Robert Silverberg: The Face of the Waters

The figures of Lawler’s former companions were moving about on shore.

He watched them. Even at this distance he was able easily to identify them: towering Kinverson and little Tharp, stocky Delagard, bandy-legged Felk. Father Quillan, nothing but bones and sinew. Gharkid, darker-skinned than the others and light as a wraith. And the three women, heavy-breasted Lis and sturdy square-shouldered Neyana and lithe handsome Pilya. What were they doing? Wading along the edge of the water? No, no, they were walking out into the bay, they were coming this way, they were returning to the ship. All of them. Easily, calmly, they were paddling through the shallow water toward the Queen of Hydros .

Lawler felt a tremor of fear. It was like a procession of the dead coming through the water toward him.

He went below and woke Sundira.

“They’re coming back,” he told her.

“What? Who are? Oh. Oh .”

“The whole bunch of them. Swimming out to the ship.”

She nodded, as though it were no great chore for her to take in the concept that the physical shells of their former shipmates were returning from the inconceivable entity that had devoured their souls. Perhaps she wasn’t quite awake yet, Lawler thought. But she rose from the bunk and went up on deck with him. There were figures bobbing all around the ship now, just below the rail. Lawler peered down at them.

“What do you want?” he called.

“Throw down the rope ladder,” the Kinverson-figure replied, in what was recognizably Kinverson’s voice. “We’re coming on board.”

“My God,” Lawler said, under his breath. He shot a horrified look at Sundira.

“Do it,” she told him.

“But once they’re up here—”

“What does it matter? If the Face wanted to turn its full voltage on us we’d probably be helpless before it anyway. If they want to come aboard, let them come. We don’t have very much left to lose, do we?”

Shrugging, Lawler tossed down the ropes. Kinverson was the first to scramble aboard, then Delagard, Pilya, Tharp. The others followed. They were all naked. They stood in a quiet little group. There was no vitality to them; they seemed like sleepwalkers, like ghosts. They are ghosts, Lawler told himself.

“Well?” he said, finally.

“We’re here to help you sail the ship,” said Delagard.

Lawler was baffled by that. “Sail it? Where?”

“Back where you came from. You can’t stay here, you realize. We’ll take you to Grayvard so that you can ask for refuge.”

Delagard’s voice was flat and calm and his eyes were steady and clear, with none of their old manic gleam. Whoever or whatever this creature was, it was something other than the Nid Delagard Lawler had known for so many years. His inner demons were at rest. He had undergone a deep change—a kind of redemption, even. All his scheming was at an end, his soul seemed tranquil. So too with the others. They were at peace. They had surrendered to the Face, they had yielded up their individual selves, a thing which Lawler found incomprehensible; but he could not deny to himself that the returnees appeared to have found a happiness of some sort.

In a voice light as air Quillan said, “Before we leave, one last chance. Would you like to go to the island, doc? Sundira?”

“You know that we don’t,” Lawler said.

“It’s up to you. But once you’re back in Home Sea it won’t be a simple thing to return here if you change your mind.”

“I can live with that.”

“Sundira?” Quillan said.

“Me too.”

The priest smiled sadly. “It’s your choice. But I wish I could make you see what a mistake it is. Do you understand why we were attacked so constantly all the time that we were at sea? Why the rammerhorns came, and the limpet, and the hagfish, and all the rest? Not because they’re malevolent creatures. There aren’t any malevolent creatures on Hydros. What they were trying to do was heal the world, that’s all.”

“Heal the world?” Lawler said.

“Cleanse it. Rid it of an impurity. To them—to every life-form of Hydros—the Earthmen who live here are invasive, extraneous beings, because they live outside the harmony that is the Face. They see us as viruses or bacteria that have invaded the body of a healthy organism. Attacking us was the equivalent of ridding the body of disease.”

“Or cleaning grit out of a machine,” Delagard said.

Lawler turned away, feeling anger and disgust rising in him.

Sundira said to him in a quiet voice, “How frightening they are. A bunch of ghosts. No, worse: zombies. We’re lucky to have been strong enough to resist.”

“Are we really?” Lawler asked.

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not sure. But they look so peaceful, Sundira. They may have changed into something alien, but at least they’re at peace.”

Her nostrils flared in contempt. “You want peace? Go on, then. It’s only a short swim.”

“No. No.”

“Are you sure, Val?”

“Come here. Hold me.”

“Val—Val—”

“I love you.”

“I love you, Val.” They embraced unselfconsciously, ignoring the returnees around them. She said, close to his ear, “I won’t go across if you don’t.”

“I’m not going, don’t worry.”

“But if you do, we’ll go together.”

“What?”

“You think I want to be the only one on this ship who’s still real, sailing with ten zombies? It’s a deal, Val. Either we don’t go at all or we go together.”

“We don’t go.”

“But if we do—”

“Then it’ll be together,” Lawler said. “But we don’t go.”

As though nothing whatever out of the ordinary had happened at the Face of the Waters, the crew of the Queen of Hydros set about making preparations for the voyage back. Kinverson cast nets, and fish swam obligingly into them. Gharkid moved placidly through hip-deep water, gathering useful algae. Neyana, Pilya and Lis trekked back and forth between the island and the ship, carrying casks of fresh water that they filled from some spring on shore. Onyos Felk pondered his sea-charts. Dag Tharp tuned and tested his radio equipment. Delagard surveyed the rigging and sails, the rudder and the hull, and noted where repairs were needed, and he and Sundira and Lawler and even Father Quillan took care of what had to be done.

Very little was said. Everybody moved about their tasks as though part of some well-ordered machine. The returnees were gentle with the two who had not gone to the islands, treating them almost like troubled children who needed great tenderness; but Lawler felt no real contact with them.

Often Lawler stared in wonder and perplexity at the Face. The display of lights and colour coming from it was unending. Its constant berserk vigour fascinated him as much as it repelled him. He tried to imagine what it had been like for the others to be ashore, to move among those groves of live, sizzling strangenesses. But he knew that such speculations were dangerous. Now and again he felt a renewed pull, sometimes unexpectedly strong, from the island. In those moments the temptation was powerful. It would be so easy to slip over the side like the rest, swim quickly through the warm, welcoming waters of the bay, scramble up onto that alien shore—

But he was still able to resist. He had held the island off this long; he wasn’t about to surrender to it now. The work of preparation went on, and he stayed on board, as did Sundira, while the others freely came and went. It was a weird time, though not an unpleasant one. Life seemed suspended. In an odd way Lawler felt almost happy: he had survived, he had withstood every sort of adversity, he had been tempered in the forge of Hydros and was emerging all the stronger for it. He had come to love Sundira; he felt her love for him. These were new experiences for him. In whatever new life awaited him when the voyage was ended, he would be better able to cope with the uncertainties of his soul than before.