Ursus of Ultima Thule (12 page)

“The guards,” said Aar. “Aye, ehh’ng, be sure, be sure, ‘twas that skulk-crow as sped the word to their crank lord.” And in the nain-tongue he said a word. The men came not fast ahead, they moved slowly, irresolute. And in the dim glow of the fire and the thin haze of the smoke the nains began another sort of dance. They moved their feet up and down and they leaned forward and they waved their long, long arms. They did not actually move an ell along the tunnel floor, but in the misty, swimmy light, dim and flickering, it seemed as though they did move, did advance; and the men, moaning, dismayed, retreated.

Then at the edge of his ear Arnten heard the sound which had tapped below the surface, the thin
tap-tap, tump-tump
, of a witchery drum. And the soldiers milled about, cried out in alarm and unease. A spurt of fresh air cleared vision for a moment and a way ahead and now it was Arnten who cried out and a murmur went up. For back, far back, as far back as they could see in the main corridor came a marching column, a marching double column, a dancing double column, of figures which were manlike but were no men, a-waving in their tiny hands the menace of tiny spears.

And the witch-drum beat and the witch-things came and the men cried out and turned and turned.

Said one nain voice, amused and scorning, “Do they come at us with mandrakes, then? Nay’ng! The children o’ the forge know a power or two for that.”

Swiftly said the elder Aar, “ ‘Tis not against us that they deploy the mandrakes, ‘tis to force on the men o’ the king who know no power, let alone two, for that.”

Arn, without one word, picked up one of the water buckets and went straightway into the smoke-filled hole of the hare, pausing a moment at the entrance to pick up a fallen bit of bracken and dip it in the water and crush the dripping frond against his nose and mouth. In a moment came a hissing sound and a cloud of steam rolled out and all firelight was quenched.

But not for long, for torches now made appearances farther down the main corridor. The men, fearing the mandrakes more than the nains, came closer.

Arn emerged, stumbling, seized another bucket, and again entered the cave. Again there was a hissing and a sizzling and again a cloud of steam. And a long pause — and Arnten held his breath and feared. And then the bear emerged again.

“The fire be out,” he said, low and urgent. “And now it comes time to take these two last buckets of water and toss them on the hot rock. Do they crack well, we may all yet take our leave. And if not — ” He shrugged. A huge mass of smoldering bracken was dragged out, picked up, heaved toward the advancing soldiery — who cried out, fell back into the smoke and gloom. And the drums beat and the mandrakes moved.

Now, all at once, all were in the place whence the hare had fled. Somehow there was light, light of a thin gray sort, obscured by steam, by smoke, but light. And Arnten felt the floor hot, hot against his feet and hissed his pain. He saw his father toss one bucket, heard him toss the second. Heard a cracking sound. And a second. Heard the nains give cry to their satisfaction. Heard the almost desperate cries of the kingsmen as they charged. Heard the sound of spears striking against wall and floor. Heard the sound of spear striking against flesh. Heard his voice raised in a wail as he saw his father stumble upon one knee with one spear into him. Saw Aar-heved-heved-aar fall and saw him crawl and saw him writhe and heard his death rattle.

Saw Bear seizing the very rims of the hole of the rock and smelled his flesh burn and saw his shoulders writhe and saw the rock face crack still more. Cried out and wailed again as he saw his father turn toward him, face grim and hideous and smudged with ash and soot and blood spurting from nose and mouth. Saw that protruding from his father’s flesh which he knew was the bloodied head of a spear. Felt his father seize him up and swing him around and protect his smaller body and thrust him through the hole in the rock whence came the milky light of dawn. Felt the last great thrust of that great body and saw the mine vanish from sight and felt the hot rock graze his side and saw the sky and felt himself fall. And roll. And move, crawling, crawling. Leaves in his mouth, dust in his nostrils, smoke all about him. Then no smoke about him. Writhing on his belly like a wounded snake. No more smoke. Shouts and cries in his mind alone. Then silence falling in his mind.

His father.

His father’s face.

His father’s deed.

At this last moment his father had said no word.

His deed had been enough.

The outlands seemed somehow not the same as before, but he had not the time to let his mind consider how or why. It had to concentrate on three things and the first and greatest of these was to make good his escape. For the moment he did indeed seem to be free — at least he could hear no sound of pursuit, and, now he had paused, could see none either. He had hidden himself in a thicket to do his necessity. Partly, this was automatic, for the commonmost ingredient of maleficent witchery was anything which had come from the body: what one could not burn, one buried; therefore all such doings as combing the hair or cutting the nails or easing oneself were done alone and unseen. And, his being in the bush was further pragmatic, it would enable him to see others before they could see him. His eyes peered about through the leafy screening, but the only sounds he could hear were birdsounds and the only moving thing he saw was a crow flapping its way above.
Nine generations lives the crow
was an old wiseword. Nine. Nine … What else was nine … a babe was nine, no, ten moons … but … ah!
Nine days lasts the shuddering bear
. Yes. He had not asked Arntat about that, and now — He pressed his cheeks up tightly and saw the thicket melt into his tears. Well, perhaps he had made good his escape, that was one thing. The second was that this alone was not enough, that he had to make his way to wizardland and feed the wizards there. And the third was, of course, that he could hardly think of actually making his way thither anymore than he could think of swimming across the all-circling sea to the barbar-lands. Where he and his father were for reasons unfathomable supposed to have been, he thought. And he thought about those far-off places, and of the land which had no end. Someday he would go there. As for now — He had in his hands leaves picked up to clean himself, and as he moved now to do so, he looked at them without knowing why, this time not carelessly but carefully. And realized why the outlands now seemed not the same as before. It was no longer the season of the spring and of the rich, swift-rushing green of everything. It was through the summer that they had toiled where no thing grew. And now it was the early fall, the last moments of the ripening: and then began the wither and decay: and then the long, slow death-time which was winter.

And when that time did come, where would he be?

• • •

When next he climbed, first a hill and then the tallest tree upon it, he did see men, near enough to make no doubt of it, and some had the white headband of couriers and some had not; he saw a wedge of swans flying south and heard their magic trumpet-call, high up. “Tell the nains I live!” he cried. “I live, I live! And have not forgotten!” and the wedge widened and then narrowed as it was before and the wild cry answered him. He saw beneath him a crow again, which might have been the same slow-flapping crow and — perhaps the hills threw back sound from side to side, warping as the water warps the image of that beneath it — its caw and cry sounded more like a man mocking it than a true corby itself. Arnten gripped the tree and hunched and peered at the distant figures, smaller than mennikins, mandrakes … man-ant small. Like ants now they began to swarm, the croaking of the crow grew fainter and ceased, the men defiled westward, towards the sun’s own line of descent, the bits of white bobbing. Then all were gone. Arnten relaxed his grip upon the tree. The sun slanted down the sky away from him, the kingmen sloped their arms and legs away from him. He was at least safe for now, he could not know if they had found a false trail, if they were hunting a trail true but another’s, if they had abandoned pursuit —

For now, at least, he was safe, and that was enough.

He had fled too fast to find much food, but though he was hungry and gaunted, whatever he had eaten however long ago he had eaten it, it was enough. He had fled too fast to take much rest, but whatever rest he had taken however long ago he had taken it, it was enough. And all at once, now he was safe, it ceased to be enough: his empty gut gnawed at him, and weariness hit him like a club.

Tightly, he gripped both branch and bole, fearful of falling, then forced himself to loose his grip and — slowly, slowly — to dismount the tree. He came down more warily, as more wearily, than he had gone up: slip, pause, heart beating fast, a groping and a gripping with his farther foot, nigh one half-doubled against body, and cramped: something cracked — slipped: frantic grappling — lunge: all safe, for now.

But one hand was wet with sap where …

He pressed his face to his gummy hand, licked at it without looking or thinking. It was sweet, but it was not (his sudden thought) maple-sweet. Recognition and fear came together: honey, bees, swarmsting. He wanted at once to be gone; he at once wanted to eat his hunger-belly full of honey; he wanted to keep from any sudden motions which would alert the bee-guards. And as he clung, motionless as he could manage, one eye only with its unbidden roving told him anything, the other being too close to the tree itself; and this free eye told him that the nest was as full of comb as it was empty of colonists. He got another grip, crept around for a closer and further look. He held his breath and hearkened. There was not even a breeze to rustle the dying leaves. Perhaps he heard the faint, coarse clamor of the Corby-crow; perhaps it was in his memory alone.

But of humming or of buzzing, the dead air brought no hint.

He hesitated no longer, though he wondered much: thrust in his nearest hand, filled his mouth with wax-comb, honey, grubs, and all. And chewed and gobbled and swallowed and sucked. For long moments his mind and face were blank as a babe’s while it nurses. Then the thought welled, like water bubbling up through sand,
I will take some to the nain-friends and to my father-bear
, and then over the dampness and sweetness of the honeycomb in the hollow of the tree came the dry and sour stink of the ore-caves and the smoke of the burning bracken. And the rush of memory burning like the bracken fire. How many of the nain-friends could still live? Few or none. And Arntat, his father, close mate of his captivity, his comrade was beyond question dead, and he thought of how he died. And tears washed runnels in the dust of his face and, mingled with the sweetness of the honey, he tasted their bitterness.

The salt was yet on his tongue, and bitterness and hatred fresh in his heart, strength new in his limbs, when he prepared once more to descend the tree. And realized in one swift second the wrath and guile of the wolf-king still quick against him, for the kingsmen had this past while and past his sight been half-turning the circle, and now — from dead opposite where he had seen them last — all broke the cover of the forest to find and take him. He saw them. They saw him, too.

But they did not see him soon enough.

They were stronger than he and had fed better than he had. All their lives, in fact, they had fed better than he had all his. But he had now eaten more recently than they and the hour past while they had tramped and trudged and forded streams and beaten bushes, he had rested whilst he was eating. And, too, they ran for him as men run for a prize. But he ran for the greatest prize — he ran for his life. He thought, as he fled, how it seemed that he was either bound or fleeting, always. It was his weird to flee, to be caught and bound and so to flee again. So now, strength renewed, he fled the kingsmen. He fled to remain free, to avoid another closing of the circle. In his freedom lay his life: but in his life lay … what?

If he fed the wizards he would find the cure for iron. It was half in his mind that it might be better if iron died: would not then Orfas, who was king by virtue of his iron, die with it? But the nains said it would not be better, and the nains were his friends, had been his father’s friends; now that his father was dead they were his only friends … unless old Bab-uncle did still live … And somehow it was never at all clear in his mind, but somehow he dimly understood that iron was a thing of such great power that he who could cure its present ill must share somehow in that power.

And, so sharing, must thereafter needs never flee more.

So the pictures formed and shifted in his mind, and all the while he thought upon them, still he fled. He fled knowing that he should head north, where Nainland lay — and beyond, incalculably beyond, Wizardland — but
north
, here and now, was a way full of broken hills and jagged rock, gorges and cliffs and footing uncertain by reason of landslip and scree. It was fine country for evasion, if only it was a country which well he knew. But he did not. And to break leg or neck was by far too high a price to pay.

Vaguely, he thought he had seen a gleam of water from high up in the honey tree, between the north and the east. Water was an invariable, a commonplace necessity. The country roundabout did not so much lack for any springs and brooks, however. It was not drink alone he had in mind. It was no pool or pond he had in mind, filthy although he was from his long imprisonment and from his late journey of escape, and much though he would like to bathe. Did not the hunted deer whenever possible seek to lose his pursuers in river and in creek? And now, pausing a bit to press his ear to the mossy earth, and (as so long ago) noting no sound save the beating of his own heart — now he remembered what else a river meant to him.

It meant a reed, and a greenstone, and a beechnut, and a bear’s claw. It meant his quest for his father. It meant another hollow in another tree. It —

Something flashed in the corner of his eye, quivering and bright as a butterfly, full of colors as a rainbow. He turned, slowly, slowly, fearful of losing full sight of it as he also drew himself from the ground. The perry stood on the moss as though he would leave no print when next he moved. The expression on the perry’s narrow face was half-smile and half-dream. It was the perry-look he remembered from the twilight of the time when he lay healing in the dim green bower, after the Painted Man had half-killed him. A sight — and even now the memory of it made him hiss and glance about in terror — as frightful as that of the perry was joyful: and yet a joy full mixed with awe.