by Jeffrey Ford
The chief stood up, and the others of the tribe followed. The young woman had to help Cley to his feet, for he was still sitting motionless with an expression of terror on his face. He rose slowly and was led out into the sunlight. The chief, the woman, and the other man each touched the hunter lightly on the forehead before they walked away. The old man remained and led him back, with Wood following, to the hut in which he had recovered. Before departing, his guide also touched his forehead. Although he was shaken, Cley nodded in thanks. The old man turned away, and the hunter noticed that the venerable fellow now had both ears intact.
He came to think of them as the Silent Ones, for they neither spoke nor sighed, laughed nor sang. When the children cried, the tears rolled down their faces, but they voiced not the slightest peep of anguish. At times, he was convinced that they were physically unable to utter a sound, and at others, he wondered if he was witnessing the greatest collective act of stoicism ever encountered. His own voice often seemed to disturb them, but there were times, especially when he read from the book, that he could tell they were listening carefully, almost entranced by the cadence of his words.
Every day that passed in the village, Cley pledged would be his last. He did not forget his destination, which lay somewhere far ahead, an eternity or so away, but the silence of his rescuers was an enigma that sparked his curiosity. They proved themselves to be such a gentle people, such a calm and content society, that he saw something in them that he knew he would need if he was to be successful in his quest. What that quality was, he felt ever on the verge of discovering when waking each morning in his hut. He followed them in their daily routines, watched them work and hunt and play, but at night, when he rolled back onto the reed mat, he fell off to sleep with the frustrating realization that he was no closer to the answer than when he had first arrived in the village.
He stayed on for two weeks, casually studying their body art, their subtle communication of furtive glances, their desire to ingest the pages of the book. He hoped that in a wink, a spiral of blue line, he might find the answer to how they knew he was stranded on the rock island in the middle of the flood, or, more importantly, why they had made the effort to save him.
The gravity of the second question became clear to him on the day he accompanied two young men of the tribe back to the edge of the drowned flatland and saw out, across the now decreasing waters, the Country of Six Boulders, an insignificant dot on the horizon.
He couldn’t tell if they were pleased to have him as a guest or if he was a burden. As with most things, they seemed neutral on the subject and continued to conduct their lives in the same unassuming manner from day to day.
The body images had been rendered with such incredible precision that Cley was constantly tricked by the design of a large spider on one young man’s shoulder and tried, on more than one occasion, to brush it off. The fellow appeared unfazed by the hunter’s foolishness.
In order to avoid unknown social blunders, Cley attempted to decipher the power structure of the Silent Ones. It was plain to see that he was correct in assuming that the young man with the necklace and the Sirimon skull tattooed on his chest was the chief. The others seemed to pay him deference by looking at his feet when first in his presence. There were only two individuals among the tribe who appeared to contradict his command at certain times. One was his wife, or the woman Cley at first guessed to be the queen. On a certain morning when the chief was casting symbolic glances all over the place and motioning with his hands, she asserted herself by thrusting out her own left hand, making a fist, flipping out the thumb, and jabbing it at the ground. Upon seeing this sign, the head of the village immediately ceased dispensing his silent commands, rushed to their hut, and returned with a bright yellow plum for her, which she devoured on the spot.
When none of the adults were nearby, Cley tried out this same hand motion on one of the many children who followed him through the course of his daily activities. He wondered if the boy would bring him fruit. Instead the child crossed his eyes and made a hand gesture involving the middle finger.
The only other person who seemed to hold a position of power was the bent old man. Cley learned that he was the body scribe, supplying all the members of the tribe with tattoos. He worked outside his modest hut. The subject either lay down or sat on an animal skin. The hunter watched as the old man mixed together different ingredients—plant sap, berries, and the secretions of a fat toad—to create a blue ink, the color reminiscent of the spire rock once mined in Anamasobia. The artisan’s tools were a series of long thin needles with stone-ground points that had been crafted from the tail spikes of Sirimon skeletons. Cley sat beside him as he rendered a depiction of the flood on the stomach of a middle-aged woman.
Cley woke one morning to find the chief sitting in his hut, patting Wood’s head, and holding across his lap the long spear that was the Silent Ones’ weapon of choice. The native pointed to the hunter’s clothes and closed his eyes, indicating that Cley should get dressed. As soon as he dressed and put on his hat, the young man somehow knew to open his eyes. Then he pointed to the rifle. Cley picked up the gun, and the chief rose and left the hut.
With Wood following close behind, they traveled out past the perimeter of the village. The surrounding landscape was not so densely wooded as the demon forest. There was not as great a variety of trees and none so giant as where Cley and Wood had wintered. This was a territory of shorter, gnarled, fruit-bearing trees that grew in clusters of thirty or forty amidst green, rolling hills. It was a serene place with pockets of wildflowers and occasional streams running through the minor valleys. The branches were alive with all variety of birds that joined, each with its specific call, to create a kind of symphony.
Cley loaded the gun as they walked along, and as he did he noticed the chief watching him. Wood was ecstatic to be out on the hunt again. He had sloughed off the daily garland of flowers the children bedecked him with and was bounding ahead, searching for the scent of prey. As soon as the chief looked away, Cley took the opportunity to become the spy, himself, and studied the young man.
Although the grayness of his flesh was a hue that might, in any other instance, appear mordant, in the case of the Silent Ones, all of whom were in incredible physical condition, it was an indication of vigor and health. The young man’s black hair, which shone like the wing of a crow, was looped into a single, large knot. He was lean-muscled and carried himself perfectly straight. Now Cley could see that the Sirimon skull depicted on the chief’s chest was not all there was to the design, but the blue line image that was the entire skeleton of the dragon wrapped around his body. The trail of rib bones tapered down one leg, around the back, and then up the front of the other leg to end at the groin, as if his member was meant to stand in for the tail spike. In keeping with the nature of the design, this part of the chiefs anatomy remained perpetually in a state of semi-erection.
It was true summer now, and the day was hot with little breeze. They trekked across the gently rolling hills for most of the morning. The chief moved effortlessly through the heat, and Cley had a sense that if he hadn’t been along for the hunt, the younger man would most likely be running. Although slightly weakened by his recent illness, Cley had no problem keeping the pace and actually welcomed the exercise.
Sometime past noon, Wood flushed a large creature with a hairless, wrinkled, brown hide and enormous eyes set into a misshapen cow head out of a grove of trees. It made a horrid gasping noise as it lumbered into the open on toed feet instead of hooves. Cley, almost on reflex, lifted the rifle and fired one bullet. The beast staggered a few more steps before falling to the ground. The hunter reached down to retrieve the stone knife from his boot as he approached his kill. Wood raced up behind the thing where it lay twitching on the grass. As was his practice, Cley moved in to finish the job with his blade, but before he could make the cut across the throat, he felt a hand on his arm.
With a powerful shove, the chief spun Cley around and onto the
ground. The hunter rolled over twice, dropped the knife, but managed to keep his hold on the rifle. The young man then leaped backward himself, away from the dying creature, bringing his spear up in front of him for protection. Seeing this, Wood also backed off. The chief leaned over and lifted Cley’s knife off the ground. Once it was in his hand, he shoved the tip of his spear into the prey’s forehead. The beast grunted, its bottom jaw opened as if on hinges, and a snake as long as the rifle shot out from deep inside the animal’s bowels. In the same instant, the chief threw the knife. To Cley’s amazement, the blade twirled end over end and pierced the head of the serpent, affixing it to the ground. The snake wriggled wildly until its host died a few minutes later. Then it expired at the same moment, as if the two had shared a common life force.
Cley, having learned the signal for “many thanks,” shifted his eyes back and forth repeatedly. The chief pulled the blade out of the head of the yellow snake and handed it back to the hunter. Both men stared at each other. Cley smiled, and the chief made his imitation of a smile. The hunter, not to be outdone, tipped his hat and bowed. The young man then rolled his eyes, stuck out an exceedingly long, gray tongue, and touched his nose with the end of it. Cley understood that there was no topping this last amenity and turned to continue the hunt.
They traveled on for another hour until coming to a vast grove of fruit trees. No more than a hundred yards inside of it, Cley heard a thunderous racket in the distance that sounded like the stampede of a herd of large creatures. The chief stopped walking and began moving from tree to tree, gathering leaves. He walked slowly beneath the branches as if inspecting closely the leaves he would pick. Cley and Wood looked at each other with a shared confusion. When the chief had collected a handful of leaves, they continued walking.
The noise that filled the day grew more deafening as they proceeded through the grove. Cley moved cautiously, expecting to come upon its source at any moment, but they walked for another full hour, the sound steadily increasing in volume. When they finally broke clear of the trees, they were standing on a cliff overlooking a waterfall, the enormity of which made Cley clear his eyes. He now knew the destination of the river-flood of the flatland. More water than he ever thought existed fell, every minute, over the brink and down into the huge canyon below. Spray billowed up and obscured the view of the river at its base. The vapor washed over them, and multiple rainbows arced through the sky above the natural wonder.
“Beautiful,” Cley said aloud, knowing the chief could not hear him.
Wood hung back by the tree line, obviously afraid of the bellowing waters of the flood.
The chief turned to Cley and put his hand out, indicating that he wanted the rifle. The gun was given over. With the leaves in one hand and the weapon in the other, the native proceeded to the edge of the cliff. Cley steadied himself and then also moved up next to the rim. He watched in disbelief as the young man, with no show of emotion, tossed the rifle out over the edge and down into the cataract of water and mist. The chief then turned to the hunter and stared at him.
Cley was reeling from the sudden loss of the weapon that had been his security for the extent of the journey. “Why?” he asked, unable to conceal his anger at the reckless act.
The chief headed back toward the grove, tossing the handful of leaves over his shoulder. The flat green ovals flew out above the canyon and were buffeted into the sky by the updraft from below. Cley stared, still in a state of shock over his loss. The leaves ascended, and at one point, came together with the appearance of joining in midair. Their texture changed from the slick, stiff petals into a billowing, twisting, scrap of material of the same color. The veil flew northward for a few hundred yards before breaking apart into the leaves again, which fell slowly out of sight.
It had been three days since his journey to the waterfall. In that time there had been no change in his relationship with his newfound community. Even though the chief had undone him by throwing his rifle into the falls, and Cley had shown his anger to the young man, on the walk back to the village, it had been as if nothing had ever happened. Then there had been the vision of the veil drifting high over the thundering water. The hunter couldn’t decipher what this piece of magic had been meant to show him. It was obvious that when the chief had insisted he bring the rifle on their journey that day, it had been his intention all along to dispose of it. “Is this treachery?” he wondered. “Or is it a sign meant to assist me?” The only thing that was certain was that he still felt at ease among the Silent Ones and was loath to set out again into the lonely Beyond.
Wood had begun to grow restless. He would no longer allow the children to place the strands of flowers around his neck, and when the members of the tribe offered their noses for the dog to lick, he growled menacingly. Cley promised him one night in the hut that they would soon be on their way. The dog quieted down and brought him the book, which was a much slimmer volume than before. Someone had apparently been sneaking in when Cley was out and stealing pages from it. As far as the hunter cared, they could chew the leather cover if they so desired, but he understood that these thefts were upsetting his companion.
It was a hot night full of stars and mosquitoes. Cley sat cross-legged on the ground along with the rest of the tribe. Within the center of the perimeter of huts a huge fire blazed. Silhouetted by the flames, the queen danced with impossibly acrobatic flips and sensuous gyrations. Some type of drink was being passed around in gourds—a liquor that tasted of the yellow plums and orange berries that grew in groves nearby the village. Its inebriative quality was slight but enough to alter Cley’s usual blindness to the nakedness of the Silent Ones and recast her highness’s movements in the realm of the erotic. He swallowed hard and looked around to see the rest of the men doing the same.
Again he concentrated on the queen, who was by then directly in front with her back to him, bent over and wagging her rear end to some inaudible music everyone else seemed to hear. Cley felt a certain stiffening in the loins, then noticed that tattooed onto the left hemisphere of her shapely hind section was a portrait of a man he recognized. The face was heavy, the eyes small and set close together, the hair sparse. It was so clear to him that he knew this fellow, but the otherwise sexual nature of the dance threw his mind into such a state of confusion that he couldn’t recall from where.
The queen leaped away, tumbled on the ground toward the fire, and then came up with her arms waving above her head. Her speed of movement decreased, and she turned lethargically in tight circles. Each time her backside was to him, Cley tried to get a better look at the figure of the portrait. Suddenly, he looked up and saw that the queen, peering over her shoulder, noticed him focusing on her rear end. It was fleeting, but she shot him a look so obviously full of desire he instantly averted his glance. This was when he noticed that the chief had been watching the entire exchange between himself and the queen. Cley smiled, hoping the chief would return the imitation smile. He didn’t.
Luckily, the queen soon finished her dance. As she walked back to join the others gathered on the ground, she again glanced at Cley. He nodded to her to be polite, and she returned the sign by rolling her eyes so far back that the pupils disappeared beneath the upper lids and showed only white. She took her place next to the chief, who rubbed his left hand on the top of his head and blinked three times. At this signal, the aged body scribe slowly stood and hobbled out before the crowd.
He took a position in front of the fire and then he too began to dance. His movements, unlike the queen’s, were halting and awkward, so comically ungraceful that Cley wondered if he was simply a bad dancer or if he was drunk. His controlled stumbling lasted only a few minutes, and when he stopped, he lifted his hands to show that he now held a small songbird in each. The tiny creatures glowed unnaturally, like embers in the night. All around Cley, the people tapped their closed lips with their right index fingers. The hunter joined in. The old man threw the birds into the air, but before they flew five yards they burst into showers of spa
rks that rained down harmlessly upon the crowd. Next, he approached the onlookers and held up to them what appeared to Cley to be a small crystal. It glinted in the firelight for a moment before he placed it in his mouth. Then he turned and walked directly into the fire.
Cley almost shouted. He was about to lunge to the old man’s rescue but quickly changed his mind and held himself back. He had been duped too many times by the parlor tricks of the Silent Ones. Through the wavering flames, Cley watched as the tattoo artist disintegrated into a pink pillar of smoke. What began as a ball of smog the color of sunsets and certain flowers soon became a profuse trail that rose from the center of the fire. It started to take on a definite shape. At first it wriggled upward in a long, wide column, and then it turned downward and headed for the crowd. As it approached, a head grew out of the smoke—a monstrous snout, large, lidless eyes, pointed ears, and from between them, tapering down the vibrantly pink snake body, a row of spikes. It was an image of Sirimon as that creature might look in life, complete with skin and scales. The serpent, whose tail spike remained in the fire, slithered through the air, twisting in and out among the seated people, who inhaled deeply. Its jaws opened and closed, and there came from everywhere at once a terrible roar that startled Cley. The last thing he expected was a sound.
Eventually, the Sirimon drifted apart into misty tatters that melted into a pink haze and hung in the air around the village. Standing before the fire was the old man, his head bowed, his eyes closed as if he was asleep on his feet. Cley assumed the celebration was over when the members of the tribe began to rise and head toward their huts. He followed their lead and made his way in the direction of his own place, where Wood sat waiting for him. On the way, he passed the body scribe, who was now miraculously before him instead of behind. The old man took no notice of Cley but stared straight ahead. As the hunter passed him, the artist reached quickly over and slipped something into his hand. Noting the secretive nature of the act, Cley did not make a show of looking at what it was but stashed it quickly into his pocket.
