Lurulu

by Jack Vance

  In the gathering dusk Maloof and Myron alighted and made their way to the bridge and across the river. Ahead loomed the Three Feathers Inn, a massive structure of timber and stone with a high-peaked roof. Over the entrance hung a sign after the traditional style, depicting three iron feathers splayed out into a fan constrained within a heavy iron frame. Maloof and Myron pushed open the heavy door and entered the inn.

  The two found themselves in the common room: a large chamber, almost majestic in its scale. Timber posts supported gnarled cross-room baulks on which rested the ceiling joists and the age-darkened planks of the ceiling proper. A line of tables ranged the wall to the left; a long bar flanked the wall to the right.

  The tables were occupied by diners: men, women and a few children, dressed in their best. The middle-aged serving woman loped with long strides back and forth between tables and kitchen. She wore a loose gown striped brown and green, so long that it almost swept the floor. Her hair was piled into a pyramid with a blue flower thrust demurely into the apex. The diners constantly importuned her as she strode back and forth: “Dinka! More sauce is needed!”; “Dinka! Bring more batrachies, with fresh vinegar!”; and “Dinka! The bread is musty! We need more savoury paste!” A doorway into the kitchen allowed occasional glimpses of a short squat woman with a perspiring red face, glaring out toward the tables in what seemed a state of chronic fury.

  Along the bar sat a dozen men in working-class garments, or the somewhat more pretentious costumes of tradesmen, hunched over tall wooden tankards of beer, talking in gruff mutters. Behind the bar a moon-faced bartender danced nimbly back and forth, his great paunch pressed against the counter — refilling tankards, wiping up spills and chaffing the drinkers, who stared at him blankly.

  Maloof and Myron seated themselves at the end of the bar and waited.

  Jodel the bartender, noticing the newcomers, sidled down the length of the bar. He spoke: “Gentlemen, what is your pleasure?”

  “We have just arrived from Coro-Coro,” said Maloof. “We want lodging for the night, supper and breakfast in the morning.”

  “No problem whatever!” declared Jodel. “Here is the registry; you need only sign and formalities are over.”

  “So it might be, providing that we can afford your rates.”

  Jodel made an indulgent gesture. “Fear nothing; our rates are considered moderate.”

  “And the specific numbers?”

  Jodel shrugged. “If you like. Let us say four sols for the room and fifty dinkets for each meal, to a total of six sols.”

  “The charges are tolerable,” said Maloof. “Provided there are no unexpected extras, let us say, for clean linen or hot water.”

  “Our rates are all-inclusive,” said Jodel. “However, we prefer that the score be paid in advance, for practical reasons. Certain of our clientele will rise early, take a special deluxe breakfast, then decamp before settling the account.”

  “That is not our habit,” said Maloof. “Still, one must be on guard against scoundrels. In Coro-Coro we encountered a certain ‘Loy Tremaine’ who thought to swindle us. By an odd coincidence he stated that he made his home in Krenke.”

  Jodel gave his head a dubious shake. “Somewhere there is a mistake. Tremaines have never resided in Krenke. You misheard the name of his village!”

  “Probably so,” said Maloof.

  “More likely, he was an impostor,” mused Jodel. “Only last month a huckster of wild currants arrived in Krenke. While folk were inspecting his merchandise, he laid hold of a girl and took her behind his dray, where he lifted her skirt a full five inches. Her cries brought help on the run! The hawker was dragged away to the rollers where he danced among the coils for two days. He was also fined the contents of his dray. It was a woe-begone wretch who finally took his empty dray back to Lilancx!

  “But now you will wish to visit your accommodations. You may take your supper when you come down.” He placed his hands on the bar and, leaning forward, searched the chamber. Dissatisfied, he threw back his head and shouted: “Buntje! Buntje! Come at the double! Where are you Buntje?” He listened, then called again, in a louder voice: “Buntje! Do you not hear me? Come at once! Buntje! I am calling you!”

  Into the room burst a girl of about fourteen, running at speed, arms pumping, skirt flapping, so that a lascivious eye might have glimpsed at least an inch of ankle. Maloof and Myron modestly averted their eyes.

  Buntje wore a tight pink blouse over a near-flat chest and a voluminous black skirt which barely cleared the floor. Like Dinka, she had gathered her hair up into a tall pyramid, with a flower precariously thrust into the apex. Halting in front of Jodel, she panted: “Roar no further; I am here!”

  “You were slow! Can you move no faster? What kept you so long?”

  The girl cried out in a passion: “Must I explain every detail of my personal conduct? If I am forced to particularize, I will state that I was occupied in the retreat! When you called I could not jump up and run through the chamber without creating a scandal; is this what you wish?”

  “Bah!” muttered Jodel. “You should accomplish these acts in your spare time. While you were luxuriating, these gentlemen have been awaiting your help. Now then: escort them to their quarters at once. Make sure that all is in order.”

  Buntje surveyed Maloof and Myron with mouth primly down-turned. “I take them to be off-worlders, and the young one has a queer look.”

  “No matter,” said Jodel. “It is all one. Take them to Chamber Six and see to their needs.”

  Buntje grimaced and composed herself. She asked Maloof, “Where is your luggage?”

  “We have only these small travel bags and we will carry them ourselves.”

  Buntje’s face became a frozen mask. “As you like! However, please know that I am not the thief you take me for. Your precious belongings are safe from me.”

  Maloof stuttered an apology, which Buntje ignored. “Come; I will take you to your chamber.”

  “Hold hard!” cried Jodel, slapping the bar. “I want to see six sols shining in a row, before events move another inch!”

  Maloof paid over the required sum. Buntje led them to a narrow staircase. Maloof and Myron politely waited for Buntje to precede them, but she indignantly jerked aside. “Do you take me for a raw innocent? I know your off-world tricks! The ruse has failed; you may go first.”

  “As you wish,” sighed Maloof. The two climbed the stairs, with Buntje several steps behind. At the landing she slipped past, giving Myron a wide berth. She opened the door with the numeral ‘6’.

  After looking warily at Maloof and Myron, she glanced into the room, then stepped back out.

  “You may enter; the room is in order.”

  “Just a moment,” said Maloof. “You were supposed to check the room carefully. Are the beds fresh?”

  “What about towels and soap?” Myron asked. “You should at least look into the bathroom.”

  “Everything is as it should be. If you find any rodents, chase them into the hall.”

  Buntje retreated and clattered down the stairs. Maloof and Myron inspected the room and found no cause for complaint. The furniture was massive, durable and obviously of great age. A door led into a rather quaint bathroom.

  For a moment the two stood by the window, looking out over the village. A few wavering street-lights came on, casting islands of wan illumination. In the public square a number of young men were preparing for a social event of a sort not immediately clear. The two turned from the window and went down to the common room. They seated themselves at a vacant table and waited for attention.

  Dinka loped past, back, and forth, and eventually halted. When Maloof requested a menu she seemed puzzled; when he explained, she said with the ghost of a prim smile: “Sir, we have no such documents on hand.”

  “Then what is available for our supper?”

  “That depends upon the decision of Wilkin.”

  “Indeed.” Looking toward the kitchen, Maloof and Myron saw the squat
red-faced cook glaring at them through the doorway, brandishing a wooden spoon.

  Dinka said: “She is in a bit of a tantrum. Buntje has reported that the young one tried to lure her into the bathroom, obviously planning a lewd antic which she took heroic measures to avoid.”

  “Absurd!” declared Maloof. “Ask Wilkin to step out here and we will explain the situation in detail. We cannot let such slander go unchallenged.”

  Dinka shook her head. “I will talk to Wilkin and put matters right. Buntje is subject to adolescent fits; this is known, and perhaps Wilkin will see reason. If not, I can bring you some dried fish and some dried bread with suet.”

  Dinka went off to the kitchen, closing the door behind her. After a time she emerged, carrying a tureen of pungent soup which she placed before Maloof and Myron, then glanced toward the kitchen and said: “Wilkin has herself in control now. It seems that tonight there is a romp. Buntje has never before dared to attend for fear that she might fall sprawling, with legs in the air. In any case, your supper is secure.”

  Following the soup, Dinka brought them a platter of fish stewed with ramp and small tubers, which might have been acorns, and finally dumplings in fruit sauce.

  The supper was over. The two sat over mugs of herbal tea. The night was still young, and it was too early to retire to their room. For a time they watched the coming and going of patrons at the bar, but there was no entertainment here. All conducted themselves with somber restraint and spoke in mutters to each other. Jodel darted back and forth, his great paunch pressed against the counter, his moon-face fixed in the semblance of smiling cordiality. No one took notice of the off-worlders.

  3

  After a time, Maloof and Myron rose from the table, went to the door, pushed through and passed out into the night. For a moment they stood in front of the inn, the sign swinging gently over their heads to vagrant puffs of wind. Dusk had not yet left the sky; up and down the high street the roofs of cottages were black outlines against the gray murk.

  The two set off up the high street, keeping to the shadows. Where the street entered the square they halted to watch what seemed to be the early stages of a social event involving the adolescent population of Krenke. On one side of the square a group of boys had gathered: in the main striplings, of about sixteen to perhaps eighteen. Opposite was a group of girls of similar age, perhaps a year or so younger. They chattered, laughed, made extravagant gestures, ran a few steps back and forth, creating a spectacle of gay spontaneity, meanwhile turning covert glances toward the boys, who for the most part were quiet, gazing shamelessly toward the girls.

  Maloof and Myron, beguiled by the situation, seated themselves on a bench under a tall plumeria tree and waited to discover how the event would develop. As they watched, teams of young men using ground-marking equipment laid down sets of parallel lines to create a system of lanes about five feet wide running from side to side across the square. When the work was finished, the boys and girls at once spread out, each selecting a lane, sometimes backing away and going to another lane when they did not particularly approve of the person at the other end, running quickly back and forth. Meanwhile, at the end of the square a group of young men, apparently musicians, climbed to a low platform and busied themselves setting up their instruments. They wore special costumes of odd style and color: tight open-midriff shirts of fluorescent blue, expansive breeches, vermilion, lime green and black, ballooning out over the hips, tied at the knees, along with long pointed white shoes. Now they all donned grotesque vulpine masks, and were suddenly transformed into a cabal of minor devils.

  Tension increased; the air seemed to tingle. The boys and girls began to jig and caper, tentatively at first but with ever more abandon. They jabbed the air with their fingers, jerked their thumbs to the side.

  On the far platform the tympanist arranged a battery of chimes over the great bass drum, tested a hollow wood-block with a bamboo whisk, then stood at the ready. He waited. Silence across the square was profound. Raising his arm dramatically high, he struck down at his cylindrical gong. The other musicians were off and away, producing a sudden din of wails, quavers and random arpeggios, paced by a fateful booming of the great drum. The effect took Maloof and Myron by surprise; for some reason they had expected music more structured and melodic than what they now heard. They listened carefully.

  “I have the answer!” said Myron. “We do not understand this music because it is too subtle for us.”

  Maloof agreed. “No doubt you are right.”

  The boys and girls at the open ends of lanes were reacting to the music with enthusiasm and stood jerking to the beat of the big drum, the most exuberant squirming and twisting, kicking forward, knees bent, then thrusting out with pointed toes. Myron noted that the girls had tied their skirts more or less tightly to their shoes, so as not to flaunt too much ankle, though the most audacious allowed a few provocative inches to flash in and out of sight.

  The drum became more urgent; the kicking and prancing grew vehement; energies reached a critical level. At each end of a lane a boy and a girl broke free, advanced to meet, kicking, jigging, hands thrusting at hips. The two arrived at the center, jerked to a halt, shoulders squirming, hips twisting, then wheeling and bending, so that they bumped buttocks, after which each returned, jigging and jerking in triumph, along the way they had come.

  The music continued as before, the great drum maintaining its thundering beat. Another pair broke free and repeated the routine, followed by two others.

  Myron suddenly leaned forward and pointed. “Look yonder! The fourth girl along the line!”

  “It is Buntje, cavorting with the best of them!”

  “There she goes!” cried Myron, as Buntje set off along the lane, performing with no less energy than the others. The lanes were suddenly active, the participants each demonstrating his particular style: some ponderous and meaningful, others lightsome and frivolous, like careening insects. At times a boy or a girl would start out in a lane, jigging and twitching in notable display, only to find that no one was advancing from the opposite end of the lane. It was a humiliating experience. The person so slighted might either halt, then return crestfallen to the starting point, or if sufficiently angry might proceed to the middle, and there perform a grotesque travesty of the usual postures, hoping to shame the offender, whose best recourse was indifference — not always convincing.

  After a time the function came to an end. There was a crescendo of chimes, a wild glissando from the belp-horn, a final fateful thump of the drum, then silence. The musicians removed their masks, packed their instruments, jumped down from the platform and disappeared into the night. The boys and girls, now ignoring each other, formed chattering little groups discussing the evening’s events. Some were elated and celebrated their successes. Others were more subdued, and wondered about themselves.

  “So there you have it,” said Maloof. “That is how life goes at Krenke. We witnessed a hundred small triumphs and gratified hopes, and as many small tragedies. Nothing was casual or trivial.”

  Myron nodded soberly. “I wonder what happens next,” he said. “They can’t be ready to go home.”

  Myron’s speculations were soon put to rest. The boys moved to the high street, where they dispersed to their various destinations. From the shadows beside the square men and women appeared among the girls, and one by one the girls were whisked unceremoniously out to the high street and home.

  A few minutes later the square was deserted and dark, except for a light in one of the offices across the square.

  “Someone is working late,” said Myron. He rose to his feet and studied the office more closely. Beside the door he noticed a rack which offered journals for sale. “It might be the local news agency,” he told Maloof, “assuming that such an enterprise exists at Krenke.”

  The two men crossed the square. As they approached the office, they noticed a sign above the door. Gold script on a black background read:

  THE KRENKE OBSERVER


  ULWYN FARRO, PURVEYOR

  Maloof tapped at the door. A calm voice said: “Come!”

  The two entered a small neat office, furnished sparsely. One wall was completely covered by hundreds of photographs depicting men, women and children of all ages and conditions, for the most part staring blankly into the camera. The other walls were washed starkly white and lacked all decoration. Behind the desk sat a pale young man of unimpressive physique. A few strands of ash-blond hair fringed his forehead; his long thin face was unremarkable but for luminous grey eyes. He said: “I am Ulwyn Farro, as you may have guessed. Do you have business with me?”

  “Nothing of consequence,” said Maloof. “We happened to notice your sign and looked in out of sheer curiosity.”

  Farro surveyed his two visitors with curiosity of his own. “I assume that you are the off-worlders who arrived this afternoon and are lodging at the Three Feathers.”

  “Quite correct,” said Maloof, and Myron added with a sardonic grin: “Rumor travels fast across Krenke.”

  Farro gave an indifferent shrug. “One way or another, I am grateful. It brings me most of my material. Do you care to sit?”

  “Thank you.” The two settled themselves upon straight-backed chairs. “I am Adair Maloof, master of the ship Glicca. This is my first officer Myron Tany.”

  Farro acknowledged the introductions with a nod. “What brings you to this rather remote village? Are you tourists, or do you have other business in mind?”

  Maloof said: “If you are hoping to develop an interesting article for the Observer, put the idea aside. We are ordinary tourists, wandering the far places of Fluter as the mood takes us.”

  “As you say.” Farro leaned back in his chair and subjected his visitors to a moment of contemplation. “If I were to risk an offhand comment, I might say that neither of you fits the mold of the ordinary tourist — still, what other conceivable purpose could bring you to a somnolent backwater such as Krenke? You are truly something of a puzzle! My speculations, I hasten to say, are no more than whimsical fancy and in no way relevant to the Observer.”