Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (72 page)

‘Who are you?’
The words rolled like waves, like thunder.

He did not know what to say, what to do, what to think, what to feel. He did not know what to believe; for identity had been lost and he seemed now to be nothing more than the vaguest thought of a thought.

‘Who are you?’
The waves crashed on the farther shore. The thunder rolled over a distant land.

And then came answering thunder.

And a voice from far, far away said: ‘There shall come a man among you, who yet has no power and whose power will be absolute. And because no man may wield such power, the man shall be as a king. And because none may live for ever, the king shall be as a god. Each year the king must die that the god may be reborn … Hear, now, the cry of a bird that has never flown … Behold the living god – whose name is Enka Ne!’

He listened to the voice in wonder, feeling the words beat upon him like hammer blows. He listened to the words and submitted to the voice – knowing at last that it was his. He moved, and there was a strange rustling. He looked down at the blue and gold feathers covering his arms.

From somewhere another voice, old and high and thin, uttered a wild bird cry. ‘He is the one!’

Then the man in the white hood cried: ‘Behold the living god!’ And sank down to prostrate himself at the feet of one who had once been known by the name of Poul Mer Lo.

Afterwards he had rested for a while in an apartment in the Temple of the Weeping Sun, guarded only by a single warrior. The ceremonial plumage had been removed, and the god-king now wore a simple samu, indistinguishable from those worn by thousands of his subjects.

The apartment – whose walls and floor and roof were of highly polished stone, veined, like a rich marble, with streaks of blue and red and green and gold – was not luxuriously furnished. But, compared to the simple furnishings of a thatched house that had stood once near to the Canal of Life, these furnishings were indeed those of a palace.

The foot and head of the couch on which he had rested were of black wood inlaid with copper. The mattress consisted of multi-coloured Milanyl feathers held in a fine net of hair. Large translucent crystals hung from the ceiling, rotating slowly in the slight currents of air, transforming the lamplight emanating from several niches into a soft and mobile pattern.

The god-king yawned and stretched, looking about him for a moment or two. He was hungry. But there were more important matters than food.

He sent for Yurui Sa, general of the Order of the Blind Ones. The man in the white hood.

The warrior on guard heard the instructions of the god-king without either looking at him or making any verbal acknowledgement.

Presently, Yurui Sa entered the room. He stood stiffly, waiting. His gaze, like that of the warrior, remained fixed upon the ceiling.

‘Oruri greets you, Yurui Sa.’

‘Lord, the greeting is a blessing.’

‘Sit down and be with me as with a friend, for there is much that I have to say to you.’

‘Lord,’ said the man pleadingly, ‘be merciful … I – I may not see you!’

‘This, surely, needs explanation.’

‘So it has always been,’ went on Yurui Sa, ‘so it must always be. When the plumage has been put aside, the god-king may not be seen by men.’

‘So, perhaps, it has always been. But nothing endures for ever. When the plumage has been put aside, the god sleeps but the king still wakes. You may look upon the king, Yurui Sa. I have spoken.’

‘Lord, I am not worthy.’

‘Nevertheless—’ and the voice was regal, the voice of Enka Ne ‘—nevertheless, it is my wish.’

Slowly, Yurui Sa brought his gaze down from the ceiling. Enka Ne smiled at him, but there was fear on the face of the general of the Order of the Blind Ones.

‘There will be some changes,’ said Enka Ne.

Yurui Sa let out a great sigh. ‘Yes, lord, there will be some changes.’

‘Now sit with me and tell me how it came to pass that one who was once Poul Mer Lo is now the god-king of the Bayani, though the time is not yet ripe for rebirth.’

Yurui Sa swallowed uneasily. Then he sat down on the edge of the couch as if he expected the action to bring some terrible disaster.

Apparently, it did not. Thus heartened, he began to explain to Paul Marlowe, native of Earth, how it came about that he was destined to achieve god-head on Altair Five.

‘Lord,’ said Yurui Sa, ‘much that is wonderful has happened, making the will of Oruri clear beyond question … Many days ago, it became known to one who now has no name that the stranger, Poul Mer Lo, intended to make a great journey. The knowledge was not received favourably. Therefore many warriors were despatched to end the journey before it had begun.’ Yurui Sa permitted himself a faint smile. ‘My lord may himself have some awareness of what happened on that occasion. The warriors failed to fulfil their task – and such warriors do not often fail in their duty. Their captain returned and, before despatching himself to the bosom of Oruri, repeated the message given to him by Poul Mer Lo. That same day, one who now has no name suffered much pain in his chest, coughing greatly, and for a time being unable to speak. Thus was seen the first judgement of Oruri on one who perhaps had misinterpreted his will.’

‘You say he coughed greatly?’

‘Yes, lord. There were many tears.’

Paul’s mind went back to the occasion of his only audience with Enka Ne the 610th. He remembered an old man – an old man weighed down with care and responsibility. An old man who coughed …

‘Proceed with your story.’

‘Lord, even then there were those in the sacred city who were afflicted by strange thoughts. Some there were – myself among them – who meditated at length upon what had passed. Later, when warriors were sent to destroy the house of Poul Mer Lo, our meditations yielded enlightenment. Also, there was an unmistakable sign of the will of Oruri.’

‘What was this sign?’

‘Lord, as the house burned, he who has no name was seized by much
coughing. As the flames died, so died he who has no name. Thus was seen the second judgement of Oruri … Then the oracle spoke, saying that fire would awaken from the ashes … And so, lord, were you revealed to your people.’

Paul Marlowe, formerly known as Poul Mer Lo, now Enka Ne the 611th, was silent for a few moments. He felt weary still – unutterably weary. So much had happened that he could not hope to assimilate – at least, not yet. He smiled grimly to himself. But there would be time. Indeed, there would be time …

And then, suddenly, he remembered about Shon Hu and the barge.

‘When Poul Mer Lo came from the forest, he left certain companions waiting in a barge on the Canal of Life. I desire that these people – and a child who has by now reached them – be brought to Baya Nor unharmed.’

‘Lord, forgive me. This thing is already done. Warriors were instructed to watch for the coming of Poul Mer Lo. They have found the barge, its occupants and the boy who was despatched to meet them.’

‘None have been harmed?’

‘Lord, they have been questioned, but none was harmed.’

‘It is well. Yurui Sa, for these are humble people, yet they have a friend who is highly placed.’

The general of the Order of the Blind Ones fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘Lord, the hunter, Shon Hu, has said that Poul Mer Lo has held converse with Oruri, also that he has looked upon the form … Forgive me, lord, but can this be so?’

‘It is no more than the truth.’

‘Then is my heart filled with much glory, for I have spoken with a great one who has himself spoken with one yet greater … Permit me to withdraw, lord, that I may dwell upon these wonders.’

‘Yurui Sa, the wish is granted. Now send to me these people who journeyed with Poul Mer Lo. Send also much food, for these, my guests, will be hungry … And remember. There will be some changes.’

The general of the Order of the Blind Ones stood up. Again he sighed deeply. ‘These things shall be done. And, lord, I will remember that there will be some changes.’

Enka Ne leaned back upon the couch.

The warrior guarding him continued to stare fixedly at the ceiling.

It was a warm, clear evening. Paul Marlowe, clad only in a worn samu, sat on the bank of the Canal of Life not far from the Road of Travail; and not far, also, from a patch of ground where ashes had been covered by a green resurgence of grass. Theoretically, he had thirty-seven days left to live.

It was not often these days that he could find time to put aside the
persona
of Enka Ne. There was so much to do, so much to plan. For, since greatness had been thrust upon him, he had become a one-man renaissance. He had seen it as his task to lift the Bayani out of their static, medieval society and to stimulate them into creative thought. Into attitudes that, if they were allowed to flourish, might one day sweep the people of Baya Nor into a golden age where science and technology and tradition and art would be fused into a harmonious and evolving way of life.

The task was great – too great for one man who had absolute power only for a year. Yet, whatever came afterwards – or whoever came afterwards – a start had to be made. And Paul Marlowe’s knowledge of human history was such that he could derive comfort from the fact that, once the transformation had begun, it would take some stopping.

And it had certainly begun. There was no doubt about that.

Schools had been established. First, he had had to teach the teachers; but the work was not as difficult as he had anticipated, because he had absolute authority and the unquestioning services of the most intelligent men he could find. They were willing to learn and to pass on what they had learned – not because of burning curiosity and a desire to expand their horizons but simply because it was the wish of Enka Ne. Perhaps the curiosity, the initiative and the enthusiasm would come later, thought Paul. But whether it did or not in this generation, the important fact remained: schools had been established. For the first time in their history, the children of the Bayani were learning to read and write.

Dissatisfied with the broad kappa leaves that he had previously used for paper, Paul had experimented with musa loul and animal parchment. Already he had set up a small ‘factory’ for the production of paper, various inks, brushes and quill pens. At the same time, he had commanded some of the priests who had become proficient in this strange new art of writing to set down all they could remember of the history of Baya Nor and its god-kings, of its customs, of its songs and legends and of its laws. Presently, there
would be a small body of literature on which the children who were now learning to read could exercise their new talent.

In the realm of technology there had been tremendous advances already. The Bayani were skilled craftsmen and once a new principle had been demonstrated to them, they grasped it quickly – and improved upon it. Paul showed them how to reduce friction by ‘streamlining’ their blunt barges, so that the barges now cut their way through the water instead of pushing their way through it. Then he demonstrated how oars could be used more efficiently than poles, and how a sail could be used to reduce the work of the oarsmen.

Now, many of the craft that travelled along the Bayani canals were rowing boats or sailing dinghies, moving at twice the speed with half the effort.

But perhaps his greatest triumph was the introduction of small windmills, harnessed to water-wheels, for the irrigation of the wide kappa fields. So much manpower – or woman-power – was saved by this innovation, that the Bayani were able to extend the area of the land they cultivated, grow richer crops and so raise the standard of living.

Perhaps the most curious effect of Paul’s efforts was that he seemed to have created a national obsession – for kite-flying. It rapidly became the most popular sport in Baya Nor. It attracted all ages, including the very old and the very young.

Once they had grasped the principle, the Bayani developed a positive genius for making elaborate kites. They were far superior to anything that Paul himself could have built. Some of the kites were so large and so skilfully constructed that, given the right kind of wind conditions, they could lift a small Bayani clear of the ground. Indeed, one or two of the more devoted enthusiasts had already been lifted up or blown into the Mirror of Oruri for their pains.

The Bayani seemed to have a natural understanding of the force of the wind as they had of the force of flowing water. Already, a few of the more experimental and adventurous Bayani were building small gliders. It would be rather odd, thought Paul, but not entirely surprising if they developed successful heavier-than-air machines a century or two before they developed engines.

But there were other, more subtle changes that he had brought about and with which he was greatly pleased. Except as a punishment for murder and crimes of violence, he had abolished the death penalty. He had also completely abolished torture. For ‘civil’ cases and minor offences such as stealing, he had instituted trial by jury. Major offences were still tried by the god-king himself.

The one Bayani institution that he would have liked most to destroy he did not feel secure enough to destroy. It was human sacrifice – of which he himself would presently become a victim.

The Bayani had already seen many of their most ancient customs and traditions either modified or abolished. On the whole, they had reacted to change remarkably well – though Paul was acutely aware of the existence of a group of ‘conservative’ elements who bitterly resented change simply because things had always been done thus. At present the discontents were disorganized. They muttered among themselves, but still continued to adhere strictly to the principle of absolute loyalty to their absolute ruler.

If, however, they were pushed too far – as, for example, by the abolition of human sacrifice, a concept to them of fundamental religious importance – they could conceivably unite as a ‘political’ group. The one thing that Paul was determined to avoid was any danger of rebellion or civil war. It would have destroyed much of the progress that had been made so far. If successful, it might even have brought about a ‘burning of the books’ before books had had time to prove their intrinsic worth.