Read Into the Thinking Kingdoms Online
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #FIC009000
Into the Thinking Kingdoms (9 page)
“It was not I.” Ehomba shifted his grip on his spear, making sure to carry it parallel to the ground.
“Hoy, I know that. It’s never you.” The swordsman smiled sardonically.
“Meruba gave me the starfish. She knows more about the little bays that dimple our coast than anyone else in the village. Many are the days I have seen her wading farther out than even bold fishermen would dare go. She always seemed to know just where to put her feet. She told me that if ever I found myself lost in water with no place certain to stand, to use the starfish and it would help me.”
Simna saw that the failing roadbed led toward the nearest of the low, rounded hills that comprised the northern reaches of the Jarlemone Marshes. He hoped the solid dirt underfoot would last until they reached it. The rate of erosion seemed to be increasing.
“What magic do you think trapped all those horses here in the first place?” Simna asked him.
“Who can say? It might have been no more than confusion. Confusion is a great constrictor, ensnaring people as well as animals in its grasp. Once let loose, it feeds upon itself, growing stronger with each uncertainty that it accrues to its bloating body. It makes a tough, invisible barrier that once raised is hard to break through.” He shrugged. “Or it might have been a curse, though who could curse creatures so beautiful? Or an act of Nature.”
“Not any Nature I know.” Simna’s sandals pad-padded rhythmically against the crumbling but still supportive surface underfoot.
“There are many Natures, Simna. Most people look at the world and see only one, the one that affects them at that particular moment. But there are many. To see them one has to look deeper. You should spend more time in the country and less in town. Then you would get to see the many Natures.”
“I have enough trouble coping with the one, hoy. And I happen to like towns and cities. They have taverns, and inns, and comradeship, and indoor plumbing, and screens to keep out annoying flying things.” He looked over at his friend, loping along lithe as an antelope beside him. “Not everyone is enamored of a life of standing on one leg in the wilderness acting as servant to a bunch of dumb cattle.”
Ehomba smiled gently. “The Naumkib serve the cattle and the cattle serve us. As do the sheep, and the chickens and pigs. We are happy with the arrangement. It is enough for us.”
“A thousand blessings on you and your simple village and simple people and simple lifestyle. Me, I aspire to something more than that.”
“I hope you find it, Simna. You are a good person, and I hope that you do.”
“Oh, I’ll find it, all right! All I have to do is stick to you like a tick on a dog until we get to the treasure. You really don’t think I believe all this twaddle about devoted cattle-herding and wanting to live always in houses made of rock and whalebone and thatch, do you?”
“I thought once that you might. You have shown me many times how wrong I was to think that.”
“By Ghocuun, that’s right! So don’t think to slough me off like an old shirt with tales of how much you delight in cleaning up daggy sheep or sick cows. You’re a man, just as I am, and you want what all men do.”
“And what would that be, Simna?”
“Wealth and power, of course. The treasure of Damura-sese, if it is to be had. Whatever treasure you seek if the lost city really is nothing more than a legend.”
“Of course. Do not worry, Simna. I will not try to discourage you. You are too perceptive for me.”
“Hoy, that’s for sure.” Confident in his insight, the swordsman kept a stride or two ahead of the tall southerner, just to show that he could do so whenever he wished.
The hills were drawing near, but beneath their feet the roadway was crumbling ever more rapidly as the marsh sought to reclaim that which had been temporarily raised up from its murky depths. From a width of twenty feet and more the causeway had shrunk to a path less than a yard wide. Down this the travelers ran in single file, increasing their pace. Simna led the way, followed by Ehomba, with Ahlitah effortlessly bringing up the rear. From a yard in width the path shrank by a third, and then a half, until it seemed only a matter of time until they found themselves leaping from one last dry mound to the next.
But they never had to wade. Before the last of the road ceased to exist completely they were standing on dry, grassy land that sloped gently upwards. Turning to look back as they caught their breath, they saw the last stretches of starfish road dissipate, dissolving back into the surrounding waters like a bar of chocolate left too long out in the sun. Exhausted from their run, they settled down on the welcoming green grass and sought in their packs for something to eat.
Before them, the Jarlemone Marshes spread out in all directions, flat and reed-choked, bustling with life both above and below the still waters—but empty of horse.
“This would be a fine place to make a home,” Ehomba commented conversationally. “Good grazing for animals, enough of a rise to provide a view yet not subject to landslips, plenty of birds to catch and fish to net.”
Simna was biting into a dried apple. “Wait until the people of Lybondai find out that the crazy horses are gone and they can cross the marshland at will. I give this place six months until it looks just like the city suburbs.”
The herdsman frowned. “An unpretty picture. The grass will be gone with the quiet.”
The swordsman waved the apple at his friend. “Not everyone is like the Naumkib, Etjole. Not everyone finds delight in emptiness and solitude. Most people like to be around other people. When they’re not, they get nervous, and lonely.”
Resting his chin on his crossed arms, the tall southerner leaned forward. “How strange. When I am around large groups of people, I find myself more lonely than ever. But when I am out in the open spaces, with the wind and the trees and the streams and the rocks for company, I am not lonely at all.”
“But you miss your family,” Simna reminded him.
“Yes. I miss my family.” Rising abruptly, he picked up his pack. “And while very pleasant, sitting here is not bringing me any closer to them.”
“Hoy, wait a minute!” Simna scrambled to gather up his own belongings. “I haven’t finished my apple yet!”
A short distance away, the litah snorted softly. He had caught a fish and was using his claws to dismember it delicately. Now he was forced to swallow his catch whole. That was fine for his stomach, but not for his attitude. He would have enjoyed lingering over the tasty prize. But the taller human was on the move again. The cat would be glad when Ehomba finished what he had started. This vow of feline fealty was taking them ever farther from the litah’s beloved veldt.
Still, a promise was a promise. With a sigh, he rose from the edge of the marsh and padded off after the retreating humans, growling resignedly under his breath.
VII
The War of the Flowers
N
o one knew exactly when the battle for the valley had begun. The origins of the conflict were lost in the mists of time, flowers being very interested in mist but considerably less so in chronology.
o one knew exactly when the battle for the valley had begun. The origins of the conflict were lost in the mists of time, flowers being very interested in mist but considerably less so in chronology.
Blessed with growing conditions that were only rarely less than perfect, the blossoming plants had thrived on the hilltops and hillsides. For reasons unknown, the soil that so willingly nourished florescence proved inhospitable to the larger woody plants. Trees and bushes never became established. Most of the errant seeds that were dropped by birds or bats or dragonites never germinated. Those that did quickly found themselves shouldered aside by the vigorous perennials. Blossoms and leaves expanded in the sun, stealing the light and suffocating any hopeful treelets before they could reach the status of sapling. Layers of accumulated ancient nutrients and just the right amount of vital trace minerals ensured perpetual flowering, and every year rain fell when and where necessary: enough to slake but not to wash soil from tender roots.
Damaging hail and wind were unknown. The climate varied lazily between balmy and temperate, never searing hot or killing cold. There were no frosts and no droughts. Grazing animals did not visit the hills, and those insects that were not overtly beneficial were tolerated. These never swarmed in damaging numbers, never achieved the status of a plague. Bees and wasps, birds and beetles and bats took their turn attending to the matter of pollination. And the flowers throve, layering the gentle hills with exorbitant splashes of stunning color, as if some Titan of aesthetic bent had taken a giant’s brush and palette to the rolling terrain.
In all this kingdom of flowers only one tract did not bloom. In its very center lay a broad, shallow valley where so much moisture accumulated that the soil became a veritable sponge, too loose and uncompacted to support normal root growth. Long ago the little valley had become a bog, which is a swamp without attitude. In its waterlogged reaches grew ferns and liverworts, but none of the noble blooms. A patrician rose would not have been caught out with blight in such surroundings, and gladioli and snapdragon recoiled from the stench of decomposing vegetation and insects. So tenancy of the valley was left to the flowers’ poor cousins, the epiworts and fungi.
Centuries passed, and the flowers were content. On the beneficent hills nothing changed. The summer rains came and were replaced by the winter rains. The sun shifted its arc across the sky but was never less than accommodating. Blossoms opened and closed, petals fell and were replaced, and the empire of color was not challenged.
But while the hills stayed untouched and inviolate, change began to come to the valley. Imperceptible at first, it did not attract notice until the ferns began to die. Soon even the tough fungi started to disappear, vanishing from the shady places and decaying hollows as if abducted. Perhaps some sort of subterranean drain had opened beneath the valley, siphoning off the surplus water that had for so long accumulated there. Or maybe subtle earth movements had compacted the saturated soil so that it no longer held unnecessary rainfall as effortlessly.
The valley was drying up. No, not up—out. It was becoming exactly like the hills that surrounded it. With one exception: Because of all the plant matter that over the centuries had decayed and accumulated in the soggy depression, the soil that resulted was incredibly rich, improbably productive, supremely nourishing. Forever restricted to their ancestral ranges by untenable sandy soils marking their far boundaries, the many varieties of flowering plants that blanketed the hills suddenly found themselves presented with a new phenomenon—room for expansion. This they proceeded to do, sending out shoots and roots and dropping seed at an accelerated rate.
In doing so, they eventually and inevitably bumped up against other flowers from other hillsides attempting to assert their right to the recently reclaimed land. Something new had arrived in the land of the flowers. Something foreign and hitherto unknown.
Competition.
No species needed to move into the valley to survive. No variety or hybrid was in danger of extinction. But the attractions of the enriched soil and open space would not be ignored. Like drugs, they drew every plant in the vicinity forward. New flowers expanded in ecstasy under the stimulus of untapped nutrients and brazen sunshine. And then, they began to crowd one another.
In the past this could not happen. Every flower knew its ancestral space and kept to it, every root acknowledged the primacy of its neighbor. But the novelty of newly opened land had not come with rules. Roots made contact, recoiled uncertainly, and then thrust outward afresh, seeing no reason why they should not. Rootlets began to push against one another, and then to twist, and to attempt to strangle. Above the surface, stems fought to be the first to put forth leaves to catch the life-giving sunlight, and then to blossom and attract insects.
Strife led to adaptation. Flowers grew faster, stronger, taller. Roots became more active, more prehensile, as they did battle for control beneath the surface. Alliances were struck among species. Bold but defenseless camas and fuchsia sought the protection of thorned roses. Verbena and tulip huddled close to poisonous oleander.
Continuous and unrelenting competition led to rapid mutation as first one variety and then another fought for dominance of the fertile valley. Not to be outdone or intimidated by the roses, rhododendron grew thorns of its own. Poppies sprouted tendrils that curled like snakes, coiling around the stems of other flowers and tightening until they cut through the defenseless plant matter. Zinnias developed the ability to raise up on their roots and move, albeit slowly, across the surface, avoiding the skirmishing roots below. Peonies and gladioli seeped caustic liquids from their petals to burn any competing flower that grew too near.
Larkspurs and marigolds put forth leaves with knifelike edges that twitched like green Samurai if another plant came close. Hibiscus and frangipani and other tropicals tried to dominate the senses of pollinating insects by escalating their emissions, thereby denying those life-continuing services to less aromatic growths. Raffelesia flailed at sprouting stems with already massive red and green leaves. Across the length and breadth of the valley the conflict raged, for the most part invisible, insensible, and so slowly that anyone passing through would not have seen or thought anything amiss. This did not matter, since no one was ever present to observe and decide if what was happening in the valley constituted normality or an aberration.
That is, until the three travelers arrived.
They paused for a long time at the top of the southernmost hill. Standing there, they gazed endlessly northward, as if there was something unique or unusual about the sight. As if the millions of flowers spread out before them in blazing profusion were something remarkable and not simply the product of centuries of placid, steady growth.
A silent rush spread throughout the hills as this unprecedented arrival was noted. From the flowers immediately proximate to the visitors there was an initial exhalation of apprehension. This vanished the instant it became apparent that the visitors were not grazers and that young shoots and new blossoms were in no danger of being consumed.
As the visitors resumed their northward march, a number of plants were stepped upon. This was inevitable, given that the flowers grew so closely together that there was no open space between them. But most were resilient enough to spring back, and those that were not provided gaps in which new seedlings would be able to germinate. The flowers did not complain. They bloomed, and tracked the progress of the wonderfully mobile visitors.
Despite the glaring differences between them, the travelers excited no feelings of animosity among the plants. Just like flowers, the three were of different color, shape, and size, showing that normal variation existed even among alien intruders. Similarly, they were crowned by rounded, blossom-like structures atop long stems, and a pair of attenuated forms like leaves protruded from these stems. Only their roots were unusual, giving them more motility than even the most mobile flowers. But taken as a whole, they were not so very different at all.
And they were moving straight for the valley that had long ago become a silent zone of horticultural conflict.
There they paused again. The sun was setting and, like all other growing things, they clearly needed to reduce their activity to coincide with the absence of sunlight. Prior to closing their petals and curling up their leaf-extensions for the night, they utilized wonderfully flexible stem-parts to remove objects from their dorsal sides. From within these they withdrew small bits of dead plant and animal matter, which they proceeded to ingest. The flowers were neither surprised nor appalled. There had long been pitcher plants and flytraps within their midst. In their method of taking nourishment the visitors were being nothing less than plantlike.
Strenuous competition had given a number of the flowers in the valley the ability to function after dark. They did this by storing extra fuel during the day for use after sunset. As soon as the visitors had gone quiescent, just like any normal plant during nighttime, these growths began to stir.
Tendrils of modified columbine and amaryllis twitched, arose, and slowly crept forward. They made contact with the motionless visitor shapes and delicately began to explore their trunks, feeling of roots and blossom-caps with the feathery extensions at their tips. One slumbering form raised a leaf-stem and with astonishing speed slapped at the tendril tip that was traveling gently across its bloom. The runner recoiled, bruised but otherwise undamaged.
The mass of the visitors was astonishing. They seemed to be almost as dense as trees, which the flowers knew from legend, before they had come to dominate the surrounding hills completely. Like plants, the now recumbent stems were composed mostly of water. Colorwise, they were for the most part undistinguished, a sure sign of primitiveness.
Then the probing tendrils made a shocking discovery. There was no indication anywhere within the stout bodies of the presence of chlorophyll! Among those flowers not entirely enveloped in the torpor of night a hasty reassessment was deemed in order. If not plants, what could the visitors be? Superficially, they were nothing like fungi. But fungi could assume many peculiar forms. And if not flower, fungi, or tree, then what? They were much too cumbersome to be insects, or birds.
It was proposed that they might be some monstrous exotic variety of wingless bat. While they seemed to have more in common with plants than bats, there were undeniable similarities. Bats had dense bodies, and were warm to the touch. That was fine for two of the creatures, but the third was completely different, not only from the average flower, but from its companions. It was a great puzzlement.
Identification and classification could wait. As the columbine and amaryllis withdrew their probing tentacles in opposite directions, all sides knew what had to be done. With the coming of the dawn, each would attempt to persuade the visitors to ally themselves with one faction or another. There could be no neutrality in the battle for control of the valley. If they were plants, or even distant relations, they would understand. Understanding, they would be able to make decisions.
And while each of the several blocs desired to make allies of the travelers, none were overwhelmed with concern. Except for their exceptional mobility and unusual mass, none of the three appeared to have any especially useful ability to contribute to the conflict. They boasted no thorns, exhibited no cutting leaves, gave no indication of containing potentially useful toxins. Their large but narrow stems could not steal the shade from a significant number of blossoms, and their drab coloration was hardly a threat to draw pollinators away from even the most unprepossessing common daisy.
Still, in the fight for the valley any ally was welcome. The travelers’ exceptional motility held the most promise, though what use a bloc of confederated flowers could make of it remained to be seen. Further evaluation would have to await the return of the sun.
Like any blossoming growth, the visitors’ stems strengthened and their leaves unfolded as the first light appeared over the horizon. Extending their leaf pedicels to their fullest extent, the travelers straightened from their resting positions and became fully vertical to greet the sun. One even held its ground for long moments, its bloom fully opened to take in the life-giving light. This action only reaffirmed the visitors’ kinship to the brilliant fields of color that surrounded them. Of one thing the flowers were now certain: Whatever they might be, the travelers were no fungi.
But they were too mobile, too free-ranging to be flowers. Some strange combination of batlike creature and plant, perhaps. As the flowers warmed and strengthened under the effects of the rising sun, they considered how best to proceed.
It was the phlox that moved first. Coiled tendrils extended, hesitantly at first, then with increasing determination, to curl around the lower limbs of two of the visitors. At first the newcomers simply shrugged them off, but as the several became dozens and the dozens became hundreds, they reacted more vigorously, emitting loud sounds on frequencies very different from those of bats.
When they backed away, tearing at the clutching tendrils, the orchids saw their chance. In their multitudinous variety, orchids had acquired a great command of chemistry. Operating on the theory that the desirable visitors had more in common with bats than flowers, they generated in one concerted push a single vast exhalation of nectar. The sticky, sweet liquid coated the startled visitors, rendering them flush with stimulation, but they did not react gratefully. Instead of throwing themselves into alliance with the orchids and their collaborators, they began wiping at themselves with their leaves. It was much the sort of reaction a plant might have, since one growth had no need of another’s nectar. Perhaps they were not so batlike after all.
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