Authors: Christopher Stasheff
“Me,
sent by Bolenkar?” Culaehra's face turned purple with anger at the insult. “I
seek to defeat Bolenkar's agents, not to league with them!”
“Answer,”
the gravelly voice called up.
“I
did answer!”
“But
you did not make it rhyme.” Little Lua came up behind him, goggles off and eyes
dancing with excitement. She leaned over the rail of the pilothouse and called
down,
“Revenge
is wrong because it
Only
destroys—your foe, aye,
But
at yourself gnaws it!
Within,
you begin to die!
It
wastes your strength and your heart,
Wastes
also your time and your mind!
Put
hurtful ones behind you!
Go
on to build something new!”
A
buzz of approval answered her. “Small heads may be wise,” a voice that might
once have been feminine screeched, and another replied, “Deep-seeing her eyes!”
The
gurgling voice challenged,
“Have
we no right to drown
Those
who seek to strike down
Those
weaker than they?
Are
not brutes of less worth
Than
those gentle at birth?”
Culaehra
was amazed to feel the answer within him, and even more amazed to feel it
rising unbidden to his hps. He had to let it out—but he tried to force some
semblance of rhyme to it.
“The
answer lies in the Creator,
For
none can be lesser or greater
To
Him.
All
souls are of infinite worth
Therefore,
every soul on Earth
Must
be equal before Him!”
“It
is well spoke,” the gurgling voice admitted grudgingly.
“But
is that worth not then broke,
If
your Creator's a joke?
Who
can prove He is there,
When
all the world might be air?
For
we can only know
What
we see and feel,
But
surely, in dreams,
What
you see's just as real!
And
if life only seems
To
be real, then none did create it!”
Anger
rose in Kitishane, and she rushed to the rail to call down,
“If
there is a dream, there is someone who's dreaming.
Nothing
unwilled comes from naught.
If
dreams can hurt, though they be only seeming,
Those
hurts can kill, though life be sought.
If
dream from waking can't be shown,
Then
waking dreams cannot be known.
We
must live as if the world were real.
Or
it will wound us sore, and never heal.
But
what is real, is really doom.
No
child is born without a womb.
All
is, All was, All will be,
All
is the Source!”
A
murmur of appreciation passed through the blue faces. “Where did you gain such
a gift of poetry?” Culaehra asked, amazed.
“I—I
do not know,” Kitishane said, and glanced at Illbane. “Do you?”
But
Illbane only smiled, and turned back to the Blue Folk as one with a voice like
a tuneful crow called out,
“You
claim that since you cannot tell
Dream
from Real, you then must live
Life
as Real, though fine or fell.
Why
not believe that life can give
Far
greater pleasure if 'twere Dream,
And
do as you please, with no regard
To
others' pain, who only seem
To
live, so naught's untoward?”
“But
folk
are
real!” Yocote cried, and leaped up beside Lua to call down,
“Hear
one whom others used as toy,
Because
I was too small to fight!
The
seemers live, and can know joy
And
pain, wherefore in their plight
They
shall revenge if e'er they can!
Reality
will turn and bite!
You
can ignore, but cannot ban!”
“Errant
nonsense,” he muttered to himself, sagging in self-disgust, then slipping down
to the deck again before Lua could speak. But the Blue Folk seemed satisfied
enough, to judge by the pebble-rattling of their conversation. Finally, one
with a voice like the dripping of mud called up,
“What's
wrong is right, and right is wrong
Depending
on the place and time!
One
priest for worship orders song!
Another
censures tune and rhyme!
One
god demands, another bans!
One
nation holds it wrong to slay—
Another
murders all it may!
Do
as you please, for on this earth
Someone,
somewhere, will praise your worth!
Somewhere,
someone will find no sin
In
what you are, or what you've been!”
Now
Illbane's brows drew down in anger. He stepped to the rail and thundered down,
“Hypocrites!
You
don't believe the words you speak,
But
tempt and taunt us all to seek
Our
weakening, our self-damnation!
Some
laws are lived by every nation,
Some
sins condemned by every station!
The
clan whose people kill at pleasure,
When
they have all slain one another,
Ceases
to exist. Which tribe, at leisure,
Lets
each man steal from his brother
Will
find each jealous and suspicious
Till
none can trust his fellow, and
Strikes
at hints of theft malicious.
Thus
their tribe the tribesmen slay,
Or
break their tribe and go away.”
The
rattle of approval deepened to a rumble. Illbane did not step back from the
ship's side, but stood, staff in hand and glaring down at the Blue People,
still indignant.
“You
speak in circling contradiction,” the muddy voice called out.
“Thus
you earn our malediction.
You
admit there may be tribes that do allow
Their
folk to break the laws to which all others bow,
Yet
say there are some rules that can't be broke!
Explain—or
is your speech in vain, a joke?”
But
Illbane's mouth drew tight in sarcasm.
“Vain
tempter, speaking to confuse!
Do
not think me to bemuse!
Paradox
can be resolved!
Each
broken ethic's self-enforcing—
Those
who hold it mere discoursing
Perish
if they dare to break it.
They're
soon or late caught in the locks
Of
tightening loops of paradox,
Which
choke off breath as an affliction,
For
it only
seems
a contradiction!”
The
voices below rose to a roar, and its tone was uncertain.
“You
have done it, wanderer,” the captain moaned. “Now they will certainly wreck us.
Sailors! Your oars as clubs!”
The
sailors struggled to raise their oars as weapons, but before they could, Lua
pointed downward, crying, “Look!”
They
looked and, incredibly, saw the blue faces begin to move apart, to draw back
from the ship's sides.
“We
are saved!” a sailor cried. “They are leaving us! They will let us pass!”
It
was so. In minutes they had vanished beneath the waves. A breeze sprang up, and
the ship began to move forward again.
“This
is all on your account.” Another sailor glared darkly at Culaehra. “They came
for you. If you had not been aboard, this would not have happened.”
His
look gave the big warrior a chill. But his anger was eclipsed by the captain's
cry of triumph. “We have won! Our noble passengers have bested the Blue People!
What a tale this will be to tell in the taverns—that the Blue Folk can be
defeated by rhyming!”
Even
Culaehra somehow felt that the captain had missed the point—twice.
The
quay felt strange beneath their feet, after a week at sea—but as Culaehra
carried the treasure chest off the ship, he looked up and saw the mountains,
seeming so close that he could have sworn he would reach them by evening. He
turned to join his companions in thanking the captain, then followed Illbane
and Kitishane into the little port town. To his surprise, they slowed near an
inn. “What are you about?” he demanded. “Let us strike out for the mountains!
Surely we can reach them by evening, if we go at once!”
“It
will be two days' journey, Culaehra.” Illbane looked up at the mountains, the
ever-present, looming presence over the town. “They are higher than they seem,
so they are farther, too.”
Culaehra
studied the look on the sage's face, an expression at once bleak and nostalgic.
Kitishane voiced his question: “What troubles you, Illbane?”
“There
was no town when last I came to this shore,” was all he said.
Culaehra
stared, then looked about him at the town. It must have been there for a
hundred years at least—sturdy little houses built of logs with the bark left
on, two much larger, windowless versions of the same thing for warehouses, and
another, almost as large, for the inn. How old was Illbane, anyway? He shook
himself impatiently. “Let us be on the road!”
“Gently.”
Illbane raised a hand. “There may be little game in those hills; we would do
well to bring food with us. Then, too, these mountains will be far colder than
the winters of your homeland, and we must push even farther north beyond them.
We will need warmer clothing, and cloaks of thick wool.”
Culaehra
stood rigid while anger built within him, then faded. Finally he said, “You are
telling me we must spend another night in an inn.”
So
they did, with Culaehra sitting nervously on the chest the rest of that day and
Yocote sitting atop it through the night. The warrior and Kitishane took the
watch in turns, not trusting the trance-vigils alone of the shaman and the
sage. At one point in the night, Culaehra felt a hand on his ankle, and woke to
see Kitishane reaching out to touch him, her eyes on the door. He whipped about
to look, just in time to see the portal ease closed and the bar fall back into
its staple. Culaehra was up like a shot, catching up a stick of kindling wood
to drive beneath the door. Then, breathing hard, he went back to his pallet,
muttering thanks to Kitishane on the way. It took him a while to fall asleep
again—he kept wondering how the landlord had rigged an unseen latch to raise the
bar.
The
next day, they broke their fast on bread that was only two days old, and fresh
porridge. Fortified against the day's work, they left the village. Culaehra
grumbled a little at the packs of fur clothing Illbane and Kitishane carried,
but since the gold was his only burden, he did not feel he had the right to
complain very strongly.
That
night, they camped at the base of the foothills; the next night, they slept
where the hills gave way to the true mountains. On the third day they began the
long, slow climb. Culaehra had thought that Illbane had bullied him into
excellent condition in the last six months, but by midday he was sweating and
gasping under the weight of the load. He wondered how heavily it would have
weighed without Yocote's enchanted pack, and felt an entirely irrational burst
of gratitude for the gnome. Surely it must have been irrational—Yocote had
certainly not done it out of love for Culaehra. Or even fellowship. Had he?
They
halted to dine, and Culaehra thankfully lowered the pack—then saw Illbane
looking about him with the same faraway gaze they had seen on the dock. Before
they could ask, the sage shook off the mood and said, “The mountains, at least,
have not changed. Break bread, my friends, and rest.”
They
rested an hour. Then, with a groan, Culaehra shouldered his pack again. It was
the king's sin, not his own, he thought with exasperation. Why was it he who
must labor out the penance?
They
were high among the crags when the mountaineers stepped out to block their
path.
If
the pack had not held gold, Culaehra would have dropped it to draw his sword.
Even if it had been his, he would have let his load slide—but it was not; it
was a sacrifice he had promised to take to Agrapax. He glared at the tall,
rangy men and leaned into the load, readying himself to kick. But before he
could challenge them, Kitishane smiled and said, “Good day to you, men of the
mountains!”
They
seemed a little taken aback, but the oldest said nonetheless, “It is a bad day
for you. Open your packs.”
“Why?
Are you bandits?”
The
man grinned. “I am Swiba. We are the clan of the Chamois, and these are our
mountains. We demand a toll of any who pass here.”
“Why?
Do you maintain the road for us?”
“Because
these are our mountains, and any who seek to pass through them must pay us!”
Swiba flared, and his men stepped forward, their spears gleaming.
“How
much is this toll?” Kitishane asked.
“Two
parts in ten out of all you carry.”
She
frowned. “Rather steep, is it not? You are poorly clad for folk so well-paid.”
That
was true; the men wore woolen leggings and tunic, threadbare and patched. Their
hair was greasy and unkempt, their beards untrimmed.
“One
part for us, one part for our god!” Swiba snapped. “Show us your packs!”
“What
god is this?” Illbane demanded.
Swiba
turned, frowning at the sage's tone, but said, “He is called Wauhanak. Bow to
him if you come here!”
“I
know of him.” Illbane's tone became even harder. “The sacrifice he demands is
not in goods alone, but also in life. Which of us had you planned to sacrifice?”
The
mountaineers muttered with foreboding, taken by surprise, and Swiba looked
nonplussed for a minute before he shook himself and forced a scowl. “All
strangers' lives are forfeit to the god. Since you have sprung the trap
yourselves, put your wrists behind your backs for lashing; we would rather slay
you on the altar than here in the pass, though we will do that if we must.”