Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (58 page)

There was one plastic visor, two atomic grenades and a battered transceiver.

Poul Mer Lo was instantly transformed into Paul Marlowe who, gazing at the odd collection, felt a stinging mistiness in his eyes.

‘Who found these things?’ he managed to say at last.

‘The priests of Baya Lys.’

‘They have found nothing else?’

‘Nothing … Except …’ Shah Shan hesitated. ‘My friend told me that it has been reported that a great blackened hole exists in the forest where formerly there was nothing but trees and grass. These objects are certainly very curious. Do they have any significance?’

‘They belonged to those who travelled with me in the silver bird.’ Paul Marlowe picked up one of the atomic grenades. ‘This, for example, is a terrible weapon of destruction. If I were to move these studs in a certain way,’ he indicated two tiny recessed levers, ‘the whole of Baya Lys would be consumed by fire.’

Shah Shan was unperturbed. ‘It is to be hoped,’ he remarked, ‘that, receiving the guidance of Oruri, you will not cause this thing to happen.’

Paul smiled. ‘Be assured that I will not cause it to happen, Shah Shan, for it would encompass my own death also.’

The boy was silent for a while. ‘The domain of Baya Nor is bounded by one day’s march to the north,’ he said at last. ‘Beyond that is land occupied by a barbaric people. It may be that your friends have become the friends of these people … Or they may have been killed, or they may have wandered and died in the forest … How many travelled with you?’

‘There were twelve of us altogether.’

‘And three came to Baya Nor.’

‘Three were taken prisoner by the people of Baya Nor.’

The boy shrugged. ‘It matters not how we describe the event. Nine still remain shrouded by mystery.’

‘These people of the forest – how are they called?’

‘They call themselves the Lokh. We call them Lokhali. They speak a strange tongue.’

‘Is it possible to meet and talk with the Lokhali?’

Shah Shan smiled. ‘Possible, but not advisable. And it is likely that the conversation would be brief. These people live for war.’

‘Perhaps if Enka Ne were to send presents, and ask for news …’

Shah Shan stiffened. ‘Enka Ne does not treat with the Lokhali. So it has always been. So it will always be. Doubtless in the end Oruri will grant them a terrible affliction … Poul Mer Lo, my friend is puzzled. The oracle has pronounced that you are a great teacher and that because of you greatness shall be bestowed upon Baya Nor.’

‘I do not know that I am a great teacher. So far my teaching has been very small.’

‘Then, my lord, you must make it big,’ said Shah Shan simply, ‘for the oracle speaks only the truth … My friend is rich in glory but not rich in time. He wishes to see the fruits of your teaching before he answers the call.’

‘Shah Shan, your friend must not expect too much. The essence of teaching is to learn first and then teach afterwards.’

‘Permit me to observe, Poul Mer Lo, that the essence of teaching is to be understood … It was many days before you learned to speak Bayani, was it not?’

‘Many days indeed.’

‘What, then, is the tongue you would speak with your own kind?’

‘It is called English.’

‘I wish to speak this Ong Lys. For then I might more perfectly understand the thoughts of Poul Mer Lo.’

‘Shah Shan, what is the use? There is no one but I who can speak this tongue.’

‘Perhaps, my lord, that is why I wish to learn it … I am a poor and insignificant person, having nothing to offer you. But my friend would be greatly pleased.’

Paul Marlowe smiled. ‘It shall be as you wish, Shah Shan. Your friend is either very clever or very simple.’

Shah Shan looked at him in surprise. ‘You do not know which?’ he asked. ‘But why cannot my friend be both?’

Paul Marlowe banged the calabash hard against the step of the verandah where he was sitting. Silently, Mylai Tui poured some more kappa spirit into it.

He took a long swig and felt a bitter satisfaction as the fiery liquid wrought havoc in his throat and his stomach. He was getting drunk rapidly and he didn’t give a damn.

‘Big breasted brown-faced bitch,’ he muttered in English.

‘My lord?’ said Mylai Tui uncertainly.

‘Say Paul, damn you!’ Again in English.

‘Paul?’ repeated Mylai Tui anxiously. It was the only word she had caught.

‘Thank you,’ he snapped in Bayani. ‘Now be silent. There are times when a man needs to become a fool. This is one of them.’

Mylai Tui bowed her head and sat cross-legged, cradling the pitcher of kappa spirit in her lap, mindful of the future needs of Poul Mer Lo.

It was twilight and the nine moons of Altair Five were pursuing each other across the sky like … Like what? thought Paul Marlowe … Like frightened birds … Nine cosmic cinders on the wing …

‘I am dead,’ he said in English. ‘I am a corpse with a memory … What the hell is going on in Piccadilly Circus tonight? Who won the test match, and what sensational scandals will break in the Sunday papers tomorrow? For clearly tonight is Saturday night. Therefore let there be a great rejoicing.’

He emptied the calabash, shuddered, and banged it against the verandah step once more. Silently, Mylai Tui refilled it.

He wanted to listen to Beethoven – any old Beethoven would do. But the nearest stereo was a fair number of light years away. Damn!

‘I shall declaim,’ said Paul Marlowe to no one in particular. ‘Is there not reason to declaim? It was in another country and, besides, the wench is dead.’

‘Paul?’ said Mylai Tui uncertainly.

‘Shut up! Jew of Malta – I think – by kind permission of a bleeding ancestor.’

‘Paul?’

‘Shut up, or I will gorily garrotte you, you brown-bottomed whore.’ He began to laugh at the alliteration, but the laughter degenerated into a fit of coughing. He cleared his throat.

‘Paul?’ said Mylai Tui again, with great temerity.

‘Be silent, you bloody ignorant female beast! I speak the words of some goddamned twentieth-century poet whose name temporarily escapes me … Why do I speak the words of said anon poet? I will tell you, you little Bayani slut. Because there is a hole inside me. A hole, do you hear? A damn big hole, one heart wide and twenty light-years deep … I am dead, Horatio … Where the hell is the rest of that rot-gut?’

Mylai Tui said nothing. If it pleased her lord to speak with the voice of a devil, obviously there was nothing to be said. Or done.

‘Where the hell is the rest of that rot-gut?’ demanded Paul Marlowe, still in English.

Mylai Tui did not move.

He stood up, lurched forwards unsteadily and kicked the pitcher out of her hands. The kappa spirit was spilled all over the verandah. Its sweet smell rose suffocatingly.

Paul Marlowe fell flat on his face and was sick.

Presently, when she had cleaned him up, Mylai Tui managed to drag him inside the house. She tried to lift him up to the bed but was not strong enough.

He lay snoring heavily on the floor.

The diabolical machine was finished. It stood outside the small thatched house that was the home of Poul Mer Lo. The two workmen, one a woodcutter and the other a mason, who had built it under the direction of the stranger, stood regarding their achievement, grinning and gibbering like a pair of happy apes. Poul Mer Lo had hired them for the task at a cost of one copper ring each. According to Mylai Tui, it was gross over-payment; but he felt that munificence – if, indeed, it was munificence – was appropriate. It was not often that a man was granted the privilege of devising something that would change the pattern of an entire civilization.

Mylai Tui squatted on the verandah and regarded the machine impassively. She neither understood nor cared that, in the world of Baya Nor, she had just witnessed a technological revolution. If the building of the contraption had given Poul Mer Lo some pleasure, then she was glad for his sake. Nevertheless, she was a little disappointed that a man who was clearly destined for greatness and whose thanu had raised her to ecstasy should dissipate his spirit in the construction of useless toys.

‘What do you think of it?’ asked Poul Mer Lo.

Mylai Tui smiled. ‘It is ingenious, my lord. Who knows, perhaps it is also beautiful. I am not skilled to judge the purpose of this thing it has pleased my lord to create.’

‘My name is Paul.’

‘Yes, Paul. I am sorry. It is only that it gives me some happiness to call you my lord.’

‘Then you must remember, Mylai Tui, that it also gives me some happiness to hear you call me Paul.’

‘Yes, Paul. This I know, and this I must remember.’

‘Do you know what you are looking at?’

‘No, Paul.’

‘You are looking at something for which there is no Bayani word. So I must give you a word from my own tongue. This thing is called a cart.’

‘A kayurt.’

‘No. A cart.’

‘A kayrt.’

‘That is better. Try it again – cart.’

‘Kayrt.’

‘This cart runs on wheels. Do you know what wheels are?’

‘No, Paul.’

‘Say the word – wheels.’

‘Wells.’

‘That is good. Wheels, Mylai Tui, are what men need to lift the burden from their backs.’

‘Yes, Paul.’

‘You have seen the poor people hauling logs, carrying water and bending themselves double under heavy loads of kappa and meat.’

‘Yes, Paul.’

‘The cart,’ said Poul Mer Lo, ‘will make all this toil no longer necessary. With the cart, one man will be able to carry the burden of many, and because of this many men will be free to do more useful work. Is that not a wonderful thought?’

‘Truly, it is a wonderful thought,’ responded Mylai Tui obediently.

‘Lord,’ said one of the workmen, ‘now that we have built the kayrt, what is your pleasure?’

‘It is my pleasure to visit Enka Ne,’ said Poul Mer Lo. ‘It is my pleasure to take this gift to the god-king, that in his wisdom, he will cause many carts to be built, thus greatly easing the toil of the people of Baya Nor.’

Suddenly the smile vanished from the face of the small Bayani. ‘Lord, to build the kayrt is one thing – indeed, it has given much amusement – but to deliver it to Enka Ne is another.’

‘You are afraid?’

‘It is proper to be afraid, my lord. It is proper to fear the glory of Enka Ne.’

‘It is proper, also,’ said Poul Mer Lo, ‘to make offerings to the god-king. I am a stranger in this land, and the cart is my offering. Come, let us go … See, I shall ride in the cart and you, taking the shafts, shall draw me. It may be that Enka Ne will have need of men who know how to fit a wheel to an axle. Come.’

Poul Mer Lo perched himself on top of the small cart and waited patiently. The two Bayani muttered briefly to each other and urinated where they stood. He had witnessed such a ritual many times. It was the way in which a low-caste Bayani anticipated sin by giving himself absolution beforehand.

Presently, having touched hands and shoulders, the two men took a shaft each and began to draw the cart slowly along the Road of Travail towards the Third Avenue of the Gods. Poul Mer Lo waved cheerily to Mylai Tui.

‘Oruri be with you,’ she called, ‘at the end as at the beginning.’

‘Oruri be with you always,’ responded Poul Mer Lo. Then he added informally: ‘Let there be the paint of dancing upon you this night. Then shall pleasure visit us both.’

It was a fine morning. The air was clear and warm but not heavy. As Poul
Mer Lo sat on his cart, listening to the squeaky protest of the wooden wheels against the stone axle-tree, he felt at peace with the world.

A light wind was blowing in from the forest. It carried scents that were still strange and intoxicating to him. It carried the incense of mystery, the subtle amalgam of smells that made him feel almost at times that he was the most fortunate man in the universe. Here, indeed, was the farther shore. And his footprints were upon it.

Presently, the cart overtook a group of early morning hunters returning to the city, laden with their kill. They gazed at the vehicle in amazement. Poul Mer Lo smiled at them gaily.

‘Oruri greets you,’ he said.

‘The greeting is a blessing,’ they returned.

‘Lord,’ said one, ‘what is the thing upon which you sit and which men may move so easily?’

‘It is a cart. It runs on wheels. With the grace of Enka Ne, soon you will be carrying your meat to Baya Nor on carts. Soon the people of Baya Nor will learn to ride on wheels.’

‘Lord,’ said the hunter, perplexed, ‘truly it is a wondrous thing. I pray only that it may be blessed by a sign.’

‘What sign?’

‘Lord, there is only the sign of Oruri.’

The cart had now reached the end of the Road of Travail, and the broad dirt track gave way to the broader and stone paved Third Avenue of the Gods. The wheels rattled noisily over the cobblestones. There were more people about – city people, sophisticated Bayani, both high and low born, who gazed at Poul Mer Lo with a mixture of what he interpreted as amusement and awe.

He would have been more accurate if he had interpreted the smiling stares as antagonism and awe. But he was not aware of the antagonism until it was too late.

The cart was already half across the causeway leading to the sacred city. By this time it had collected a retinue of more than fifty Bayani. This, in itself, was not unfortunate.

What was unfortunate was that Poul Mer Lo should encounter one of the blind black priests and that the wheels of the cart should pass over his bare toes.

The priest screamed and tore the hood from his face.

His eyes, unaccustomed to daylight, were screwed up painfully for quite a long time before he was able to focus on Poul Mer Lo.