Parallax View (17 page)

“How far are we going, Bron?”

“Approximately five kays south, to where they have an encampment.”

The two men followed the aliens, and soon the heavy foliage closed in around them, shutting them off from the clearing. Mackendrick became suddenly aware of the heat, the humidity in the air.

He could think of nothing but his son, and the danger he faced. Philip had always been a sensible boy, mature beyond his years. He was not the kind to take foolish risks.

So why was Mackendrick trekking into the Shand heartlands to take part in Philip’s trial?

The track through the forest straightened out. Now Mackendrick could see two Shands at the head of the procession. Between them they carried what looked like the dried pelt of one of their kind, slung like a stretcher between two parallel poles.

From the rear, a steady chanting rose up, an eerie ululation that echoed through the forest. Mackendrick had never heard anything so unnerving in his life. He glanced back and saw two Shands carrying another pelt at the back of the procession.

Bronowski met his look. “We have entered sacred territory now,” he said. “Our hosts are negotiating our safe passage with their ancestral spirits. The first skin is that of an outcast – his wild spirit allows us passage. The second skin is that of a revered elder, sealing and reconsecrating the way after us. The Shandikar use the skins of their ancestors as a medium through which they speak to the souls of the departed.”

Mackendrick was familiar with this spirit worship from his days as Overseer. It was this pseudo-religious gobbledegook that had attracted Belinda to the Shands nearly seven years before, tearing the family apart – first with rows and then with far worse.

After what seemed like hours, the path began to climb, and through the forest canopy Mackendrick glimpsed the spur of rock which, honeycombed with cave-mouths, was the home of this particular tribe.

They passed from the forest and into the full, ruddy light of Antares. Among the rocks scattered around a wide area, Mackendrick saw thousands of aliens. They were sitting on their heels, arms wrapped about their shoulders so that their flying webs shawled their knees and shins. They regarded the humans in accusatory silence.

The leader of the Shands spoke to Bronowski, who translated for Mackendrick. “Your son is in that cave.” He indicated a dark opening several metres up the nearest cliff-face. “You have only a matter of minutes before the hearing begins. You can talk with him until then.”

There was a pole, lashed with cross-struts, propped against the cliff. They must have made it specially for the humans, Mackendrick supposed.

He hesitated for a long time before approaching the rickety ladder and climbing up to the cave.

Philip sat just in the shadow of the cave-mouth, where he could see out across the settlement. Now, he stared at his father, his face expressionless.

Mackendrick didn’t know what to say, where to start after so long. He opened his mouth, but it was Philip who spoke first.

“So,” he said. “You couldn’t stay away, then. You and death are never far apart...”

~

He had only ever wanted to stop her from getting out of her depth. He couldn’t bear to lose her.

Six and a half standard years ago, just as suddenly as they had taken a renewed interest in the human settlers and set up a camp near the reservation, the Shandikar had decided to move on. Some of their human followers accepted their decision gracefully. Others were distraught, like children abandoned by their parents.

Others still had taken it as a sign. Whether the Shands had said anything explicitly or not, these humans had taken their decision as an invitation: not only were the Shands moving on, but so too were their human followers.

Clearly, Mackendrick could not sit back and let this happen. The human settlement had been negotiated under strict terms with the Shandikar nearly eighty years before: under conditions stipulated both by Shandikar law and Earth’s Code of Settlement, any human movement beyond agreed boundaries had to be strictly limited. As Planetary Overseer, Mackendrick could not have groups of settlers simply wandering off into the heartlands because a group of Shands may or may not have said it was okay. His position was clear.

It was nothing to do with the fact that Belinda wanted to go along with them, that she was one of the prime movers behind the cult’s decision to follow the Shands.

It had nothing to do with Belinda at all.

Even now, after more than six years, he could close his eyes and instantly he was back in his office in the government building in the town of Lieutenant’s Creek, his comms panel shrilling at him. Its tone was no different to any other of the forty or fifty calls he took in an average day, but he had known instantly that it was a portent of disaster.

If he closed his eyes he could see quite clearly the look on Captain Rosetti’s face: the reluctance, the guilt, the responsibility.

“Overseer Mackendrick,” he had said in his soft Bronx twang. “I’m sorry but I have to inform you of an irregularity in this morning’s operation.”

Irregularity
. Official language could express tragedy in such neutral terms. Mackendrick had ordered the police in to prevent the cult members from following the Shands, but, under Rosetti’s command, they had interpreted their instructions far too enthusiastically. Of twenty-seven cult members, they had arrested twelve and – when one officer had opened fire they had all joined in – killed eight. The remaining seven had fled and were traced over the next few days lying low in the town.

Belinda had been one of the eight. She had been a part of Rosetti’s
irregularity
.

He had only wanted to stop her from doing anything foolish.

Mackendrick and Bronowski were invited to sit at the centre of the packed earth clearing in the shadow of the spur, the five Shand seated in arrow-head formation before them. A glossy silver pelt was carefully spread across the rocks nearby – even the spirits of the dead, Mackendrick recalled, must attend such a gathering. Philip sat to one side, hemmed in by a cordon of Shand guards, a spectator at his own hearing.

All around, perched one above the other on the rocks like an audience of crows or vultures, were the rest of the tribe, regarding the humans impassively. As backdrop, the great ruddy hump of Antares fulminated in majestic silence.

The elder Shand spoke.

Bronowski leaned towards Mackendrick and translated, in a low, reverent mutter. “They will first recount Philip’s ... misdemeanours, then they will inform us... you... of his punishment.”

“Can we appeal?” It all sounded very final. “Can I speak on his behalf?” In only three of the hearings he had attended before as Overseer had he been allowed to speak. He wondered if his role as blood-tied-speaker might allow him to do so now, but after a brief exchange with the elder, Bronowski shook his head.

“The punishment has already been decided upon,” he told Mackendrick. “Apparently there has already been some kind of preliminary hearing.”

Now, another Shand stood and started to speak. It was as tall as the elder, with a jet black pelt and aggressive, twitchy mannerisms.

“Early today,” Bronowski translated, “as the gracious Antares rested on the horizon ... Philip trespassed ... or ‘invaded’, he says – the speaker’s intonation is very hostile. Philip invaded sacred territory. A burial ground on the western fringe of the Kazkah Stones. It is one of this tribe’s most sacrosanct plots of ground, where they bury their most exalted elders. Philip tainted the hallowed ground by allowing his unclean, or unblessed, shadow to come between their god, Antares, and the holy earth.”

Bronowski paused, and Mackendrick felt a sudden, heady surge of optimism. Surely such a transgression was trivial! But he reminded himself that he was dealing with alien minds, alien priorities. He recalled the case he had dealt with nine or ten years ago: a teenager who had committed a similar offence had escaped lightly – he had merely been blinded in punishment...

The elder spoke again. Minutes later, Bronowski translated hesitantly.

“Quite apart from desecrating holy ground with his shadow, Philip addressed the attendant of the burial ground.” Now, Bronowski refused to look at Mackendrick as he went on: “The attendant was a holy man, a shaman. He had taken a vow of silence as a juvenile, more than fifty standard years ago. The only time he spoke was with the voices of the dead. He was ... their word translates most closely as
pure
, but it has a far more spiritual, extreme meaning than that one word can convey. He was intensely pure and now, having been addressed by an unclean alien he is no longer pure. He is no longer a suitable vessel for the spirits to use.”

Bronowski indicated the silvery pelt, spread out nearby. “The holy man killed himself immediately, as was his duty. He attends this trial in spirit only.”

Mackendrick swallowed. He glanced across at his son, wondering how much of this he was taking in. He knew Philip had studied Shandikar culture, but he did not know if he was talented enough a linguist to follow the proceedings as Bronowski could.

Philip just sat there, meeting Mackendrick’s glance with a steely, defiant glare.

“Without their shaman,” Bronowski continued, “the tribe are without their connection to the spirit world. They have no
hethetherah
. They are without god. Their fall from grace will last several weeks, until a new shaman is selected. In the meantime, Antares demands recompense: a temporary vessel must be substituted.”

Through his grief, Mackendrick’s pragmatism asserted itself. “Ask the elder what can be done,” he told Bronowski. “Whatever is in my power to do I will do. We need to get Philip out of here, Bron.”

Bronowski spoke and the Shands listened.

The elder replied briefly, then immediately rose and turned away.

“We must go with them,” Bronowski said. “I think they want us to witness Philip’s punishment.”

Mackendrick swallowed grimly, then climbed to his feet. He looked at Philip again, said, “You’ll be okay, Phil, do you hear? It’ll all work out.”

Philip spat into the dirt as his guards led him after the elder.

The procession marched diagonally across the foot of the nearest cliff-face, then headed through a narrow defile to a rocky platform which looked out across the fringe of the forest, full into the bloody glare of Antares.

In the clearing below, two teams of Shands were hauling on ropes. They were pulling the tops of two whip-like tree-ferns down so that their crowns touched at ground level. When they had done this, they lashed the trees to stakes in the ground, so that their trunks described great curved bows against the glowering sun.

The elder had been speaking, and now Bronowski resumed his translation. “The elders have decided that Philip must atone for his crimes by becoming a temporary vessel for the ancestral spirits. Humans can be used for this, but only at the extremes of their existence. He will be treated with psychotropic drugs, which they have found in the past to be efficacious in opening up the human mind. And then ... then he will be tied between the trunks and the trees will be returned to their former positions. He will remain there, under the eye of their god, Antares, until a new shaman can be selected, or until he dies, whichever comes first.” Bronowski fell silent and bowed his head.

Mackendrick was aware of the watching eyes of the Shands all around him. As if they were waiting to see how he would respond.

He tried to speak, but couldn’t. He swallowed, started again. “Tell them that Philip did not know what he was doing. Tell them it was an accident, a mistake.”

But Bronowski remained silent.

“Bron?”

In a voice almost too soft to hear, Bronowski said, “But Philip is an archaeologist, Mr Mackendrick. I spoke to him only two weeks ago about Shand religious practices. He is very well informed on the matter.”

Mackendrick stared at his friend.

Bronowski said, “So you see, for whatever reasons, your son must have intended all this...” and he gestured towards the drawn trees, poised ready for their victim.

The elder Shand was speaking again. Bronowski listened, an expression of surprise on his face. “In Shandikar law,” he translated, “a compromise can sometimes be negotiated.”

“What?” Mackendrick snapped. “What is it?”

“That’s why they were so adamant that a blood-tied-speaker should attend,” Bronowski said.

“Tell me!”

Unable to meet his former superior’s look, Bronowski told him: “You can take your son’s place,” he said. “You can be punished on his behalf.”

They were leading Philip across the clearing below, now. Mackendrick did not have long. He stared at Bronowski, waited until his look was met. “He knew this would happen, didn’t he?”

Bronowski shrugged. “He is an intelligent man.”

Mackendrick nodded. Six and a half years... Six and a half years to avenge his mother’s death.

He reached out and squeezed Bronowski’s arm. “Tell them I wish to go in Philip’s place. Tell them I will be their temporary vessel.”

Bronowski hesitated.

“Tell them!” Mackendrick said.

Bronowski spoke, and immediately the elder gestured sharply and called down to the group leading Philip to his punishment.

Mackendrick stared at his son’s pale face. He couldn’t blame him for this. “Philip!” he called down. “I’m sorry, Philip. You can go back with Bron. I accept everything!”

But it wasn’t as he had expected. Philip jerked away from his guards as understanding seeped through. “No!” Mackendrick heard him cry. “No, leave him out of this!”

And Philip ran towards the trees.

If not revenge, then what?

When Mackendrick arrived at the two bent trees, Philip was sprawled on the ground, sobbing into the dirt.

“It’s over, Philip,” Mackendrick said softly.

Then Philip looked up with such pain in his eyes that Mackendrick finally understood. It was just like him – cynical, rational, calculating – to assume that his son was after revenge, but it was something far more than that, something Mackendrick could barely even begin to touch.