Dare - rtf

by Farmer, Phillip Jose

  Wherever Walt's skin showed beneath the yellow flood, it was turning red. The volcano was evidently ready to blow.

  Then Tony chortled, "We're rich! Rich!"

  Only that word could have sidetracked his father's gathering wrath. He turned to Tony and said, "What? What did you say?"

  "Rich!" squealed his youngest. He ran to Walt and grabbed his hand. "Come on. Jack's outside! Stinking rich!" He laughed wildly. "I mean it. He's stinking, and he's wealthy!"

  His mother could endure no more. She rushed past Tony and bumped into her husband just as he was rising. Though he outweighed her by a hundred pounds, he was off balance enough so that the im­pact toppled him back into his chair.

  At any other time, Kate would have been very flustered. Now she only said "Oh!" and left him speechless and red on his chair.

  Behind her came her flock, pushing and shoving. Lunk stepped aside for them, picked up a large napkin from the sideboard, and began wiping off his master's face and beard. He did not apologize; he only giggled.

  Walt swore, tore the cloth from the servant's grip, and stomped out onto the front porch.

  It was a curious scene for a homecoming. Everybody was standing around Jack, but no one, not even his mother, would go close to him. Some, especially his sisters, were beginning to turn pale. And all were paying more attention to what Jack had placed on the porch table than they were to him.

  The moment Walt stepped outside, he stopped. He dragged in a deep breath, coughed, and then almost strangled. Now he knew what Tony's words meant.

  If the father was astonished, the son was not less so.

  "Great Dyonis!" said Jack. "What happened to you?"

  "That fool Lunk," growled Walt, as if that ex­plained it. "Never mind." He pointed at the mass on the table. It was round and large as a man's head, gelatinous and gray, and it gave the illusion of always quivering, as if it were alive and shaking with terror because it had no skin.

  "That's a gluepearl? Right?"

  "Yes, Dad. While I was on my way home, I heard a sicktree retching in the forest."

  "Sicktree? Close to home? Man alive, how did we ever miss it? Right on our doorstep, so to speak. And the horstels?"

  "I imagine they knew all about it. They just didn't want to say anything about it."

  "Isn't that like them? All the money that sicktree represented, and they were keeping it for them­selves."

  "Not exactly."

  Jack hated to tell his father about R'li and how he was obligated to her. He was going to explain later. Anyway, she'd refused to split the money he would get for the rare perfume base. It was her contract right to claim half of it, but she'd insisted it was all Jack's. Nor would she explain why. Not at that time, at least.

  Jack had been reluctant for it to stand that way. He could not help thinking of her murdered cousin. His blood had scarcely been washed off before she was leading Jack to the costly forest prize. It was no accident they'd found it, he was sure of that. On the way home he'd analyzed the steps leading to its discovery. He knew why she had been determined he should have all the money that would come from its sale. One way or the other, her kind was going to see that he went to Farfrom. And when he came back, he was scheduled to stand in Parliament as their speaker.

  That's what they thought.

  "You see," he explained to his father, "the Wiyr know what they're doing. It takes thirty or more years for a sicktree to develop a mature gluepearl. If it was known one was around here, how long do you think it'd be before some merchant or highwayman would be chopping the tree down to dig out the con­cretion, even if it were only half grown? Thus, the full value wouldn't be realized, and there'd be no more future gluepearls. No. They knew what they were doing."

  "Maybe so," said Walt. "But, son, what a fabulous stroke of fortune that you should be going by just when it was retching. Fabulous!"

  Unhappily, Jack nodded.

  Walt looked at the scimitar at his son's side. He opened his mouth as if to reproach him for having taken it. Then he shut it.

  Jack could read the thought in his head. If his son had not taken the blade without permission and gone off on that quest, he would not have found the gluepearl. Even now, the gray mass might be lying on the ground at the foot of the tree, undiscovered and rotting, three thousand pounds worth, rotting, rot­ting away. . .

  Suddenly, as if awakening, Walt started, looked at Jack, and grinned. "Son! You stink! But no mat­ter. It's a good stench; no more welcome one."

  He rubbed his hands; a curd of pudding fell off his nose. "Lunk, you and Bill grab that table and carry it to the strongshed. Lock and bar it well and bring me the key. Tomorrow, we'll drive into town and sell it.

  "Ah, Jack, if you didn't stink so, I'd hug and kiss you! You make me happy. Think, son! You've far more than enough to buy Al Chuckswilly's farm. You can now ask Bess Merrimoth to marry you. When you two come into your full inheritance, you'll have five farms -- her father has three -- all large and rich. Plus the Merrimoth tannery, warehouse, and tavern. Plus the most beautiful girl in the county. Ah, those red lips and black eyes! I'd envy you, Jack, if I'd not already married your mother."

  He glanced hastily at his wife and said, "What I meant, Kate, was that Bess is the most beautiful virgin. You, of course, are by far the best-looking matron roundabout. Anybody may see that."

  Kate smiled and said, "It's been a long time since you said anything like that, Walt."

  He pretended not to have heard her. He dug his big fingers into his beard and pulled fiercely at the roots while he said, "Look, boy. Maybe, instead of the farm, you could bribe some of the officials at court and buy your way into a knighthood. Then you could work your way up to a lordship. There's no telling what an ambitious man can do here. This is frontier territory; you're a Cage. There'll be no holding you back."

  Jack grew angry, but he kept his face composed. Why didn't his father treat him as a man and ask him what he wanted to do? It was his money, wasn't it? Or it would be in two years, when he came of age.

  Lunk and Bill returned: The house servant handed Walt the big glass-and-copper key to the strong-house. Walt gave it to his wife. Suddenly he bellowed, "All right, Kate! And daughters! Into the house. And don't look out the windows. Jack is going to be as naked as a satyr."

  "What do you mean?" asked Jack in some alarm.

  Kate and the older girls giggled. Magdalene said, "They are going to get rid of that stink, Jack."

  Lunk came from the house with several large washrags and big bars of soap.

  "Close in on him, boys," ordered Walt. "Don't let him get away."

  "Hey! What do you think --?"

  "Tear off his clothes! They have to be buried, anyway. . . They'd make a maggot puke. . . Grab his arm. . . Off with his trousers. Jack, you crazy unicorn, you kicked me! Take your medicine like a man!"

  Laughing, choking, struggling, they picked up the writhing, naked body and bore it to the watering trough in front of the barn.

  Jack fought and yelled and howled; then he was plunged head first into the water.

  Three mornings later, the barking of dogs and the gaggle-gurgle of cocks awoke Jack. He sat up and moaned. His head was a balloon of ache. His mouth tasted like the scrapings of a wine barrel. Last night had been long on joy and short on sleep. The cellar had been raided; two kegs of the oldest fermented totum juice had been broached.

  Walt Cage had been strangely reluctant to take the gluepearl into town. It was as if the sight of the quivering jelly whipped his nerves into ecstasy. Originally, he'd planned to drive into Slashlark at dawn of the next day. When he got up, though, he spent thirty minutes in the strongshed, contemplating it. Afterward, he announced that this good fortune would have to be celebrated. He astonished everybody by saying they would have a party tomorrow, shearing or no shearing.

  Lunk drove away with the invitations; Bill Kamel shrugged and set out to do what he could with his reduced shearing gang; the women began baking and scrubbing and talking
about what they'd wear. Walt himself, though he wielded a pair of shears, was not as much help as he should have been. Every now and then he would walk away, unlock the strongshed, and look again at his treasure.

  The evening of the following day, the guests drove in. Wine and beer flowed from the always-open spigots; two unicorns turned on spits. All insisted on seeing the fabulous 'pearl.

  Walt was in the clouds -- the clouds being formed half of pride and joy, half of wine fumes. He shouted that the frequent trips to the stronghouse were shriveling his nostrils and crisping his tongue and that he was absorbing so much of the stench that one more inspection would make him as expensive as the sicktree's fruit itself and as much sought after.

  He'd take the visitor by the hand and lead him into the stronghouse and hold him there while the un­fortunate sightseer cried out to Walt to let him loose, that he would lose meat and wine and add to the stench if he could not get out at once.

  Master Cage would laugh and open his grip on the other's arm. Or he would slam the door shut and yell that he was going to keep the guest locked in all night to guard the treasure. The trapped one would beat on the door and demand, for the love of God, that Walt quit jesting and please release him. The very air was enough to make a man's lungs gangrenous. When the door was opened, the man would reel out, clutching his throat and turning green-and-white-spotted. All would laugh and thrust steins at him and tell him to dip his nose until he got rid of the perfume.

  Mr. Merrimoth, his widowed sister, and his daughter arrived. Bess, tall and dark-haired, black-eyed and high-cheekboned, red-lipped and round-bosomed, had been permitted to come -- even though the hour was late.

  Jack was glad to see her. His skin was tight with wine by then. Normally, he did not care to drink so deeply. Tonight was different. Only by befogging himself could he overcome the self-consciousness resulting from the odor that still clung to him even after the scrubbing.

  Perhaps that was why he insisted on showing his discovery to Bess. Close to it, she would not be able to smell him. The two went down the tree-shadowed path alone. Bess's aunt for once did not accompany them.

  Her father raised his eyebrows when he saw them saunter off, and he looked at his sister. After all, Jack had made no formal request to bundle with her. When he took a step after them, the aunt laid a detaining hand on his arm and shook her head to in­dicate there were times when a girl had a right to be alone with her beau. Mr. Merrimoth obeyed the superior wisdom of the female. Nevertheless, as he accepted another glass from the house servant, he wondered what sensitivity it was that enabled her to know that tonight Jack would probably take the first step to be put in the yoke. . . no. . . he meant holy matrimony.

  The two saw the quivering ball. By then Jack was sick of its sight. Bess gave the conventional shrieks of horror and protestation and asked how many pounds the thing was worth. He answered swiftly and rushed her out and back up the path.

  At that moment the broomm! broomm! broomm! of drums and the blowing of horns came downwind from the northern meadows. Suddenly the horizon blazed with fires. Jack muttered, "R'li is home."

  "What did you say? " said Bess.

  "Would you like to watch the horstel's home­coming?"

  "Oh, I'd love it," she answered, squeezing his hand. "I've never seen one. Would they mind?"

  "We won't show ourselves.''

  As they walked over the fields beneath the bright light of the huge moon, he felt his heart thudding. Bess? Wine? Both?

  The drums sank, muted; lyres rose and traveled across the moonlight in spectral images of sweet notes; a panpipe thrilled. And R'li's voice lifted, a golden tower, building upon itself, higher and higher, swiftly and incredibly changing, going up, ever different, yet always R'li, creamy yet fiery, sweet yet dangerous, essence of siren, of woman, shifting, liquid.

  A big-bodied stringed instrument softly crept into the background, throomed, then fell silent as that last note hovered, steadily beating its wings against the current of time and endurance of flesh. Held, would not fall, would not. Until the listeners' hair rose on the backs of their necks, their skins prickled, and their nerves seemed naked to the air.

  Vanished.

  Bess clutched his arm and murmured, "God, that was wonderful! No matter what you say about them, you have to admit they can sing."

  He took her hand and led her on. He didn't trust himself to speak.

  Afterward, he had rather vague memories of looking through a bush at the celebration around the fires. They watched a ritual dance, in which R'li took part, and then an improvised dance. During that, the siren disappeared into a hole at the base of the nearest cadmus. She came out shortly after and Jack, watching for her, saw something else that startled him.

  A face was peering out from the flickering shadows within the entrance. Though distant and smudged by the alternation of light and dark, the heart-shaped outline, the big eyes, and the swelling lower lip were plainly those of Polly O'Brien.

  As soon as he was certain of that, Jack took Bess by the hand and pulled her away. He told her their folks would begin to wonder why they were away so long. Only half willing, excited by the music and the naked bodies swirling around the fires, she walked slowly, leaning on him. She chattered on and on of this and that; he didn't hear much of it because his head was swirling at the sight of R'li and at the discovery of the refugee. Around and around they went in his mind, until he became aware that Bess had stopped him and was looking up at him, eyes closed and lips pursed for a kiss.

  Abruptly he tried to forget his problems by kissing her passionately. He would abandon all thoughts about those other two females; they were not really any concern of his; what he needed was a woman who was all right with the world he knew. Marriage, home, babies, and all the rest. That was the way out.

  By the time they got back, she had promised to marry him. They decided not to tell anybody their in­tentions. After the spring plowing was over and everybody would be available for a big celebration, they'd announce their engagement. A secret it would be, though, of course, Jack would ask her father if they could bundle. Although termed a prelude to engagement, bundling really meant affiancement, for few couples dared brave public opinion by breaking up afterward. Legally still a virgin, the girl actually was considered to be non intacta thereafter. Her chances for getting some other boy as a husband were greatly reduced; her best policy was to move to some place where it was not known she'd bundled. And that was so impractical as almost never to be done.

  So their secret was in name only. Jack thought it was silly, but like most males, he went along with the woman.

  He noticed that as soon as they returned, Bess whispered something in her aunt's ear. Both turned to stare at him when they thought he wasn't looking.

  The party lasted until close to dawn. So it was that Jack had about two hours' sleep and woke with a swelling head, a foul taste, and an even fouler tem­per.

  He rose, dressed, and went to the kitchen. Lunk was sprawled out, asleep, on a pile of werewolf hides behind the stove. When Jack prodded him in the ribs with his toe, Lunk didn't even grunt. Deciding it'd be easier to make a pot of wakeup himself than to rouse the servant, Jack started a fire. He put on a kettle of well water and measured out three spoonfuls of the dried and shredded leaves of the totum tree. While he was feeding the dogs, the shreds would loose their stimulating essence in hot and brown liquid.

  Returning from his chore, he found that somebody had drunk all of the wakeup. He kicked Lunk in the ribs. Lunk said, "Ughh!" and turned over. His face was sweat-shiny from the heat of the stove.

  Jack kicked again. Lunk sat up.

  "Did you drink my wakeup?"

  "I dreamed I did," the servant replied thickly.

  "Dream! Well, dream that you're getting up and making me some more. That's what I get for trying to help you."

  As he had orders from his father to wake him early, Jack knocked on his parents' bedroom door until his mother was aroused. She, in turn, shook
her husband until he got out of bed.

  After the three men had a light breakfast of steaks, liver, eggs, bread and butter and honey, cheese, spring "onions," beer, and wakeup, Lunk left to harness up a carriage team, and the two Cages began walking across the farm.

  Walt said, "It hurts my pride to have to accept anything from a cadman. But I don't suppose I'll be able to argue R'li out of her decision. You know their proverbial stubbornness."

  He whistled awhile, rubbing his middle finger against the side of his nose. Unexpectedly, he stopped in the middle of a bar and clamped his son by the shoulder.

  "Tell me, Jack. Why did this siren renounce her share?"

  "I don't know."

  Walt's fingers dug. "You're sure? There's nothing -- personal? "

  "What are you getting at?"

  "You're not. . ." Walt seemed to be searching his mind for a word that would not be too foul, and came up with "consorting with her?"

  "Dad, how could you? With a siren? Why, I hadn't seen her for three years. And we were alone only a short time."

  The fingers fell away. "I believe you."

  Walt passed a hand over his red-shot eyes. "I -- I shouldn't even have asked that question. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd struck me. It was a terrible thing to say. Only, you must understand, son, there's more of that sort of thing going on than you think.

  "And I know how seductive they can be. Twenty years ago, before I was married. . . well, son. . . I was tempted once."

  Jack didn't dare ask if he'd succumbed.

  A few minutes later, they paused to watch a group of youthful satyrs whose spine and loin hair was just beginning to grow thickly. They were down on their hands and knees and crumbling the soil of the field between their fingers. From time to time they laid their ears against the ground, as if they were listening. Intermittently, their fingers drummed hard against the crust.

  Their supervisor was a tall adult whose tailhair was so long he'd plaited it into a large tight ball that brushed against his calves as he walked.