And The Devil Will Drag You Under (1979) (12 page)

Mac was right. He felt the pressure suddenly let up and twisted and rolled, spilling the other man to the ground. Mac wasn't about to let the man get up. He pounced on him, grabbing him arm under throat, and squeezed hard. He could hear Guml groan and try to breathe as all his air was cut off; he had the tribesman at the Adam's apple from a position atop his back-almost perfect.

But Guml wasn't through. Somehow, by sheer force of will, he got an arm up and got hold of some of Mac's long black hair and pulled with all his ebbing strength.

The move was unexpected, and Walters dropped his grip as he moved to free himself from the sudden pain. Guml wasn't in good condition, though, and could barely twist out from under while still gasping for breath. Yet, for a moment the tribesman was free, and he rolled as Mac came back to pounce on him once more.

The man from another world was confident now and jumped on the still-gasping tribesman with enthusiasm, grabbing him again by the throat. But this time he had his two powerful hands around the vulnerable area and kept the victim face up.

The victim was ready, though; a huge hand came up with a large rock in it and struck Mac on the side of the head with a powerful blow that drew blood. He let go and rolled over, stunned-from the force of the unexpected attack. All he could think of was,
That's cheating!
Then a second blow hit him, then a third, and he was plunged into a terrible darkness.

4

It was well past dark when Mac Walters awoke. His head hurt like hell, and there was dried and caked blood in his hair. He groaned.

Guml heard him and sauntered over, looking down. Even by moonlight the man had an evil grin.

"Dend fight good," the man with the limp acknowledged. "Lose good fight. Slave now-next year try Guml."

Mac couldn't think clearly. Too many workmen were using hammers to knock holes in his head. He could not remember ever having such pain. Still, he managed, "Guml break law to win."

In this limited language "law" and "rule" were the same.

Guml chuckled. "No break law. No law for Guml break." He walked away, still chuckling.

Mac tried to get up, found it too much of an effort, and sank back down, breathing deeply to try to alle-viate the pain. Sleep would be the only healer, he knew. He didn't want to try that sadistic witch doctor from a position of weakness, and so he was helpless for the moment. He could only consider the fact that he'd been the victim of a cultural loophole he hadn't foreseen.

Clearly, in this society, you could get away with anything if there was no rule expressly forbidding it.

The next day was a learning experience. He discov-ered, first of all, that his fight had earned him a por-tion of respect from the other low-rank slaves and unattached young men, but that did him little good. The rules governing a loss were quite specific in this closed society and enforced by
all
the males regardless of rank. He was obligated to be a slave, to take Guml's orders and carry them out, and not to challenge anybody else to a fight for at least a year-the period of time when this nomadic tribe would again return to this canyon cleft.

The duties weren't too difficult-to help the women with the heavy stuff, which was considered demeaning by the other men but was nothing much to him, and to help keep the place marked out as Guml's as clean and neat as possible. He was also to help in the daily hunting and gathering with the other men, but since slaves did most of the labor and there was no dearth of slaves, the work even there was light. The toughest thing was that he had to try as hard as possible to ignore the women, and they had to ignore him. The penalty for any sort of sexual fraternization between a slave and a woman was the loss of the ability to make use of those urges.

His situation wouldn't have been tough even then, but time was pressing. He was stuck in a dead-end job and three days had already passed. An hour and a half of the eight his world had left to live. Time was running out on him rather quickly, and he was still far from his goal.

The witch doctor was glimpsed only occasionally, despite the smallness of the tribe. He kept mostly to himself, didn't take part in the hunt, and was left pretty much alone. The tribe was convinced he had great magical powers-which he probably did, using the jewel-and was in personal daily contact with the Sun God. He was also greatly feared for his sadism and sadomasochism, the last of which nonetheless brought a measure of respect from even the top males of the tribe. Anyone who could take such self-inflicted punishment and seem to like it was obviously incredi-bly brave, even if more than a little bit nuts.

By the evening of the third day on this world, Mac Walters knew he had to get out. This Dend hadn't escaped before, he'd run and dishonored himself. Now he would have to accomplish a true escape, although if caught the penalties would be anything but pleasant. Guml would be able to do anything to him he wanted, and the tribesman would be a dangerous man to be completely at the mercy of, with all the rules off.

Throughout the first day a woman who looked middle-aged and ugly as sin had showed him great kindness; while cleaning and stoking her fire pit she'd given him some good-tasting cooked berries-some-thing a slave would never get to touch, ordinarily-and showed other kindnesses. She told him he reminded her of her dead son, and that was fine with him. It made life easier, and not even Guml would think there was any sexual hanky-panky with a woman this old and ugly. Her name was Oona, and by the middle of the third day she was so deep into her fussings that she often referred to Mac as "Oona-son" and was consistently more motherly.

As Mac expected, Guml found the relationship more humorous than anything else and allowed it. He seemed grateful to get Oona off his own back; he was far too busy with some younger and more attractive women.

The hunt on the third day in this strange, primitive world did not go well, though. They became a little ambitious and decided to tackle a herd of antelope watering downstream. Mac stayed well back, since he was new to all this, but that proved no safe refuge as he saw the graceful, long-horned, deerlike creatures leap ten meters or more in their panic. One leaped in his direction and cleared most of the men.

Mac was tough, all right, and he knew how to take a fall from his football days. Otherwise, two hundred kilos of deer would have pounded him into the ground and broken most of his bones. As it was, the weight was mostly on the left shoulder, briefly. It hurt like hell, but he suffered only a bad bruise and sprain and not a break. They had to carry him back to camp, but he refused medical help. He could just imagine what that witch doctor would do with him. Two other men weren't so lucky. One would be cremated that evening; the other, one of the unattached young men, would soon join him.

Oona fussed and fumed over him; even Guml was concerned, since he had a measure of respect for this brave man. Mac's "master" sent the woman for some broad, dry leaves that were kept in the chief's pouch, and, with Malk's permission, he was permitted to grind a portion of the leaves into a clay-fashioned crude pipe.

It was not marijuana, with which Mac was familiar, but something infinitely stronger. It was potentially addictive, since it was closely rationed and used pri-marily for easing pain. The sinking young man was given all he wanted.

For Mac, the effect was like an explosion in his head, followed by the rapid falling off of pain to an ecstatically pleasant numbness; all seemed right and wonderful, the surroundings and colors seemed beau-tiful. He felt an incredible sense of well-being such as he had never known.

The next morning the shoulder still hurt like hell and there was only a slight rosy afterglow from the drug, but the sleep allowed by the drug had done won-ders for him. Not for the more seriously injured man, though. There would be another cremation at the new dusk.

Hurt though he was, Mac was determined that he would not be around to witness the act if he could help it.
The fourth day,
he kept thinking.
Two hours gone. A quarter of the time.

As a man injured in the line of duty, so to speak, he was not now expected to work. Instead he spent most of the time trying to keep Oona from fussing over him and looking for a way out. By late afternoon he had the germ of a plan. It wasn't complete, but it would accomplish what he needed. In a way, the injury, although still aggravating, was the best thing that could have happened to him.

He would have to make his move tonight, he de-cided. Time was running out all too quickly.

Time! Already four days-two precious hours shot. If this plan didn't work, or if it did but he couldn't get the jewel, he was as good as dead. And so was his world.

He believed he'd been inconspicuous, but as he waited for darkness to overtake the campsite Oona slid up to him and offered to massage his shoulder. It ached and he needed it, so he let her begin.

After a little of the soothing rubdown, the woman said in a low whisper, "Dend be going leave clan." It wasn't a question but a statement.

He sighed and his mind raced. She must have trailed him today and watched his movements, what he was studying, all of it, and put two and two together. Although she'd been useful, she was getting to be a real pain-and a danger. He considered his answer, know-ing that if he lied she'd just spy on him all night.

"Dend leave when dark," he admitted. "Oona no stop leave?"

"Oona leave, go where Dend go," she replied un-hesitatingly.

He was surprised. Not only had he not counted on this, but she would most certainly get in the way. She had been nice to him; she wouldn't understand what he was doing with the witch doctor, and she would certainly be out on a limb if he managed to get the jewel and then left.
The trouble
with this language is that it allows you to communicate action but not to hold subtle arguments.

"Oona no leave. Not good. Dend come back to fight in year," he attempted.

"Oona leave, go where Dend go," she persisted.

He gave up. A big argument would draw attention to him; if he left her behind, she might raise an alarm just to have him returned.
Okay, Oona, old mother hen, you dug your own hole,
he thought.

Through dusk and into darkness he feigned increas-ing pain but refused to smoke the magic leaves. There was enough sympathy and respect for him that nobody was suspicious; nobody questioned him.

Oona meanwhile gathered up a few things in a skin pouch and waited. It was well into the night; even the moon was below the canyon walls by the time he was ready. Just about everybody was asleep, and furious snores echoed off the canyon walls. Even Oona was dropping off. Mac rose as quietly as possible and started away. Suddenly she looked up, saw him going, and began to follow. He cursed a little under his breath but could do nothing to stop her.

It was remarkably easy to escape. The only reason more slaves hadn't done it was, first, this was an in-stinctually tribal people
who
were not suited to going it alone, and second, the life of a slave was neither that terribly bad nor a permanent condition. One had more to lose from escaping, particularly because there was just about nothing to escape
to.

Oona remained quiet. She didn't even utter a sound when she saw him make his way back toward the far left base of the canyon instead of away downriver, although her face showed extreme confusion.

He had no weapons, but passing near a fire pit that had gone out, he grabbed a thick piece of wood that would serve as a club. He also steered clear of the dogs, which would challenge him if he came too close to their owners' territories. They were his worst fear, since if just one got set off they all would, and everybody would be awake. They were the tribal guard.

The witch doctor's area was apart from the others, and he kept no dog. Dogs didn't like the witch doctor any more than the people did-less, it seemed. That was the other worry.

And there he was-sleeping there on a collection of netting, dead to the world. Mac was happy to see it. This was the first indication he had that demons slept. The surgery this one had undergone to make him more human was very good indeed, but he still walked and even slept with his legs at the odd angle more appropriate to his own cloven-hoofed race.

Now to the task. A jewel like Mogart's would glow in the eerie darkness even if a tiny portion of it was exposed to air, Mac felt sure of that. The one he had seen had appeared to have a life of its own. Mac looked around, concerned now. His plan had seemed very simple, but somehow he'd known it wouldn't be. Seeing no other artifacts, he felt certain the jewel had to be in the skin bag with the herbs and sharp stones that was the demon's medical kit. Surely so essential a thing as the jewel would not be left behind in some buried spot. It was his badge of authority with these savages and, most important, his only way out of un-foreseen tight situations. It just
had
to be here.

The demon slept soundly. Mac crept close to him, club at the ready, reaching the skin bag that was a mere hand's span from the witch doctor's face. He picked it up, stepped back a bit, and opened the bag in anticipation.

There was no glowing gem.

He dumped the contents of the bag onto the ground and felt inside again for hidden compartments. There were none. The jewel wasn't in the bag; it wasn't around anyplace he could see, and since the demon was nude, as they all were, it wasn't in his clothing, either. The witch doctor still wore his bone jewelry, but that was hardly a likely hiding place. None of the bones was large enough to contain or conceal the gem.

There was nothing else Mac could do. If he couldn't find the gem, then the demon would have to tell him where it was. He judged the distance, angle, and veloc-ity required, and hoped he wasn't making a big mis-take. Raising the club, he brought it down hard on the demon's skull.

The witch doctor started as if shocked; his eyes and mouth flew open. For a fleeting moment Mac feared that he would cry out an alarm, but then the eyes rolled upward, closed again, and he sagged visibly.