Jack Vance: Big Planet

Glystra searched his mind. Myrtlesee—a word on a map. “Where’s Myrtlesee?”

She gestured. “Far to the east. I’ve never been there; it’s a dangerous journey unless you ride the monoline, and that costs much metal. My father told me of the oracle at the Fountain. He babbles in a frenzy and answers any questions asked and then he dies whereupon the Dongmans select a new oracle.”

Glystra was skeptical. “There have been similar oracles on Earth. They are drugged and their ravings are interpreted as prophecy.”

“It’s rather strange”

Ahead of them Cloyville and Darrot stopped short. “Quiet!” hissed Darrot. “There’s a camp ahead. Fires.”

The sighing branches of Tsalombar Forest shut off the sky and the darkness was near-complete. Ahead a tiny spark of red flickered past the ranked tree trunks.

“Would it be the Tree-men?” Glystra asked Nancy.

She said doubtfully, “No… They never come down from the trees. And they never build fires; they’re deathly afraid of fire…”

“Then,” said Glystra, “it is probably a party sent out to capture us.”

“Or gypsies,” said Nancy.

Glystra said, “Everybody come here, close.” Dark shapes stepped forward.

Glystra said in a low hurried voice, “I’m going ahead to reconnoiter. I want everyone to stay together. This is emphatic. No one is to move from this group or make a sound until I return. Nancy, you stand at the center; the rest of you stand with your elbows touching. Make sure who is on either side of you, make sure he doesn’t move.”

He circled the group. “Everybody touching two others? Good. Count off.” The names came softly across the darkness.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” said Glystra. “If I need help—I’ll yell. So keep your ears open.”

The matted bracken crackled under his feet as he stole down the slope.

It was a large fire, a roaring blaze fed by logs, in the center of a clearing. Fifty or sixty men sprawled around the fire, completely at their ease. They wore a loose blue uniform of baggy breeches triced below the knee, smocks gathered at the waist by a black sash. On their chest they wore a red insignia, a triangle apex-down. They carried knives and catapults in their sash; squat baskets heavy with darts hung at their backs. Some of the men wore hats of black felt, bent, twisted, creased in flamboyant flaps and bellies; others went bare-headed with their hats laid nearby on the ground.

They were a rough crew—short and stocky with flat brown faces, little spade beards, narrow-lidded eyes, hooked noses. They had eaten and now were drinking from black kidney-shaped leather sacks. Discipline at the moment was lax.

A little apart, back turned to the noise, stood a man in a black uniform. Glystra saw with unreasonable surprise that it was Abbigens. He conversed with a man evidently the officer-in-charge, apparently instructing him, emphasizing points with motions of his big pale hands. The officer listened, nodded.

Not far from Glystra a train of odd-looking beasts waited restlessly, swinging their long necks, snapping at the air, mumbling and moaning. They were narrow-shouldered, high in the back with six powerful legs and a narrow trustworthy-looking head, a composite of camel, horse, goat, dog, lizard. The driver had not bothered to remove their packs. With sudden interest, Glystra examined the loads they bore.

One carried three metal cylinders, another a squat barrel and a bundle of metal rods. Glystra recognized the mechanism: a knock-down ion-blast, a field-piece capable of smashing Jubilith flat. It was of Earth manufacture, captured in a merciless little skirmish on an outer world, bought in blood, sold for young flesh… Glystra looked behind, through the trees, suddenly uneasy. Strange that no sentries had been posted.

A flurry of activity at one side of the clearing caught his attention. A dozen soldiers stood with craned necks, looking up, pointing, talking excitedly. Glystra followed their gaze. A hundred feet overhead was a village—a network of rude trestles, walkways swung on vines, pendant huts swaying like oriole nests. No light showed, the huts were dark, but over the side of the trestles peered several dozen white faces framed in a tousle of brown hair. They made no sound, moved but little, and then like squirrels, quickly, abruptly. Apparently the Beaujolais soldiers had not previously noticed the village. Glystra peered up again. They had found a girl—whey-faced, bleary-eyed, but still a girl. They shouted up taunts and jocularities, to which the tree-men made no response.

Glystra eyed the pack-animals with interest, estimating the chances of leading them into the forest while attention was diverted by the girl in the tree-village. He decided they were scant. Perhaps when they bedded down for the night… For the night? Why should they bed down for the night? Jubilith was three or four hours up-slope. More likely they had camped here to await nightfall before venturing out on the moors where they could be seen from the village.

Where the soldiers were baiting the tree-men there was further activity. A young swaggerer with a spike mustache was climbing a rude ladder toward the hut from which hung the head of the slatternly girl. The way was easy; where a branch angled up, steps were cut into the wood. The soldier, spurred by the approving hoots of his comrades, ran up the trunk, paused on a rude platform. Here he was partly veiled by the branches, camouflaged by the flickering firelight shadows. There was a motion, a swishing sound, a thud, a sound of disturbed branches. A sprawling twisting body plunged down from the shadows, landed with a heavy thump.

Glystra jerked back, startled. The event had taken him unaware. He looked up; there was no motion from the tree-village. The faces stared down as before. Apparently the soldier had sprung a trap. A poised weight had swept down, struck him from the platform. Now he lay moaning, writhing. His fellows stood around him, watching dispassionately. There were glances turned up at the tree-men, but without apparent animus or hostility. There was no clamor for revenge, no threats, no fury. The event had occurred; it was fate…

Abbigens and the officer strode over, stood looking down at the fallen man. He choked back his groans, lay silent, staring up white-faced. The officer spoke; Glystra could hear the tone of his voice but could not distinguish the words. The soldier on the ground made a reply, tried to rise to his feet, an anguished effort. But his leg lay out at a curious angle; tilting his chin, gritting his teeth, he lay back.

The officer spoke to Abbigens; Abbigens looked up at the tree-men. They watched from the walkways with wary interest. Abbigens spoke, gesturing up at the tree-village. The officer shrugged, turned aside, made a motion to one of the soldiers, turned away.

The soldier looked down at his comrade on the ground, muttered resentfully. He drew his sword from the sheath, stabbed the fallen man through the chest, the neck, finally up through the eye socket.

Behind the tree Glystra swallowed the lump in his throat. After a moment he was once more able to see the clearing.

The officer strode back and forth through the camp, barking orders, and the words were loud enough for Glystra to hear: “Up, up on your feet. Form ranks, double-quick, we’ve overstayed. Driver, see to your beasts—”

Abbigens came forward, spoke briefly to the officer. The officer nodded, crossed the clearing. Glystra could not hear his orders, but the soldier who was tending the pack animals led aside the two beasts bearing the knockdown ion-blast. He removed the packs, assembled the weapon.

Glystra watched with narrow eyes. Was the ion-blast to be used against the tree-village? He looked up. The faces were as before, white blotches peering down from the walkways. One of them looked at him, stared closely a moment, then turned his head back to the clearing without further attention.