Brian Aldiss - Helliconia

Carried along by the surge of humanity, Yuli caught a sudden view ahead of the chamber of Reck, its curved walls flickering with light. He saw but a slice of the chamber to begin with, trapped between the veined walls of the passage along which the rabble had to pass. As he moved, so into that framed distant view moved Akha himself, high above the heads of the crowd.

He ceased to listen to what Kyale was saying. Akha’s gaze was on him; the monstrous presence of the dark was surely made visible.

Music played in Reck, shrill and stimulating. It played for Akha. There Akha stood, broad and horrible of brow, its large stone eyes unseeing yet all-seeing, lit from below by flares. Its lips dripped disdain.

The wilderness held nothing like this. Yuli’s knees were weak. A powerful voice inside him, one he scarcely recognised as his own, exclaimed, ‘Oh, Akha, at last I believe in you. Yours is the power. Forgive me, let me be your servant.’

Yet alongside the voice of one longing to enslave himself was another, speaking simultaneously in a more calculating manner. It said, ‘The people of Pannoval must understand a great truth which it would be useful to get to comprehend by following Akha.’

He was astonished at the confusion within himself, a war that did not lessen as they entered the chamber and more of the stone god was revealed. Naab had said, ‘Humans have a role in the war between Sky and Earth.’ Now he could feel that war alive within him.

The games were intensely exciting. Running races and spear throwing were followed by wrestling between humans and phagors, the latter with their horns amputated. Then came the bat shoot, and Yuli emerged from his pietistic confusions to watch the excitement. He feared bats. High above the crowd, the roof of Reck was lined with the furry creatures, dangling with their leather wings about their heads. Archers came forward and shot in turn at the bats with arrows to which were attached silken threads. The bats, when hit, fell fluttering down, and were claimed for the pot.

The winner was a girl. She wore a bright red garment tight at the neck and long to the ground, and she pulled back her bow and shot more accurately than any man. And her hair was long and dark. Her name was Iskador, and the crowd applauded her wildly, none more so than Yuli.

Then there were the gladiatorial combats, men against men, men against phagors, and blood and death filled the arena. Yet all the time, even when Iskador was tensing her bow and her lovely torso — even then, Yuli thought in terms of great joy that he had found an amazing faith. The confusions within would be banished by greater knowledge, he assumed.

He recalled the legends he had listened to round his father’s fire. The elders had spoken of the two sentinels in the sky, and of how the men on earth had once offended the God of the Skies, whose name was Wutra. So that Wutra had banished the earth from his warmth. Now the sentinels watched for the hour when Wutra returned, to look again with affection on the earth, and see if the people behaved better. If he found they did, then would he remove the frosts.

Well, Yuli had to acknowledge that his people were savages, just as Sataal claimed; how else would his father have allowed himself to be dragged away by phagors? Yet there must be a germ of truth in the tales. For here in Pannoval was a more reasoned version of the story. Wutra was now merely a minor deity, but he was vengeful, and he was loose in the skies. It was from the skies that peril came. Akha was the great earth god, ruling underground, where it was safe. The Two Sentinels were not benign; being in the sky, they belonged to Wutra, and they could turn against mankind.

Now the memorised verses began to make sense. Illumination shone from them, so that Yuli muttered with pleasure what had previously given him pain, gazing upon Akha’s face as he did so:

Next day, he went humbly to Sataal and told the man that he had been converted.

The pale heavy face of his priest regarded him, and Sataal drummed his fingers on his knees.

‘How were you converted? Lies fly about the livings these days.’

‘I looked at Akha’s face. For the first time I saw it clear. Now my heart is open.’

‘Another false prophet was arrested the other day.’

Yuli smote his chest. ‘What I feel inside me is not false, Father.’

‘It’s not so easy,’ said the priest.

‘Oh, it is easy, it is easy — now everything will be easy!’ He fell at the priest’s feet, crying his delight.

‘Nothing’s so easy.’

‘Master, I owe you everything. Help me. I want to be a priest, to become as you.’

During the next few days, he went about the lanes and livings noticing new things. No longer did he feel himself encased in gloom, buried underground. He was in a favoured region, protected from all the cruel elements that had made him a savage. He saw how welcome the dim light was.

He saw too how beautiful Pannoval was, in all its chambers. In the course of their long habitation, the caves had been decorated by artists. Whole walls were covered with painting and carving, many of them illustrating the life of Akha and the great battles he had fought, as well as the battles he would fight when again enough humans had faith in his strength. Where the pictures had grown old and faint, new ones had been painted on top of them. Artists were still at work, often perched dangerously on top of scaffolding that reached towards the roof like the skeleton of some mythical long-necked animal.

‘What’s the matter with you, Yuli? You attend to nothing,’ Kyale said.

‘I’m going to be a priest. I’ve made up my mind.’

‘They’ll never let you — you from outside.’

‘My priest is speaking to the authorities.’

Kyale pulled at his melancholy nose, slowly lowering his hand until the tugging operations were taking place at one end of his moustache, as he contemplated Yuli. By now, Yuli’s eyesight had so adjusted to the dimness that every nuance of expression on his friend’s face was clear. When Kyale moved without a word to the back of his stall, Yuli followed.

Again grabbing his moustache for security, Kyale placed his other hand on Yuli’s shoulder. ‘You’re a good lad. You remind me of Usilk, but we won’t go into that… Listen to me: Pannoval isn’t like it was when I was a child, running barefoot through the bazaars. I don’t know what’s happened, but there’s no peace any more. All this talk of change — nonsense, to my mind. Even the priests are at it, with wild men ranting about reform. I say, let well enough alone. Know what I mean?’

‘I know what you mean, yes.’

‘Well, then. You may think that it would be soft, being a priest. So it might. But I wouldn’t recommend it at present. It’s not as — as secure as it used to be, if you follow me. They’ve become restive. I hear they often execute heretical priests in the Holies. You’d do better here indentured to me, making yourself useful. Understand? I’m speaking to you for your own good.’

Yuli looked down at the worn ground.

‘I can’t explain how I feel, Kyale. Sort of hopeful… I think things ought to change. I want to change myself, I don’t know how.’

Sighing, Kyale removed his hand from Yuli’s shoulder. ‘Well, lad, if you take that attitude, don’t say I didn’t warn you…’

Despite Kyale’s grumpiness, Yuli was touched that the man cared about him. And Kyale passed on the news of Yuli’s intentions to his wife. When Yuli went to his little curved room that evening, Tusca appeared in his doorway.

‘Priests can go anywhere. If you become an initiate, you’ll have the run of the place. You’ll come and go in the Holies.’