Gods of Green Mountain (19 page)

The firearms of the Gods struck again and again. Many found their target the very shimmering dome that protected the capital city of Far-Awndra.

This stupendous display could hardly be ignored by the palace revelers, distracted by gaiety and food and drink as they were. The music died to a nervous twang. The dancers paused, turning their faces upward toward the ceiling skylights. Those that crowded around the tables choked on the food in their mouths, and hastily swallowed what liquid they had just sipped. Terrifyingly arrested with this violent reminder of their not-too-distant past, they rushed from the ballroom, out onto the encircling terraces. There they could view this splendid wrathful show of might without obstruction.

The vengeful spitting fire balls--yellow, blue, and red--charged against the dome, flaring out a network of blue electricity. Meeting and joining, one with the other, until the whole of the city dome was one mammoth, sparkling flame of fire!

"Oh, how glorious! How exciting! What a magnificent fillip for the closing of the ball! How clever of the king to arrange it so!" were some of the remarks of the exhilarated guests. And not one truthfully mentioned his or her own inner flutter of panic that beat sickeningly against the facade of calmness.

Sharita stood far from the crowd, alone, her arms crossed over her breast, hugging fears to herself. Someone came and put his arm over her shoulders and drew her against a coat made of soft, smoke-blue puhlet fur. "Afraid, little princess?" he asked in a voice now tender, instead of angry and sarcastic.

"No, Dray-Gon," Sharita answered. "I am never afraid."

"Then why do you tremble?"

"It's cold out here."

He chuckled in a wicked way and put both his arms around her, drawing her back against his chest, so that with his fur-covered arms about her, she no longer shivered. Both were silent as they watched the lightning play like arteries and veins on fire, making Sharita think of blood, of accidents, of ways to die, pleasant, and unpleasant. I have a long way to go, she thought. Many years ahead, time enough to find what she was looking for. Someone special, something special, a life with a real meaning.

"I wish you weren't a princess," murmured Dray-Gon with his face lowered into her sweet-smelling hair, free now of the small crown that she had carelessly taken off and laid aside somewhere.

"If I weren't, what difference would it make?" she asked sleepily, resting her head back against him.

"If you weren't, I could just take you to your mother and father, and proclaim I loved you, and wanted you...and you could say the same about me...and we would be married, as in the old days."

"But I am a princess, and the old days, and old ways are gone forever, and you are already married, with too many wives. I want a man who loves only me. So let go of me, Dray-Gon, and go wed my cousin, and have two wives for each night of the week." She tried to pull away, but his strong arms kept her there.

"If you say you are jealous, I will tell you the truth. I am not married at all. I don't even have one wife."

"What difference," Sharita said coldly, "you have had many women. I can tell from your easy confidence. You deliberately deceived me in the beginning. You have a glib tongue when it suits your purpose."

"If you prefer me as the tongue-tied, stumbling, stammering fool, I'll adjust to your needs."

"I have no need of you at all!" she snapped. "Now release me before I scream for help."

"You have so many lovers that you don't need another?"

She heard the mockery in his voice, raised her foot, and with all her force, she drove the hard heel of her shoe down on
his
foot.

He howled, swore, and cursed as he released her. "Damn you! Tonight you have slapped me, and driven your shoe like a nail through my foot. Sharita, one day you're going to pay for this!"

"What will you do?" she taunted, seeing with oblique vision four red, gold, and white uniformed guards standing less than ten feet away. Close enough for her to be very brave. "Will you come and steal me from my bed, and carry me off into the wildlands, and ravish me there?"

"You have named it!" he said with dark anger. "That is exactly what I will do! And when I have finished with you, I will take you to Lower Dorraine, and set you up in a hut, and let you wear rags, and build fires, and do your own cooking and washing, and scrub your own floors, and you can crawl to me and beg for mercy when I visit once in a while to see if you have learned some humility."

"Oh, you are so funny!" she said with laughter breaking her voice. "You could do all of those things to me, but I would never crawl to you or learn humility from you, for you have no humility yourself!"

Then, in front of the four uniformed palace guards, and all the guests, Dray-Gon seized her in his arms, and kissed her roughly, and all the attention of the guests was turned from the storm to them.

Ras-Far too saw his daughter being kissed and roughly handled by Dray-Gon. He nudged Ron Ka who was at his side. "Look--it seems our children are getting to know one another very well, and very quickly."

"You don't seem to mind," Ron Ka said with some surprise.

"No, I don't. My daughter has been courted by elegant, well-spoken, mannerly noblemen since she came of age, and not once have I seen her cheeks so glowing with color, or her eyes so sparkled with excitement. She may need the wildness your son exhibits."

While they watched, the princess broke free from Dray-Gon's embrace, raised her hand, and started to slap his face again. But he caught her wrist, slightly twisting her arm, so she winced in pain. "Smile at me sweetly, and say, 'Good night, Dray-Gon, I am delighted to have you in my life at last.' "

Sharita glared, saying nothing even as he twisted her arm more. "Go on, break it, and I will still refuse to have you order me to do anything. I expected you to act like a savage, so I am not disappointed."

Her arm was released. With dignity she turned and walked toward the ballroom, her head held high.

Ras-Far sighed, and then turned to his guest Ron Ka. "I do hope, on this night of all nights, that none of our people are actively demonstrating their desires to return to the old ways of living outside of the domes, for I pity anyone caught out in this."

Both older men stared out into the fiery, tempestuous night. The thunder and lightning had moved on; now the sky was inky black...and moving toward them were luminous swirls of twisting sand, picked up by the whirlwind funnels that destroyed everything they touched down on.

Ron Ka was silent. In his heart he was fearful. Some of his people might very well be out on the unshielded wildplains. It was now the current passion of the young and restless, with too much energy and nothing to do with it, to rebel against the luxurious life within the glistening and safe glass domes.

Neither the king nor his governor, Ron Ka, were aware that this was a most momentous night. Not only because of the wild, ravaging storm they were at this moment witnessing. Another and much more devastating happening had already begun in the city of Bari-Bar: an event so hideous and catastrophic it made everything evil weather had done before, even to those of El Sod-a-Por, seem like the naughty misbehavior of a small child.

The Slaughter
of the Bari-Barians

F
ar from the might, power, and splendor of the government city of Far-Awndra, under a much smaller dome, the people of Bari-Bar were to experience that night another and different kind of terror: a horror so hideous in its implications, it was of far greater importance to the city dwellers than any wild storm ever wielded against the primitive innocents of old El Sod-a-Por.

Inside the protective transparent walls of Bari-Bar, more a village than a city, there lived equal proportions of Upper and Lower Dorrainians. It was the only city that didn't have a minority of one side or the other.

Isolated and remote, Bari-Bar had no particular charm or appeal to attract tourists, or those seeking entertainment in one form or another. Because of this, it was connected to the rest of the world by only one covered highway. Beyond the village dome, large fields of the pufars grew. The farmers of Bari-Bar specialized in the easy agriculture of the hard, yellow, sun-baked, waterless variety of pufars that required no care whatsoever.

Because this easy crop was costless, the profits were tremendous, which gave the growers a great deal of leisure time, as well as great wealth, which, because of their nature, the villagers didn't know how to use. The demand for the hulls of the yellow pufars was ceaseless, as the mash made from the hulls, and combined with this and that, was the main base of all the hard and durable materials made in both Dorraines. Even the metals and ores mined in the depths of the nearest mountains could not equal the strength and versatility of those hard, golden hulls. And for some inexplicable reason, the arid dun earth near Bari-Bar produced the toughest hulls.

A most peculiar trait afflicted the population of Bari-Bar that had given King Ras-Far his wife, La Bara. Long ago, the queen had moved her nearest and dearest relatives to the capital city, but she had distant relatives still there. Perhaps their unique idiosyncrasy was cultivated more by habit than by environment or inheritance. Whatever the cause, each and every person of Bari-Bar, young and old, handsome or ugly, had more than a fair share of it--some more, some less. The intelligent and highly educated were as guilty of this fault as any uncouth, unlearned farmer. It drew them to one another, gave them all a common bond, and seldom did a native of Bari-Bar wish to move to a more cultured and larger city.

They were debaters! Constant, unceasing, deliberate and arguing. From the time of the first sun's rising, to the hour of the second sun's departure, when sleep took them into dreams and oblivion, they discussed; they took issue; they disputed; they quibbled. The subject could be of the most trifling nature, or of overwhelming importance...it didn't matter. What did matter was presenting the opposing point of view!

Contrarily, they were not miserable or unhappy people. Indeed, they had a great zest for living. They simply enjoyed tremendously, more than anything, the art of "constructive criticism." They desired always to be "fair." To be "just," and how could a considered, qualified opinion be decided upon without first examining minutely every side of the argument? "After all," so they would say, one to the other, "Every front has a back, and every back has a front! And that was not speaking at all of a box, which has many, inside and out!" They said this so often, it became rather a joke to the other provinces that covertly condescended to those poor deluded fools who believed the best in life came from constant discussion.

To say repeatedly that every front had a back, and vice versa, was just one of the many reasons they gave to "outsiders" who dared to object, or complain about hearing from them so many "opinionated opinions!"

So, it was no wonder, only one highway led in and out of Bari-Bar. No one really cared to go there.

Although every home in Upper and Lower Dorraine, every city, town, or village; every building, shop, or tavern, had upon the wall in at least one room, a news-reflector, the sole exception was Bari-Bar.

In all of Bari-Bar, there was but one, single, solitary reflector! And when some outsider dared to comment on this unique fact, the Bari-Barian would say proudly, challenging with every inflected tone: "We may have only one--but it is the biggest, and the best news-reflector in all Upper and Lower Dorraine!" And the native Bari-Barian's eyes would flash, just waiting for that statement to be disputed, doubted, or denied. Not many chose to pick up the argument, but meekly agreed, yes, it was the biggest and the best. "Well, how do you know it's so big, and so good? Have you seen it, and judged for yourself? Are you going to take my word for it? Why the one in your living room might be better, and larger, though I doubt it."

"But you are all so rich," some foolish visitor might reply, "why don't you have your own, personal reflectors in your own home?"

"Who says we are rich? Do we look rich? Do we live in large, fine homes? And just why do we need a private news-reflector, when we have a huge one at our disposal? And who wants to sit just with your own family and stare at pictures on the wall? Only fools! It is much more enjoyable in the company of others."

Yes, the visitor would agree if he were wise, and wiser still, he would back away and leave the city. But someone ignorant, not knowledgeable of the legendary Bari-Barians' peculiarity, might stand there and question how anyone could be happy living in such a small, shoddy place, while they hoarded their money frugally. "So you think our city is shoddy? That we are stingy? So you think it's easy to grow yellow pufars? Try it sometimes! Go out there in the fields and start picking the fruit with the heat of two suns burning down on you--see how long you would last!"

A foolish someone could mention the harvesting machines that could be sent out to automatically pick the fruit.

"By the Gods! Do you think we would be so wasteful? Machines leave half the fruit on the ground or it's rolled over and crushed, wasted! There is no machine that can perform as well as human hands and minds!"

Usually by this time, the foolish visitor had learned to keep his opinions to himself, and not speak of the calculating machines that could outthink one hundred men--and what difference did it make if a few hulls were smashed and left wasted on the ground, when they grew so abundantly and easily.

This much-touted monumental wall news-reflector covered one entire wall in the local wine tavern, owned and managed by the only person in Bari-Bar who never took issue, never argued, never debated or so much as quibbled, and he was a native, and had never once left Bari-Bar. His name was Parl-Ar. In his very early youth, he had mistakenly swallowed a bottle of lye, so his throat and larynx were so severely burned, he could never speak again. He made the perfect host.

Early in the evening, every evening, the entire population would gather together in Parl-Ar's tavern to sip the wines, to view the reflector, and to intently listen, to observantly, discerningly see. So that later on, when the reflector was dimmed and quiet after the news, for that was all that they cared to view, those in the tavern would then discuss what they had seen and heard. They were experts in dissecting every nuance of meaning, of innuendo, of detecting the slightest flicker of facial expression. The double entendre was never lost or wasted upon them. They could quadruple the double meaning.