Gods of Green Mountain (20 page)

Only those very young children under the age of four years were not allowed in the tavern. The very young were decidedly not welcome! For the too young cried, they demanded, they needed, they wanted, and all their wants and needs were so distracting. Of necessity, the unlucky mothers of these youngest were denied the nightly pleasures of the very audible evenings. Enjoyment that the young fathers would in no way miss, short of death or extreme illness.

On the night of the grand ball in the distant city of Far-Awndra, while the great and the grand danced and supped in elegant splendor, the small and the insignificant gathered together as usual in the single wine tavern in all the village of Bari-Bar.

The gigantic wall-reflector flashed out the pictures in brilliant colors. The unseen voice of the news resounded with implied speculations. The voice told of the ball, of the introduction and presentation of Ron Ka's only son to the Princess Sharita: the princess who never attended any ball but the one given in honor of her birthday. The beautiful face of the princess was flashed in living color upon the screen, and the handsome face of Dray-Gon. Talk of the ball concluded with this remark: "And who knows what may become of this meeting between our princess and this handsome young man? Perhaps, a Lower Dorrainian may sit on the throne of El Dorraine after all."

No one spoke in the tavern.

Next, scenes were shown of the capital city where the food and water reserve had been raided and looted by masked and hooded, armed thieves. Food and water that belonged to the peoples of both Upper and Lower Dorraine. The scene changed, showing a monument made of the Founder King, Far-Awn. The people in the tavern gasped! The revered statue of their first leader had been defiled and defaced. One arm was broken off entirely, the nose smashed, and the big male puhlet known as Musha, at the Founder King's side, was missing its tail. Refuse was smeared all over the statue of the king and his pet animal. Vandals had also broken into the homes of several noblemen and ruined the walls, furniture, besides inflicting pain upon the inhabitants of the homes.

Now the news was over. Off the reflector was switched. The debate was on! The tavern was large, with many tables and booths, and waiters in smart uniforms served the wines on silver trays, and pretty girls in short costumes played softly on stringed instruments. The three hundred plus six in the room were in top form. In the privacy of their homes, each had previously rehearsed for any contingency in rebuff that might arise. They were all quick, articulate speakers, with a fluent command of ready words. The small city of Bari-Bar had contributed more than its share of political legislators to the government (much to the king's dismay).

The Bari-Barians were noted for their quick ability to immediately switch to the opposite side of the argument that had just been skillfully presented, at the very moment of the opponent's capitulation. "Every front has a back--and every back has a front," so they would again explain. For anyone who didn't come from Bari-Bar, one of these debates could be devastatingly disturbing--for one could never win or make a point that wasn't overruled by continued argument.

Parl-Ar, standing silent behind the bar, mutely wiping fingerprints from sparkling glasses, grew weary of the long, tempestuous arguments. He earned a very good living for his wife and family, but he paid a huge price, for he had a tongue eager to speak--and not a word could he say. He knew without doubt that given the ability to speak, there was no one anywhere who could win over his oratory. It seethed unused within him, frustrating him, so often he slapped his wife when she opened the front door of his home and welcomed him with a smile. Then she, not afflicted with muteness as he, would flash with fiery temper, and the flowing river of words from her throat would steal his confidence that he had any latent speaking ability at all. Then he would sit despondent, while his children battled between them, using words his scarred throat and tongue would never speak. Even his pet scant could make noise.

Listening to the disputes, juxtapositioning one on the other, gave Parl-Ar a mighty headache, causing him to slip out of the tavern, unnoticed by the heated debaters. He clattered down the cellar stairs, making as much noise with his clunky shoes as possible, as a substitute for a missing voice maker. He lifted from a shelf a heavy wine cask, for outpouring words soon emptied a glass.

In the cool dark wine cellar, Parl-Ar did not notice a broken bottle on the shelf above the wine kegs. Nor did he notice either that some of the broken bottle's white, powdery contents had sifted down and dusted the wine casks below. The powder had liquefied on the moistness of the kegs, and seeped into the wood of the casks.

When the golden, sun-baked pufar hulls were crushed and molded, then baked many times over, a residue of white ash was left in the giant mountain ovens. For years the ash had been discarded as useless. Until one day, quite by accident, in the way of most great discoveries, the ash had been found to have miraculous medicinal properties. Just as it was, the white ash could be sprinkled lightly over an open wound. Almost at once, the raw bleeding flesh would shrink and pull together. The ash astringent could seal a wound as perfect and unbroken and unscarred as the skin had been at birth. This was only one of the many uses of the white ash...there were many others just as marvelous.

However, used externally, the ash had many goodly powers that had saved the lives of many, and kept them from being severely scarred. But taken internally, the powder raced directly to the brain. Once there it nibbled at the chains of restraint; it chewed on rationality; it devoured reason until sanity liquefied into flooding hatred!

Parl-Ar didn't know, when he carried up that white dusted cask of wine into his tavern, that he was bringing with him death for himself, and to all of Bari-Bar.

And just possibly, to all of Upper and Lower Dorraine.

He lifted the heavy keg to the counter. Wiped his sweating brow, for he was overweight, and any exertion made him excessively perspire. He blotted his round full face with ruddy cheeks of healthy color beneath the green. He glanced at the clock. Soon he would close down the tavern, and he would go home, and if his wife didn't speak to him in a voice that he wished were his, he would kiss her, and perhaps from there, go on to something more. And afterward, he would fall asleep and dream that he was the greatest orator of all times, putting even the king to shame, and Ras-Far was the best speaker in all the country. Some people were born lucky, with everything, and some were like him, making do with what they had, the best way they could. And hoping all the while that the miracle of the pufars would someday solve and cure his affliction. It wasn't an impossible dream. No, not at all. Impossible dreams came true almost every day because of those pufars. Thank the Gods of Green Mountain for them! And he had time, plenty of time, for the miracle medicine that would heal his throat, and he could speak out and let the world hear what he had hoarded for so many long years. Parl-Ar smiled broadly, thinking of that future day when he spoke, when he asked his patient wife to forgive him for all the blows of frustration he had battered her with. Tears of self-pity came to his eyes as he turned the handle of the wine cask spigot, and wine, the color of rose, seeped delicately into clear crystal glasses.

The three hundred plus six sounded opposing views, and between their own part in the many disputes and opinions, they sipped the polluted wine. They grew increasingly hot and agitated, and pulled at the tight collars about their necks. Some unbuttoned their shirts, stripping to the waist. They lost control of their voices, so they shouted. Their thoughts mired in murky quibbling waters, so they couldn't think cohesively, and just before all sanity flew before the onslaught, everyone in the tavern marveled at the potency of the wine tonight!

Parl-Ar, who was himself allergic to wine, and never, never drank, watched in incredulous disbelief as his patrons, his neighbors, the friends of his childhood, turned upon one another, smashing strong fists into noses, breaking them. He heard the crunch of broken bones, the screams of pain and terror as men and women clawed and fought at each other. Oh, mountainous Gods, what is this madness? he thought, and turned his eyes all over the room, seeking the reason. He looked at the last wine keg brought up from the cellar, and for the first time noticed the powdery white ash. Leaning closer he sniffed. The acrid, bitter scent was familiar to him. His purple eyes widened in horror. Oh, Gods! What had he done! He threw a last long look at the murder going on behind him, and grabbed for his coat, and ran from the tavern. Someone saw him leave and screamed his name with such loathing, Parl-Ar shuddered even as he ran. But they caught him as once warfars had caught an overgrown, heavy puhlet with no natural defense. "Please, don't!" Parl-Ar tried to cry out, but his mouth only opened. It stayed that way, never to close.

In the frenzied slaughter that followed, no one was forgotten. Everyone who had ever annoyed or irritated, or even looked hard at another, was sought out and torn apart. Those who hadn't drunk of the poisoned wine ran through the night, seeking a way to escape, wondering what hell had been let loose.

Asleep in her bed, Parl-Ar's wife heard the front door of her home open. "Is that you, Parl-Ar?" she called out, and when no one banged on the wall, her husband's way of responding, she got up and drew on a robe. Stampeding up her stairs were animals she couldn't recognize as human. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed. And her mouth was still open when she died.

An hour later, those that still lived ran, frothing at the mouth, screaming for revenge not yet satisfied.

Discord in Far-Awndra

I
n the underground mines of Brail-Lee on the outskirts of Bari-Bar, the conveyor belts transported heaped-up streams of the golden-yellow pufar hulls, scooped free of mushy fruit. At the end of the line, they were dumped into giant vats, where huge crushers came down and pulverized them into minute particles. Long ago, Far-Awn and his brothers had done this all by hand, with stone mallets and backbreaking effort. That was the original raw beginning. This was the polished, smooth ending, all done by machines.

"What is this?" roared Barkan, over the noise of the conveyors, as he spied one long brown ribbon belt that carried not one single yellow sunbaked hull. "What has happened to those argumentative fools of Bari-Bar?" he continued on in his raspy, too-loud voice that nearly deafened everyone else when he was away from the factory. The conveyer belt from Bari-Bar wasn't bringing in one single hull--and they had a signed contract that demanded four bruns of hulls to arrive by the second sunup. Already it was way past that time. Barkan, a huge, burly man with fierce dark eyes, turned and barked at his assistant: "Call those fools down there, ask if they are debating so keenly now they can't tend to their business! You tell them to get those hulls here--and quick!"

The young assistant hurried off, to return in minutes with a very odd report: "Sir, it is most strange. No one responds. I turned on the scanner and viewed their loading rooms. They are full of hulls all ready to be loaded on the belts, but not one worker in sight."

This was incredible! Things didn't go wrong like this on Upper Dorraine; in Lower Dorraine, such as this could be expected as the natural routine. Barkan blazed his eyes at his young, trembling assistant, as if all this were his fault. The Bari-Barians were a queer lot, but dependable. They had quick, snappish tongues, foul tempers, but they were hard workers. By the Gods, this was so unusual, it was unreal!

Barkan was not foreman of his plant because he left anything difficult to someone else. He would see to this matter himself, and show those farmers down there who had a real temper! And there wouldn't be any debating--just plain orders, get them here or else! Barkan stalked in a determined way to a conveyor constructed to hold men instead of fruit, and he rode it to the telescope, and jumped off with considerable agility. There he put his eye to the instrument and thoroughly scanned the hull-loading rooms of Bari-Bar. He covered every inch trice over, paused and thought about it, and then sounded an alarm buzzer that should wake up the dead in Bari-Bar. No one answered. He impatiently pushed every button on the panel of many that kept Bari-Bar in contact with the rest of El Dorraine. He knew personally several of the headmen there, so he called their homes. He was met with defeat there too. No one responded to his urgent ringings.

"This is indeed one mystery," he said in an unusually quiet and thoughtful manner, so that his tender assistant had to ask twice for him to repeat his statement.

The enigma grew in breadth and scope as the silence from Bari-Bar continued. Barkan contacted the officials of his city. They called the officials of other cities, and many theories were expounded over the communication wires. "Someone ought to go there..." a reluctant official said, someone besides himself. If there was one kind of person he didn't want to meet, it was someone from Bari-Bar.