Philip Farmer: The Gates of Creation

This tune, Theotormon did not get up. His dark seal fur red with blood from a torn lip and gashed jaw and mashed nose, he lay breathing noisily. Wolff kicked him several times in the ribs to make sure he stayed down.

Vala applauded Wolff and said, “Well done. You are the man I once loved—still love.”

“And why didn’t you help me?” he said.

“You didn’t need it. I knew you’d knock that bag of blubber out of his pinhead-mind.”

Wolff looked through the grass for his beamer but could not find it. Vala did not move from where she stood. She said, “Why didn’t you use your knife?”

“I would have if it had been necessary. But I want him alive. We’re taking him along with us.”

Her eyes widened. “In the name of Los, why?”

“Because he has certain abilities we may be able to use.”

Theotormon groaned and sat up. Wolff kept an eye on him but continued his search. Finally, he said, “All right, Vala. Hand it over.”

She reached within her robe and brought out the beamer. “I could kill you now.”

“Do it then, but don’t waste my time with idle threats. You don’t scare me.”

“All right. Have it then,” she said fiercely. She raised the beamer and for a moment Wolff thought he had goaded her too far. After all, the Lords were proud, far too proud, and overly swift to react to insult.

But she pointed the beamer carefully at Theotormon, and a white rod of light touched the end of one flipper. Smoke curled up; burnt flesh stank. Theotormon fell backwards, his mouth open, his eyes staring.

Vala, smiling, reversed the weapon and handed it to Wolff. He swore and said, “There was no reason but viciousness for that, Vala. Viciousness and stupidity. I tell you, he might have been the difference between death and life for us.”

She walked-strolled-over to the huge wetness and bent over to look at him. She raised the flipper, the end of which was charred.

“He’s not dead—yet. You can save him, if you want to. But you’ll have to cut off the flipper. It’ll be cooked halfway to his shoulder.” Wolff walked away without further comment. He recruited a number of Ilmawir to help him get Theotormon on the island. Hoisted by four bladders, Theotormon rose up through a hatch. There he was pulled to one side and stretched out on the floor of a “brig.” This was a cage with very light but steel-strong bars of laminated bladder-shells. Wolff did the surgery himself. After forcing a drugged drink, provided by the Ilmawir wizard, down Theotormon’s throat, he examined a number of saws and other surgical tools. These were the property of the wizard, who took care of both the spiritual and physical welfare of his people.

With several saws fitted with the teeth of a sharklike fish, Wolff cut off the flipper just below the shoulder. The flesh went quickly; the bones offered enough resistance to dull two saws. The wizard thrust the red-hot end of a torch against the huge wound to seal off the blood vessels. Moreover, the wizard applied a salve to the burn, assuring Wolff that it had saved the lives of men who had been burned over half their bodies.

Vala watched the entire operation with a slight sneer. Once, her gaze met Wolff’s as he looked up from his work, and she laughed. He shuddered, although she had a beautiful and striking laugh. It reminded him of a gong he had once heard while voyaging down the Guzirit river in the land of Khamshem on the third level of the planet of his own universe. It had golden notes to it, that was the only way to describe the laughter. The gong had probably been of bronze, hanging in the dark adytum of an ancient and crumbling temple of jade and chalcedony, muffled by stone and the green density of the jungle. It was bronze, but it gave forth golden vibrations. And this was how the laughter of Vala sounded, bronze and golden and also with something dark and smoldering in it.

She said, “He’ll never be able to grow a new flipper unless you keep peeling off the scab. You know regeneration won’t take place if there’s scar tissue.”

“You let me worry about those things,” he said. “You’ve interfered enough.”

She sniffed and went up the narrow corkscrewing staircase to the maindeck. Wolff waited awhile. After it seemed reasonable that Theotormon was not going to die of shock, he also went up onto the deck. The Friiqan adoptees were being trained for their new duties, and he watched them for a while. He asked Dugarnn how the great gas-plants were fed, since it seemed to him that the nutrient would weigh much. There were at least four thousand of the bladders, each as large as the cell in a zeppelin.

Dugarnn explained. A growing bladder did not have to be fed. But when it matured, it died. The skin would become dry and hard but was specially treated to preserve flexibility and expandability. New colonies of gas-generating bacteria were placed therein. These had to be fed, but the amount of gas they produced was very high in proportion to the amount of food they needed. This was mainly the heart-stuff of growing plants, although the bacteria could work on fish, meat, or decaying vegetable matter.

Dugarnn left him, saying there was much work to be done. The shadow of the moon passed, and full daylight returned. The island began to tug harder against the ropes. Finally, Dugarnn decided that it was buoyant enough to cast loose. The stone anchors were drawn up, and the ropes around the fronds cut. The island drifted past them and slowly rose. It settled at a hundred and fifty feet for a while. Then, as the gas continued to fill the bladders, it rose to five hundred feet. Dugarnn ordered the bacteria food to be reduced. He inspected the entire island, a trip which took several hours, and returned to the bridge. Wolff went down to see how Theotormon was coming along. The wizard reported that his patient was doing even better than could be expected.

Wolff climbed up a flight of steps to the top of the walls. Here he found Luvah and one of his cousins, Palamabron. The latter was a well-built and handsome man, darkest of the family. He wore a conical hat with hexagonal rim, both decorated with emerald-green owls. His cloak had a turned-up collar in back and epaulets in the shape of lions couchant. The fabric was a green shimmering stuff with a pattern of trefoils pierced with a bleeding lance. His shirt was electric-blue and piped with white skulls. A great belt of leather was bossed with gold and set with diamonds, emeralds, and topazes. His baggy pants were white-and-black striped and calf-length. The boots were of some pale soft red leather.

He made a striking and handsome figure, of which he was well aware. He nodded at Wolff’s greeting, then left. Wolff, watching him, chuckled. He said, “Palamabron never did care too much for me. I would worry if he did.”

“They won’t do anything as long as we’re on this aerial island,” Luvah said. “At least, they won’t unless this search takes too long. I wonder how long it will take? We could float forever over these seas and never happen across the gates.”

Wolff looked at the red skies and the green-blue oceans and at the island they had left, a piece of unattached land seemingly no larger than a penny now. White birds with enormous wings and yellow curved beaks and orange-ringed eyes flew over them and gave forth shrill ululations. One settled down not far from where they stood and cocked its head and fastened an unblinking green eye upon them. Wolff remembered the ravens of his own world. Did some of these great birds have a slice of human brain within their unbird-like-sized craniums? Were they watching and listening for Urizen? Their father had some means of observing them, otherwise he would not be getting full enjoyment from this game.

“Dugarnn told me that the abuta is pushed always by the same wind. It takes it around and around this world of water in a spiraling path. Eventually, it covers every area.”