“The accusations are three,” the Spokesman said. “The first, the telling of lies to children. Second, the casting into doubt of the divine order among men. Third, the denial of the Book of Laws. Each of you may speak in order of age. Honath the Pursemaker, your plea may be heard.”
Honath stood up, trembling a little, but feeling a surprisingly renewed surge of his old independence.
“Your charges,” he said, “all rest upon the denial of the Book of Laws. I have taught nothing else that is contrary to what we all believe, and called nothing else into doubt. And I deny the charge.”
The Spokesman looked down at him with disbelief. “Many men and women have said that you do not believe in the Giants, pursemaker,” he said. “You will not win mercy by piling up more lies.”
“I deny the charge,” Honath insisted. “I believe in the Book of Laws as a whole, and I believe in the Giants. I have taught only that the Giants were not real in the sense that we are real. I have taught that they were intended as symbols of some higher reality and were not meant to be taken as literal persons.”
“What higher reality is this?” the Spokesman demanded. “Describe it.”
“You ask me to do something the writers of the Book of Laws themselves couldn’t do,” Honath said hotly. “If they had to embody the reality in symbols rather than writing it down directly, how could a mere pursemaker do better?”
“This doctrine is wind,” the Spokesman said. “And it is plainly intended to undercut authority and the order established by the Book. Tell me, pursemaker: if men need not fear the Giants, why should they fear the law?”
“Because they are men, and it is to their interest to fear the law. They aren’t children, who need some physical Giant sitting over them with a whip to make them behave. Furthermore, Spokesman, this archaic belief itself undermines us. As long as we believe that there are real Giants, and that some day they’ll return and resume teaching us, so long will we fail to seek answers to our questions for ourselves. Half of what we know was given to us in the Book, and the other half is supposed to drop to us from the skies if we wait long enough. In the meantime, we vegetate.”
“If a part of the Book be untrue, there can be nothing to prevent that it is all untrue,” the Spokesman said heavily. “And we will lose even what you call the half of our knowledge—which is actually the whole of it—to those who see with clear eyes.”
Suddenly, Honath lost his temper. “Lose it, then!” he shouted. “Let us unlearn everything we know only by rote, go back to the beginning, learn all over again, and continue to learn, from our own experience. Spokesman, you are an old man, but there are still some of us who haven’t forgotten what curiosity means!”
“Quiet!” the Spokesman said. “We have heard enough. We call on Alaskon the Navigator.”
“Much of the Book is clearly untrue,” Alaskon said flatly, rising. “As a handbook of small trades it has served us well. As a guide to how the universe is made, it is nonsense, in my opinion; Honath is too kind to it. I’ve made no secret of what I think, and I still think it.”
“And will pay for it,” the Spokesman said, blinking slowly down at Alaskon. “Charl the Reader.”
“Nothing,” Charl said, without standing, or even looking up.
“You do not deny the charges?”
“I’ve nothing to say,” Charl said, but then, abruptly, his head jerked up, and he glared with desperate eyes at the Spokesman. “I can read, Spokesman. I have seen words in the Book of Laws that contradict each other. I’ve pointed them out. They’re facts, they exist on the pages. I’ve taught nothing, told no lies, preached no unbelief. I’ve pointed to the facts. That’s all.”
“Seth the Needlesmith, you may speak now.”
The guards took their hands gratefully off Seth’s mouth; they had been bitten several times in the process of keeping him quiet up to now. Seth resumed shouting at once.
“I’m no part of this group! I’m the victim of gossip, envious neighbors, smiths jealous of my skill and my custom! No man can say worse of me than that I sold needles to this pursemaker—sold them in good faith! The charges against me are lies, all lies!”
Honath jumped to his feet in fury, and then sat down again, choking back the answering shout almost without tasting its bitterness. What did it matter? Why should he bear witness against the young man? It would not help the others, and if Seth wanted to lie his way out of Hell, he might as well be given the chance.
The Spokesman was looking down at Seth with the identical expression of outraged disbelief which he had first bent upon Honath. “Who was it cut the blasphemies into the hardwood tree, by the house of Hosi the Lawgiver?” he demanded. “Sharp needles were at work there, and there are witnesses to say that your hands held them.”
“More lies!”
“Needles found in your house fit the furrows, Seth.”
“They were not mine—or they were stolen! I demand to be freed!”
“You will be freed,” the Spokesman said coldly. There was no possible doubt as to what he meant. Seth began to weep and to shout at the same time. Hands closed over his mouth again. “Mathild the Forager, your plea may be heard.”
The young woman stood up hesitantly. Her fur was nearly dry now, but she was still shivering.
“Spokesman,” she said, “I saw the things which Charl the Reader showed me. I doubted, but what Honath said restored my belief. I see no harm in his teachings. They remove doubt, instead of fostering it as you say they do. I see no evil in them, and I don’t understand why this is a crime.”
Honath looked over to her with new admiration. The Spokesman sighed heavily.
“I am sorry for you,” he said, “but as Spokesman we cannot allow ignorance of the law as a plea. We will be merciful to you all, however. Renounce your heresy, affirm your belief in the Book as it is written from bark to bark, and you shall be no more than cast out of the tribe.”
“I renounce it!” Seth cried. “I never shared it! It’s all blasphemy and every word is a lie! I believe in the Book, all of it!”
“You, needlesmith,” the Spokesman said, “have lied before this Judgment, and are probably lying now. You are not included in the dispensation.”
“Snake-spotted caterpillar! May your—ummulph.”
“Pursemaker, what is your answer?”
“It is No,” Honath said stonily. “I’ve spoken the truth. The truth can’t be unsaid.”
The Spokesman looked down at the rest of them. “As for you three, consider your answers carefully. To share the heresy means sharing the sentence. The penalty will not be lightened only because you did not invent the heresy.”
There was a long silence.
Honath swallowed hard. The courage and the faith in that silence made him feel smaller and more helpless than ever. He realized suddenly that the other three would have kept that silence, even without Seth’s defection to stiffen their spines. He wondered if he could have done so.
“Then we pronounce the sentence,” the Spokesman said. “You are one and all condemned to one thousand days in Hell.”
There was a concerted gasp from around the edges of the arena, where, without Honath’s having noticed it before, a silent crowd had gathered. He did not wonder at the sound. The sentence was the longest in the history of the tribe.
Not that it really meant anything. No one had ever come back from as little as one hundred days in Hell. No one had ever come back from Hell at all.
“Unlash the Elevator. All shall go together.”
* * * *
The basket swayed. The last of the attic world that Honath saw was a circle of faces, not too close to the gap in the vine web, peering down after them. Then the basket fell another few yards to the next turn of the windlass and the faces vanished.
Seth was weeping in the bottom of the Elevator, curled up into a tight ball, the end of his tail wrapped around his nose and eyes. No one else could make a sound, least of Honath.
The gloom closed
around them. It seemed extraordinarily still. The occasional harsh screams of a lizard-bird somehow distended the silence without breaking it. The light that filtered down into the long aisles between the trees seemed to be absorbed in a blue-green haze through which the lianas wove their long curved lines. The columns of tree-trunks, the pillars of the world, stood all around them, too distant in the dim light to allow them to gauge their speed of descent. Only the irregular plunges of the basket proved that it was even in motion any longer, though it swayed laterally in a complex, overlapping series of figure-eights.
Then the basket lurched downward once more, brought up short, and tipped sidewise, tumbling them all against the hard cane. Mathild cried out in a thin voice, and Seth uncurled almost instantly, clawing for a handhold. Another lurch, and the Elevator lay down on its side and was still.
They were in Hell.
Cautiously, Honath began to climb out, picking his way over the long thorns on the basket’s rim. After a moment, Charl the Reader followed, and then Alaskon took Mathild firmly by the hand and led her out onto the surface. The footing was wet and spongy, yet not at all resilient, and it felt cold; Honath’s toes curled involuntarily.
“Come on, Seth,” Charl said in a hushed voice. “They won’t haul it back up until we’re all out. You know that.”
Alaskon looked around into the chilly mists. “Yes,” he said. “And we’ll need a needlesmith down here. With good tools, there’s just a chance—”
Seth’s eyes had been darting back and forth from one to the other. With a sudden chattering scream, he bounded out of the bottom of the basket, soaring over their heads in a long, flat leap and struck the high knee at the base of the nearest tree, an immense fan palm. As he hit, his legs doubled under him, and almost in the same motion he seemed to rocket straight up into the murky air.
Gaping, Honath looked up after him. The young needlesmith had timed his course to the split second. He was already darting up the rope from which the Elevator was suspended. He did not even bother to look back.
After a moment, the basket tipped upright. The impact of Seth’s weight hitting the rope evidently had been taken by the windlass team to mean that the condemned people were all out on the surface; a twitch on the rope was the usual signal. The basket began to rise, hobbling and dancing. Its speed of ascent, added to Seth’s took his racing, dwindling figure out of sight quickly. After a while, the basket was gone, too.
“He’ll never get to the top,” Mathild whispered. “It’s too far, and he’s going too fast. He’ll lose strength and fall.”
“I don’t think so,” Alaskon said heavily. “He’s agile and strong. If anyone could make it, he could.”
“They’ll kill him if he does.”
“Of course they will,” Alaskon said, shrugging.
“I won’t miss him,” Honath said.
“No more will I. But we could use some sharp needles down here, Honath. Now we’ll have to plan to make our own—if we can identify the different woods, down here where there aren’t any leaves to help us tell them apart.”
Honath looked at the navigator curiously. Seth’s bolt for the sky had distracted him from the realization that the basket, too, was gone, but now that desolate fact hit home. “You actually plan to stay alive in Hell, don’t you, Alaskon?”
“Certainly,” Alaskon said calmly. “This is no more Hell than—up there—is Heaven. It’s the surface of the planet, no more, no less. We can stay alive if we don’t panic. Were you just going to sit here until the furies came for you, Honath?”
“I hadn’t thought much about it,” Honath confessed. “But if there is any chance that Seth will lose his grip on that rope—before he reaches the top and they stab him—shouldn’t we wait and see if we can catch him? He can’t weigh more than 35 pounds. Maybe we could contrive some sort of a net—”
“He’d just break our bones along with his,” Charl said. “I’m for getting out of here as fast as possible.”
“What for? Do you know a better place?”
“No, but whether this is Hell or not, there are demons down here. We’ve all seen them from up above. They must know that the Elevator always lands here and empties out free food. This must be a feeding-ground for them—”
He had not quite finished speaking when the branches began to sigh and toss, far above. A gust of stinging droplets poured along the blue air and thunder rumbled. Mathild whimpered.
“It’s only a squall coming up,” Honath said. But the words came out in a series of short croaks. As the wind had moved through the trees, Honath had automatically flexed his knees and put his arms out for handholds, awaiting the long wave of response to pass through the ground beneath him. But nothing happened. The surface under his feet remained stolidly where it was, flexing not a fraction of an inch in any direction. And there was nothing nearby for his hands to grasp.
He staggered, trying to compensate for the failure of the ground to move. At the same moment another gust of wind blew through the aisles, a little stronger than the first, and calling insistently for a new adjustment of his body to the waves which would be passing among the treetops. Again the squashy surface beneath him refused to respond. The familiar give-and-take of the vine-web to the winds, a part of his world as accustomed as the winds themselves, was gone.
Honath was forced to sit down, feeling distinctly ill. The damp, cool earth under his furless buttocks was unpleasant, but he could not have remained standing any longer without losing his meagre prisoner’s breakfast. One grappling hand caught hold of the ridged, gritting stems of a clump of horsetail, but the contact failed to allay the uneasiness.
The others seemed to be bearing it no better than Honath. Mathild in particular was rocking dizzily, her lips compressed, her hands clasped to her delicate ears.
Dizziness. It was unheard of up above, except among those who had suffered grave head injuries or were otherwise very ill. But on the motionless ground of Hell, it was evidently going to be with them constantly.
Charl squatted, swallowing convulsively. “I—I can’t stand,” he moaned.
“Nonsense!” Alaskon said, though he had remained standing only by clinging to the huge, mud-colored bulb of a cycadella. “It’s just a disturbance of our sense of balance. We’ll get used to it.”
“We’d better,” Honath said, relinquishing his grip on the horsetails by a sheer act of will. “I think Charl’s right about this being a feeding-ground, Alaskon. I hear something moving around in the ferns. And if this rain lasts long, the water will rise here, too. I’ve seen silver flashes from down here many a time after heavy rains.”
“That’s right,” Mathild said, her voice subdued. “The base of the fan-palm grove always floods. That’s why the treetops are lower there.”
The wind seemed to have let up a little, though the rain was still falling. Alaskon stood up tentatively and looked around.
“Then let’s move on,” he said. “If we try to keep under cover until we get to higher ground—”
A faint crackling sound, high above his head, interrupted him. It got louder. Feeling a sudden spasm of pure fear, Honath looked up.
Nothing could be seen for an instant but the far-away curtain of branches and fern fronds. Then, with shocking suddenness, something plummeted through the blue-green roof and came tumbling toward them. It was a man, twisting and tumbling through the air with grotesque slowness, like a child turning in its sleep. They scattered.
The body hit the ground with a sodden thump, but there were sharp overtones to the sound, like the bursting of a gourd. For a moment nobody moved. Then Honath crept forward.
It had been Seth, as Honath had realized the moment the figurine had burst through the branches far above. But it had not been the fall that had killed him. He had been run through by at least a dozen needles—some of them, beyond doubt, tools from his own shop, their points edged hair-fine by his own precious strops of leatherwood-bark.
There would be no reprieve from above. The
sentence was one thousand days. This burst and broken huddle of fur was the only alternative.
And the first day had barely begun.
* * * *
They toiled all the rest of the day to reach higher ground. As they stole cautiously closer to the foothills of the Great Range and the ground became firmer, they were able to take to the air for short stretches, but they were no sooner aloft among the willows than the lizard-birds came squalling down on them by the dozens, fighting among each other for the privilege of nipping these plump and incredibly slow-moving monkeys.
No man, no matter how confirmed a free-thinker, could have stood up under such an onslaught by the creatures he had been taught as a child to think of as his ancestors. The first time it happened, every member of the party dropped like a pine-cone to the sandy ground and lay paralyzed under the nearest cover, until the brindle-feathered, fan-tailed screamers tired of flying in such tight circles and headed for clearer air. Even after the lizard-birds had given up, they crouched quietly for a long time, waiting to see what greater demons might have been attracted by the commotion.
Luckily, on the higher ground there was much more cover from low-growing shrubs and trees—palmetto, sassafras, several kinds of laurel, magnolia, and a great many sedges. Up here, too, the endless jungle began to break around the bases of the great pink cliffs. Overhead were welcome vistas of open sky, sketchily crossed by woven bridges leading from the vine-world to the cliffs themselves. In the intervening columns of blue air a whole hierarchy of flying creatures ranked themselves, layer by layer. First, the low-flying beetles, bees and two-winged insects. Next were the dragonflies which hunted them, some with wingspreads as wide as two feet. Then the lizard-birds, hunting the dragonflies and anything else that could he nipped without fighting back. And at last, far above, the great gliding reptiles coasting along the brows of the cliffs, riding the rising currents of air, their long-jawed hunger stalking anything that flew—as they sometimes stalked the birds of the attic world, and the flying fish along the breast of the distant sea.
The Second Science Fiction Megapack Page 51
