Part 13 (1/2)

”I do that too. But yes, I'm serious.”

Furio shrugged. ”You never told me why.”

”Didn't I?”

Conversation dried up after that, and they reached the river in silence. Then Gignomai said, ”It's all right, we don't have to cross it. We can just follow the bank, and there's a bridge just before we reach the lake.”

Furio blinked. ”How do you know?”

”Luso has maps. I should think they're accurate; he drew most of them himself.” Furio noticed he kept looking at the scarf. ”He sends men out to walk from one landmark to another, counting their strides as they go. He read about it in a book, but it seems to work.”

Sure enough, there was a bridge. Who had put it there, or why, Furio couldn't imagine. It was right on the edge of the colony's land, much too close to the savages' country for any of the local farmers' taste. They hadn't seen cattle grazing for quite some time.

For some reason, Furio had been expecting a visible indication: a wall, a fence, something of the sort, but there wasn't anything like that. It was only when he stopped and looked back towards the bridge that he realised they must be outside the colony by now. Quite suddenly he felt uncomfortable, a sort of fear of heights feeling. Gignomai was walking slightly faster.

”What are we looking for?” Furio asked.

”Your guess is as good as mine. Smoke would probably be our best bet, or recent wheel-tracks.”

In the event, it wasn't either of those. Out of a dip in the ground that neither of them had suspected was there, two men suddenly stood up.

”I think we've-” Furio whispered.

”Quiet.”

They could have been identical twins. Both were tall and (to Furio's eyes) painfully thin. They had dark skins, a deeper brown than ordinary sunburn, and wore long pocketless coats that nearly reached the ground, made out of some kind of felt. Neither of them was obviously armed. One of them was frowning slightly, as though what he was seeing didn't quite make sense.

”I have no idea,” Gignomai said quietly, ”what language these people speak.”

Furio felt a pang of anxiety. That point hadn't occurred to him. Obviously, it hadn't occurred to Gignomai either, and Furio was surprised about that.

Gignomai took a step forward. The two men immediately took an equivalent step back-like fencers, Furio thought-but they didn't seem unduly alarmed. The one who'd frowned now had his head slightly on one side.

”All right,” Gignomai said softly. From his pocket he took a tin cup-Furio recognised it as part of the stock-and laid it slowly on the ground. Then he stepped back two paces, and Furio did the same. The men just looked at him. Nothing happened for the time it takes to gut a fish. Then the two men talked to each other in a low whisper, and one of them beckoned.

”I think he wants-” Furio said.

”Shh.”

The men turned their backs and started to walk away, quite slowly; Furio got the impression that that was their customary pace. He stooped to retrieve the cup before following them.

They walked in dead silence for what seemed like a very long time, until they reached the sh.o.r.e of the lake. A large covey of ducks rose up in front of the two men, who took no notice. Maybe they're deaf, Furio thought, because anybody normal would've jumped out of his skin.

From a distance, the camp looked like the docks on loading day. There were four or five huge pens, crammed with cattle-much smaller than the breeds Furio was used to seeing, and with long, curved horns that drooped below shoulder height before flicking upwards again. There were tents, not very many, and three neat rows of carts with felt canopies. As soon as they crossed the skyline, people came flooding out of the tents and stood watching, perfectly still and dead quiet.

”Well,” Gignomai whispered in his ear, ”you wanted to come.”

”I did, didn't I?” Somewhere, a dog was barking. It was the only noise. ”What's wrong with these people? They're just-”

”Quiet!”

Their two guides didn't say a word, and the crowd divided to let them pa.s.s, their faces all wearing the same bemused, quizzical expression. Not the slightest suggestion of fear.

They were only a matter of yards from one of the tents, whose flap was still closed, unlike all those around it. One of their guides cleared his throat, a most refined sound that reminded Gignomai uncomfortably of his father. After a moment the flap was lifted aside, and a very old man's head poked round it. He was bald, slightly darker than anyone they'd seen so far. One half of his chin was smooth, the other half wet and covered with white bristles, suggesting he'd been interrupted in the middle of shaving. For a moment, he stared blankly; nothing like the uniform gaze of the crowd. Then his face split into an enormous grin.

”My dear fellows,” he said, and his accent and p.r.o.nunciation made Gignomai's father sound like a ploughman, ”what a wonderful surprise. Do please come inside and have some tea.”

”When I was very young,” the old man said, ”I was abducted.”

He said it as though it was nothing at all. A young woman poured tea into three pale, thin white cups. They were extraordinarily delicate, like cups made of rose petals.

”I can't have been more than seven years old at the time,” the old man went on, picking up his cup and nibbling the surface of his tea. ”It was just after the first s.h.i.+p arrived. I was down on the beach gathering seaweed-we pickle it, you know, it's very good for you and quite delicious if it's done the right way. Five men suddenly appeared from behind a rock and grabbed me. I'd never seen so much as a rowing boat before, of course.”

There were dried yellow flowers floating in the tea. Furio didn't know if he was supposed to fish them out or eat them.

”They took me back to the s.h.i.+p and put me in the hold, along with the barrels and the sides of bacon. It was quite dark and I was terribly frightened, but there wasn't anything I could do. I suppose I was down there for five or six days. Once a day a man came and gave me a piece of bread-I'd never had bread before-and some water in a bowl. It was too big for me to lift, so I had to lap it up like a dog. But anyway,” he added, with a sweet smile, ”they set sail, heading for Home, and once they were out of sight of the sh.o.r.e they let me come up on deck. I suppose they were worried I might jump overboard and try and get back to my people. I couldn't swim a stroke, of course, but they weren't to know.

”Anyway,” the old man went on, ”that's how I came to live in your extraordinary city for ten years. I think the idea was that I would learn your language and then teach you mine, as well as telling you everything about the country. I managed the languages well enough, but needless to say I couldn't tell them very much about anything they wanted to know. After all, I was only a little child. How on earth could I be expected to know how many men of military age there were in the caravan, or what sort of weapons they had? Besides, my people don't fight.”

”Excuse me,” Gignomai interrupted, ”but what does that mean? You don't have a standing army?”

The old man chuckled-a warm, dry sound. ”My dear fellow, we don't even have a word for war. We use the same word to mean fight, shout and sulk. We have a long and well-preserved tradition of oral history, and I think there's been something like six murders in the last three hundred years-something like that, anyway. Not very many. It's quite simply something we don't do.

”Now, then.” The old man sat up a little straighter on his stool. Furio and Gignomai were sitting on a carpet on the ground. ”Once I'd helped them with their language studies and they'd finally got the message that I couldn't give them any military secrets, I was handed over to the met'Alp family, as a gift.” The old man paused, but his face didn't change. ”Quite the novelty I was, as you can imagine, the little savage boy. Of course, the met'Alp were the most delightful people and they treated me extremely well. I was sent to school with their own children, and n.o.body was ever cruel or unkind to me. A matter of honour, you see: I was a guest, and a stranger, and to all intents and purposes an orphan. So I learned to read, and studied the approved curriculum for the sons of gentlemen, and I found it all most congenial and pleasant. In fact, I was heartbroken when on my seventeenth birthday Machomai met'Alp told me I was to be sent home to my people, as a sort of amba.s.sador. And of course,” the old man added with a slight smile, ”I was entrusted with a private message for your grandfather.”

It took Gignomai a moment to realise who the old man meant. ”My...?”

”Oh yes.” The old man nodded vigorously, so that his earlobes shook. ”I'm right, aren't I? You're the youngest met'Oc. Let me see-Gignomai. I've seen you before, you know,” he added, with a distinct note of affection in his voice, ”though of course you wouldn't have seen me. You were herding pigs in the woods, up there on your mountain top.” Gignomai opened his mouth, then closed it again. The old man laughed. ”You don't notice us coming and going,” he said. ”Even your brother, the mighty huntsman. One thing my people do know about is how to keep quiet. It's considered a great skill.”

”What was the message?” Furio demanded. Gignomai scowled at him, but he didn't seem to notice. The old man looked straight at Gignomai when he answered.

”Naturally I never had an opportunity to read the letter itself,” he said. ”However, from what I'd gathered during my time in the met'Alp house, I would a.s.sume that Machomai met'Alp was planning on raising a rebellion in the eastern armies, with a view to marching on the capital and staging a coup d'etat, and he wanted to enlist your grandfather's support. Your great-grandfather, you will recall, won his most glorious victories on the eastern frontier, and at the time we're talking about, a substantial number of men who'd served under him would still have been in the ranks. In any case, I delivered the letter. Your grandfather was most affable to me. We sat and talked for quite some time about city news and the latest plays and books. I have no way of knowing what his reply was. I would a.s.sume that nothing ever came of it.”

”And then you went home,” Gignomai said.

”Ah yes.” The old man smiled. ”I was, of course, utterly desolate. I felt as though I had been stranded among barbarians, with whom I had nothing whatsoever in common. The discomfort, the squalor-” He laughed. ”But the young are nothing if not adaptable. I went before the elders of our people and delivered the message the government and the trade guilds had composed.”

”And?” Furio demanded.

”Ah.” The old man nodded slowly. ”Perhaps I should tell you a little about the way my people view the world. It differs in many respects from your own. When I came home, I found it ridiculous and despicable. Now, I must confess, I have changed my opinion. In fact, were it not for the fact that I know it to be based on at least one false premise, I would accept it wholeheartedly and be a true believer, because, quite honestly, it makes so much more sense than the version I know to be true. You can have no idea how frustrating it's been.”

The old man drank a little tea, then went on, ”My people, to put it bluntly, don't believe that your people exist. As we see the world, there are other-realities, I suppose we could call them. Unfortunately, your otherwise excellent language simply doesn't have the words, words, and even if it did, it lacks the subtle refinements of syntax and grammar that ours has. I fear I would be unable to give a satisfactory account of what we believe, simply because in order to do so I would need to employ tenses and moods of the verb which your language lacks, and use the neutral definite article followed by the active future participle to convey an abstract which is also a substantive, and in your language that simply can't be done. To oversimplify dreadfully, however, we believe that your people are merely echoes in time and s.p.a.ce of people who are dead, or possibly people who have yet to be born. Not ghosts. Though there are heretics among us who maintain that you are lives who have been dislocated from the cycle of reincarnation. We acknowledge that you are solid, flesh and blood, capable of both active and pa.s.sive interaction with our reality, but you are not of our time, quite possibly not of our world in any meaningful sense. To this we attribute the fact that when we speak to each other, neither side can understand what the other says-the concept of other languages, you see, isn't one that my people recognise, since they have been isolated here for so very long.” and even if it did, it lacks the subtle refinements of syntax and grammar that ours has. I fear I would be unable to give a satisfactory account of what we believe, simply because in order to do so I would need to employ tenses and moods of the verb which your language lacks, and use the neutral definite article followed by the active future participle to convey an abstract which is also a substantive, and in your language that simply can't be done. To oversimplify dreadfully, however, we believe that your people are merely echoes in time and s.p.a.ce of people who are dead, or possibly people who have yet to be born. Not ghosts. Though there are heretics among us who maintain that you are lives who have been dislocated from the cycle of reincarnation. We acknowledge that you are solid, flesh and blood, capable of both active and pa.s.sive interaction with our reality, but you are not of our time, quite possibly not of our world in any meaningful sense. To this we attribute the fact that when we speak to each other, neither side can understand what the other says-the concept of other languages, you see, isn't one that my people recognise, since they have been isolated here for so very long.”

The old man sat perfectly still and quiet for a while, staring into his empty teacup, looking so sad and solemn that Gignomai didn't quite dare to disturb him. Then he sighed. ”To put it bluntly, they didn't believe me. Their explanation was that I had suffered some kind of spell or enchantment as a consequence of trying to make contact with the-well, with your people-and I had slept for ten years in a cave somewhere. There are precedents in our folklore. I imagine it seemed far more likely than that I had actually spoken with your people and lived among them, been taken away by them on one of their extraordinary s.h.i.+ps and visited the place they come from. I should mention that in the past, known lunatics, mystics and visionaries have made similar claims, though of course that was long before your people arrived here. In any case, they weren't the slightest bit interested in the message I had been sent to deliver-offers to establish diplomatic relations with a view to establis.h.i.+ng trade, furs and pelts for manufactured goods. They were extremely kind to me and sympathetic, but they wouldn't listen. They tried all manner of remedies to cure me, but whenever I tried to explain, or to engage their interest with fascinating tales of the wonders of the distant land, they seemed so uncomfortable and embarra.s.sed that I quickly gave up. Accordingly, for the last fifty-three years I have pretended that I was indeed mad for a while, but have since made a full recovery. But it's been hard,” he added, closing his eyes briefly. ”I was so terribly afraid I'd forget, you see. And I wouldn't have been able to bear it; like a particularly beautiful dream, that fades away as you wake up and leaves you in tears. So, when n.o.body's near, I talk to myself in your language, just to keep it fresh in my mind. And I have this.”

From inside his thick felt coat he produced a book. Its cover glistened with grease from the felted wool, and it was tied shut with plaited rawhide. ”I must confess,” the old man said, with a wicked grin, ”I stole this, from your grandfather's library, when I went to deliver Machomai's secret message.” He hesitated, then held it out to Gignomai, who took it and glanced at the spine. The gold leaf had worn away but the impressions of the letters were still just about legible: The Angler's Oracle Vol XIV The Angler's Oracle Vol XIV. Gignomai laughed.

”So that's where it got to,” he said. ”Ever since I was a kid, I've wondered about that. We've got all the other volumes, but there's a s.p.a.ce on the shelf. Not that anybody's ever read it, as far as I know.”

The old man looked at him gravely. ”I have read a page of that book every day for fifty-three years,” he said, ”just to remind myself what words look like. I won't pretend,” he went on, ”that its content has been much use to me. It consists of a detailed a.n.a.lysis and comparison of the various types of fly-fis.h.i.+ng rod offered for sale by the seven princ.i.p.al makers in the capital a hundred years ago. I can recite most of it by heart. Indeed, I have in fact done so, at times of great trial and stress. My children believe I become delirious and gabble nonsense. They make me drink herb tea and inhale the steam of special infusions to clear my head. But I carry on reciting quietly under the blanket.”