Harry Harrison: Winter in Eden

“Something is happening out there, something that we don’t know about,” Herilak said, released from the dark prison of despair by the incredible events about him. “I must go see.”

His death-stick ready he ran the length of the valley, clambered up the barricade. Across from him, on the other side of the river, were the cliffs of the opposite bank, a close arrow-shot away. There was sudden movement there and he crouched, weapon pointed. A murgu appeared to stand at the cliff’s edge, then another and another. Their repulsive two-thumbed hands were empty. They stood motionless, wide-eyed and staring.

Herilak lowered his weapon. It was inaccurate at this distance — and he needed to understand what was happening. They looked at him, as he looked at them, in silence, capable of communicating only their presence to each other. The width of the river lay between them, the width of their difference wider than any river or sea. Herilak hated them and knew that the stare from their slitted eyes radiated the same hate in return. Then what was happening? Why had they undamned the river, slain the vines?

The large one, closest to him, turned about and moved its limbs in sudden spasms as another appeared and passed over some object. The first one turned and cradled it in both hands, looking down at it — then looked up at Herilak. Its mouth opened in a spasm of unreadable emotion. Then it spun about and hurled the thing across the narrow valley. He watched it rise up in a slow arc, descend to strike the barrier and roll down to catch among the rocks.

When he looked back the murgu were gone. Herilak waited but they did not return. Only then did he slide down the barrier and stop beside the thing they had thrown over to him. There was the sound of hoarse panting as Sanone climbed up to join him.

“I saw… that,” he said. “They stood and looked at you, did nothing. Just threw this thing — then left. What is it?”

It was a melon-shaped bladder of some kind, gray and smooth. Featureless. Herilak pushed at it with his foot. “It could be dangerous,” Sanone warned. “Be careful.”

“It could be anything.” Herilak knelt and prodded it with his thumb. “There is only one way to find out.”

He lay the death-stick aside and pulled out his stone knife, tested the edge with his thumb. Sanone gasped with alarm and moved back as Herilak bent and cut into the bladder.

The outer skin was tough. He pressed and sawed — and it suddenly broke. Collapsing as orange liquid oozed from it. There was a dark shape inside. Herilak used the tip of his knife to push it free. Sanone was standing beside him now, looking down as well.

Looking at Kerrick’s silver blade that had been concealed inside. The knife of sky-stone that he had always worn about his neck.

“It is Kerrick’s,” Sanone said. “He is dead. They have killed him and cut this from him and sent it to us as a message that he is dead.”

Herilak seized up the blade, held it high so that it glinted in the sun.

“You are right in that it is a message — but the message is that Kerrick lives! He has done this thing — I don’t know how — but he has done it. He did not die in the north but lives now. And has conquered the murgu.” Herilak swept his arm out in a gesture that encompassed the valley.

“This is all his doing. He has defeated them. They have broken the dam and have killed their vines — and they are gone. That is what the knife says. We can stay here. The valley is ours again.”

He held the knife high in the sunlight, turned it so that it gleamed and sparkled, and roared his words aloud.

“Won! We have won — we have won!”

“You have lost, Vaintè,” Lanefenuu said, one eye on the erect figure at her side, the other looking with distaste at the filthy, fur encrusted ustuzou that stood on the other side of the valley staring back at her. Then she signed Akotolp to join them. “Is the destruction done?”

The scientist framed her limbs into completion-as-ordered. “The virus has been released. It is harmless to other plants, animals. But certain death for all of the newly mutated cells. They will die. The virus remains in the ground so any seeds that mature will die as well.”

Vaintè was scarcely aware of Akotolp and pushed her rudely aside to get close to the Eistaa, in a frenzy to deny what the Eistaa had last said.

“We cannot lose. They must be destroyed.”

So fierce were her emotions that her meaning was muffled as conflicting feelings tore at the muscles of her body. In a final spasm she faced Lanefenuu, menace in her every motion.

“The battle must not stop. You must not stop it.”

So strong were her expressions that Akotolp fell away with a cry of pain and the watching Yilanè raised their weapons, fearful for Lanefenuu’s safety. She waved them back, then turned on Vaintè with distaste curving her limbs.

“The ustuzou-Kerrick knows you well, Vaintè. It said you would disobey me, would ignore my orders if I did not deliver them myself. It was right in that. You disobey me, Vaintè, who swore to be my fargi for life.”

“You cannot do this—”

“It is done!” Lanefenuu roared with anger, all patience vanished. The watchers fled. “You wish to disobey me? Then you will have death as my last order — an order you cannot disobey. Die, outcast, die!”

Vaintè turned and stumbled away, Lanefenuu a step behind her, crest livid and shaking with rage.

“What is this? You do not die! You who hated them have become one of them. You are a Daughter of Destruction. A deathless one, an outcast. You have joined the ranks of those you once loathed. I will have you killed. Attention to orders all present.”

The fleeing Yilanè stopped, turned, fingered their weapons. Cold reason cut through Vaintè’s anger; she turned quickly to Lanefenuu, her back to the others, spoke the sounds softly and moved her limbs with the minimum needed to communicate.

“Great Lanefenuu, Eistaa of Ikhalmenets who rules from strength, Vaintè who served you abases herself. I obey your instructions always.”

“You did not obey the order to die, Daughter of Death,” she hissed.

“I would, but I cannot. I live to serve you.”

“I doubt that. I will order you killed.”

“Do not chance it.” There was cold menace now as Vaintè spoke. “There are Yilanè here who have forgotten Ikhalmenets, who have served me faithfully, who might even see me as their eistaa. Let us not tempt their loyalty — it might be a very dangerous thing to do.”

Lanefenuu was swollen with cold anger, ready to burst, looking at the deadly creature before her, weighing her threat.

Looking at the same time at the troubled Yilanè below them. Remembering the threat to Ikhalmenets that had brought her here so far from her sea-girt city. There could be much truth in what this Yilanè of venom had said. When Lanefenuu finally spoke she did so as silently as the other.

“You live. For the moment you live. We return to Ikhalmenets and you will leave with me. I do not trust you here when I am not present. The war against the ustuzou will end. Nor will I have you again in my city. You are banished from Gendasi, from Alpèasak, from my presence forever. If I could hurl you into the sea I would do that. I will not take that chance for others would know. You will be landed alone — very much alone — on the shore of Entoban *, far from any city of the Yilanè. You will be as a fargi again. That is what I will do and that is your fate. Do you have anything to say?”

What Vaintè felt she dare not say — or one of them would have to die. She could not chance it. So rigidly under control was her body now that her muscles vibrated with the strain as she raised her thumbs and signed acceptance.