practically going steady with a nice young woman from Texas. She’s dead, now, but I’ll wait. Anyway, Fauna likes the ape she thinks I am, not me.”
Galen did not answer. He just stared. Burke turned to Virdon for help. “It’s ridiculous,” he said.
“Ridiculous?” said Galen. “It’s tragic! Can you imagine what it’s going to do to her if she finds out you’re a human?”
“Look,” said Burke, starting to get angry himself, “you were the one who made her thin
k I was an ape.”
Galen flared into self-righteous anger. “I didn’t think you would become involved with her.”
Burke’s eyes widened; he was every bit as furious as Galen. “I’m not involved with her! It’s the stupidest thing I ever heard! Somebody tell this guy to lay off before I forget that we’re such good friends!”
Virdon was not amused. Like Burke, he didn’t really understand what caused Galen’s anxiety. But he could see that Galen’s problem was real, at least to the chimpanzee. Galen had proven to be a trustworthy and intelligent companion, and Virdon had learned to respect his opinions. It was clear that Galen, at least, thought that there was something to worry about. “Okay, okay,” said Virdon, interceding. “Cool off, you two. What happened, happened. Nobody planned it that way.”
There was a long tense moment when no one in the cave spoke. Only Galen’s hoarse breathing could be heard. Burke looked from Virdon to Galen. “Look,” said the dark-haired man, “I don’t want to hurt her any more than you do. And I’m not going to. I’ll talk to her.”
“I don’t know if that’s the best thing to do,” said Virdon.
“I don’t, either,” said Burke. “I’ll go anyway. Human beings had problems like this for millions of years. It looks like apes inherited them, too. And they’re no better at solving them.” He started to leave.
Galen blinked his large eyes several times quickly. Then he sighed. “Pete,” he said softly, “be gentle with her.”
Burke stopped by the entrance to the cave and turned around. He looked at Galen for a few seconds. Then, without saying a word, he nodded, turned, and disappeared from view.
Burke walked the distance to the house as quickly as he could. From what Galen had said, Fauna was alone; Sestus would not be home, or the conversation that Galen reported would not have taken place. Burke only hoped that he could get to the apes’ cabin, do his painful duty, and leave before the human-hating Sestus returned. Because if he didn’t he’d have the Dragoons out searching for him, with a tearful Fauna giving the vigilantes directions and descriptions.
Fauna was lifting a bucket of water from a well in front of Sestus’ house. Burke saw her there, took a deep breath, and approached. “Fauna,” he said gently. “It’s Pago.”
Fauna looked worried. “You shouldn’t be here. Uncle Sestus will be here very soon.”
“I had to talk to you,” said Burke. “I was worried when I got back to the cave and you were gone. I thought it would be better if I came to speak to you here.”
Fauna spoke breathlessly. “Did you want to talk about us?” she asked.
Burke was about to speak, but suddenly, seeing the expression on Fauna’s face, he lost some of his courage. He delayed the crucial moment by pulling her father’s journal from his shirt. “Actually, Fauna,” he said hesitantly, “I wanted to ask you about your father’s journal. I took it with me.”
Fauna seemed a little disappointed. “I know,” she said. “I didn’t mind.”
“I’m glad,” said Burke. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He didn’t know how to say what he had come to tell her.
Fauna guessed that Burke was disturbed about something. She tilted her head curiously, waiting. Burke did not seem ready to speak. They stood there in the dusky warmth.
Fauna sighed. “Did Phoebus talk to you after he left here?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Burke. “That was one of the reasons I wanted to come now.”
“I thought so,” said Fauna. “You are a good and decent ape. Perhaps Phoebus was only thinking of my welfare, but I didn’t like what he was saying about you.”
“Fauna—” said Burke.
She stopped him with a gesture. “I hope you weren’t too angry with him,” she said.
“Phoebus has been a good friend of mine for a long time,” said Burke.
“He is very lucky,” said Fauna. “Anyway, it’s all right if you don’t care for me. I’ve done a lot of thinking. After all, we’ve only known each other a short time. I understand. It’s too soon. Perhaps, though, perhaps in time . . .”
Burke knew that to let her think such a thing would be more cruel than anything Galen had accused him of. “I think you’re a . . . lovely . . . gentle person, Fauna,” he said, searching with difficulty for the proper words. “But there are things about me that you don’t know.”
Fauna laughed softly. “Now you’re sounding like Phoebus,” she said. “I’ve never heard someone attack a friend the way he did.”
Burke was beginning to wonder just how venomous Galen had been. He made a mental note to ask the chimpanzee, some day when they were safely away from this place. “Maybe you should have listened to him,” said Burke, a little upset. If Fauna had listened to Galen’s arguments, then Burke wouldn’t have to go through them all over again.
Fauna was undaunted by Burke’s sad persuasion. “You tell me,” she said. “You tell me what is so wrong about you that surpasses what is wrong with me.”
Burke looked at her for almost a minute. “Fauna, this makes me remember another story. It was a story my mother used to tell me when I was very small.”
“Will you tell it to me?” she asked.
“It’s from a book called the Bible,” said Burke.
Fauna thought for a moment. “I never heard of it,” she said.
Burke licked his dry lips and began the story. “It’s about a blind ape named Isaac, and his two sons, Jacob and Esau. Esau was strong and hairy, a hunter whom his father idolized. Well, Isaac was dying and on his deathbed he blessed Esau. That was something that meant a great deal in those days. The other son, Jacob, was soft and smooth of skin. He wanted the same blessing from his father. So he posed as his brother by covering his hand with a piece of goatskin. Old Isaac, fooled into thinking he was touching Esau, gave Jacob the same blessing.”
Fauna’s expression was puzzled. She did not speak for several seconds after Burke finished his story. “I am not sure that I understand the meaning of the story,” she said.
“It was a deception born of desperate need, Fauna,” said Burke, trying to lead into his disclosure. “It was not meant to harm anyone.”
At that moment, Burke slowly reached out his hand toward Fauna in an attempt to make contact with her, so that she might feel his smooth skin and at last know the truth about him.
Slowly his hand moved closer to hers. Burke’s face was shiny with perspiration; this was, indeed, one of the most difficult things he ever had to do. He only had to move his hand a few inches, but in his heart, it felt as though he were trying to move a mountain. He saw the contrast between his own smooth skin and the dense, shaggy wrist of Fauna. But as he almost touched her, he hesitated.
“You could not deceive anyone, Pago,” said Fauna, wondering what his message might be. “I have touched you. I have touched the strong features of your face. It is as strong as Esau’s. If you were smooth and soft like Jacob, I would fear and despise you. But you must not worry about such a silly thing.”
Her words made him falter. He slowly drew his hand back, without touching her.
Burke looked at her open, trusting face. He realized that he could not tell her the truth; that knowledge made him angry with himself, for lacking the courage, and for continuing the deception.
He had a difficult time even finding the words to cover his shame and his unhappiness. “Fauna,” he said, “you must understand that there is nothing between us and there can never be. My friends and I are leaving here. And you will never hear my voice again.”
Fauna almost collapsed beneath the terrible emotional weight of Burke’s announcement. She began to cry softly. “No,” she murmured. “No, no.” Her voice was aching and lonely.
Burke was moved almost unbearably. “Goodbye, Fauna,” he said. He wanted to be away from there, away from the painful scene that had become necessary. Certainly, it was the right thing to do; but it was also better to leave her quickly rather than let her try to cling to him with hopeless arguments
.
Burke placed her father’s journal in her hands as a final severing of the ties which had begun to bind their lives together. He turned suddenly and hurried away, still disturbed and angry with himself; he realized that there was no pleasant way to do what had to be done. Nevertheless, he blamed himself for Fauna’s anguish.
Behind him, shaken, disbelieving, poignant as she stood and listened to the fading sound of Burke’s steps, Fauna wept noiselessly. Limply she held her father’s notebook in her hands. Her body trembled and the journal dropped to the ground. She did not notice. The wind rustled the pages, making a quiet, lonely sound, but Fauna didn’t hear.
Sestus arrived at the farm a short time later. Galen was waiting for him in the small front yard. Fauna was nowhere to be seen; she was probably inside the house, nursing her grief. Sestus rode one horse and led another for Galen’s use. Galen mounted the horse and followed Sestus along the road toward the secret meeting place in the woods. Virdon and Burke, concealed on the hill overlooking Sestus’ house, watched the scene closely.
Virdon turned to Burke. “We haven’t much time,” he said. “We’ve got to get into the village and try to get Perdix to attend that meeting. If he doesn’t, all of this will have been for nothing.”
Burke smiled weakly. “I hate to be a killjoy,” he said. “But I’ve got this terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that is trying to tell me Perdix might not want to come with us. And if he doesn’t, we’re not going to be able to do much convincing.”
“Well,” said Virdon lightly, “since you’re doing such a good job with all the convincing so far, you’ll just have to find a way to persuade him.”
Burke looked at his friend from the corner of his eye. “Thanks a lot,” he said. They moved away from the house, keeping low to avoid being spotted. But they did not see Macor, who watched the two humans from a distant rise. Macor watched them until Burke and Virdon disappeared from his view. Then he spurred his horse down into the forest, toward the Dragoons’ meeting place.
It was still not quite evening; the sun was tinting the western clouds a bright pink. In the village of the apes business was coming to an end for the day, as the citizens closed up their shops and went home for dinner. Virdon and Burke scrambled down a low slope behind the gorilla garrison and stealthily crept toward the back door. They noticed Perdix’s and Zon’s horses, saddled and tied up, ready for the evening patrol.
Planet of the Apes 02 - Escape to Tomorrow Page 15
