by Jack Vance
Kirdy spent two weeks in the hospital while his wounds healed, each leaving an ugly little scar, then further time in the infirmary. He remained in a state of deep apathy, apparently aware of his surroundings, feeding himself and obeying instructions, but taking no heed of visitors and speaking no words. At times he gave evidence of internal distress, screwing up his big pink face until he achieved the likeness of a baby. Tears streamed from his eyes and he made high-pitched whimpering sounds, but uttered no words. Such fits gradually became less frequent; coincidentally, Kirdy took somewhat more interest in his environment, watching comings and goings, looking at pictures in magazines, but still he remained silent and ignored visitors.
The school term came to an end. After prodigies of toil and special tutoring; Arles passed his examinations and was duly accorded a certificate of completion. Glawen, along with Wayness, Milo and a few others, was graduated with honors.
Each year the savants currently resident at Vagabond House were feted at a banquet to which were also invited the graduating class at the lyceum, the Conservator and his family, the Bureau Supervisors and Assistant Supervisors, the six Housemasters and the lyceum faculty and five Special Dignitaries, selected by the Lyceum Faculty Council.
This was the most exclusive and stately occasion of the year, at which the gentlemen of the Houses wore dress uniforms and the ladies appeared in the most splendid confections their dressmakers could contrive. Those who were not invited consoled each other with assurances that the affair was both tedious and dull as ditch water, and that personally they would never waste the time attending, even had they been invited. Nonetheless there was always avid competition for one of the five “special” invitations.
At the conclusion of the banquet, before the speeches began, Glawen sought out Wayness and took her up to the balcony, where they sat close together, looking down on the notables below.
Wayness wore a long skirt, tight at the waist, flaring at the hem, striped black, green and wine red, a black jacket of some heavy lusterless stuff and a black ribbon in her hair. Glawen’s continued half-covert inspection made her edgy and at last she exclaimed: “Glawen, you must stop that! I sit here cringing with nervousness, as if I’m buttoned up crooked, or a big bug is sitting in my hair.”
“I’ve never seen you so elegant before.”
“Oh. Is that all? Do you approve?”
“Certainly. Although you seem strange and unfamiliar.”
Wayness made a flippant response: “I’ve never been anything but strange! As for familiarity, I don’t dare with Mother so close.”
Glawen smiled sadly, and Wayness looked at him sidelong. “Why are you so glum?”
“You know why.”
“I don’t want to think about it tonight.”
“I can’t help it. I wonder if you’ll ever return.”
“Of course I’ll return! And if not -”
“If not?”
“Then you can come to look for me.”
“Easy enough to say. Across all the thousands of worlds, and all the billions and trillions of people.”
“That’s encouragement, in a way. If you don’t find me, you’ll surely come upon someone else exactly like me, or - is it thinkable? - nicer than me.”
“There’s no one in the whole Gaean Reach exactly like you, with exactly that pretty mouth, exactly that tilt of the chin, or that little curl of hair, or the way you smell.”
“I hope it’s a pleasant smell.”
“Of course. I always think of wind blowing across the moors.”
“That’s just the soap I use. Glawen, please don’t be sentimental because I’m going away. I’ll get maudlin too and start to cry.”
“Just as you say. Kiss me.”
“With everyone looking up here? No, thank you.”
“No one is looking now.”
“Glawen, stop. That’s enough. I’m much too susceptible to this sort of thing . . . Look! Just as I told you! Mother is scolding me.”
“I don’t think she saw us; she’s not looking now.”
“Perhaps not.” Wayness pointed. “There’s Arles, sitting rather modestly in the corner.”
“Yes, I find it amazing. Spanchetta is furious because she could not promote a ‘special.’ My father is here, which makes it worse.”
“Who is that girl with Arles? I don’t think I’ve seen her before . . . They appear to be on very good terms.”
Glawen looked at Arles’ companion: a rather showy young woman with flowing orange-pink hair, a fair skin and voluptuous contours. “That’s Drusilla co-Laverty, one of Floreste’s Mummers. She is also quite friendly with Namour, if rumor can be trusted. Still, it’s none of my affair.”
“Nor mine. Although it’s rather odd.”
“How so?”
“No great matter. Did I mention that Julian Bohost is back from Stroma? He still wants to marry me, and also plans to study the Mad Mountain massacres, not necessarily in that order.”
“Too bad he couldn’t be here tonight and give a speech -”
“As a matter of fact, he had just that in mind, but Father told him that tickets were unavailable. How is Kirdy Wook?”
“I don’t know. The doctor seems to think that if he wanted to be well he could be well right now. Kirdy won’t talk, although he will read and watch television, and bangs the dinner utensils when he doesn’t like his food. The doctor says that the brain - Kirdy’s brain, anybody’s brain - is run by a kind of committee. Kirdy’s mental committee doesn’t quite trust his conscious mind with full powers yet, and is holding back a bit. It’s just a question of time, according to the doctor.”
“Poor Kirdy.”
Glawen thought back over the fateful evening at Yipton. He said: “All taken with all, I agree. It’s poor Kirdy, for a fact.”
Wayness looked at him curiously. “You seem just a trifle sardonic.”
“Probably so. I’ve never told you all that went on that night.”
“Do you plan to do so? Pussycat Palace and all?”
“I can tell you all I know about Pussycat Palace in three sentences, if you’re interested.”
“I am, rather.”
“I did not want to go, but I obeyed Kirdy’s orders, so that I might seem a roaring full-fledged Bold Lion, afraid of nothing. I drank tea with the girl, and inquired as to the health of her family. She watched me with no more expression than you see on the face of a dead fish. That’s all that happened.”
Wayness hugged his arm. “Let’s not talk any more of such things. Here comes Milo. He seems suspiciously jaunty. I wonder what’s happened.”
Milo dropped into a seat. “I have news concerning our friend Julian Bohost,” he told Glawen. “I suppose you know he’s at Riverview House. He still wants to go to Mad Mountain Lodge, and single-handedly quell the banjee wars.”
“He may get a nasty bruise from a battle-ax.”
“He hopes to avoid violence. If they won’t join the LPF, or listen to reason, he’ll study them from a distance and write a report.”
“I suppose I can’t object, especially if he is paying his own way.”
Milo turned Glawen an incredulous stare. “You can’t be serious! Julian is a politician, and pays for nothing.”
“Julian doesn’t have any money to speak of,” said Wayness.
“As Dame Clytie’s representative, he feels that tourist transport is unsuitable, and he wants full official treatment, which means at least a Station flyer with a pilot. Father just heaved a deep sigh and agreed. You will be the pilot, if the idea appeals to you.”
“It does if you and Wayness are coming. Otherwise, no.”
“We’ll go along to assist in the studies. Then it’s settled.”
“I don’t think Julian will be all that pleased.”
“No matter,” said Wayness. “Julian must learn to take the bitter with the sweet. It should be a memorable event.”
* * *
Chapter V, Part 3
The party from
Riverview House was late. Glawen and Chilke had checked out the flyer with particular care. “We can’t let anything happen to Julian,” Glawen told Chilke. “He is an important politician and might well be the first Oomphaw of Throy.”
“It’s a good line of work to be in,” said Chilke. “Especially if you’re helpless at everything else. What sort of chap is this Julian?”
“You can judge for yourself; he’s just now arriving.”
The carry-all halted beside the flyer. Julian jumped to the ground, crisp and natty in a broad-brimmed white hat and a suit of blue-and-white-striped duck. Milo and Wayness followed, and took their travel bags to the flyer’s luggage compartment.
Julian approached Chilke. “Are we ready to go? Where is our flyer?”
“It’s that black and yellow object just behind you,” said Chilke.
Julian inspected the flyer in disbelief. He turned back to Chilke: “What you have here is not at all suitable. Can’t you provide something a bit more commodious, with better amenities?”
Chilke rubbed his chin. “What leaps to mind is the tourist air-bus, if you’re willing to wait a few days. You’d have lots of room and nice people to talk to.”
“I am conducting an official survey,” said Julian coldly. “I need and I expect both convenience and flexibility.”
Chilke gave a good-humored chuckle. “Think just a bit. This flyer is here and ready to go, which is true convenience. It takes you wherever you point it, also up and down. That is flexibility. How much are you paying?”
“Nothing whatever, naturally.”
“There’s your flyer. You can’t do better anywhere for the price.”
Julian saw that no amount of hauteur could daunt the ingenuous Chilke, and moderated his tone. I suppose it will have to do.”
He took note of Glawen. “Ho, there! The earnest young Bureau B agent! Have you come to see us off?”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re here in your official capacity? To guard the flyer? To arrest skulking Yips?”
“Where?” asked Chilke. “The chap over by the hangar? That’s not a skulking Yip; that’s my help. I agree he ought to be arrested, but Glawen won’t have time today. He’s your pilot.”
Julian stood back in surprise and displeasure. He stared at Glawen. “Are you competent?”
“Let me put it this way,” said Glawen. “My luggage is aboard the flyer. Yours is being driven off aboard the carry-all.”
Julian waved his hat. “Hi! Driver! Come back here!” He turned angrily to Glawen. “Just don’t stand there; do something!”
Glawen shrugged. “If one of us has to run after the truck, it might as well be you.”
Chilke put two fingers into his mouth and blew a great shrill blast. The carry-all halted and, in response to Chilke’s gesture, returned. With a set expression, Julian transferred his bags to the flyer. Once again he turned to Glawen. “I insist upon a skillful and experienced pilot. Are you so qualified?”
Glawen handed over a small folder. “Here are my certificates of proficiency, and my licensing.”
Julian glanced skeptically through the folder. “Hm. Everything seems in order. Very well. We are bound for Mad Mountain Lodge.”
“We’ll be in the air about four hours. This particular flyer is not fast, but it’s quite suitable for errands of this sort.”
Julian said no more. He stepped up into the flyer, to join Milo and Wayness, who had already taken their places. Glawen paused for a final word with Chilke. What’s your verdict?”
“A bit hoity-toity, I should say.”
“That’s my impression, too. Well, we’re off for Mad Mountain Lodge.” Glawen climbed aboard the flyer and seated himself at the controls. He touched buttons, pushed the ascensor toggle; the flyer rose into the air. Glawen engaged the autopilot and the flyer slid away into the southwest.
The rolling Muldoon Mountains passed below; the orchards and vineyards of the Araminta enclave gave way to unsullied wilderness: first a pleasant land of wide green meadows among forests of dark blue allombrosa. Presently they came upon the Twan Tivol River, sweeping down from the north to terminate in the Dankwallow Swamp, the source of both the River Wan and the River Leur: a vast area of ponds, puddles, marshes and morasses, overgrown with purple-green verges, balwoon bush, tussocks of saw grass, with a few gaunt skeleton trees for accent.
Syrene shone from a cloudless deep blue sky. “In case anyone is interested,” said Glawen, “we’ll have good weather all the way. Also, if the meteorologists are to be trusted, it’s a fine day at Mad Mountain, with no banjees reported in the vicinity.”2
Julian attempted a jocularity: “This being the case, and with no bloodshed in prospect, the tourists no doubt will be refunded their money.”
Glawen responded politely: “I don’t think so.”
Milo added the comment: “And that’s why the place is called Mad Mountain.”
“Are you sure?” asked Wayness. “I’ve been wondering.”
“The name obviously derives from the banjee battles,” said Julian in rather patronizing tones. “Their futility - madness, if you will - has long been recognized, at least by the LPF. If my scheme is feasible and is acted upon, we shall rename the place Peace Mountain.”
Wayness asked: “If it doesn’t work out, what then?”
“‘Mad Julian Mountain’ might win a few votes,” said Milo.
Julian shook his head sadly. “Joke all you like. In the end you’ll find that you can’t laugh away either progress or the LPF.”
Wayness said plaintively: “Let’s not talk politics, at least so early in the day. Glawen, you’re supposed to know everything; why is it called Mad Mountain?”
“In this case, I do happen to know,” said Glawen. “On old maps you’ll find the name ‘Mount Stephen Tose.’ About two hundred years ago, a tourist in his excitement supplied the new name, which everyone began to use, and so now it’s Mad Mountain.”
“Why was the tourist excited?”
“I’ll show you after we arrive.”
“Is it a scandal that you’re embarrassed to talk about?” asked Wayness. “Or a delightful surprise?”
“Or both?” asked Milo.
Wayness told Milo: “Your mind runs farther and faster than mine. I can’t think of anything which fits.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see. Glawen may surprise us yet.”
“I’m sure of it. Glawen is very subtle. Don’t you think so, Julian?”
“My dear girl, I haven’t given the matter a thought.”
Wayness turned back to Glawen. “Tell us about the battles. .Have you seen them?”
“Twice. When you’re at the lodge they’re hard to ignore.”
“What happens? Are they as bad as Julian fears?”
“They are spectacular, and in some ways rather grim.”
Julian gave an ironic snort. “Please instruct me in the ways that they are other than grim.”
“It’s mostly in the mind of the beholder. The banjees don’t seem to care.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“The battles would be easy to avoid, if they were so inclined.”
Julian brought a booklet from his pocket. “Listen to this article: ‘The banjee battles are extremely dramatic and picturesque events; happily they have been made accessible to the tourist.
“‘Squeamish folk be warned: these battles are horrifying in their frenzy and in the hideous deeds which occur. Shouts and screams rise and fall; the trumpeting cries of victory mingle with the anguished moans of the defeated. Without surcease or pity the warriors wield their mighty instruments of death. They slash and strike, probe and thrust; quarter is neither extended nor expected.
“‘For the Gaean onlooker, the battles are poignant experiences, rife with archetypal symbology. Emotions are aroused to which the contemporary mind cannot even fit a name. No question as to the quality of the spectacle; the encounters reek with color: portentous reds, the black gleam o
n the bizarre angles of armor and helmets; the alkaline blues and greens of the thoracic cushions.
“‘The air at Mad Mountain is heavy with the sense of majestic force and tragic destiny’ - it goes on in that vein.”
“It is vivid description,” said Glawen. “The official guidebook is put to shame, and in fact barely mentions the battles.”
“Still, are not the facts in order?”
“Not altogether. There are not so many shrieks and moans, but grunts and curses and bubbling sounds. The females and bantlings stand by unconcerned and are not molested. Still, there’s no denying that the warriors tend to hack at each other.”
Wayness asked: “Forgive me my morbid curiosity - but exactly what happens?”
“The battles seem absolutely pointless and could easily be avoided. The migration routes run east-west and north-south, and cross just below Mad Mountain Lodge. When a horde is approaching, the first signal is a low sound: an ominous murmur. Then the horde appears in the distance. A few minutes later the first attack squad comes running along the route - a hundred elite warriors armed with thirty-foot lances, axes, and six-foot spikes. They secure the crossing and stand guard while the horde runs past. If another horde is passing, the approaching horde does not wait until the other one has gone by, as logic would dictate, but instead becomes indignant and attacks.
“The warriors bring down their lances and charge, trying to force open an avenue for their own group to pass. The battle continues until one or the other of the hordes has negotiated the crossing. It’s a disgrace to go last and the defeated horde sets up a great howl of hurt feelings.
“About this time tourists run down for souvenirs, hoping to find an undamaged helmet. They prowl through the corpses pulling and tugging. Sometimes the banjee is still alive and kills the tourist.
“The dead tourist is not ignored by the management. His picture is hung in the gallery as a warning to others. There are hundreds of these pictures, of folk from almost as many worlds, and they are a source of fascination to everyone.”
“I find the whole business disgraceful,” said Julian.
