Winter in Eden

by Harry Harrison

  “You will remember we crossed the ocean by following the unmoving star. This is the course we took—and here is where we are now. This is land, this the ice, this the shore where we met you, this is the place.”

  Kerrick followed the brown finger across the network of bones, could see none of the things that appeared to be so obvious to the Paramutan; to him they were still just bones. But he nodded agreement, not wanting to interrupt. Kalaleq went on.

  “Here is where I began to understand. The murgu sail only in the south, for you have told me they cannot live in the snow. We live for snow and ice, live only in the north. But things go from south to north, north to south. Here, right here, is a river of warm water in the sea, coming from the south, and we have fished in it. It is rich with food and it runs far north, and I think many fish swim in it for their food. But where does it come from? Can you tell me?” He smiled and smoothed the fur on his cheeks as he waited for an answer.

  “From the south?” It did not seem too hard an answer, but it excited Kalaleq.

  “Yes, yes, I think so. And you agree with me. So, look, at the murgu chart. If this is land and this is water—then this orange color could be the warm water flowing from south to north. Could it not?”

  “It could,” Kerrick agreed, though it could be anything to his untutored eye. With this encouragement Kalaleq rushed on.

  “So it ends here at the edge of the chart because the murgu never go north—so this must be north. But before it ends, there is this place on their chart—which I believe is this place on mine! And if that is right—then here on theirs is here on mine—where we are standing right now!”

  Kerrick could make no sense of the Paramutan bonework—but there was some logic to the Yilanè chart. The orange swirl could be warm water, that made sense—though, what the blue swirls crossing it were he couldn’t tell. Was all of the green mass ocean? The darker green land? Possibly. He moved his finger down the dark green on the left, traced it downward until it changed to the light green of the sea. In some ways it did look a bit like the model he had seen in Deifoben. And these flakes of golden metal sealed under the surface, out here in the ocean, what could they mean?

  Alakas-aksehent. His arms and leg moved slightly as the name came to mind. Alakas-aksehent.

  A succession of golden, tumbled stones. They had been pointed out to him when they had gone past them on the uruketo. On the way back to Alpèasak. His finger traced a course through the light green as he thought this, came to the darker green of land. To the two little yellow outlines there. Alpèasak.

  The beautiful beaches.

  “Kalaleq—you are right. I can understand these charts, they make sense. You are a Paramutan of great wisdom and lead all the world in your knowledge.”

  “That is true!” Kalaleq cried out. “I have always known it! If you understand—tell me more of the strange markings.”

  “Here, this is the place where the city was burnt. We joined you, here, that is what you said. And we crossed the ocean to this spot, almost off the top of the chart. Yes, here—do you see where the narrow bit of ocean widens out? That is Genaglè. Where this land to the north reaches Isegnet. Then all of this is Entoban* to the south.”

  “It is a very large land.” Kalaleq was impressed.

  “It is—and all of it murgu.”

  Kalaleq bent over in awe and admiration, following the contours of the continent to the south with his finger. Tracing back up the coast to the north to tap their location, then going north still to what could be a large island off the coast.

  “This is not right,” he said. “There is ice and snow here that does not melt, I know of no island.”

  Kerrick thought of the cold winters, colder every year, the snows further south each winter—and understood.

  “This map is old, very old—or it is copied from an old map. This is the land that now lies beneath the ice. The murgu must have gone there at one time. See, there is one of their markers there, that red mark, on the land.”

  Kalaleq looked close, agreed. Then traced back down the shore to their site.

  “Our paukaruts are here. And south along the shore, not far, do you see this little red mark? It looks like the one up here to the north. This I do not understand.”

  Kerrick looked at it with a growing sense of despair. It was not distant, on the coast, well north of Genaglè where it met the sea. Both red marks were shaped the same.

  “There are murgu there, that is what it means. Murgu here, not too distant from us. We have fled from them but they are here ahead of us!”

  Kerrick sank back with the weakness of despair. Was there no escaping the Yilanè? Had they come all of this way across the cold northern sea just to find them waiting? It seemed impossible. They could never live this far to the north, away from the heat. Yet the red mark was there, the two marks. The one to the north now beneath the unmelting ice. But the one to the south of them . . . He looked up to meet Kalaleq’s eyes, fixed on him.

  “Do we think the same thought?” Kalaleq asked. Kerrick nodded.

  “We do. If murgu are that close we are not safe here. We must go there, find out what the red mark means. Go there as soon as possible. Before the winter storms start. There is not much time.”

  Kalaleq gathered up the charts, grinning happily. “I want to see these murgu you talk about. Have a good trip, good time.”

  Kerrick did not share the Paramutan’s pleasure. Had he come this far just to begin the battle again? A Yilanè saying came to mind at the thought; and his body moved as he remembered. No matter how far you travel, no matter how long it takes, you will never find father again. Enge had taught him that and he had not understood its meaning then even after she had explained. When you are in the egg you are safe—but once you leave father’s protection and go into the sea you will never have that protection again. The voyage of life always ended in death. Must his voyages always have death waiting at the end?

  Armun shared his despair when he told her his fears.

  “Are you sure there are murgu here, so close? For this we left Arnwheet and crossed that ocean, for this?”

  “I am sure of nothing—that is why I must go to this spot on the chart and see what is there.”

  “That is why we must go. Together.”

  “Of course. Together. Always.”

  Kalaleq could have filled his ikkergak many times over with volunteers. Now that the ularuaq hunt was over the hard work of butchering and preserving the great creature was not as exciting. A voyage was. Kalaleq chose his crew, supplies were loaded aboard, and within a day they were at sea again.

  Kerrick stood at the bow, looking at the coastline—then at the chart. What were they sailing into?

  mareedege mareedegeb deemarissi.

  YILANÉ APOTHEGM

  Eat or be eaten.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Vaintè sat astride the neck of the tarakast, strength and authority in every line of her body, the living reins that grew from the creature’s lips firm in her hands. Her mount was restless, tired of waiting; it turned its long neck to glare at her, hissed and snapped with its sharp beak. With a hard pull on the rein she asserted her command. It would stand on this spot all day if that was her will. Below the bluff, on the bank of the wide river, the last uruktop was wading ashore to join the others. Its eight legs moved slowly, for it had been a long and tiring swim; the single rider straddling its foreshoulders urging it on. When it had rested it would be able to carry its burden of fargi; they had already crossed by boat. Everything was going as planned. The broad river plain stirred with life as the fargi who had landed yesterday disassembled their nighttime laager. The thorn vines, now deactivated by the daylight, were rolled up, the illumination-creatures and large hèsotsan bundled together. They would be ready to march soon. The campaign was well under way.

  Vaintè turned and looked out over the undulating plain to the hills beyond, traveled in her mind’s eye farther still to the valley where the ustuzou wer
e hiding. She would go to them there, over every obstacle; she would find them. Her body writhed with the strength of her hatred, her lips peeled back to show her teeth; the tarakast stirred beneath the pressure of her legs and she silenced it with a savage pull on its lips. The ustuzou would die, all die. With a sharp kick she started her mount forward, down the slope toward the laager of the advance party.

  Melikelè turned away from the fargi she was supervising when she saw Vaintè approaching, shaping her arms in greetings, lowest to highest warmth of welcome. She felt this sincerely and could not conceal her pleasure at Vaintè’s approach. She cared nothing now for distant sea-girt Ikhalmenets, or for its eistaa—whom she had only seen from a great distance. In that city she had been just one more fargi, unknown and unwanted, despite her skill at speaking. Vaintè had changed that, letting Melikelè rise in her service as fast as she was able. Vaintè destroyed failure—but amply rewarded those followers with intelligence. And obedience. Melikelè was obedient, stayed obedient, wanted nothing more than to serve Vaintè in any way that she was able.

  “All is in readiness,” she said in response to the signed inquiry. Vaintè slid gracefully down from her mount and looked about at the ordered turmoil of the work parties of fargi.

  “You do well, Melikelè,” she said with amplification gestures.

  “I do what I am ordered, Vaintè highest. My life is between your thumbs.”

  Vaintè accepted her due for Melikelè spoke with affirmations of strength of duty. How she wished she had more like this stalwart one. Loyalty and intelligence were hard to come by now, even with the pick of Lanefenuu’s followers. In truth they were a toadying lot, selected more for their adulation of the eistaa than the possession of any ability. Lanefenuu was too strong and independent to permit any competition from her retinue. In the back of her mind Vaintè knew that one day there could be a problem between them. But that day was far distant. As long as Vaintè exercised all of her strength and abilities in destroying ustuzou Lanefenuu’s rule of the city would not be threatened. Destruction; her limbs moved with the strength of her feelings and she spoke them aloud.

  “Go now, strong Melikelè, take your fargi and I will follow with the main body one day’s march behind you. The advance scouts are a single day’s march ahead of you. They are all mounted on tarakast so they will be able to search on both sides of our route as they go. If they see any sight of the ustuzou they will stop and wait for your stronger party to catch up with them. Do you know the sites for your next laager?”

  “I have studied the pictures over and over, but will not be sure until I see the site on the ground. If in doubt I will rely on the two guides.”

  “Do that, for they came this way with me before.” Vaintè appreciated Melikelè’s honesty in admitting a weakness or lack of knowledge—she knew her own strengths, knew as well when it was necessary to rely upon others. “Do you know where you will wait far us?”

  “I do. On the banks of the yellow-twisted river.” She held up the thumbs and fingers of both hands. “It will be the tenth laager from here and I will remember the count of days.”

  “Be alert at all times. The ustuzou have an animal cunning when it comes to killing. Be prepared for traps and ruses, remember how they attacked us on the island, then escaped during the night of the heavy rain. They must not escape again. We must find them and kill them—but be aware of danger at all times lest we die ourselves.”

  “Eat or be eaten,” Melikelè said grimly, then locked strong hands into fists and signed infinite-aggression. “My appetite is of the greatest!”

  “Well spoken. We meet in ten days.”

  Vaintè raked her claws into her mount’s flank; it reared and hissed in anger and moved off at a fast run. Melikelè turned back to her work. Once the defenses were disassembled the uruktop were quickly loaded. The fargi stood ready, their weapons held out to her as she made a final inspection. On the long march from the city she had appointed those who showed any signs of intelligence and ability to speak. This enabled her to be sure that on each uruktop there was one whose responsibility it was to see that all was in order. The correct supplies in the correct places. Now everything was as it should be; she waddled swiftly to the lead uruktop and climbed up onto it, then signalled the scouting terakast to go ahead. Vaintè had offered her one to ride, but she had not the skill. This did not bother her at all. She had the ability to lead others and to follow Vaintè’s orders; was supremely happy in this role. At her signal the march began.

  The uruktop plodded along slowly but steadily on their eight strong and heavily muscled legs. They were not fast—but they could march from dawn to dusk without rest. They had almost no intelligence and if they were not instructed to stop they would march until they died. Melikelè knew this and watched after the great creatures’ health making sure they were driven to the water at the day’s end, that there was a swamp or stands of young trees for them to graze. Early in this long march she had discovered that the heavy nails on the last two pairs of legs had a tendency to crack and then get torn off. If this happened the feet would bleed steadily until the dim creature weakened and died. With Vaintè’s permission she had two of her brightest fargi trained by Akotolp in the art of dressing and healing the wounds. Yet she still inspected the uruktop every night herself.

  The day passed as did all the others, in a mindless haze of constant motion. The tarakast scouted on both flanks, then ran out ahead of them: the drab landscape moved slowly by. In midafternoon a sudden rainstorm cooled them, but the strong sun broke through and soon dried and warmed their skins. The sun was ahead of them now, getting close to the horizon when they came up to the group of tarakast waiting by the wide stream. The ground was flattened here, the undergrowth broken and sparse. It was obvious that large groups had made laager on this spot before. It was the correct site. At the scouts’ signs of agreement she issued the orders far the laager to be set up.

  In strict conformity to her orders, in practiced progression, the riding beasts were watered and led to forage. The tarakast had to be watched or they would have fled, but not so the uruktop. They would not even eat until they were prodded and urged into taking the first mouthful of leaves. After this they would keep eating until stopped. They were incredibly stupid.

  Only after most of the guardian vines had been unrolled and erected had the fargi themselves time to eat. It was just before dark when the last beasts were brought in and tethered, the final vines rolled into place. It grew cool here at night and all of the fargi had sleeping cloaks. Melikelè prodded hers open but did not roll herself in it until the last moment of light. This was when the thorns emerged from the vines. She waited for the moment, watched with satisfaction as their poisonous spines rose into the air, knowing that the day was complete, the defenses secure, her work done. Only then did she lie down and wrap the cloak around her, satisfied that she had loyally followed great Vaintè’s orders for yet another day. Her eyes closed and she fell instantly into a deep sleep.

  Around her, secure inside the protection of the circles of poisoned thorns, light-makers and night hèsotsan that would shoot if there were any disturbance, the fargi slept as well. Some of the tarakast stirred and hissed angrily at each other, but soon even they were curled in sleep, heads tucked under their looped tails. The Yilanè and their beasts slept.

  For the most part the laager was on flat ground, though to one side there was a slight rise where a mound of rocks had collected blown soil to form a slight hill. Most of the boulders were half buried, though there was a tumbled heap at the foot of the slope where rain had washed them free and had rolled to the bottom.

  One of these rocks stirred and rolled over with a crash.

  A few of the fargi sleeping nearby opened their eyes with instant awareness. Heard nothing more, saw only the bright stars, closed their eyes, and were asleep again. In any case their night vision was so bad they would not have been able to see when another rock moved, quietly this time.

  S
lowly, cautiously, Herilak lifted his head up above the mound of tumbled boulders.

  The big hunter looked about the camp. A crescent moon was just rising, but in the cloudless night the starlight clearly revealed the sleeping laager. The high-bulking forms of the beasts with eight legs, the smaller dark bundles of silent murgu. Drums of murgu meat to one side, bladders of them piled one upon the other.

  There was a sudden blast of light, the sharp crack of hèsotsan as some desert creature touched the poisonous vines; Herilak froze, motionless. The murgu nearest to the light sat up and peered outward. The light slowly faded and went out. They settled back to sleep. Now, carefully and silently, Herilak moved the boulders aside until he could crawl free.

  He stayed flat on the ground, then turned and called down into the black opening.

  “Now. Quietly. Come.”

  He crawled aside as another armed hunter emerged from the ground. There was a hault more behind him in the cave. They had dug it, dumped the earth into the river, roofed it with thick logs, then covered it again with the boulders they had so painfully rolled aside. The digging had started in the morning, as soon as the murgu who had spent the previous night here had galloped out of sight. Now they emerged one at a time, filling their lungs with the fresh night air. They had been sealed in there since midday: it had been hot, breathless, the air foul. None had complained, all of them were volunteers.

  “It is as you said, Herilak,” a hunter whispered into his ear. “They always stay the night in the same place.”

  “They do. And now we will do what we have to do. Kill.”

  They were ruthless in their butchery, experienced killers of murgu. Only an occasional grunt of pain was heard as they stabbed down with knives and spears, slaying the sleepers one after the other. Only when the last one was dead did they use the captured death-sticks to slaughter the riding creatures. Some of these stirred and cried out at the smell of death around them, tried to run away and blundered into the deadly vines. One by one they were killed. The butchery was complete.