Julian stood back in surprise and displeasure. He stared at Glawen. “Are you competent?”
“Let me put it this way,” said Glawen. “My luggage is aboard the flyer. Yours is being driven off aboard the carry-all.”
Julian waved his hat. “Hi! Driver! Come back here!” He turned angrily to Glawen. “Just don’t stand there; do something!”
Glawen shrugged. “If one of us has to run after the truck, it might as well be you.”
Chilke put two fingers into his mouth and blew a great shrill blast. The carry-all halted and, in response to Chilke’s gesture, returned. With a set expression, Julian transferred his bags to the flyer. Once again he turned to Glawen. “I insist upon a skillful and experienced pilot. Are you so qualified?”
Glawen handed over a small folder. “Here are my certificates of proficiency, and my licensing.”
Julian glanced skeptically through the folder. “Hm. Everything seems in order. Very well. We are bound for Mad Mountain Lodge.”
“We’ll be in the air about four hours. This particular flyer is not fast, but it’s quite suitable for errands of this sort.”
Julian said no more. He stepped up into the flyer, to join Milo and Wayness, who had already taken their places. Glawen paused for a final word with Chilke. What’s your verdict?”
“A bit hoity-toity, I should say.”
“That’s my impression, too. Well, we’re off for Mad Mountain Lodge.” Glawen climbed aboard the flyer and seated himself at the controls. He touched buttons, pushed the ascensor toggle; the flyer rose into the air. Glawen engaged the autopilot and the flyer slid away into the southwest.
The rolling Muldoon Mountains passed below; the orchards and vineyards of the Araminta enclave gave way to unsullied wilderness: first a pleasant land of wide green meadows among forests of dark blue allombrosa. Presently they came upon the Twan Tivol River, sweeping down from the north to terminate in the Dankwallow Swamp, the source of both the River Wan and the River Leur: a vast area of ponds, puddles, marshes and morasses, overgrown with purple-green verges, balwoon bush, tussocks of saw grass, with a few gaunt skeleton trees for accent.
Syrene shone from a cloudless deep blue sky. “In case anyone is interested,” said Glawen, “we’ll have good weather all the way. Also, if the meteorologists are to be trusted, it’s a fine day at Mad Mountain, with no banjees reported in the vicinity.”
2
Julian attempted a jocularity: “This being the case, and with no bloodshed in prospect, the tourists no doubt will be refunded their money.”
Glawen responded politely: “I don’t think so.”
Milo added the comment: “And that’s why the place is called Mad Mountain.”
“Are you sure?” asked Wayness. “I’ve been wondering.”
“The name obviously derives from the banjee battles,” said Julian in rather patronizing tones. “Their futility - madness, if you will - has long been recognized, at least by the LPF. If my scheme is feasible and is acted upon, we shall rename the place Peace Mountain.”
Wayness asked: “If it doesn’t work out, what then?”
“‘Mad Julian Mountain’ might win a few votes,” said Milo.
Julian shook his head sadly. “Joke all you like. In the end you’ll find that you can’t laugh away either progress or the LPF.”
Wayness said plaintively: “Let’s not talk politics, at least so early in the day. Glawen, you’re supposed to know everything; why is it called Mad Mountain?”
“In this case, I do happen to know,” said Glawen. “On old maps you’ll find the name ‘Mount Stephen Tose.’ About two hundred years ago, a tourist in his excitement supplied the new name, which everyone began to use, and so now it’s Mad Mountain.”
“Why was the tourist excited?”
“I’ll show you after we arrive.”
“Is it a scandal that you’re embarrassed to talk about?” asked Wayness. “Or a delightful surprise?”
“Or both?” asked Milo.
Wayness told Milo: “Your mind runs farther and faster than mine. I can’t think of anything which fits.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see. Glawen may surprise us yet.”
“I’m sure of it. Glawen is very subtle. Don’t you think so, Julian?”
“My dear girl, I haven’t given the matter a thought.”
Wayness turned back to Glawen. “Tell us about the battles. .Have you seen them?”
“Twice. When you’re at the lodge they’re hard to ignore.”
“What happens? Are they as bad as Julian fears?”
“They are spectacular, and in some ways rather grim.”
Julian gave an ironic snort. “Please instruct me in the ways that they are other than grim.”
“It’s mostly in the mind of the beholder. The banjees don’t seem to care.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“The battles would be easy to avoid, if they were so inclined.”
Julian brought a booklet from his pocket. “Listen to this article: ‘The banjee battles are extremely dramatic and picturesque events; happily they have been made accessible to the tourist.
“‘Squeamish folk be warned: these battles are horrifying in their frenzy and in the hideous deeds which occur. Shouts and screams rise and fall; the trumpeting cries of victory mingle with the anguished moans of the defeated. Without surcease or pity the warriors wield their mighty instruments of death. They slash and strike, probe and thrust; quarter is neither extended nor expected.
“‘For the Gaean onlooker, the battles are poignant experiences, rife with archetypal symbology. Emotions are aroused to which the contemporary mind cannot even fit a name. No question as to the quality of the spectacle; the encounters reek with color: portentous reds, the black gleam on the bizarre angles of armor and helmets; the alkaline blues and greens of the thoracic cushions.
“‘The air at Mad Mountain is heavy with the sense of majestic force and tragic destiny’ - it goes on in that vein.”
“It is vivid description,” said Glawen. “The official guidebook is put to shame, and in fact barely mentions the battles.”
“Still, are not the facts in order?”
“Not altogether. There are not so many shrieks and moans, but grunts and curses and bubbling sounds. The females and bantlings stand by unconcerned and are not molested. Still, there’s no denying that the warriors tend to hack at each other.”
Wayness asked: “Forgive me my morbid curiosity - but exactly what happens?”
“The battles seem absolutely pointless and could easily be avoided. The migration routes run east-west and north-south, and cross just below Mad Mountain Lodge. When a horde is approaching, the first signal is a low sound: an ominous murmur. Then the horde appears in the distance. A few minutes later the first attack squad comes running along the route - a hundred elite warriors armed with thirty-foot lances, axes, and six-foot spikes. They secure the crossing and stand guard while the horde runs past. If another horde is passing, the approaching horde does not wait until the other one has gone by, as logic would dictate, but instead becomes indignant and attacks.
“The warriors bring down their lances and charge, trying to force open an avenue for their own group to pass. The battle continues until one or the other of the hordes has negotiated the crossing. It’s a disgrace to go last and the defeated horde sets up a great howl of hurt feelings.
“About this time tourists run down for souvenirs, hoping to find an undamaged helmet. They prowl through the corpses pulling and tugging. Sometimes the banjee is still alive and kills the tourist.
“The dead tourist is not ignored by the management. His picture is hung in the gallery as a warning to others. There are hundreds of these pictures, of folk from almost as many worlds, and they are a source of fascination to everyone.”
“I find the whole business disgraceful,” said Julian.
“I think it’s distasteful myself,” said Glawen. “But the banjees won’t stop fighting and the tourists won’t stop coming - so Mad Mountain Lodge stays open.”
“That is a cynical attitude,” said Julian.
“I don’t feel cynical,” said Glawen. “I just don’t feel theoretical.”
“I’m sure that I don’t understand you,” said Julian stiffly.
Milo asked: “So what is your scheme for the banjees - assuming you were allowed free rein?”
“My first thought was a set of barricades which would hold one horde back while the other passed, but barriers or fences are easily broken down or avoided. At the moment I’m considering ramps and an overpass so that the banjees can go their separate ways without coming into contact with each other.”
“Be reasonable, Julian. You must know that you won’t be allowed any such project. Have you never heard of the Charter?”
“The Charter is as moribund as the Naturalist Society. I don’t mind telling you that the LPF is studying its options.”
“Consider all the options you like. Plan ramps and overpasses to your heart’s content, though how you can call this official business is beyond me. It’s Peefer business and Julian business, at Conservancy expense. There, if you like, is cynicism.”
Slowly Julian turned his head and surveyed Milo under hooded eyelids, and for an instant the curtain of genteel accommodation was torn.
Milo spoke with an unwonted edge in his voice. “More than anything else you want to set a precedent for Peefer meddling in the environment. The next step would be to invite the Yips to lay claim to the land. The Peefers would build grand estates for themselves in the choicest areas of Deucas. Confine all the wild animals behind fences. I assure you, Julian, it won’t work.”
Julian gave an indifferent shrug. “You are talking like a wild man. I suggest that you calm yourself. This is a tour of inspection. I will make recommendations. They may or may not carry weight. There is really nothing more to be said.” Pointedly he turned away from Milo and addressed Glawen: “What does one do at Mad Mountain when the banjees aren’t fighting?”
“Rest, relax, drink San-sue stingers and sundowners, discuss the landscape with your fellow tourists. If you’re keen for exercise, you can climb Mad Mountain. The trail is easy and relatively safe, and there are interesting things along the way. If you like souvenirs, you can look along the riverbed for thunder eggs, or go out on the battlefield - naturally, when no one is fighting - and scratch around for oddments. If you are truly adventurous, you might ride a bunter out to the banjee camp at Lake Dimple - once again, when the banjees are not in residence. If you’re lucky, you might find a magic stone.”
“What’s a magic stone?” asked Wayness. “And what’s a bunter?”
“The female banjees grind chunks of nephrite, lapis, malachite and other colored stones into spheres or tablets and carry them in a tent around their necks. When they go through the change, at about sixteen, and become male they throw the magic stones into the bushes or into the lake. So you can search the bushes or wade in the lake and perhaps you’ll find a magic stone.”
“That sounds interesting,” said Julian. “Perhaps I’ll give it a try. What is a bunter?”
“It’s an ugly beast that can be ridden if it is suitably prepared. It must be fed and soothed and put in a placid mood or it becomes quite unpleasant.”
Julian made a dubious sound. “How is this accomplished?”
“The Yip stablemen are skilled at the process, which is rather complicated.”
“Ha-hah!” said Julian. “So Yips still do the dirty work.”
“There are a few here and there that haven’t been phased out.”
“And why is that?”
“In all candor, no one else wants the job.”
Julian gave a scornful laugh. “The elitists ride the bunters and the Yips clean the stables.”
“Ha, ha!” said Milo. “The elitists must pay to ride the bunters. The Yips earn handsome salaries. The elitist returns home and goes back to work. The Yips give their money to Titus Pompo. We, incidentally, are paying our own way. You are the only elitist in the group.”
“I am the agent of Warden Vergence, who is entitled to official courtesies.”
Wayness thought to change the subject. She pointed to the
savanna below. “See those long lank white beasts! There must be thousands of them!”
Glawen looked down from the window. “They are monohorn springbacks, heading for the Zusamilla Wetlands where they do their breeding.” He manipulated the controls; the flyer dropped with a lurch that lifted his passengers’ stomachs, then leveled off to drift five hundred feet above the ground, where the springbacks ran in tightly ordered ranks, the herd bristling with thousands of convoluted six-foot horns.
“Springbacks have no eyes,” said Glawen. “No one knows how or even if they see. Still they find their way from the Big Red Scarp to Zusamilla Territory and back and never get lost. If you approach the herd, one will run out to stab you with its horn, then turn back and run hard to find its old place in the line.”
Julian glanced down at the sliding white column, then rather ostentatiously began to read his guidebook.
Wayness asked: “Why do they run in curves and slants instead of going directly? Are they just careless?”
“Quite the reverse,” said Glawen. “Notice those little hillocks? The springbacks keep well clear, even if they must swing out to make a detour. Why? On top of each hillock lives a brood of fells. They’re hard to see because they merge into the ground color. They sit waiting for some careless beast to wander nearby, to save them the trouble of hunting.”
Milo scanned the landscape through binoculars. He pointed: “Near the river in that tall blue grass I see some extremely ugly beasts. They are hard to pick out because their color is as blue as the grass itself.”
“Those are monitor saurians,” said Glawen. “They change color to match the surroundings. you find them always in tribes of nine: no one knows why.”
“They probably can’t count any higher,” suggested Milo.
“It might well be,” said Glawen. “Their four-inch-thick hides are proof against most predators, who tire of chewing on them.”
Milo asked: “What’s going on over there, under that vamola tree?”
Glawen looked through the binoculars. “It’s a bull bardicant, and a big one. He’s either sick, or dying, or just resting. The skiddits have found him, but can’t decide what to. They’re taking counsel and now they’re trying to get one of the pups to climb on top of the bardicant. The pup wisely runs away. Someone else tries. Aha! The tail skewers him and he’s gone down the gullet. The other skiddits flee in all directions.”