Edmund Cooper - A Far Sunset

The beast, thought Paul, hysterically, was already dead— but it just didn’t know when to lie down. It stood there, watching itself being consumed by atomic fire as if the event were interesting but not altogether disturbing. Surely the blood must be boiling in its brain!

The whole scene appeared to drift into nightmarish slow motion. Paul, hypnotized, could not take his eyes from the beast to see what his companions were doing. He continued pouring fantastic quantities of energy into the hide of a monster that seemed to have erupted from the very dawn of life.

At last, the terrible creature—almost burnt in two— appeared to realize that it was doomed. It shuddered, and the ground shuddered with it, then it gave a piercing scream— literally breathing fire, as burning flesh and air were expelled from its lungs, and rolled over, taking a tree with it. The thud of its body shook the bank, the barge and even the river. It must have been dead before it hit the ground.

Paul managed to pull himself together sufficiently to take his finger off the trigger of the sweeper rifle. But darkness did not descend, for the corpse of the beast had become a blazing inferno. The smell and the sounds were over-powering.

Shon Hu spoke the first coherent words. ‘Lord,’ he gasped with difficulty, ‘forgive me. I vomit.’

He hung over the side of the barge and was joined within seconds by everyone except Nemo, who had curled him self up into a tight foetal ball and was unconscious.

‘Who has died?’ whispered Paul, when he could trust himself to speak once more.

‘Mien She, lord. He was the one who watched. Perhaps the beast saw him move.’

‘Why did he not see the beast move? Or hear it? Such a creature could not move without warning of its coming.’

‘Lord, I know not. He is dead now. Let us not question his alertness, for he has suffered much, and it may be that his spirit would be sad to know that we doubted him.’

Paul glanced at the burning corpse once more, and was immediately sick again. When he had recovered, he said ‘How call you this monster?’

‘Lord, it has no name,’ said Shon Hu simply. ‘We have not seen its like before. We do not wish to see its like again.’

‘Let us go quickly from this place,’ said Paul, retching, ‘before we vomit ourselves to death. In future, two men will always watch, for it is clear that one may nod. Let us go quickly, now.’

‘Lord, it is dark and we do not know the river.’ ‘Nevertheless, we will go.’ He gestured towards the still burning body. ‘Here is too much light—and other things. Come. I will take the pole of Mien She.’

There was not a breath of wind. The forest was immensely quiet. Indeed, but for the dark green smells of night, it would have beetv possible to imagine that the forest had ceased to exist. Only the river seemed alive, murmuring sleepily as if it, too, wished to sink into a state of unbeing.

It had been a hard and dismal day—hard because the Watering of Oruri had narrowed, making the current more swift, and dismal because the death of Mien She was still very much on everyone’s minds.

Nemo had been the worse affected. He had been the worst affected not only because he was a child but because he had experienced telepathically the brief but terrifying agony of Mien She. All day the crippled child had lain curled up at the stern of the barge. He would not eat or even drink; and it was only by patient coaxing that Paul managed to get him to take a few mouthfuls of water at the evening meal.

There had been no cheerful exchange of tall stories when the hunters took their ease after a hard day’s poling. When they spoke—if they spoke—it was almost monosyllabically and only because the communication was necessary.

Paul and Shon Hu had taken the first watch. Now they were also taking the last watch. Presendy grey wisps of light would filter through the tall trees. Today they would leave the barge behind. Already they were in Lokhali country, and therefore the dangers were doubled. But, thought Paul, after the horror of the previous night, any brush with the Lokhali would seem by contrast to be a form of light relief.

As he sat back to back with Shon Hu, Paul realized that there was something concerning the Lokhali that was trying to surface in his conscious mind. Something important. Something that he had seen but not noticed…

His only encounter so far with the forest tribe had been at the mass crucifixion on the Fourth Avenue of the Gods. His mind flew back to that day and he could see again and hear again the dying Lokhali who, in his extreme agony, had murmured meaningless—and, in the circumstances, bizarre— fragments of German, French and English.

Suddenly, Paul realized what he had seen but not noticed. Four fingers and a thumb! The Lokhali were not only taller than the Bayani, but more perfectly formed. Four fingers and a thumb! Then his mind leaped back to the woman who bore her child near the kappa fields, and then to Mylai Tui, who had been angry at his questions and had then demanded to be chastised for displaying her anger.

And now here he was in the middle of a primeval forest, journeying in search of a legend and with a headful of unanswered questions. He wanted to laugh aloud. He wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity, the incongruity of it all.

He did laugh aloud.

Shon Hu started. ‘You are amused, lord?’ he asked reproachfully.

‘Not really, Shon Hu. I am sorry to startle you. I was just thinking of some things that Poul Mer Lo, the teacher, finds hard to understand.’

‘What manner of things, lord?’

Remembering the reactions of Mylai Tui, Paul thought carefully. ‘Shon Hu,’ he began, ‘we have not known each other long, but this venture joins us. You are my friend and brother.’

‘I am proud to be the friend of Poul Mer Lo. To become as his brother would do me too much honour.’

‘Nevertheless, my friend and brother, it is so. Therefore I do not wish to offend you.’

Shon Hu was puzzled. ‘How can you offend me, lord, who have raised me in my own eyes?’

‘By asking questions, Shon Hu. Only by asking questions.’

‘Lord, I see you wish to speak. Where no offence is offered, none shall be taken.’

‘The questions concern the number of fingers a man should have, Shon Hu.’

Immediately, Paul felt the hunter stiffen.

‘Lord,’ said Shon Hu at length, ‘are there not certain things in your own country of which it is very shameful to speak?’

Paul considered for a moment. ‘Yes, my friend, I think there are.’

‘So it is also with the Bayani. I tell you this, lord, so that you will understand if I do not find it easy to talk about the number of fingers a man should have. We have a saying: it is a thing that should be heard once and told once … Remember this, lord. Now ask the questions.’

‘Shon Hu, were you born with four fingers and a thumb, or with three?’

The hunter held up his hand. ‘See, lord.’ There were three fingers and a thumb.

Paul held up his own hand. ‘You have not answered the question. Look … But I was born with four fingers and a thumb—were you?’

‘Lord, I—I do not know,’ said Shon Hu desperately.

‘Are you sure? Are you sure you do not know?’

Shon Hu gulped. ‘Lord, I was told once by my father when he was dying that the left hand had been—defiled … But, it was such a little finger, lord, and the shame was easily remedied … this none living know, save you.’

Paul smiled. ‘Be easy, my friend. None living, save me, shall ever know … I wonder how many more Bayani have been born imperfect?’

‘I do not know. Not many, I think. The priests take those who are discovered. They are not seen again.’