Zan-Gah and the Beautiful Country (4 page)

The bridge the wasp men had built over the chasm was still in place, which surprised Zan. In their final retreat, the wasp warriors had been too dazed by defeat and too hard pressed to think about dismantling this single passage connecting the two warring countries. In the many intervening months they had ample opportunity to cut themselves off from their victorious enemies. Why had they not?

“You see! They plan an attack! That is why they kept the bridge,” Dael roared. “But we will be the attackers and drink their blood, not they ours!” And his eyes lit up with their latent fire. Zan looked at him uneasily. For all his
desire to see the Beautiful Country, Zan had been hoping that there would be no crossing. Then they all could have gone home again. But there it was—a well-made span, consisting of a straight timber and two rails—opening the way like an invitation to any who dared to ignore the stupefying plunge beneath.

Dael and his Hru friends made their way across the bridge with more caution than bravado. Rydl, who was comfortable with heights, hopped across on one foot, making a mocking display of his acrobatic skill. The bridge shook, scaring everybody, especially Oin and Orah, who began to whimper aloud. Rydl could have crossed this bridge with his eyes closed. His people, the wasps, lived in trees, and it was high above the earth that he had first learned to walk, harnessed in his infancy for safety.

Zan and Pax went next. Pax was afraid of high places, and she clung to Zan's hand while Dael and his companions snickered at her weakness. Catching a word or two of their scorn, Pax bore up, and even paused to peer into the vertiginous depths. White birds were screaming around their nests, feeding their young, which cheered her a little when she got used to the height. She paused to pick up a fallen feather and tucked it in her buckskin garment close to her bosom. “Do you like it, Zan?” Yes, he did. A few more steps and they were on the other side.

Days were passing. The earth beneath their feet grew gradually redder and rockier as the group approached the land of red rocks. Zan and Rydl remembered the place
well, but no amount of familiarity could diminish the wonder of it, or the actual experience of the looming and fantastic towers of stone. Amazing palisades topped sheer red cliffs that flanked the broad passage of the valley; and a crimson brook, the only source of life in the parched red region, wandered through a maze of scattered boulders.

Rydl was the first to recognize the cave dugout—only one of many—where he and Zan had formerly taken shelter. When he pointed it out, Dael immediately saw the skull configuration, as if he had been looking for it, and called it to the attention of his two Hru friends. The cluster of rocks and pockets looked like a skull! Three pits made hollow eyes and nose, and an irregular ridge of stones just beneath formed a ghastly smile. Oin and Orah shuddered, and Pax was not gladdened when she identified a second skull formation in the irregularities of the cliff on the other side.

Zan had no fear of these constructions of the imagination, but he worried about the effect they might have on his companions, who were already exchanging apprehensive words. But Dael, exultant, was almost trembling with joy. “Yes,” he cried, “these walls of rock speak the truth! Death is here and death is there. The very stones proclaim it! The valley will run red with blood like this unnatural river. Let us drink from it now in anticipation of our triumph and their destruction.” Oin and Orah forced themselves to smile. Pax looked at Zan, and Zan looked with fear, not at the skulls, but at his brother.

 

 

 

 

After a night's rest in the cave-like hollow, which was the mouth of the “skull,” they were on their way. The great distances gradually were left behind. It proved easier, safer, and even faster to travel in a group. Zan knew exactly where to go as they approached the mountainous region that was the wasp people's abode. A pair of foothills somewhat separated from the others told him the path.

Rydl was both desirous and reluctant to return to his home. He had been away for several years, and longed to see his father and visit his mother's grave (although he never knew her alive). His departure from home had been sudden. An atmosphere of suspicion made it dangerous for him to stay, for he had once helped Zan-Gah, an enemy, and his father had guessed as much. If he now returned with Zan and other strangers, the suspicion would be confirmed and his life would be in danger. Rydl decided to stay back a little distance for a while.

“Why don't you keep company with the great booby who has been dogging our steps all this time?” Dael suggested, casting a thumb over his shoulder. Dael alone
had noticed that Chul was following them, and now brought the fact to the attention of the group. Finally seeing Chul, who perceived that he had been spotted, Rydl decided to act on Dael's advice and ran to join the blushing giant. Chul and Rydl camped separately and built a fire while the others went forward toward the bluish hills.

Arriving at a clear space, Zan suddenly recognized the red tower of stone that looked so curiously like his brother that, at a distance, he had once called out to it. The sculptured rock was like the skulls of the red cliffs: one saw something that was not there. Yet, how much Dael resembled (not only physically!) that unfeeling column—rigid and unyielding, hard—and how different it was from what Dael formerly had been!

It was just at that moment, as Zan was ruefully recalling how he once had mistaken the stone pile for his missing brother, that he smelled a faint odor, which would become more prominent as the group advanced. Wafted by the wind was the sickening smell of a dead animal, and before long it was as if the whole region were infected. A shift of the breeze took the odor away again, only to bring it back a while later with increased strength and foulness. Chul and Rydl, who had changed their minds after eating and decided to catch up with the others, noticed it too. Chul possessed a keen nose, and had detected the smell even the night before.

They came together as they reached a point above the dwellings of the wasp people. Silently and with great caution, the band climbed the ridge overlooking that glorious region which Zan called the Beautiful Country.
Zan, Pax, and Rydl, the only ones among them who had any sense of beauty, drank in the loveliness of the land. Beyond the neatly arranged huts the trees were already in bloom, reflected in the mirror surface of the pure and ever-freshening lake; while in the distance a stream fell from a great height to replenish it. Then, even as they gazed in wonder at the gratifying sight, the wind shifted, and the smell was there again, fouling for one sense what was fair to another—a putrid odor, fetid and unwholesome. Chul snorted like a bull. Dael knew the smell (although he would not say whence his knowledge came), and seemed even to welcome the stench of death—for death it had to be. Somewhere nearby there were rotting corpses—but whose?

The wasp people, Zan recalled (for he had been their captive many months), had no feeling for the beauty of their land—only for its richness and ease of gathering. He knew, however, that they abhorred rotten meat, and would not tolerate its presence.
But where were they?
Their huts were intact on the ground, and their hive-like nests hung undisturbed from the lofty branches above. Rydl said that something was wrong, and Zan feared a trap. Perhaps their sentinels had spotted the band and were lying in wait until the invaders approached too near for escape. Then they would swarm out of their nests and it would all be over.

Dael was readying his spear with its blade of flint. Zan could see that it would be difficult to hold him back for very long, and wished he could tie him to a tree for his own safety.

Something had to be done to resolve them of the situation, so Zan threw a stone, which made a rattling noise.

There was no response.

Creeping closer, with his friends directly behind, he threw a larger one at the closest of the huts. These were bulbous, hive-like structures built of branches sealed with tar, and covered with bark and leaves. Standing up, Zan flung a rock with his powerful sling directly into the round door of the hollow hive.

Nothing.

There were no fires or any sign of life at all. And still the fetid, loathsome odor assailed their nostrils.

Zan urged his companions to watch and wait. Best to be cautious. But after a long hour spent observing the lifeless scene—a period of complete silence—Dael could be restrained no longer. Ignoring the others and his own safety, he rushed forward with a wild yell and plunged his spear into the wasp-hut as though it were a living creature.

The rest of the group had no choice but to charge on the run to second Dael's attack. There could be no hiding any more; it was fight or flee. Chul, in the forefront, brandished his spear and roared like a wild animal. But the wasp warriors made no answer. The continuing silence made it plain at last that, wherever the wasp people were, they were not there. Men, women, and children—all were gone. No movement whatever disturbed the quietude,
except for a dusty wind brushing against the rough, dry walls of the forsaken village.

The largest of the huts was the regal seat of their mightiest elder. Jaga was his name. Zan remembered him well—intelligent, quick, and savage as any wild man. Once, during the period of Zan's internment there, Jaga had detected a note of rebellion in his younger brother's voice. Quick as lightning, he had struck the youth with his club. He then flung the body into a fire to roast as a charred example to any who might attempt to defy him. That was the sort of man he was. Many hated him; all feared him—and obeyed without question. Not one dared to utter a word of protest against the barbaric murder.

How often Zan had done Jaga and his large family a slave's service when he had been their captive! Where were they now? Zan resolved to enter the soundless hut, slowly, cautiously. Little was visible within until Zan's eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, but the overpowering odor nearly felled him. Holding his nose, he gradually made something out by the sparks of bright light penetrating a few cracks in the nest's structure.

It was the most ghastly sight he ever had seen. The earthen floor was strewn with decaying corpses. Rotting and shriveled bodies were everywhere, swarming with flies. And seated on his throne of power was the corpse of Jaga, still erect in the place of honor reserved for a chief. His once imperial face and vigorous body were now horribly desiccated, his skull eyeless, and his mouth wide open to reveal ivory teeth ringing the dark putrescence. He still wore his beautiful fur pelt, and held
in his skeleton grip the scepter spear that marked him for command. Even in death, Zan thought, Jaga would not relinquish his authority. Despite the horrible change that death had made, Zan could still recognize his kingly features, and even whispered his name: “Jaga?” In answer, a swarm of wasps issued from Jaga's throat and hovered around what once had been his not unhandsome face.

Zan turned to flee, and received another shock. Silhouetted against the light of the oval opening and barring his exit was the startling apparition of an old woman. So haggard, grotesque, and emaciated she was, and so sudden was her appearance, that Zan jumped when she spoke and, for a moment, the hairs stood up on his head.

“Who are you, and how do you dare to disturb this place of death?” she demanded. She looked as if she herself might have risen from the number of decaying corpses, coming back to life to confront the young intruder. Her hoarse words, which seemed fashioned from a gust of wind, were in the wasp men's language, which Zan had learned during his captivity there.

“I am Zan-Gah. I have returned to visit this country and…”

“Oh ho, the dumb boy speaks!” The woman recognized Zan as their “idiot” slave of former days. Zan had played that part well when his survival made it necessary. The hag disgorged a dry, cackling laugh. Zan knew her. It was Hurnoa, a once prominent woman of the tribe, who had defended him from Naz, his sadistic
guard. Although Zan had been compelled to serve her, he remembered Hurnoa as a just and even kind supervisor. How horribly was she changed! Where once she had been plump and prosperous, she was now stooped and gaunt, her skeleton more prominent than the dried flesh affixed to it. Her once strong and capable hands resembled the roots of unearthed trees, and her former ringing and authoritative voice was as shriveled as her visage. The thick ebony hair had become as white as ashes and so thin that it scarcely covered her scalp. No trace of her former dignity remained. Zan gazed at her almost in horror.

“What…has…happened here?” Zan demanded at last, ushering the old woman into the bright open light. Zan's band, surprised that anyone was there at all, gaped at her as though she were a freak of nature. Chul averted his nose, and Dael marked her with cruel eyes, readying his spear. Pax and Rydl moved closer to Zan, while Oin and Orah huddled behind Dael for protection.