Collected Short Fiction, page 735
The nildoror were starting to move toward the lakeshore.
The third moon appeared, spinning retrograde into view from the south.
So he was going to see them dance again. He had witnessed these ceremonies early in his career. He had been stationed at Shangri-la Falls in the northern tropics. That night the nildoror had massed just upstream of the falls on both banks of Madden’s River. For hours after dark their blurred cries could be heard even above the roar of the water. Finally Kurtz, who was also stationed at Shangri-la then, had said, “Come, let’s watch the show.”
He led Gundersen out into the night.
This had been six months before the episode at the serpent station—Gundersen had not yet realized how strange Kurtz was. His first inkling had come when Kurtz had joined the nildoror in their dance.
The huge beasts had been clustered in loose semicircles, stamping back and forth, trumpeting piercingly, shaking the ground. Suddenly Kurtz had moved out there among them, arms upflung, bare chest beaded with sweat and shining in the moonslight, dancing as intensely as any of them, crying out in great booming roars, stamping his feet, tossing his head. And the nildoror were forming a group around him, giving him plenty of space, letting him enter fully into the frenzy, now running toward him, now backing away.
Gundersen had stood awed.
He had not stirred when Kurtz had called to him to join the dance. He had watched for what had seemed hours, hypnotized, until he had broken somehow from his trance. He had found Kurtz still in ceaseless motion, a gaunt, skeletal figure jerking puppetlike on invisible strings, looking fragile despite his extreme height as he moved within the circle of colossal nildoror. Kurtz had been unable either to hear Gundersen’s words or take note of his presence and finally Gundersen had gone back to the station alone.
In the morning he had found Kurtz, looking spent and worn, slumped on the bench overlooking the waterfall.
Kurtz had merely said, “You should have stayed. You should have danced.”
Anthropologists had studied these rites. Gundersen had looked up the literature, learning what little there was to learn. Evidently the dance was preceded and surrounded by drama, a spoken episode akin to Earth’s medieval mystery plays, a theatrical reenactment of some supremely important nildoror myth, serving both as mode of entertainment and as ecstatic religious experience. Unfortunately the language of the drama was an obsolete liturgical tongue, not a word of which could be understood by an Earthman. The nildoror, who had not hesitated to instruct their first Earthborn visitors in their relatively simple modern language, had never offered any clue to the nature of the other one. The anthropological observers had noted one point Gundersen now found cheering; invariably, within a few days after the performance of this particular rite, groups of nildoror from the herd performing it would set out for the mist country, presumably to undergo rebirth.
He wondered if the rite might be some ceremony of purification, some means of entering a state of grace before undergoing rebirth.
THE nildoror all had gathered, now, beside the lake. Srin’gahar was one of the last to go. Gundersen sat alone on the slope above the basin, watching the massive forms assembling. The contrary motions of the moons fragmented the shadows of the nildoror. The cold light from above turned their smooth green hides into furrowed black cloaks.
In the silence came a low, clear, forceful flow of words. Gundersen strained to hear, hoping to catch some clue to the meaning, seeking a magical gateway that would let him burst through into an understanding of that secret language. But no understanding came. Vol’himyor was the speaker. The old many-born one was reciting words clearly familiar to everyone at the lake, an invocation, an introit. Then came a long interval of silence and finally a response from a second nildor at the opposite end of the group, who exactly duplicated the rhythms and sinuosities of Vol’himyor’s utterance. Silence again. Next a reply from Vol’himyor, spoken more crisply. Back and forth the center of the service moved and the interplay between the two celebrants became what was for nildoror a surprisingly quick exchange of dialogue. About every tenth line the herd at large repeated what a celebrant had said, sending dark reverberations echoing through the night.
After perhaps ten minutes of this, the voice of a third solo nildor was heard. Vol’himyor made reply. A fourth speaker took up the recitation. Now isolated lines were coming in rapid bursts from many members of the congregation. No cue was missed. No nildor trampled on another’s lines. The tempo accelerated. The ceremony had become a mosaic of brief utterances blared forth from every part of the group in a random rotation. A few of the nildoror were up and moving slowly in place, lifting their feet, putting them down.
Lightning speared through the sky. Gundersen felt a chill. He saw himself as a wanderer on a prehistoric Earth, spying on some grotesque conclave of mastodons. All the things of man seemed infinitely far away now. The drama was reaching some sort of climax. The nildoror were bellowing, stamping, calling to one another with tremendous snorts. They were taking up formations, assembling in aisled rows. Still there came utterances and responses, antiphonal amplifications of words heavy with strange significance. The air grew more steamy. Gundersen could no longer hear individual words, only rich deep chords of massed grunts—ah ah ah ah, ah ah ah ah—the old rhythm that he remembered from the night at Shangri-la Falls. The sound was breathy, gasping, ecstatic, an endless chuffing pattern of exhalations—ah ah ah ah, ah ah ah ah, ah ah ah ah—with scarcely a break between each group of four beats, and the whole jungle seemed to echo with it. The nildoror had no musical instruments whatever—yet to Gundersen it appeared that vast drums were pounding out that hypnotically intense rhythm.
And the nildoror were dancing.
Down below on the margin of the lake moved scores of great shadowy shapes, prancing like gazelles, two running steps forward, stamp down hard on the third step, regain the balance on the fourth. The universe trembled. Boom boom boom boom, boom boom boom boom. The earlier phase of the ceremony, the dramatic dialogue, which might have been some sort of subtle philosophical disquisition, had given way totally to this primeval pounding, this terrifying shuffling of gigantic elephantine bodies. Boom boom boom boom. Gundersen looked to his left and saw the sulidoror entranced, hairy heads switching back and forth in the rhythm of the dance—but not one of the bipeds had risen from the crosslegged posture. They were content to rock, nod and now and then to pound their elbows on the ground.
Gundersen was cut off from his specific past, even from a sense of kinship to his species. Disjointed memories floated up. Again he was at the serpent station, a prisoner of the hallucinatory venom, feeling himself transformed into a nildor and capering thickly in the grove. Again he stood by the bank of the great river, seeing another performance of this very dance. And also he remembered nights spent in the safety of Company stations deep in the forest, among his own kind, when they had listened to the sound of stamping feet in the distance.
All those other times Gundersen had drawn back from whatever strangeness this planet was offering him. He had transferred out of the serpent station rather than taste the venom a second time. He had refused Kurtz’ invitation to join the dance. He had remained within the station when the rhythmic poundings began in the forest. But tonight he felt little allegiance to mankind. He found himself longing to join that black and incomprehensible frenzy at the lakeshore. Something monstrous was running free within him, liberated by the incessant repetition of that boom boom boom boom. But what right had he to caper Kurtzlike in an alien ceremony? He did not dare intrude on their ritual.
No.
He did not dare . . .
YET he discovered that he was walking down the spongy slope toward the place where the massed nildoror cavorted.
If he could think of them only as leaping, snorting elephants it would be all right. If he could think of them even as savages kicking up a row it would be all right. But the suspicion was unavoidable that this ceremony of words and dancing held intricate meanings for these people and that was the worst of it. They might have thick legs and short necks and long dangling trunks but that did not make them elephants, for their triple tusks and spiny crests and alien anatomies said otherwise; and they might be lacking in all technology, lacking even in written language, but that did not make them savages, for the complexity of their minds said otherwise. They were creatures who possessed g’rakh.
Gundersen remembered how he had innocently attempted to instruct the nildoror in the arts of terrestrial culture, in an effort to help them “improve” themselves. He had wanted to humanize them, to lift their spirits upward, but nothing had come of that, and now he found his own spirit being drawn—downward? Certainly to their level, wherever that might lie. Boom boom boom boom. His feet hesitantly traced out the four-step as he continued down the slope toward the lake. Did he dare? Would they crush him as a blasphemer?
They had let Kurtz dance.
It had been in a different latitude, a long time ago, and other nildoror had been involved. But they had let Kurtz dance.
“Yes,” a nildoror called to him. “Come, dance with us.”
Was it Vol’himyor? Was it Srin’gahar? Gundersen did not know which of them had spoken. In the darkness, in the sweaty haze, he could not see clearly, and all these giant shapes looked identical. He reached the bottom of the slope. Nildoror were everywhere about him, tracing out passages in their private journeys from point to point on the lakeshore. Their bodies emitted acrid odors, which, mixing with the fumes of the lake, choked and dizzied him. He heard several of them call to him.
“Yes, yes, dance with us—”
And he danced.
He found an open patch of marshy soil and laid claim to it, moving forward, backward, covering and recovering his one little tract in his fervor. No nildoror trespassed on him. His head tossed. His eyes rolled. His arms dangled. His body swayed and rocked. His feet carried him untiringly. Now he sucked in the thick air. Now he cried out in strange tongues. His skin was on fire. He stripped away his clothing but it made no difference. Boom boom boom boom. Even now, a shred of his old detachment was left, enough so that he could marvel at the spectacle of himself dancing naked amid a herd of giant, alien beasts. Would they, in their ultimate transports of passion, sweep in over his plot and crush him into the muck? Surely it was dangerous to stay here in the heart of the herd. But he stayed. Boom boom boom boom, again, again, yet again. As he whirled he looked out over the lake and, by sparkling, refracted moonslight, saw the malidaror placidly munching the weeds, heedless of the frenzy on land.
They are without g’rakh. They are beasts and when they die their leaden spirits go downward to the earth. Boom. Boom. BOOM. Boom.
He became aware that glossy shapes were moving along the ground, weaving warily between the rows of dancing nildoror. The serpents! This music of pounding feet had summoned them from the dense glades where they lived.
The nildoror seemed wholly unperturbed that these deadly worms moved among them. A single stabbing thrust of the two spiny quills would bring even a mighty nildor toppling down; but no matter. The serpents were welcome, it appeared. They glided toward Gundersen, who knew he was in no mortal danger from their venom but who did not seek another encounter with it. He did not break the stride of his dance, though, as five of the thick pink creatures wriggled past him.
The serpents passed through and were gone. And still the uproar continued. And still the ground shook. Gundersen’s heart hammered but he did not pause. He gave himself up fully, blending with those about him, sharing as deeply as he was able to share the intensity of the experience.
The moons set. Early streaks of dawn stained the sky.
Gundersen became aware that he no longer could hear the thunder of stamping feet. He danced alone. About him the nildoror had settled down and their voices again could be heard in that strange unintelligible litany. They spoke quietly but with great passion. He could no longer follow the patterns of their words. Everything merged into an echoing rumble of tones, without definition, without shape. Unable to halt, he jerked and twisted through his obsessive gyration until the moment he felt the first heat of the morning sun.
Then he fell exhausted and lay still. He slipped easily into sleep.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Downward to Earth
part II
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
EDMUND GUNDERSEN, former sector chief on Holman’s World, an Earth colony, returns to the planet as little more than a tourist after Earth has returned it to the control of its indigenes, an intelligent, elephantine life form, the nildoror. The planet is now known by its native name of Belzagor.
Other changes have taken place, some subtle, others not. Left over traces of Man’s occupation of the planet—buildings, a robot-crewed spaceport—are gradually falling into disrepair. The nildoror have resumed their lives and customs as if they had never been—sometimes savagely—interrupted by Man. Gunderson’s return has been dictated by an inner need on his part to learn more about the intelligent species he once treated and abused as animals.
The nildoror understand and sympathize and one of them, Srin’gahar, agrees to carry Gundersen to the nearest nildor encampment, where he can apply for a travel permit.
At the encampment Gunderson meets Vol’himyor, an ancient, many-born nildor, requests permission to go to the nildoror place of rebirth, the mist country. He is invited to spend some time with his hosts before permission is granted—and that night finds himself joining them in an elemental, ritualistic dance.
He is shocked to discover that in so doing is able to share himself completely with the nildoror, in effect becoming one of them.
VI
HE AWOKE some time after midday. The only sign of last night’s frenzy was in the spongy turf near the lakeshore, which was terribly scuffed and torn.
Gundersen felt stiff and numb. Also he was abashed. He knew the embarrassment of one who has thrown himself too eagerly into someone else’s special amusement. He could hardly believe that he had done what he knew himself to have done. In his shame he felt an immediate impulse to leave the encampment at once, before the nildoror could show him their contempt for an Earthman capable of making himself a thrall to their festivity. But he shackled the thought, remembering that he had a purpose in coming here.
He limped down to the lake and waded out until its water came up to his breast. He soaked a while and washed away the sweat of the night before. Then fastidiously, he went to a different part of the lake and drank deeply. Emerging, he found his clothing and put it on.
A nildor came to him and said, “Vol’himyor will speak to you now.”
The many-born one was halfway up the slope. Gundersen could not find the words of any of the greetings formulae. He simply stared raggedly at the old nildor.
Vol’himyor said, “You dance well, my once-born friend. You dance with joy. You dance with love. You dance like a nildor, do you know that?”
“It is not easy for me to understand what happened to me last night,” said Gundersen.
“You proved to us that our world has captured your spirit.”
“Was it offensive to you that an Earthman danced among you?”
“If it had been offensive,” said Vol’himyor slowly, “you would not have danced among us.” There was a long silence. Then the nildor said, “We will make a treaty, we two. I will give you permission to go into the mist country. Stay there until you are ready to come out. But when you return bring with you the Earthman known as Cullen and offer him to the northernmost encampment of nildoror, the first of my people that you find. Is this agreed?”
“Cullen?” Gunderson asked. Across his mind flared the image of a short broad-faced man with fine golden hair and mild green eyes. “Cedric Cullen, who was here when I was here?”
“The same man.”
“He worked with me when I was at the station in the Sea of Dust.”
“He lives now in the mist country,” Vol’himyor said, “having gone there without permission. We want him.”
“What has he done?”
“He is guilty of a grave crime. Now he has taken sanctuary among the sulidoror, where we are unable to gain access to him. It would be a violation of our covenant with them if we removed this man ourselves. But we may ask you to do it.”
“You won’t tell me the nature of his crime?”
“Does it matter? We want him. Our reasons are not trifling ones. We request you to bring him to us.”
“You’re asking one Earthman to seize another and turn him in for punishment,” said Gundersen. “How am I to know where justice lies in this affair?”
“Under the treaty of relinquishment—are we not the arbiters of justice on this world?”
Gundersen admitted that this was so.
“Then we hold the right to deal with Cullen as he deserves,” Vol’himyor said.
That did not, of course, make it proper for Gundersen to act as catspaw in handing his old comrade over to the nildoror. But Vol’himyor’s implied threat was clear—do as we wish, or we grant you no favors.
Gundersen said, “What punishment will Cullen get if he falls into your custody?”
“Punishment? Punishment? Who speaks of punishment?”
“If the man’s a criminal—”
“We wish to purify him,” said the many-born one. “We desire to cleanse his spirit. We do not regard the process as punishment.”
“Will you injure him physically in any way?”
“It is not to be thought.”
“Will you end his life?”
“Can you mean such a thing? Of course not.”
“Will you imprison him?”
“We will keep him in custody,” Vol’himyor, “for however long the rite of purification takes. I do not think it will be long. He will swiftly be freed and he will be grateful to us.”
