Edmund Cooper: A Far Sunset

He was debating in his mind what to say to them when he saw, through the descending twilight, a vehicle coming jerkily along the Road of Travail. At first he thought it was a cart. But then he saw that it was a palanquin, carried by eight muscular young girls. The equipage left the Road of Travail and came directly towards the ring of warriors.

Paul stood up, gazing at it in perplexity. He remembered the first time he had seen the shrouded palanquin that contained the oracle of Baya Nor. It had been on a barge on the Canal of Life, when Enka Ne, otherwise Shah Shan, was taking him to the temple of Baya Sur to witness the first of three sacrifices of girl children.

As if at a signal, the girls carrying the palanquin stopped and set it gently down. The curtains shrouding it did not move. But from inside there came a wild bird cry.

Then a thin and withered arm poked out from between the curtains, pointing unwaveringly at Paul. And an incredibly old yet firm voice said clearly: ‘He is the one! ’

Dazed and exhausted still, Paul was aware of a great roaring in his ears. He felt the hands of the Bayani warriors catch him as he fell.

He was in a darkened room, lit only by a few flickering oil lamps. A man with a white hood over his face peered at him through narrow eye-slits.

‘Who are you?’ The words came like gun-shot.

‘I am Poul Mer Lo,’ Paul managed to say, ‘a stranger, now and always.’

The man in the white hood stared at him intently. ‘Drink this.’ He held out a small calabash.

Obediently, Paul took the calabash and raised it to his lips. The liquid was like fire—fire that consumed rather than burned.

Something exploded in his head, and then he felt as if he were being dragged down into a maelstrom. And then he felt as if he were floating freely in space.

When he became conscious again, he realized vaguely that he was being supported by two guards.

‘Who are you?’ shouted the man in the white hood.

Paul felt an almost Olympian detachment. The situation was curious, but amusing. For all his aggressiveness, the man in the white hood was definitely dull-witted.

‘I am Poul Mer Lo,’ repeated Paul carefully and with a little difficulty, ‘a stranger, now and always.’

‘Drink this,’ commanded the inquisitor. He held out the calabash.

Once more Paul took it and raised it to his lips. The fire flowed through his body, roaring and all-consuming. His thoughts became tongues of flame. A curtain of flame danced and drifted before his eyes, slowly burning itself away to reveal a great bird, covered in brilliant plumage, with iridescent feathers of blue and red and green and gold.

But the bird did not move. It had no head.

Once more the maelstrom dragged him down. Once more he felt as if he were floating freely in space. This time there were stars. They whirled about him as if he were the still pivot of a turning universe. The stars were whispering, and their message was important, but he could not hear the words. All he could do was to watch the speeding gyrations, the beautiful cosmic merry-go-round, until time itself drowned in the broad black ocean of eternity…

Until he was suddenly aware once more of a darkened room and a few flickering lamps. And a man with a white hood over his face.

The headless bird had disappeared. And yet… and yet he was still aware of its presence.

Who are you?' The words rolled like waves, like thunder.

He did not know what to say, what to do, what to think, what to feel. He did not know what to believe; for identity had been lost and he seemed now to be nothing more than the vaguest thought of a thought.

Who are you?’ The waves crashed on the farther shore. The thunder rolled over a distant land.

And then came answering thunder.

And a voice from far, far away said: ‘There shall come a man among you, who yet has no power and whose power will be absolute. And because no man may wield such power, the man shall be as a king. And because none may live for ever, the king shall be as a god. Each year the king must die that the god may be reborn … Hear, now, the cry of a bird that has never flown … Behold the living god—whose name is Enka Ne!’

He listened to the voice in wonder, feeling the words beat upon him like hammer blows. He listened to the words and submitted to the voice—knowing at last that it was his. He moved, and there was a strange rustling. He looked down at the blue and gold feathers covering his arms.

From somewhere another voice, old and high and thin, uttered a wild bird cry. ‘He is the one! ’

Then the man in the white hood cried: ‘Behold the living god!’ And sank down to prostrate himself at the feet of one who had once been known by the name of Poul Mer Lo.

Afterwards he had rested for a while in an apartment in the Temple of the Weeping Sun, guarded only by a single warrior. The ceremonial plumage had been removed, and the god-king now wore a simple samu, indistinguishable from those worn by thousands of his subjects.

The apartment—whose walls and floor and roof were of highly polished stone, veined, like a rich marble, with streaks of blue and red and green and gold—was not luxuriously furnished. But, compared to the simple furnishings of a thatched house that had stood once near to the Canal of Life, these furnishings were indeed those of a palace.

The foot and head of the couch on which he had rested were of black wood inlaid with copper. The mattress consisted of multi-coloured Milanyl feathers held in a fine net of hair. Large translucent crystals hung from the ceiling, rotating slowly in the slight currents of air, transforming the lamplight emanating from several niches into a soft and mobile pattern.

The god-king yawned and stretched, looking about him for a moment or two. He was hungry. But there were more important matters than food.

He sent for Yurui Sa, general of the Order of the Blind Ones. The man in the white hood.

The warrior on guard heard the instructions of the god-king without either looking at him or making any verbal acknowledgement.

Presendy, Yurui Sa entered the room. He stood stiffly, waiting. His gaze, like that of the warrior, remained fixed upon the ceiling.

‘Oruri greets you, Yurui Sa.’

‘Lord, the greeting is a blessing.’

‘Sit down and be with me as with a friend, for there is much that I have to say to you.’

‘Lord,’ said the man pleadingly, ‘be merciful … I—I may not see you! ’

‘This, surely, needs explanation.’

‘So it has always been,’ went on Yurui Sa, ‘so it must always be. When the plumage has been put aside, the god-king may not be seen by men.’

‘So, perhaps, it has always been. But nothing endures for ever. When the plumage has been put aside, the god sleeps but the king still wakes. You may look upon the king, Yurui Sa. I have spoken.’

‘Lord, I am not worthy.’

‘Nevertheless ’ and the voice was regal, the voice of

Enka Ne ‘—nevertheless, it is my wish.’

Slowly, Yurui Sa brought his gaze down from the ceiling. Enka Ne smiled at him, but there was fear on the face of the general of the Order of the Blind Ones.

‘There will be some changes,’ said Enka Ne.

Yurui Sa let out a great sigh. ‘Yes, lord, there will be some changes.’

‘Now sit with me and tell me how it came to pass that one who was once Poul Mer Lo is now the god-king of the Bayani, though the time is not yet ripe for rebirth.’

Yurui Sa swallowed uneasily. Then he sat down on the edge of the couch as if he expected the action to bring some terrible disaster.

Apparently, it did not. Thus heartened, he began to explain to Paul Marlowe, native of Earth, how it came about that he was destined to achieve god-head on Altair Five.