Brian Aldiss - Helliconia Summer

Muntras sighed, shuffling his chair round so as to be able to peer down into the mist, perhaps hoping that a greeb would emerge to prove Pallos wrong.

“When young Billish comes off the kooni, I think I’ll take him up to the top of the Stone, if he’s strong enough. Ask your old woman to get us some supper, will you?”

Muntras sat where he was when the local manager had gone. He lit a veronikane and remained smoking contentedly, absently watching the smoke ascend to the rafters. He did not even wonder where his son was, for he knew: Div would be in the local bazaar. Muntras’s thoughts were much further away.

Eventually, Billy and Abath appeared, holding hands. Billy’s face was only just wide enough to accommodate his grin. They sat down at the table without speaking. Without speaking, Muntras offered the Exaggerator bottle. Billy shook his head.

It was easy to see that he had undergone an emotional experience. Abath looked as composed as if she had just returned from church with her mother. Her features resembled a younger Metty’s, but there was a lustre about her which Metty had lacked for many a day. Her gaze was bold, where Metty’s was slightly furtive, but there was, thought Muntras, who considered himself a judge of human nature, the same kind of reserve to her as to her mother. She was escaping some kind of trouble in Matrassyl, which might account for her guarded manner. Muntras was content just to admire her in her light dress, which emphasized her generous young breasts and echoed the chestnut brown of her hair.

Perhaps there was a god. Perhaps he kept the world going, despite its idiocy, because of beauty like Abath’s…

At length, Muntras exhaled smoke and said, “So, don’t they go in for trittoming between man and woman on your world, Billish?”

“We are taught to trittom, as you call it, from the age of eight. It’s a discipline. But down here—I mean with Abath—it’s… the reverse of discipline… it’s real… Oh, Abathy…” Exhaling her name as Muntras exhaled smoke, he seized her and began to kiss her passionately, breaking off only to utter endearments. She responded in a minor key.

Billy shook Muntras’s hand. “You were right, my friend, she is the equal of the queen in every way. Better.”

The captain said, “Perhaps all women are equal and it is only in the imagination of men that differences lie. Remember the old saying, ‘Every rumbo romps home to the same rhythm…’ You have a very vivid imagination, so I imagine that you found her a very good trittom in consequence… Are koonis in our world as deep as in yours?”

“Deeper, softer, richer…” He fell to kissing the girl again.

The captain sighed. “Enough of that. Passion is as boring as drunkenness in other men. Go away, Abath. I want some sense out of this young man, if possible… Billish, if you have managed to see over the top of your own prodo since we landed, you may have noticed the Osoilima Stone. You and I are going to ascend it. If you are well enough to mount Abath, you are well enough to mount the Stone.”

“Very well, if Abath can come too.”

Muntras gazed at him with an expression at once a scowl and a grin. “Tell me, Billish boy—you’re really from Pegovin in Hespagorat, aren’t you? They’re great jokers there.”

“Look.” He sat down facing the captain. “I’m what I say—from another world. Born and brought up there, recently landed in the space-vehicle I described to you between fever fits. I would not lie to you, Krillio, because I owe you too much. I feel I owe you more than life.”

A dismissive gesture. “You owe me nothing. People shouldn’t owe others anything. Remember, I was a beggar. Don’t think too much of me.”

“You’ve worked with devotion and built up a great enterprise. Now you are the friend of a king.”

Filtering a little smoke between pursed lips, Muntras said stonily, “That’s what you think, is it?”

“King JandolAnganol? You are a friend of his, aren’t you?”

“I have dealings with his majesty, let’s say.”

Billy looked at him with a half-grin. “But you don’t like him greatly?”

The Ice Captain shook his head, smoked, and said, “Billish, you don’t care much for religion, no more than I. But I must warn you that religion is strong in Campannlat. Take the way his majesty threw your timepiece back at you. He is very superstitious and that’s the king of the land. If you showed that object to the peasants of Osoilima, they would riot if you caught them at the wrong moment. They might make you a saint or they might kill you with pitchforks.”

“But why?”

“It’s the irrational. People hate things they don’t understand. One madman can change the world. I tell you this only for your own good. Now. Come on.” He stood up, sweeping his lecture away and laying a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “The girl, the meal, my manager, the Stone. Practicalities.”

What he demanded was done, and soon they were ready for the climb. Muntras discovered that Pallos had never been to the top of the Stone, despite living at the bottom of it for eight years. He was laughed into coming along as escort and marched beside them with a Sibornalese matchlock over one shoulder.

“Your figures can’t be too bad if you can afford such artillery,” Muntras said suspiciously. He trusted his managers no more than he trusted the king.

“Bought to protect your property, Krillio, and every roon of it hard earned. It isn’t as though the pay’s good, even when trade’s good.”

Their way lay along a track that ran back from the wharf to the small town of Osoilima. The mist was less thick here, and the few lights round the central square gave a semblance of cheer. Many people were about, attracted by a cooler breeze that had sprung up with sunset. Stalls selling souvenirs, sweets, or savoury waffles were doing fair business. Pallos pointed out one or two houses where pilgrims lodged which ordered Lordryardry ice regularly. He explained that most of the people wandering about, throwing their money away, were pilgrims. Some came here, drawn by a local tradition, to free slaves, human or phagor, because they had grown to believe it wrong to own another life. “Fancy giving away a valuable possession like that!” he exclaimed, disgusted with the foolishness of his fellow men.

The base of the Osoilima Stone was just by the square—or rather, the town and its square had been built close against the Stone. Closest of all was a hostelry, bearing the name The Freed Slave, where the Ice Captain bought four candles for the party. They went through its garden and began the ascent. Talipots grew by the Stone; they had to push away the stiff leaves in order to climb. Summer lightning flickered round them.

Others were already ascending. Their whispers sounded from above. The steps had been carved in the stone a long while ago. They spiralled round and round the rock, with never a hint of railing for security. The guiding lights of their candles flickered before their faces.

“I’m too old for this sort of thing,” Muntras grunted.

But their slow progress led eventually to a level platform, and an arch led them into the top of the rock, where a dome had been hollowed. They could rest their elbows on the parapet and gaze in safety at the spread of mist-shrouded forest all round.

The sounds of the town reached them and the continuous noise of the Takissa. Music was playing somewhere—a double-clouth or, more likely hereabouts, binnaduria, and drums. And all about the forest, where rolls of mist allowed, they could make out dim lights.

That’s what they say,” Abath chirped up. “Not an acre habitable, not an acre uninhabited.”

True pilgrims stay up here all night to watch the dawns,” Muntras told Billy. “In these latitudes, there’s never a day of the year when both suns aren’t visible at some time. Different from where I come from.”