Читать книгу In the Green Star's Glow - Lin Carter - Страница 9

Below the mighty branch by whose edge the Princess of Phaolon crouched, the world fell away into the unbroken gloom of the abyss far, far below. Branch upon branch thrust from the huge tree to which she clung, their thickening veils of golden leaves obscuring her vision. Thus, Niamh could see nothing of the fate which had befallen the gallant bowman, although she feared the worst

Alone now, and disconsolate, the girl wandered back to where the powerless sky craft was securely wedged in the fork of the twiglet. Although she strove to reenergize the mystery engines which drove the flying ship, its secret eluded her as it had eluded Zorak the Bowman. Eventually, she gave up the attempt.

By this point the day had progressed toward the noon hour, and the Green Star stood at the zenith of the mist-shrouded sky. Niamh became aware of a growing hunger, and realized that she had eaten nothing in more hours than she could number. She searched the cabin of the sky-ship, but if any supplies of liquids or food had been stored aboard the craft by Ralidux, she could not find them.

Niamh was a child of this strange and savage world and knew that survival among the enormous trees was a continuous struggle. One could only mourn a fallen comrade for so long. Soon the practical matters of finding food and drink and a haven for the night which would afford some safety from prowling predators most take precedence over one’s sorrow.

She replaced her slim knife in its hidden sheath. Then she took up the great bow of Zorak and the quiver of arrows that had fallen from his hand when he had sprung to her assistance. Armed with these, the resourceful princess set about procuring a meal for herself.

Climbing to the upper rondure of the branch to which the ship was moored, she followed the curving bough for a time, her keen eyes searching the leaves for game. Soon she came upon a fallen leaf the size of a canoe. Drying, it had curled into a long, slender, trough-shaped container, and she was relieved and heartened to find the leaf damp with a quantity of morning dew. Shaded from the rays of the Green Star by the vast branch directly above, the dewdrops within the curled leaf had not as yet evaporated. Therefore she stooped, cupped her hands, and drank her fill.

It may seem strange to my reader that a full-grown girl could quench her thirst on a few drops of dew (if any Earthling’s eye but my own shall ever peruse these journals in which I have recorded the narrative of my adventures on this distant world), but such was indeed possible on this planet of endless marvels. For here, where trees grow taller than Everests, dragonflies grow to the size of horses, and spiders are dangerous and man-killing predators, dewdrops are so huge as to each contain a pailful of water.

I have never been able to figure out the weird, disproportionate sizes on the World of the Green Star. On that planet, either humans alone retain their terrestrial size, while every other thing has grown tremendously larger, or all other forms of life but the human are of natural size, while men and women are minuscule. The immense size of dewdrops may indeed be a clue pointing to the latter theory, for on Earth, the surface tension which holds a drop of water together is too feeble to sustain a waterdrop to any particular size. Therefore, unless the laws of nature are radically different on the Green Star World, the evidence suggests that people are very small.

I have no idea if this chain of reasoning is correct or false. The mysteries of Lao are innumerable, and during my days on this strange planet I have penetrated to the core of very few of them.

At any rate, having satisfied her thirst, and after laving her face and hands in the cool, pure fluid, Niamh rose refreshed and conscious now of an overpowering hunger.

She continued on down the branch, striding toward the place where it joined at last to the mighty trunk of the tree. Born and bred to their life in the arboreal heights, the Laonese are as surefooted as cats and utterly fearless of heights, as well as racially immune to vertigo; had it not been so, the race would have died out long ago. Therefore, Niamh traversed the length of the branch with careless ease, treading a narrow and perilous rondure which would doubtless have unmanned the most intrepid of Terrene Alpinists, at a height unthinkable.

And at the end of the branch she found a mystery.

There, where the branch joined with the soaring trunk of the giant tree, a tower rose. It was unlike any building which Niamh had ever seen before.

For one thing, it was fashioned of some smooth, glassy substance like a ceramic, and it seemed as tough and durable as porcelain. The coloring of the peculiar stone was that of an opal, filled with bewildering and changeful hues: peacock blue, iridescent bronze, fiery crimson, gold. It seemed to be built all in one piece, like some enormous piece of cast metal, or a structure of organic crystal somehow grown to a preconceived design.

Stranger even than these marvels was the manner in which it was built. It was a slim, tapering spire whose gliding curves and sleek lines bore little or no resemblance to any style of architecture with which Princess of Phaolon was familiar. It was weirdly alien.

Now, Niamh had never beheld the Pylon of Sarchimus the Wise, in which Prince Janchan, Zarqa the Kalood, and I, had been imprisoned during our stay in the Dead City of Sotaspra.* The Dead City had been composed of spires and domes similar to this Opal Tower in composition and design. Sotaspra had been the handiwork of Zarqa’s own people, the Kaloodha, a long-extinct race of Winged Men who had flourished a million years before.

The Princess of Phaolon did not guess that the Opal Tower was a survival from that lost age. Nonetheless she was curious. She approached the base of the spire with trepidation, being careful that she should not be seen—for there was no way of telling whether or not the Opal Tower was occupied, and if so, by what.

As she drew nearer to the enigma, she saw certain curious details that she had not noticed before. For instance, the spire seemed to have no windows, although there was something about halfway up the soaring wall that resembled a balcony. For another, the way the opalescent colors swirled and crawled with every change of the light lent the weird minaret the illusion of being alive.

The girl felt the pressure of unseen eyes upon her, and this sensation of being watched grew stronger the closer she approached to the glimmering spire. But she ignored this feeling consigning it to mere imagination.

At the base of the building, a tall, slender opening appeared. It was a doorway or portal of some kind, although in shape and proportion and design it resembled no such entryway that Niamh had ever seen.

The door—if it was a door—was open.

Niamh crouched behind a huge golden leaf, chewing her bottom lip in an agony of indecision. The tower afforded her shelter and protection against the night, which would be upon her in a few more hours. And it did not seem to be occupied; at least, there was no sign or token of present occupancy which met the eye. The tower had obviously been abandoned by its mysterious builder long ago, and might have stood thus, untenanted, for ages.

* As described in the second volume of these memoirs which I edited under the title of When the Green Star Calls. —Editor.

The girl hefted the bow of Zorak, which she carried nocked and ready. Even if the tower was inhabited, the tenant might not be unfriendly; and even if he was, it was not as if she were unarmed or unable to defend herself.

Determinedly setting her small jaw, Niamh the Fair rose lithely to her feet and strode toward the tall, pointed doorlike opening, the bow of Zorak held at the ready, her flowerlike face set in a resolute expression.

She entered by the tall opening without hesitation . . . and vanished.

Then followed a most peculiar and frightening thing: The doorway closed, like a mouth.

Where, but a moment before, there had been a peaked, pointed gap, the wall of the Opal Tower now presented a smooth, unbroken surface: a surface, moreover, whose changeful colors, suddenly, flushed crimson.

Crimson as human blood. . . .