Lurulu

by Jack Vance

  “There are occasional inns and shelters along the wayside, where one may sit and watch the pilgrims pass by in never-ending diversity: young and old, men and women, often children. Sometimes they sing as they march past; sometimes they chant mantras. At times a madman rushes past, dancing and leaping, cursing the sky; his cries fade into the distance and all is as before.

  “In the far west is the Holy Mountain, a dying volcano with a crater at the summit where red-hot lava bubbles and seethes. The way up the mountain is hard and steep. Where it crosses beds of scree, the sharp flints cut boots and lacerate feet; some of the pilgrims are forced to crawl until their knees are bloody bones.”

  Wingo, who suffered from delicate feet, was perturbed to hear of such shocking hardships. “What happens to these poor unfortunates?”

  Cuireg shrugged, not over-interested in the topic. “They drag themselves up to the rim, where they rest and mend themselves. Eventually they join the others on the way around the lip of the crater.

  “This, in effect, is the focus of the pilgrimage. Halfway around, a look-out platform projects over the void, providing a spectacular view of the crater and the glowing magma below. Most of the pilgrims avoid the platform for fear of vertigo. However, at times someone succumbs to an attack of religious frenzy; he runs out on the platform and throws himself into space and plunges down to disappear into the lava. Occasionally, he seizes up his child, or someone else’s child, for that matter, and hurls it out into the void. Most often, he is restrained by other pilgrims. The child is dragged back to safety, often followed by the father, who has decided not to jump, after all.”

  Wingo shook his head in wonder. “The pilgrimage is intense and dramatic beyond all expectations. I begin to understand the motive which urges you back to Kyril.” Cuireg, ignoring Wingo’s comment, tested a frosted éclair. “In any case the pilgrims finally return to Impy’s Landing. They set off to the west, they return from the east; it is a moment of supreme exaltation! They laugh, they cry, they drop to their knees and kiss the ground; never have they known triumph so intense! The memory of this instant will be with them always!”

  “All this is clear, and dramatic,” said Wingo. “To complete the pilgrimage is an act of personal vindication. But why do they come to Kyril in the first place?”

  “The answer is simplicity,” said Cuireg. “There are as many reasons as there are pilgrims. Some want to appease their divinity; others want to mollify an ancestral ghost. Many are hermetics who want to mortify their flesh. Some hope to atone for forbidden acts; others want to evade an irascible spouse.”

  Wingo asked, half-facetiously: “And where on this list is your motive for undertaking the pilgrimage?” Cuireg responded to the question without rancor. “There is no simple answer. Originally, the pilgrimage was a challenge which my self-esteem felt obliged to meet. Then, after three or four days along the way my attitude insensibly began to change. The challenge lost its thrust, and faded from my mind. I found myself watching and listening and feeling with ever more intensity. I felt ever more aware of details and textures and nuances. One morning knowledge came to me in a burst of insight. I saw a black lump of rock thrusting up between bushes at the side of the road. I stopped short and said: ‘Rock, I see you well enough, but you cannot see me. Why? Because I am sentient, but you are not! Why should this be? Simple enough! I am animate, and you are an inert lump.’”

  “Remarkable,” said Wingo. “There are inspirational elements here — although it seems rather pointless to taunt the rock.”

  “It did no great harm.” Cuireg rose to his feet. “Thank you for the pleasant occasion. The pastries were beyond reproach.” He nodded courteously and left the galley. Wingo remained at the table, drinking tea and brooding upon what he had learned.

  6

  The voyage proceeded without untoward incident. The pilgrims occupied themselves with study, doctrinal discussions and a few low-key games of Cagliostro, from which Schwatzendale was excluded, his past successes still rankling among the defeated players. Cuireg remained as aloof as ever, avoiding the morning colloquies and rebuffing all of Cooner’s attempts to engage him in sectarian discourse.

  The crew of the Glicca performed their usual duties, although Wingo now spent much time thinking over what he had learned of Kyril and the march around the great continent. By degrees he began to comprehend Cuireg’s perception of the pilgrimage as a metaphor for an event of far larger significance. All very well, thought Wingo, but what of the pilgrims themselves? What compulsion induced them to undertake the hardships of the great march? The motives which Cuireg had facetiously suggested could not be taken seriously; what then? After deep reflection, Wingo thought to comprehend the impulse which prompted the pilgrims to undertake their great adventure — an urge superficially like that which sent the lemmings of Old Earth swarming out to sea. This, of course, was not so; the essential reason, thought Wingo, was real, if perhaps subconscious — at the basis, an assertion of vitality and a rather desperate test of personal fortitude, physical and spiritual alike.

  Wingo’s preoccupation affected his ordinary conduct more than he realized. His cheerful ebullience became muted; his loquacity dwindled to absent-minded mutters. The change attracted the attention of his shipmates and finally Schwatzendale, confronting him across the galley table, put an uncompromising question. Wingo gave an evasive answer, but Schwatzendale persisted and in the end Wingo reported his conversation with Cuireg in full detail and went on to say: “Despite his manner, which is hardly engaging, he is a most complicated man: a savant of high prestige, also an epicure, a cynic, and, at the basis — almost incredibly, a romantic adventurer!”

  “Peculiar!” said Schwatzendale. “He seems modest and retiring, with a rather sour disposition.”

  “That is an illusion,” said Wingo. “He cultivates a manner of supercilious detachment to discourage excessive familiarity. The pose actually masks a keen perceptivity; when he chooses to speak, his views are most illuminating. I now understand the true nature of Kyril and the conditions which the pilgrims encounter as they travel the great circuit. The march is not altogether sterile; there are surprises along the way — not always happy, but those who ultimately return to Impy’s Landing find the triumph of their achievement an adequate requital for the hardships suffered along the way.”

  “Bah!” growled Schwatzendale, after a moment. “If this moment of relief is the only reward for so much toil, what is the point of the pilgrimage? It would seem a useless exercise, except for hermetics and flagellants.”

  “Not so!” Wingo declared. “The pilgrimage has a subliminal purpose, which, admittedly, can not easily be verbalized.”

  “I have no trouble,” Schwatzendale stated. “It is an exercise in sheer futility, leading from nowhere to nowhere. It seems inexpressibly pointless.”

  Wingo managed a patient smile. “There are aspects to the pilgrimage which you do not understand! They are admittedly on a subliminal level, but still they are intensely important! The great march is a gauge by which a pilgrim can measure personal worth. When he returns to Impy’s Landing from the east, he feels a personal vindication which must be close to exaltation!”

  “Understandable,” said Schwatzendale. “They are tired of walking.”

  Wingo, still smiling, shook his head. “Cuireg has already made the circuit. He has found imponderable aspects to the pilgrimage which, in candor, I do not fully understand, but I am bound to take seriously.”

  “My dear fellow, you have been hypnotized,” said Schwatzendale, rising to his feet. “I see that I must have a word with this redoubtable savant!”

  Wingo’s smile became wry. “I wonder which of you will end up the more bewildered.”

  Schwatzendale said: “Despite his erudition, Cuireg still pulls on his trousers one leg at a time.” He departed the galley, leaving Wingo first to sigh, then to ponder.

  Schwatzendale found the scholar in a relatively expansive mood. In amusement he described himself
as not only a scholar, an epicure and an adventurer, but also a creative financier who might undertake certain commercial developments at Impy’s Landing. In response to Schwatzendale’s questions, he provided information regarding the pilgrimage, some of which Schwatzendale found intriguing, some daunting or even macabre.

  Time passed and the voyage approached its termination. On the day that a cold white spark, indicating the star Rhys, appeared ahead, Wingo entered the pilot-house where Captain Maloof sat checking the entry on Kyril in Handbook to the Planets. Wingo, distraught and half-desperate, came directly to the point. “Captain! After much turmoil, I have finally arrived at a decision!”

  “Indeed!” said Maloof, looking up and setting aside the Handbook. “In regard to what?”

  Wingo came to stand before him. “Over the last few weeks I have taken stock of my life, and I find that it has arrived at a juncture. In one direction I continue as before, along an easy route. In the other direction there are challenges; the way is difficult and often bleak, but this route shows me to myself. After weighing both options, I have made my decision. At Impy’s Landing I will resign my post aboard the Glicca; I will then set off to the west, like any other pilgrim. In the end I will return from the east, inflated with pure triumph much like lurulu!” Wingo held up a clenched pink fist as a peroration to his remarks. “That is the gist of it. You have heard what I came to tell you. Our friendship persists!”

  “Naturally!” said Maloof. “Perhaps more than ever! But a thought occurs to me. Perhaps you will lose more than you gain.”

  Wingo grimaced. “I know what I am losing. It is a fellowship which I cherish beyond words! My dearest wish would be that we dock the Glicca at Impy’s Landing and all four of us march off into the west, to return at last from the east, where we would share our triumph together, in the happiest moment of our lives!”

  Maloof spoke dryly: “I am sure that we would all be glad to get back.” He sighed. “Even in a dream such a fantasy would seem bizarre.”

  “You must open your mind!” declared Wingo. “With dedication the vision becomes real and the triumph lives with us forever!”

  Maloof sighed again, and leaned back in his chair. “Let us call in Schwatzendale and test his reaction to the scheme.”

  Wingo said dubiously: “Schwatzendale is often indecisive … We must remind him of his bent for gallant adventure.”

  “Ha hm,” said Maloof. He spoke into a mesh and a moment later Schwatzendale appeared. He glanced from one to the other. “What is required of me?”

  “We need your counsel,” said Maloof. “We are faced with an unprecedented situation. Wingo intends to leave the ship at Impy’s Landing and set off pilgrim-style on a circuit of the continent.”

  “Truly?” Schwatzendale turned Wingo a grave inspection.

  “That is not the whole of it. He wants the entire crew to join the venture, so that, when we return to Impy’s Landing from the east, we shall celebrate the triumph together. Am I right, Wingo?”

  “You have stated the matter concisely,” said Wingo. “I might add that the feat is guided by a set of subliminal archetypes which will transfigure the rest of our lives with grandeur.”

  “It is a novel idea,” Schwatzendale admitted. “Startling, preposterous and innocent! It would never have occurred to me — especially after my conversation with Cuireg.

  “Apparently there are negative aspects to the pilgrimage which are never publicized, for instance, the fact that only a modest percentage of those starting out from Impy’s Landing to the west ever return from the east. Many abandon the venture after a day or two; the way is especially hard on folk with sensitive feet, because of sharp flints in the road.” Wingo stared down at his own delicate feet. “This makes for poor hearing,” he told himself. “Still, it cannot be ignored!”

  Schwatzendale went on to discuss more of what he had learned from Cuireg. “Many old persons with little vitality set out from Impy’s Landing, and die along the way from disease, hunger, dysentery, physical abuse. Nights are especially dangerous; thugs come to steal boots; they use cudgels to smash knees and ankles at so much as a whimper!”

  “That is inhuman!” gasped Wingo. “One should travel only with trusted companions!”

  “The plan is attractive, but not always practical. You must pay the leader of the band a large sum for a place in the group. They march at a quick-step and you must keep pace, sore feet and all, otherwise you will be left behind. If you pay out all your money, you will not have enough to buy food from the roadside shelters — should you choose to do so. If you are squeamish, you will avoid them; avoid the pale pink stew at all costs, and forage on tubers and seeds. But the worst is still ahead. Where the way crosses the hills it is paved with flints which cut your feet into bloody lumps; what then?”

  Wingo considered the unpleasant possibility. “I have no choice! I must continue on hands and knees until the road is better; I have no choice.”

  “All very well,” said Schwatzendale, “but the road is still only a tumble of shards and flints, and in the end your knees are a clutter of broken bones; what now?”

  Wingo spoke in a taut thin voice: “I have not thought that far ahead, but I suppose that if I must, I will turn about and skooch along on my backside. It is slow and painful, but it is better than sitting alone in the wilderness, by night under the light of the three dim moons. It is not a happy prospect.”

  “Even where the way leaves the hills, another enemy awaits you. The thorn trees hang overhead and drop thorns into the way. As you skooch along, these thorns will be driven into your bottom, so that every thorn will require a halt, a search, the withdrawal and then the gallant surge forward. I suppose that a person in this condition might complete the circuit in ten years, to gain what? Glory? Triumph? More likely a sickening grief for the tribulations which they have suffered for nothing.”

  Wingo sighed. “It has become clear — starkly so! — that I am not the man to test my fortitude in this fashion. It is troubling, certainly, but I must alter my resolve, and gladly.”

  Maloof asked with gentle solicitude: “Then you are not leaving the Glicca after all?”

  Wingo sighed again. “Definitely not. The pilgrimage no longer carries a romantic association.”

  “You have arrived at a wise decision,” said Maloof. “Do you not agree, Fay?”

  “Totally, and in every respect,” said Schwatzendale.

  Chapter X

  1

  The Glicca arrived at Impy’s Landing at noon local time. The pilgrims disembarked with graceless haste, led by the ineffable Cooner. Cuireg followed more deliberately, ignoring the others as if they had been strangers. He took himself to the most pretentious hostelries of the town, where, if his statements were to be credited, he would prepare to transact the business which had brought him to Kyril. As soon as the chests of sanctified soil had been discharged from the cargo bay, the Glicca departed Kyril and set off toward Port Tanjee, on the world Taubry.

  Myron noticed that Naharius lay not far to the side of the direct route between Kyril and Port Tanjee. Prompted by a surge of old emotion he felt a strong impulse to visit Naharius, if only to learn what transformation, if any, the fabulous local therapies had worked upon Dame Hester. Captain Maloof was also curious and made no difficulty about altering course so that the Glicca might put into Naharius.

  Handbook to the Planets, for whatever reason, had little to say about Naharius. After citing geo-physical statistics, the text went on to state:

  The population of Naharius, for a variety of reasons, is relatively sparse and is concentrated in the neighborhood of Trajence, a partially urbanized settlement adjacent to the spaceport. A few miles east of Trajence an extinct volcano, Mount Maldoun, rises from a line of low hills. Down the mountainside flow three streams which, after seeping through wooded vales grown over with unique plants and mosses, become charged, according to local beliefs, with remarkable powers.

  Even more potent are the waters from
the sacred springs appearing at the base of the mountain. These waters, when used in conjunction with the therapies provided by local practitioners, reputedly neutralize the ravages of time and are said to restore at least the superficial aspects of youth. It must be noted that such reports, whether or not accurate, attract ailing and aged persons from far and wide, hoping to participate in a miracle.

  What is the truth? There are anecdotes, but rigorous evidence is hard to come by. The Handbook advises caution.

  2

  In due course the Glicca arrived at the Trajence spaceport. Other vessels were docked at the far end of the field; the Glodwyn was not among them.

  Wingo and Schwatzendale rode an omnibus into town, while Maloof and Myron set off to learn what they could of Dame Hester Lajoie. They inquired first at the three principal clinics, then at less formal facilities.

  During the afternoon of the second day they were referred to the Wayfarer’s Hospice, a cheerless block of gray concrete on the outskirts of the settlement, providing terminal shelter for the aged, the ailing and the indigent. An orderly conducted them into a cavernous chamber, dim and ill-smelling, lined along the walls with narrow cots, at the moment only partially occupied. He indicated a cot at the far end of the chamber, then returned to his station and left them to their own devices.

  Maloof and Myron approached the indicated cot. Under the sheet a thin and fragile shape barely created an outline. A gaunt head protruded, the skin drawn drum-taut around the contours of the skull. Arms brittle as twigs, terminating in bird-like claws, lay on the sheet beside the body.

  Myron studied the bony wisp, controlling inner spasms of pity and horror with an effort. A limp straggle of maroon hair, a long pointed chin, a twisted tendril of what once had been a rapacious nose identified a version of Dame Hester Lajoie.

  A slight up-and-down shift of the sheet indicated that vitality had not yet been exhausted. Peering into the dull eyes, Myron thought to see a flicker of recognition. Her lips twitched; her throat clenched; she produced a rasping sound. Myron leaned forward, and thought to hear her say: “You have come at last.” Her voice faded, then once again she managed to whisper: “It is very late. They took all my money; then they abused me and cheated my hope and put me here to take my wonderful life from me.”