by Jack Vance
The blond youth took Etzwane into a low stone shed, where two young men sat at a table eating a supper of broad-beans and tea. The blond youth announced: “Here’s the new hand. What’s your name, lad?”
“I am Gastel Etzwane.”
“Gastel Etzwane it is. I am Finnerack; yonder is Ishiel the Mountain Poet and he with the long face is Dickon. Will you eat? Our fare is not the best: beans and bread and tea, but it’s better than going hungry.”
Etzwane took a plate of beans, which were barely warm. Finnerack jerked his thumb to the west. “Old Dagbolt rations our fuel, not to mention our water, provisions and everything else worth using.”
Dickon spoke in a surly voice: “Now I’ll have to go grind windlass under Dagbolt’s very nose. No talk, no chaffer, quiet orderly work, that’s Dagbolt for you. Here at least a man can spit in any direction he chooses.”
“It’s the same for all of us,” said Ishiel. “In a year or two they’ll bring me across, then it will be Finnerack’s turn. And in the course of five or six years Gastel Etzwane will make the change and we’ll be reunited.”
“Not if I can avoid it,” said Dickon. “I’ll put in for slot-cleaning duty and at least be on the move. If Dagbolt turns me down I’ll become the premier gambler of the Junction. Never fear, lads, I’ll be out of my indenture before ten years have passed.”
“My good wishes,” remarked Finnerack. “You’ve won all my money; I hope you get the service of it.”
In the morning Finnerack instructed Etzwane in his duties. He would stand shifts in turn with Finnerack and Ishiel. When a balloon passed along the Transverse Route, he must ease the clamp and shackle around the idler sheave. When a balloon came up the North Spur, or returned, the man on duty, using a claw-lever chained to the floor, hooked into the guys and switched the balloon from one cable to the other. As the youngest member of the crew Etzwane was also required to oil the sheaves, keep the hut swept out and boil the morning gruel. The work was neither arduous nor complicated; the crew had ample leisure, which they spent crocheting fancy vests for sale in the town, and gambling with the proceeds, to earn enough to pay off their indenture. Finnerack told Etzwane: “Over at Angwin, Dagbolt forbids gambling. He says he wants to stop the fights. Bah. From time to time some lucky chap wins enough to buy himself free, and that’s the last thing Dagbolt wants.”
Etzwane looked around the station. They stood on a bleak wind-swept ledge fifty yards across, directly below the stupendous mass of Mount Mish, and between two gorges. Etzwane asked, “How long have you been here?”
“Two years,” said Finnerack. “Dickon has been here eight.”
Etzwane studied Mount Mish and was daunted: impossible to scale the crags which beetled over the station. The precipices which descended into the gorges were no less baleful. Finnerack gave a sad knowing laugh. “You’d like to find a way down?”
“Yes, I would.”
Finnerack showed neither surprise nor disapproval. “Now’s the time, before they clamp on your torc. Don’t think I haven’t considered it, torc and all.”
At the edge of the precipice they looked down and off across a gulf of air. “I’ve stood here by the hours,” said Finnerack wistfully, “tracing how I’d climb down to the valley. From here down to that nose of red granite a person would need a length of rope, or he might scramble down that fissure had he the nerve. Then he’d have to work himself across the face of that scarp — it looks worse than it is, I dare say. From there to that tumble of scree should not be impossible, and only hard work thereafter down to the valley floor. But then what? It’s a hundred miles to a village, with no food nor water. And do you know what you’d find along the way?”
“Wild ahulph.”
“I wasn’t thinking of ahulph; but you’d find them too, the wicked Phag brood.” Finnerack searched the valley floor. “I saw one just the other day …” He pointed. “Look! By that needle of black rock. I think there’s a cave or a shelter there. It’s where I saw the other.”
Etzwane looked, and thought to see a stir of movement. “What is it?”
“A Roguskhoi … Do you know what that is?”
“It’s a kind of mountain savage, that can’t be controlled except by its yearning for strong drink.”
“Great womanizers, as well. I’ve never seen one close at hand, and I hope I never do. What if they took it into their heads to climb up here? They’d chop us to bits!”
“Much to Dagbolt’s horror,” suggested Etzwane.
“Too right! He’d have to buy in three new indentures. He’d rather we’d die of overwork, or old age.”
Etzwane looked wistfully down the valley. “I had planned to be a musician … Does anyone ever earn enough to buy off their indentures?”
“Dagbolt does his best to prevent it,” said Finnerack. “He operates a commissary where he sells Seam beer, fruit, sweetmeats and the like. When the men gamble it always seems to be one of the career ratings who wins the money, and no one knows how they achieve such luck … One way or another, it’s not all so bad. Perhaps I’ll make a career myself. There are always jobs opening up below — on the windlass, as a slot-cleaner or motive-man. If you learn electrics you might get into communications. As for me, I’d like to be a wind-tender. Think of it!” Finnerack flung back his head, looked around the sky. “Up in the balloon, running the winches, with the dolly skirring along the slot below. There’s sheer fun! And one day it’s Dublay and Maurmouth , the next Garwiy, then off over the Great Transverse Route to Eye-of-the-East and the Blue Ocean.”
“I suppose it’s not a bad life,” said Etzwane dubiously. “Still —” he could not bring himself to finish.
Finnerack shrugged. “Until they torc you, you’re free to run off. Be sure I won’t stop you, or Ishiel. In fact we’ll lower you down the cliff. But it’s terrible country and you’d be going to your death. Still — were I you, without my torc, perhaps I’d try.” He raised his head as a horn sounded. “Come along; a balloon is crossing over from Angwin.”
They returned to the station. The shift was technically Etzwane’s; Finnerack was standing by to break him in. The approaching balloon hung aslant the sky, lurching and bobbing as the cable drew it against the wind. The guys, fore and aft, were shackled to an iron ring, which in turn was chained to a grip on the drive-line. The ring bore a black marker, indicating that it must be switched down the North Spur. The grip entered the sheave, and passed half-way around the circumference. Finnerack pushed an electric signal to the windlass-chief at Angwin and threw a brake which halted the drive-line. He hooked the claw-lever into the ring, worked the arm to pull down the ring and loosen the grip. Etzwane transferred the grip to the North Spur line; Finnerack disengaged the lever-jack; the balloon now hung on the North Spur drive-line. Finnerack pushed the electric signal to the windlass at North Station; the drive-line tautened, the balloon drifted away on the south wind.
Half an hour later another balloon arrived from the east, lurching and straining to the breeze blowing down from Mount Mish. The grip passed across the idler sheave without attention from Finnerack or Etzwane; the balloon continued across the gorge to Angwin, thence on toward Garwiy.
Not long after another balloon came in from the west, destined as before to the North Spur. Etzwane said to Finnerack, “This time let me do the whole transfer. You stand to the side and watch that I do everything correctly.”
“Just as you like,” said Finnerack. “I must say you’re very keen.”
“Yes,” said Etzwane. “I’m very keen indeed. I plan to take your advice.”
“Indeed? And make a balloon-way career?”
“I plan to give the matter thought,” said Etzwane. “As you have remarked, I am not yet clamped, and not yet committed.”
“Tell that to Dagbolt,” said Finnerack. “Here comes the grip; be handy with the signal and the brake.”
The grip entered the sheave; as it reached the circumference, Etzwane pressed the signal and braked the wheel.
“Quite right,” said Finnerack.
Etzwane brought up the claw-jack, hooked it into the ring, drew down slack and detached the grip.
“Exactly right,” said Finnerack. “You’ve learned the knack, no question of it.”
Etzwane caught the grip on the edge of the sheave, released the lever-jack, shook away the hook. He stepped up into the ring and kicked free the grip. Finnerack stared in bewilderment. “What are you doing?” he gasped. “You’ve set free the balloon!”
“Exactly,” called Etzwane. “Give my regards to Dagbolt … Goodbye, Finnerack.”
The balloon swept him away on the wind from Mount Mish, while Finnerack watched open-mouthed from below. Etzwane perched with one foot in the ring and, clutching the guy-lines, waved his hand; Finnerack, standing fore-shortened with head turned back, raised his arm in dubious farewell.
In the balloon the wind-tender realized that something had gone amiss, but knew no remedy for the situation. “Attention all,” he cried out to the passengers. “The guys have slipped; we are floating free, in a northwest direction, which will take us safely across the Wildlands. There is no danger! Everyone please remain calm. When we approach a settled community I will valve gas and lower us to the ground. For the unavoidable change of schedule I extend the official apologies of the balloon-way.”
Chapter V
The balloon floated down from the Hwan in the halcyon quiet of the upper air. Etzwane rode surrounded by lavender-white radiance, so unreal and peaceful were the circumstances he felt no fear. Underneath passed the great forests of Canton Sable: parasol darabas, dark maroon and purple, soft-seeming as feather-dusters, returning ripples of wincing greenish bronze to the touch of the wind. In the dank lower valleys stood redwoods, hoary giants five hundred feet tall, half as old as the coming of the human race. Lower still, along the piedmont, were hangman trees, black oaks and green elms, the unique syndic trees whose seeds sprouted legs and poisonous pincers. After walking to a satisfactory location, each seed roved within a ten-foot circle, poisoning all competing vegetation, then dug a hole and buried itself.
The forests persisted into Canton Trestevan, then gave way to a region of small farms and a thousand small ponds, where crayfish, eels, white-worm, a dozen other varieties of water-food were produced, packed, frozen and shipped to the metropolitan markets of Garwiy, Brassei, Maschein. The villages were tiny toys, exuding minuscule wisps of smoke; along the roads moved infinitesimal wagons and traps, drawn by insect-size bullocks and pacers. Etzwane would have enjoyed the landscape had he been comfortable. He rode with first one foot in the ring, then the other, then one foot on top of the other. He tried to sit in the angle between the two guy-lines, but the cables cut into his hips. His perch became more uncomfortable by the minute. His feet were knobs of pain; his arms and shoulders ached from the strain of clinging to the guys. Still, his exhilaration persisted; he had no fault to find with circumstances.
The wind had died to a murmur; the balloon drifted with great deliberation into Canton Frill, a green, dark blue, brown, white and purple checkerboard of fields and orchards. A meandering river, the Lurne, was a casual insult of nature to the human geometry of hedges and roads; ten miles to the west the river passed through a market town, built in the typical Frillish style: tobacco-brown panels of pressed gum-leaves, between posts of polished iban, rising two or even three stories. Above the town rose a forest of poles, flying good-luck banners, prayer-flags, secret omens, tender and sometimes illicit signals between lovers. Looking over the countryside, Etzwane thought Frill an agreeable place, and he hoped that the balloon would land here, if for no other reason than to ease his aching body.
The wind-tender, for his part, had hoped to drift on into Canton Cathriy where the trade winds blowing in from Shellflower Bay would take him southwest to meet the Great Transverse Route, somewhere in Canton Maiy, but he had to reckon with his passengers. They had divided into two factions. The first had become impatient hanging motionless in the still air, and demanded that the balloon be put down; the second, to the contrary, feared that the wind would rise and sweep them to perdition out over the Green Ocean; they insisted even more emphatically that the balloon be lowered.
The wind-tender at last threw up his arms in vexation and valved out a quantity of gas, until his altimeter indicated gradual descent. He opened his floor panel to inspect the terrain below, and for the first time noticed Etzwane. He peered down in shock and suspicion, but he could be sure of nothing. And in any event was powerless to act, unless he chose to slide down one of the guy-lines to confront the unauthorized passenger, which he did not care to do.
The guys sank into the thick blue grass of a meadow. Etzwane jumped gratefully out of the ring; the balloon, relieved of his weight, swung back aloft. Etzwane ran like a wild creature for the hedge. Heedless of cuts and scratches, he burst through the brambles and into a lane, where he ran pell-mell until he came to a copse of yapnut trees. He plunged into the shadows and stood till he caught his breath.
He could see nothing but foliage. Selecting the tallest tree in sight, he climbed until he could see over the hedge and across the meadow.
The balloon was down, anchored to a stump. The passengers had alighted and stood arguing with the wind-tender, demanding immediate fare rebates and expense money. This the wind-tender refused to pay over, in the certain knowledge that the main office clerks would not casually refund these sums unless he were able to produce detailed vouchers, invoices and receipts.
The passengers began to grow ugly; the wind-tender at last resolved the matter by breaking loose the anchor and scrambling into the gondola. Relieved of the passengers, the balloon rose swiftly and drifted away, leaving the passengers in a disconsolate cluster.
For three weeks Etzwane roamed the countryside, a gaunt harsh-featured lad in the rags of his Pure Boy gown. In the heart of the yapnut grove he built a little den of twigs and leaves, in which he maintained a tiny fire, blown up from a coal stolen at a farm-house hearth. He stole other articles: an old jacket of green homespun, a lump of black sausage, a roll of coarse cord and a bundle of hay, with which he planned to make himself a bed. The hay was insufficient; he returned for a second bundle and stole an old earthenware bowl as well, with which the farmer fed his fowl. On this latter occasion, as he jumped from the back window of the barn, he was sighted by the boys of the farm, who gave chase, and harried him through the woods, until at last he went to cover in a dense thicket. He heard them destroying his den and exclaiming in anger at the stolen goods, and as they blundered past: “— Yodel’s ahulphs will winkle him out. They can take him back upland for their pains.” Cold chills coursed down Etzwane’s back. When the boys left the wood he climbed the tall tree and watched them return to their farm. “They won’t bring in ahulphs,” he told himself in a hollow voice. “They’ll forget all about me tomorrow. After all, it was just a bit of hay … An old coat …”
On the following day Etzwane kept an anxious watch on the farm-house. When he saw the folk going about their normal duties, he became somewhat less fearful.
The next morning when he climbed the tree, to his horror he saw three ahulphs beside the barn. They were a lumpy dwarfish variety, with the look of hairy goblin-dogs: the Murtre Mountain strain. In a panic Etzwane leapt from the tree and set off through the woods toward the river Lurne. If luck were with him he would find a boat or a raft; for he could not swim.
Leaving the forest he crossed a field of purple moy; looking back, his worst fears were realized: the ahulphs came behind.
So far they had not sighted him; they ran with their eyes and foot-noses to the ground. With pounding legs and bumping heart Etzwane ran from the field, up the high-road which paralleled the riverbank.
Along the road came a high-wheeled carriage, drawn by a prime pacing bullock, the result of nine thousand years breeding. Though capable of a very smart pace, it moved in a leisurely fashion, as if the driver were in no great hurry to reach his destination. Etzwane pulle
d up the old jacket to hide his bare neck and called to the man who drove the carriage: “Please, sir, may I ride with you for a little bit?”
The man, reining the pacer to a halt, gave Etzwane a somber appraisal. Etzwane, returning the inspection, saw a lean man of indeterminate age, with a pallid skin, a high forehead and austere nose, a shock of soft white hair neatly cropped, wearing a suit of fine gray cloth. The verticals of his torc were purple and gray; the horizontals were white and black, neither of which Etzwane could identify. He seemed very old, knowing and urbane, and yet, on the other hand, not very old at all. He spoke in a voice of neutral courtesy: “Jump aboard. How far do you go?”
“I don’t know,” said Etzwane. “As far as possible. To be quite frank, the ahulphs are after me.”
“Indeed? What is your crime?”
“Nothing of any consequence. The farmer boys consider me a vagabond, and want to hunt me down.”
“I can’t very well assist fugitives,” said the man, “but you may ride with me for a bit.”
“Thank you.”
The cart moved down the road, with Etzwane keeping a watch behind. The man put a toneless question: “Where is your home?”
Etzwane could trust no one with this secret. “I have no home.”
“And where is your destination?”
“Garwiy. I want to put a petition to the Faceless Man, to help my mother.”
“And how would he do this?”
Etzwane looked over his shoulder; the ahulphs were not yet in sight. “She is under unjust indenture, and now must work in the tannery. The Faceless Man could order her indenture lifted; I’m sure she has paid it off and more, but they keep no reckonings.”
“The Faceless Man is not likely to intervene in a matter of canton law.”
“I’ve been told so. But perhaps he’ll listen.”
The man gave a faint smile. “The Faceless Man is gratified that canton law functions effectively. Can you believe that he’ll disrupt old customs and turn everything topsy-turvy, even at Bashon?”
