Jack Vance - Big Planet

The town was illumined full-face by the afternoon sun, and across the clear distance appeared as a toy, a miniature, colored dark and light brown, with black windows, light green and black roofs. From the center of town rose a tall pole, with a cupola at the top, like the crow’s-nest of a ship.

Motta explained the purpose of the pole. “The high-wire to Swamp Island is made fast at the top of the pole. And then the Magickers always watch the distance; they read the clouds as signs, and the wise hags among them see the future.”

“By watching clouds?”

“So it is said. But we know little, being females and raised for use.”

They continued to the river, and with the afternoon sun at their backs stood looking over the tremendous Oust. It flowed from the far north, appearing into sight out of the hazy distance, and proceeded into the equally distant south, curving back toward the west. Cat’s-paws vibrated the surface, and at intervals came a roiling-up from below, as if a monster fin had set the water into turbulent motion. The other shore, two or three miles distant, was low and flat, and overgrown with a dense forest of tall poles two hundred feet tall. These were silvery-green and stood like stripped and dead tree-trunks or gigantic asparagus shoots. A few blots of color showed at their base— vermilion, blue, yellow—too far distant to be resolved into detail. A long island overgrown with feathery foliage split the center of the river like a wedge.

“Look!” Cloyville cried hoarsely—unnecessarily, for every eye was straining fascinated. Floating from behind the island came a black monster. Its body was round and sleek, its head was like a frog, split by a vast mouth. The head darted forward as they watched, chewed and champed at something in the water, then lowered lazily, lay flat. The creature circled, drifted out of sight behind the island.

Cloyville released his breath. “ Whew! That’s a devilish thing to have for a neighbor.”

Pianza searched the face of the river with concern. “I wonder that anyone dares to cross…”

Corbus pointed. “They use the high-line.”

It was a thin gray-white cable, swooping from the pole in the village to one of the spines of the forest on the opposite shore. The low point at the center was only fifty feet above the surface of the river.

Glystra snorted in disgust. “They’ve got the river-crossing sewed up, and so… I suppose we’d better apply for transportation.”

“That’s how the Magickers acquire their wealth,” said Motta.

Cloyville muttered, “They’ll probably make us pay through the nose…”

Glystra rubbed his short black thatch. “It’s a case of take it or leave it. We’ve got to take it if it breaks us.” He looked back across the steppe. “I don’t see the Beaujo-lain’s flying squad. No doubt it’s there… Once we get past the river we can breathe easier…”

They set out along the lip of the bluff toward the village.

Above them towered the walls of Edelweiss, two foot timbers, peeled, set into the ground like piles, lashed at the top with coarse fiber and evidently fastened elsewhere with dowels or tree-nails. The wood appeared punky and soft. Glystra thought that anyone determined on entry could easily chop his way in with a hatchet.

They stopped by the gate, which opened at the rear of a rectangular alcove, well buttressed with extra courses of timber. The gate was open, revealing a short passage walled on either side and cut off at the far end by another wall.

“Strange,” said Glystra. “No guards, no gate-keeper… In fact—there’s no one.”

“They’re afraid,” said Wailie. She raised her strident young voice. “Magickers! Come out and lead us to the high-line!”

There was no overt response. A stealthy rustle sounded behind the walls.

“Come out,” yelled Motta, “or we’ll burn the walls!”

“My God!” muttered Pianza. Bishop wore an agonized expression.

Wailie sought to outdo her companion. “Come out and give us welcome—or it’s the sword for all within!”

Bishop clapped his hand over her mouth. “Are you crazy?”

Motta shrieked, “We’ll kill the Magickers and burn the Hags, and slide the town into the river!”

There was no motion in the passageway. Three old men, bald, feeble, came forward. Their bare feet were blue-veined and bony, they wore only ragged G-strings, the ribs showed like corrugations down their milk-colored bodies.

“Who are you?” quavered the first. “Go your ways, disturb us not; we have nothing of value.”

“We want to cross the river,” said Glystra. “Take us across on the high-line and we won’t disturb you any further.”

The old men engaged in a wheezing colloquy, watching Glystra suspiciously as they whispered. Then: “It is too late in the year. You must wait.”

“Wait!” demanded Glystra indignantly. “Out here?”

The eyes of the old men faltered, fell. A muffled voice came from behind the wall. The spokesman cocked his head, listened, then said in a plaintive voice, “We are the quiet Magickers, innocent sorcerers and trades-people. You are men of the Savage Lands, and doubtless you come to loot our valuables.”

“The eight of us? Nonsense. We want to cross the river.”

There were further instructions from within the wall. The old man said in a quavering voice. “It is impossible.”

Glystra lowered his head ominously. “Why?”

“It is forbidden.” The old men withdrew. The gate slammed.

Glystra chewed his lip in frustration. “Why in the devil—”

Corbus pointed to the tower. “There’s a heliograph up there. It’s been shooting signals west. My guess is that they’ve had orders from the Beaujolains.”

Glystra grunted. “In that case, it’s more urgent than ever to get across. Here we’re trapped.”

Cloyville advanced to the bank, peered over. “No boats in sight.”

“Not even materials to make a raft,” said Pianza.

“A raft wouldn’t help us,” Cloyville pointed out. “There’s no way to propel it, no sails, no sweeps.”

Glystra looked up at the walls of Edelweiss. Corbus grinned. “Are you thinking the thoughts I’m thinking?”

“I’m thinking that a piece of that wall—the section running parallel to the river, right there, would make a fine raft.”

“But how would we cross the river?” demanded Cloyville. “There’s a good current out there; we’d be swept all the way down to Marwan Gulf.”

“There’s a way staring you in the face.” Glystra made a lasso out of a length of pack-rope. “I’m going to climb the wall; you cover me from below.”

He tossed the loop around a timber, hauled himself up, cautiously peered over the top, scrambled over.

He looked down. “There’s no one up here. It’s a kind of roof. One of you come up—Corbus.”

Corbus joined him. Behind were blank walls and shielded windows, all silent. Glystra looked skeptically at the windows. “I suppose they’re watching, but afraid to show themselves.”

There was a sound behind them; Ketch hauled himself over the wall. “Thought I’d see what the place looked like.” He looked over the flat roofs. “Pretty dingy.”

“Notice the wall,” said Glystra. “It’s lashed along the top with rope, secured along the middle by dowels. If we cut the rope, break the dowels—there, there, there—” he pointed up a vertical crack where the dowels showed through— “and if a man were to shove at each corner, I think we could drop the wall right over into the river.”

“How about those sea-serpents—the griamobots?” Ketch asked.

“They’re an unknown quantity. We’ll have to take a chance.”