Читать книгу Monument - Lloyd Biggle jr. - Страница 5

Chapter 1

It came to Obrien quite suddenly that he was dying.

* * * *

He was lying in a gently swaying gourd hammock, almost within reach of the flying spray where the waves broke in on the point. The caressing warmth of the sun filtered through ragged, scarlet-leaved sao trees. Shouts of the children spearing marnl off the point reached him on fitful gusts of fragrant wind. A full drinking gourd hung at his elbow. The sweet, clear tones of a girl’s voice uplifted in an old, old song, and the tremulous twanging of the nabuls stroked in accompaniment, had embroidered his reverie with bittersweet nostalgia. His first wife had sung that song at a moment in time that now seemed remote almost beyond the reach of memory.

Then the realization snapped coldly across his thoughts and roused him from half-dozing, drowsy contentment to icy wakefulness.

He was dying.

The sudden surge of panic he experienced brought pain in its wake, and while the spasm lasted he lay quietly, hands clutching his abdomen, eyes closed, perspiration oozing from his forehead and soaking the hammock’s brightly patterned robes. It passed, and he jerked erect and shook his fist at the mocking emptiness of the cloudless blue-green sky. “What are you waiting for, damn it! What are you waiting for?”

The song stopped abruptly. A nabul struck the ground with a soft thud and a dissonant rattle of strings as Dalla, the singer, leaped to her feet and hurried to his side. He sat on the edge of the hammock wearily looking about him. The multicolored vegetation encircled him with a curtain of riotous beauty, and its glistening, drooping blossoms wafted a soporific invitation to rest, to meditate.

Obrien leaned back. Then he felt the first stabbing thrust of the pain’s return, and he slid determinedly to his feet and brushed the blossoms aside.

Dalla fluttered about him concernedly, her face tense with unspoken questions. Obrien’s great-great-grandson, Fornri, hurried toward him. Fornri and Dalla: Obrien regarded the two of them benignly, suddenly comprehending why Dalla had sung that old love song. In a year or two they would be partners at a betrothal dance. He wondered whether he would be alive to offer his blessing.

The other young people were on their feet and looking on with grave concern. They came frequently to ease the burden of an old man’s boredom with music, and they would not understand if he told them he no longer needed to be entertained because he was dying. The pain’s thrust continued, but Obrien resisted the impulse to futilely clutch his stomach.

“To the Elder,” he said curtly.

Consternation touched their faces. Fornri said slowly, “It is a long and tiring journey. Perhaps in the morning—”

“To the Elder,” Obrien said again and turned his back on them.

Their words drifted after him; they spoke unaware that an old man’s hearing could be as sharp as their own. Dalla said tremulously, “If you go only a short distance and then return, he may fall asleep and forget.”

There was a pause, and then Fornri answered, his voice deeply troubled. “No. He is the Langri. If he wishes to visit the Elder we must take him.”

Obrien left them to their dilemma and stumbled down the slope to the beach. The moment he appeared, the children came splashing toward him. “Langri!” they shouted. “Langri!”

They crowded about him excitedly, holding up marnl for his approval, waving their spears, laughing and shouting. The marnl was a flat, broad, reptilian-looking creature with a multitude of legs and a small head on a ridiculously long neck. It was unlovely and inedible, but as a bait it was priceless. On this world children learned to swim before they could walk, for there was nothing in the sea that could harm them, and as soon as they could wield a spear they took to this game of catching marnl and made their play an indispensable economic asset.

Obrien paused to admire the more choice specimens before he gestured toward a dugout hunting boat drawn up on the beach. “To the Elder,” he said.

“Ai! To the Elder! Ai! To the Elder!”

They dashed to the boat, hauled it into the water, and began a furious struggle for places. Then Fornri arrived, and he waded into the melee, restored order, and told off seven boys for paddlers. They brought the boat back to the beach for Obrien to board. His pain had diminished, so he shrugged off Fornri’s proffered assistance, waded to the other end of the boat, and hopped aboard native fashion. As the boat moved away, the crowd of children splashed after it, swimming around and under it until the paddlers got up speed. Behind them, Dalla stood on a rise of ground with her arm uplifted in farewell.

The boys shouted a song as they dipped their paddles—a serious song, for this was a serious undertaking. The Langri wished to see the Elder, and it was their solemn duty to make haste.

And Obrien leaned back and wearily watched the foam dance under the outrigger, for he was dying.

* * * *

It was not the imminence of death that disturbed him, but the realization that he should have thought of it sooner. Death was inevitable from the instant of birth, and Cerne Obrien was a long lifetime from babyhood. He wondered, sometimes, just how old he might be, for in this dreamy land, where the nights were moist and the days warm and sunny, where there were no seasons, where men measured age by wisdom, it was difficult to keep an alert finger on the pulse of time.

But Obrien did not need a calendar to tell him he was an old man. The solitary hut he had built on the lovely rise of ground above the point had become the center of a community as his sons, and grandsons, and great-grandsons brought home their wives. It was the village of Langru, the village of fire-topped men, already celebrated in legend and song; and though few of his descendants inherited his red hair, all were considered people of fire. Maidens were eager to mate with them, and the sturdiest youths came to court the daughters of fire. Many of them defied tradition and settled in the village of their wives.

A man who lived to watch his family thrive into the fifth generation had to expect a time of reckoning. Obrien’s limbs were stiff and swollen each morning from the night’s dampness. He moved slowly and tired easily, and the flaming red hair of his youth had faded to rusty gray. He had been ill for several years as a twitch of discomfort in his stomach became a throbbing irritation and then a sharp, prolonged pain and finally a searing agony. It was the corrosive touch of death, and so slowly did it come upon him that he had not recognized it.

He had received more happiness than he’d expected from life and far more than he deserved, and he should have been able to face death without fear or regret; but the dream that had grown until it shaped his life among these people was unfulfilled, and he knew, with an absolute and terrifying certitude, that if he died now this lovely world was doomed to utter ruin and this beautiful, generous, loving people to extinction. He knew.

He had known it almost from the moment of his crash landing. In his younger days the knowledge had made him frantic with worry, and he had pondered and debated with himself on long nocturnal walks along the beaches, and paced his hut through innumerable hours of misty darkness while he devised stratagems, and with inspiration and luck and stubbornness he finally fashioned the answers he had to have. He was the one man in the far-flung cosmos who could save this world that he loved and these people that he loved, and he would do it. He painstakingly rehearsed in his mind every step that had to be taken, and every opposing move that would have to be countered, and he was ready to act the moment the world was officially discovered.

The discovery did not happen, and he, Cerne Obrien, had played the fool. He had been content to wait. It was pleasant lounging in his hammock with a gourd of fermented juice at his elbow, acting the part of a veritable oracle, respected, even worshiped. When he was younger he had roamed the length and breadth of this world’s lone continent. He had taken long sea voyages. He was first in every adventure and courted danger with a grin on his face, scorning the world’s hazards and revering its beauties wherever and whenever he found them; but his zest for hazards diminished with age, and he became aware that the view from his own village encompassed as much breath-taking beauty as a man could comprehend in a lifetime.

He was a simple man, an uneducated man. The natives’ awe of his supposed wisdom alarmed and embarrassed him. He found himself called upon to settle complex sociological and economic problems, and because he had seen many civilizations and remembered much of what he had seen, he achieved a spectacular success and enjoyed it not at all.

And now the long pageant of unnumbered, wonderful years had come to this bitter ending: he was the one man in the cosmos who knew how to save this world and this people, and he could not do it because he was dying.

* * * *

Kilometers of coast drifted past, and scores of villages, where people recognized the Langri and crowded the shore to wave. The afternoon waned and evening came on. Fatigue touched the boys’ faces and their singing became strained and breathless, but they worked tirelessly and kept their rhythm.

Dusk was hazing the sea about them and purpling the land when they entered a shallow bay and rode the surf up onto a wide, sloping beach studded with boats. The boys leaped out and heaved their own boat far up onto the sand. Then they slumped to the beach in exhaustion and bounced up a moment later, beaming with pride. There would be feasting tonight, and they would be honored guests. Had they not brought the Langri?

All native villages lay on hillsides overlooking the sea, with their dwellings arranged in concentric circles about a central oval where, at dusk, cooking fires sent fragrant plumes of smoke skyward. Obrien’s march up the village’s central avenue was a triumphal procession. Respectful adults and awed children solemnly trailed after him. He skirted the enormous signal gourd that stood in the center of the oval and continued on to the top of the slope where the Elder’s dwelling stood. The Elder stood waiting for him, a smile on his wrinkled face, his arms forming the native salute: one arm uplifted; the other held across his breast with hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Ten paces from him Obrien halted and returned the salute. The villagers watched silently.

“I greet you,” Obrien said.

“Your greetings are as welcome as yourself,” the Elder replied.

Obrien stepped forward, and they touched hands. This was not a native greeting, but he used it with some of the older men who were almost lifelong friends to him.

“I ordered a feast in the hope that you would come,” the Elder said.

“I came in the hope there would be a feast,” Obrien returned.

The formalities thus satisfied, the villagers drifted away murmuring approval. The Elder took Obrien’s arm and led him to the grove at the top of the hill, where hammocks were hung. They stood facing each other.

“Many days have passed,” the Elder said.

“Too many days,” Obrien agreed.

The Elder’s tall, gaunt frame seemed as sturdy as ever, but his hair was silvery white. The years had etched lines in his face, and more years had deepened them and dimmed the brightness in his eyes. Like Obrien, he was old. He was dying.

“The way is long,” the Elder said, “but at the end is a soft hammock, a full gourd, and a village of friends. Rest!”

They settled into two hammocks hung in a V, where they could lie with their heads close together, and a girl brought drinking gourds. They sipped in silence as darkness slowly settled on the village.

“The Langri is no longer a traveler,” the Elder observed finally.

“The Langri travels when the need arises.”

“Let us then talk of that need.”

“Later. After we have eaten. Or tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better.”

“Tomorrow, then,” the Elder agreed. He pushed Obrien’s gourd toward him.

Below them, the village was girding itself for the feast. New fires had been kindled—the oval blazed with them—and each of the village’s most skilled chefs had brought out the piece of koluf meat that he or she had long been curing, or aging, or marinating, or smoking, or drying for just such an auspicious occasion as a visit from the Langri. The koluf was an authentic sea monster—one of them filled a hunting boat—and Obrien often wondered how many of the natives’ ancestors had died before they found a way to capture this virulently poisonous creature and render it edible. Once found, the meat proved delectable beyond human powers of description. Obrien had tasted thousands of koluf dishes, because each chef had his own technique of seasoning and preparation, and each one tasted more delicious than any of the others.

Fires also leaped high on the distant beach, and soon Obrien heard the thum. . .thum. . .thum of the nabs. Like the smaller nabuls, they were stringed instruments fashioned of gourds, but the enormous nabs towered over the musicians who played them.

The thumming continued. Soon a raln, a type of gourd used as a drum, added its resonant thuds, and then the twanging nabuls were heard. Already the dancing had begun, for the young natives needed no persuasion to perform a festive dance. They were circling the musicians with torches, and soon they would peel off in a sinuous dance line that would weave through the village and summon the guests of honor. The rippling night breeze blended savory odors of the coming feast with the crisp tartness of the sea that heaved tirelessly just beyond the mouth of the bay. Blended words of chant and song were flung up to them as the dance line gained momentum and began its progress through the village.

Obrien felt exhausted—had there been time, he gladly would have slept—but when the Elder touched his arm he dutifully swung to his feet. Escorted by the jubilantly singing dancers, the two walked to their places of honor on the beach.

Except for the chefs and the escorting dancers, the entire village had assembled there. Around the fires, enormous, elongated gourds had been placed in circles, and these served as platforms for the dancing. In the position of honor amidst the waiting villagers was a triple throne with a high seat in the center and lower seats on either side.

Obrien and the Elder took the two lower places, and the dancers returned to the village oval and began to escort the chefs to the beach. They came a few at a time, each carefully carrying his culinary masterpiece on a gourd platter that was lined with colorful leaves and encircled with flowers. The natives’ existence depended absolutely on the whims of the koluf. When they caught enough, they ate well; when they didn’t, they went hungry. But no matter how much or how little food they had, they lavished on it all of the care and skill at their command.

The chefs formed a line at the edge of the beach, and the dancers took the dishes, one at a time, and with great ceremony they moved to the place of honor and presented them to Obrien. The thumming, twanging music and rhythm continued; dancing about the beach fires was now a contortion of violent movement; now a sedate gliding; now a vigorous leaping from gourd to gourd.

Obrien inspected each dish in turn, broke off a crumb of meat, tasted solemnly, meditated, shook his head. The dish was passed to the waiting villagers, and its hopeful author retired in disappointment. Another took his place at the head of the line, and the dancers brought the next dish for Obrien’s approval. Obrien tasted, rejected, and turned his attention to the dancing until another dish arrived.

The villagers watched avidly as Obrien tasted dish after dish. The Langri was no novice, and the chef who prepared the portion he found out of the ordinary would be honored indeed.

Suddenly Obrien, having tasted a crumb of koluf, tilted his head thoughtfully and broke off a larger morsel. He tasted again, smiled, nodded, and offered some to the Elder, who tasted it and smiled his own approval. Obrien accepted the platter of meat from the dancers, who returned to the line of waiting chefs to proclaim the winner. They escorted her to the throne, a plump, middle-aged woman delirious with delight. Obrien and the Elder arose and handed her up to the highest seat while around them the villagers slapped bare legs in enthusiastic approval. For with the natives, as with any people revering good food, the ultimate place of honor at any feast belonged to the cook.

* * * *

In the morning, Obrien and the Elder walked together along the shore and seated themselves on a knoll overlooking the sea. Sweet-scented blossoms crowded up about them, nodding in the breeze. The morning light sparkled on the leaping water. Brightly colored sails of the hunting fleet were pinned flowerlike to the horizon. To their left, the village rested sleepily on its hillside, with a single thin plume of smoke wafting skyward. Children of both sexes romped in the surf or walked timidly along the shore to stare up at the Elder and the Langri.

“I am an old man,” Obrien observed wearily.

“The oldest of old men,” the Elder agreed promptly.

Obrien smiled wanly. To a native, “old” meant “wise.” The Elder had paid him the highest of compliments, and he felt only bitterness and frustration. “I am an old man,” he said, “and I am dying.”

The Elder turned quickly and looked at him with concern.

“No man lives forever, my friend,” Obrien said, “and you and I have been cheating the fire of death for a long time.”

“The fire of death never lacks for fuel. Let those cheat it who can. You spoke of a need.”

“Your need. The need of all of your people and of my people.”

The Elder nodded thoughtfully. “As always, we listen well when the Langri speaks.”

Obrien got to his feet, walked forward a few paces, and stood looking at the sea. “You remember that I came from afar and stayed because the skyship that brought me could fly no longer. I came to this land by chance and because I had lost my way and my skyship had a serious sickness.”

“I remember.”

“Others will come,” Obrien said, “and then more others. There will be good men and bad, but all will have strange weapons.”

“I remember. I was there when you slew the maf.”

“Strange weapons,” Obrien repeated. “Our people will be helpless. The men from the sky will take this land—whatever they want of it. They will take the hills and the forests and the beaches and even the sea, the mother of life. There will be boats that sail above and below the waters and poison them, and the koluf, the staple of life, will be driven into deep waters where the hunters can’t find it. Our people will be pushed back into the mountains where there is no food. The strangers will bring strange sicknesses, and entire villages will lie in the fire of death. They will lay waste to the shores, they will hunt the waters and swim, and their dwellings will be taller than the tallest trees and their numbers on the beaches thicker than the marnl at hatching. Our own people will be no more.”

The Elder was silent for a time. Then he said, “You know this to be true?”

“It will not happen this day or the next, but it will happen.”

“It is indeed a terrible need,” the Elder said quietly.

Obrien looked at the awesome beauty of the curving shore and thought, “This beautiful, unspoiled land, this wonderful, generous, beautiful people—” A man was so damned helpless when he was dying.

The Elder got to his feet, and for a time they stood side by side in silence, two old men in bright sunlight waiting for darkness. The Elder placed his hand gently on Obrien’s shoulder. “Cannot the Langri prevent this thing?”

Obrien walked a short distance down the slope and knelt in the lush vegetation. He plucked the flowers, one at a time, and as each glistening, multicolored blossom turned dark in his hand he crushed it, tossed it aside, and plucked another.

The Elder followed and knelt beside him. “Cannot the Langri—”

“The Langri can prevent it—I think—if the men from the sky come this day or the next. If they delay longer the Langri cannot prevent it because the Langri is dying.”

“Now I understand. The Langri must show us the way.”

“The way is strange and difficult.”

“What we must do shall be done. The Langri’s wisdom will light the way.”

“Strange and difficult,” Obrien repeated. “Our people may not be able to follow it, or the path the Langri chooses may be the wrong one.”

“What does the Langri require?”

Obrien got to his feet. “Send the young people to me, two hands at a time. I will make my choices. There must be a village for them, in a place apart. They must eat, though they neither hunt nor gather, and the burden of their food and its preparation must be fairly divided among all the villages.”

“The first will come to you this day, and your wishes will be my wishes.”

They touched hands. Obrien turned and walked away quickly. Fornri and the young paddlers were waiting for him on the beach, and they pushed off at once and hoisted a sail, because the wind was at their back for the return voyage. They moved swiftly out of the bay, and Obrien, looking backward, saw the Elder still standing motionless on the knoll with arm uplifted.