Collected Short Fiction, page 751
“I won’t go. You’d have to force me. And that’s outside the scope of your promise to the nildoror, isn’t it?” Cullen smiled for the first time in some minutes. “There’s a flask of wine in the corner there. Be a good fellow.”
Gundersen went to get it. He had to walk around several sulidoror. His colloquy with Cullen had been so intense, so private, that he had quite forgotten that the hut was full of sulidoror: his two guides, Cullen’s guards, and at least half a dozen others. He picked up the wine and carried it to the pallet. Cullen, his hand trembling nevertheless managed not to spill any.
“Is it agreed,” Cullen said, “that you won’t make any attempt to take me out of this village? I know you wouldn’t seriously consider handing me over to the nildoror. But you might decide to get me out of here for the sake of saving my life. Don’t do that either—because the effect would be the same. The nildoror would get me. I stay here. Agreed?”
Gundersen was silent a while. “Agreed,” he said finally.
CULLEN looked relieved. He lay back, face toward the wall, and said, “I wish you hadn’t wasted so much of my energy on that one point. We have so much more to talk about. And now I don’t have the strength.”
“I’ll come back later. Rest, now.”
“No. Stay here. Talk to me. Tell me where you’ve been all these years, why you came back here, whom you’ve seen, what you’ve done. Give me the whole story. I’ll rest while I’m listening. And afterward—and afterward—”
Cullen’s voice faded. It seemed to Gundersen that he had slipped into unconsciousness or perhaps merely into sleep. Cullen’s eyes were closed; his breath was slow and labored. Gundersen remained silent. He paced the hut uneasily, studying the hides tacked to the walls, the crude furniture, the debris of old meals. The sulidoror ignored him. Now there were eight in the hut, keeping their distance from the dying man and yet focusing all their attention on him. Momentarily Gundersen was unnerved by the presence of these giant two-legged beasts, these nightmare creatures with fangs and claws and thick tails and drooping snouts, who came and went and moved about as though he were less than nothing to them.
Cullen said, eyes still shut, “I’m waiting. Tell me things.”
Gundersen began to speak. He spoke of his eight years on Earth, collapsing them into six curt sentences. He spoke of the restlessness that had come over him on Earth, of his cloudy and mystifying compulsion to return to Belzagor, of the sense of a need to find a new structure for his life now that he had lost the scaffolding that the Company had been for him. He spoke of his journey through the forest to the lakeside encampment and of how he had danced among the nildoror—and how they had wrung from him the qualified promise to bring them Cullen. He spoke of Dykstra and his woman in their forest ruin, editing the tale somewhat out of respect for Cullen’s own condition, though he suspected that such charity was unnecessary. He spoke of being with Seena again on the Night of Five Moons. He spoke of Kurtz and how he had been changed through rebirth. He spoke of his pilgrimage into the mist country.
He was certain at least three times that Cullen had fallen asleep, and once he thought that the sick man’s breathing had ceased altogether. Each time Gundersen paused, though, Cullen gave some faint indication—a twitch of the mouth, a flick of the fingertips—that he should go on. At the end, when Gundersen had nothing left to say, he stood in silence a long while, waiting for some new sign from Cullen.
At last, faintly, Cullen said, “Then?”
“Then I came here.”
“And where do you go after here?”
“To the mountain of rebirth,” said Gundersen quietly.
Cullen’s eyes opened. With a nod he asked that his pillows be propped up and he sat forward, locking his fingers into his coverlet.
“Why do you want to go there?”
“To find out what kind of thing rebirth is.”
“You saw Kurtz?”
“Yes.”
“He also wanted to learn more about rebirth,” Cullen said. “He already understood the mechanics of it but he had to know its inwardness as well. To try it for himself. It wasn’t just curiosity, of course. Kurtz had spiritual troubles. He was courting self-immolation because he’d persuaded himself he needed to atone for his whole life. Quite true, too. Quite true. So he went for rebirth. The sulidoror obliged him. Well, behold the man. I saw him just before I came north.”
“For a while I thought I might try rebirth also,” said Gundersen, caught unawares by the words surfacing in his mind. “For the same reasons. The mixture of curiosity and guilt. But I think I’ve given up the idea now. I’ll go to the mountain to see what they do but I doubt that I’ll ask them to do it to me.”
“Because of the way Kurtz looks?”
“Partly. And also because my original plan looks too—well, too willed. Too unspontaneous. An intellectual choice, not an act of faith. You can’t just go up there and volunteer for rebirth in a coldly scientific way. You have to be driven to it.”
“As Kurtz was?” Cullen asked.
“Exactly.”
“And as you aren’t?”
“I don’t know any longer,” Gundersen said. “I thought I was driven, too. I told Seena I was. But somehow, now that I’m so close to the mountain, the whole quest has started to seem artificial to me.”
“You’re sure you aren’t just afraid to go through with it?”
Gundersen shrugged.
“Kurtz wasn’t a pretty sight.”
“There are good rebirths and bad rebirths,” Cullen said. “He had a bad rebirth. How it turns out depends on the quality of one’s soul, I gather, and on a lot of other things. Give us some more wine, will you?”
Gundersen extended the flask. Cullen, who appeared to be gaining strength, drank deeply.
“Have you been through rebirth?” Gundersen asked.
“Me? Never. Never even been tempted. But I know a good deal about it. Kurtz wasn’t the first of us to try it, of course. At least a dozen went before him.”
“Who?”
Cullen mentioned some names. They were Company men, all of them from the list of those who had died while on field duty. Gundersen had known some of them. Others were figures out of the far past, from before he or Cullen had ever come to Holman’s World.
Cullen said, “And there were others. Kurtz looked them up in the records and the nildoror gave him the rest of the story. None of them ever returned from the mist country. Four or five of them turned out like Kurtz—transformed into horrible monsters.”
“And the others?”
“Into archangels, I suppose. The nildoror were vague about it. Some sort of transcendental merging with the universe, an evolution to the next bodily level, a sublime ascent—that kind of thing. All that’s certain is that they never came back to Company territory. Kurtz was hoping for an outcome like that. But unfortunately Kurtz was Kurtz, half angel and half demon—and that’s how he was reborn. And that’s what Seena nurses. In a way it’s a pity you’ve lost your urge, Gundy. You might just turn out to have one of the good rebirths. Can you call Hor-tenebor over? I think I should have some fresh air if we’re going to talk so much. He’s the sulidor leaning against the wall there. The one who looks after me, who hauls my old bones around. He’ll carry me outside.”
“It was snowing a little while ago, Ced.”
“So much the better. Shouldn’t a dying man see some snow? This is the most beautiful place in the universe,” Cullen said. “Right here in front of this hut. I want to see it. Get me Hor-tenebor.”
GUNDERSEN summoned the sulidor. At a word from Cullen, Hor-tenebor scooped the fragile, shrunken invalid into his immense arms and bore him through the door flap of the hut, setting him down on a cradlelike framework overlooking the lake. Gundersen followed. A heavy mist had descended on the village, concealing even the huts closest at hand, but the lake itself was clearly visible under the gray sky. Fugitive wisps of mist hung just above the lake’s dull surface. A bitter chill was in the air but Cullen, wrapped only in a thin hide, showed no discomfort. He held out his hand, palm upraised, and watched with the wonder of a child as snowflakes struck it.
At length Gundersen said, “Will you answer a question?”
“If I can.”
“What was it you did that got the nildoror so upset?”
“They didn’t tell you when they sent you after me?”
“No,” Gundersen said. “They said that you would—and that in any case it didn’t really matter to them whether I knew or not. Seena didn’t know either. And I can’t begin to guess. You were never the kind who went in for killing or torturing intelligent species. You couldn’t have been playing around with the serpent venom the way Kurtz was—he was doing that for years and they never tried to grab him. So what could you possibly have done that caused so much—“The sin of Actaeon,” said Cullen.
“Pardon?”
“The sin of Actaeon, which was no sin at all but really just an accident. In Greek myth he was a huntsman who blundered upon Diana bathing and saw what he shouldn’t have seen. She changed him into a stag and he was torn to pieces by his own hounds.”
“I don’t understand what that has to do with—”
Cullen drew a long breath. “Did you ever go up on the central plateau?” he asked, his voice low but firm. “Yes. Yes, of course you did. I remember, you crashlanded there, you and Seena, on your way back to Fire Point after a holiday on the coast. You were stranded a little while and weird animals bothered you and that was when Seena first started to hate the plateau. Right? Then you know what a strange and somehow mysterious place it is, a place apart from the rest of this planet, where not even the nildoror like to go. All right. I started to go there, a year or two after relinquishment. It became my private retreat. The animals of the plateau interested me, the insects, the plants, everything. Even the air had a special taste—sweet, clean. Before relinquishment, you know, it would have been considered a little eccentric for anybody to visit the plateau on his free time—or at any other time. Afterward nothing mattered to anyone. The world was mine. I made a few plateau trips. I collected specimens. I brought some little oddities to Seena and she got to be fond of them before she realized they were from the plateau—and little by little I helped her overcome her irrational fear of the plateau. Seena and I went there often together, sometimes with Kurtz also. There’s a lot of flora and fauna from the plateau at Shangri-la Station, as maybe you noticed. Right? We collected all that. The plateau came to seem like any other place to me, nothing supernatural, nothing eerie, merely a neglected backwoods region. And it was my special place, where I went whenever I felt myself growing empty or bored or stale. A year ago, maybe a little less than a year, I went to the plateau. Kurtz had just come back from his rebirth and Seena was terribly depressed by what had happened to him—and I wanted to get her a gift, some animal, to cheer her up. This time I came down a little to the southwest of my usual landing zone, over in a part of the plateau I had never seen before, where two rivers meet. One of the first things I noticed was how ripped-up the shrubbery was. Nildoror! Plenty nildoror! An immense area had been grazed—you know how nildoror graze. It made me curious. Once in a while I had seen an isolated nildor on the plateau—always at a distance—but never a whole herd. So I followed the line of devastation. On and on it went, this scar through the forest, with broken branches and trampled underbrush, all the usual signs. Night came and I camped. And it seemed to me I heard drums in the night. Which was foolish, since nildoror don’t use drums. I realized after a while that I heard them dancing, pounding the ground and that the sounds were reverberations carried through the soil. There were other noises, too: screams, bellows, the cries of frightened animals. I had to know what was happening. So I broke camp in the middle of the night and crept through the jungle, hearing the noise grow louder and louder. Finally I reached the edge of the trees, where the jungle gave way to a kind of broad savannah running down to the river. And there in the open were maybe five hundred nildoror. Three moons were up and I had no trouble seeing, Gundy, would you believe that they had painted themselves? Like savages—like something out of a nightmare. There were three deep pits in the middle of the clearing. One of the pits was filled with a kind of wet red mud. The other two contained branches and berries and leaves that the nildoror had trampled to release dark pigments, one black, one blue. I watched the nildoror going down to these pits. First they’d roll in the pit of red mud and come up plastered with it, absolutely scarlet. Next they’d go to the adjoining pits and give each other dark stripes over the red, hosing it on with their trunks. A barbaric sight—all that color, all that flesh. When they were properly decorated, they’d go running—not strolling, running—across the field to the place of dancing and they’d begin that four-step routine. You know it: boom boom boom boom. But infinitely more fierce and frightening now on account of the warpaint. An army of wild-looking nildoror, stamping their feet, nodding their tremendous heads, lifting their trunks, bellowing, stabbing their tusks into the ground, capering, singing, flapping their ears. Frightening, Gundy, frightening. And the moonlight on their painted bodies.
“KEEPING well back in the forest, I circled around to the west to get a better view. And saw something on the far side of the dancers that was even stranger than the paint. I saw a corral with log walls—huge, three or four times the size of this village. The nildoror couldn’t have built it alone; they might have uprooted trees and hauled them with their trunks but they must have needed sulidoror to help pile them up and shape them. Inside the corral were plateau animals, hundreds of them, all sizes and shapes. The big leafeating ones with giraffe necks and the kind like rhinos with antlers. Timid ones like gazelles and dozens that I’d never even seen before. They were all crowded together as if in a stockyard. Sulidoror hunters must have been out beating the bush for days to drive that menagerie together. The animals were restless and scared. So was I. I crouched in the darkness, waiting. Finally all the nildoror were properly painted and a ritual started in the midst of the dancing group. They began to cry out, mostly in their ancient language, the one we can’t understand but they were also talking in ordinary rtildororu and eventually I understood what was going on. Do you know who these painted beasts were? They were sinning nildoror, nildoror who were in disgrace. This was the place of atonement and the festival of purification. Any nildor who had been tinged with corruption in the past year had to come here and be cleansed. Gundy, do you know what sin they had committed? They had taken the venom from Kurtz. The old game, the one everybody used to play down at the serpent station, give the nildoror a swig, take one yourself, let the hallucinations come? These painted prancing nildoror here had all been led astray by Kurtz. Their souls were stained. The Earthman-devil had found their one vulnerable place, the one area of temptation they couldn’t resist. So here they were, trying to cleanse themselves. The central plateau is the nildoror purgatory. They don’t live there because they need it for their rites and obviously you don’t set up an ordinary encampment in a holy place.
“They danced, Gundy, for hours. But that wasn’t the rite of atonement. It was only the prelude to the rite. They danced until I was dizzy from watching and hearing the red bodies, the dark stripes, the boom of their feet—and then, when no moons were left in the sky, when dawn was near, the real ceremony started. I watched it—and I looked right down into the darkness of the race, into the real nildoror soul. Two old nildoror approached the corral and started kicking down the gate. They broke an opening maybe ten meters wide, stepped back and the penned-up animals came rushing out onto the plain. The animals were terrified from all the noise and dancing and from being imprisoned. They ran in circles, not knowing what to do or where to go. And the rest of the nildoror charged into them. The peaceful, noble, non-violent nildoror, you know? Snorting. Trampling. Spearing with their tusks. Lifting animals with their trunks and hurling them into trees.
An orgy of slaughter. I became sick, just watching. A nildor can be a terrible machine of death. All that weight, those tusks, the trunk, the big feet—everything berserk, all restraints off. Some of the animals escaped, of course. But most were trapped right in the middle of the chaos. Crushed bodies everywhere, rivers of blood—scavengers came out of the forest to have dinner while the killing was still going on. That’s how the nildoror atone: sin for sin. That’s how they purge themselves. The plateau is where they loose their violence, Gundy. They put aside all their restraints and let out the beast that’s within them. I’ve never felt such horror as when I watched how they cleansed their souls. You know how much respect I had for the nildoror. Still have. But to see a thing like that, a massacre, a vision of hell—Gundy, I was numb with despair. The nildoror didn’t seem to enjoy the killing but they weren’t hesitant about it, either—they just went on and on because it had to be done, because this was the form of the ceremony and they thought nothing more of it than Socrates would think of sacrificing a lamb to Zeus, a cock to Aesculapius. That was the real horror, I think. I watched the nildoror destroying life for the sake of their souls and it was like dropping through a trapdoor, entering a new world whose existence I had never even suspected, a dark new world beneath the old. Then dawn came. The sun rose, lovely, golden, light glistening on the trampled corpses—and the nildoror were sitting calmly in the midst of the devastation, resting, calm, purged, all their inner storms over. It was amazingly peaceful. They had wrestled with their demons and they had won. They had come through all the night’s horror, all the ghastliness, and—I don’t know how—they really were purged and purified. I can’t tell you how to find salvation through violence and destruction. It’s alien to me and probably to you. Kurtz knew, though. He took the same road as the nildoror. He fell and fell and fell, through level after level of evil, enjoying his corruption, glorying in depravity, and then in the end he was still able to judge himself and find himself wanting, and recoil at the darkness he found inside himself, and so he went and sought rebirth, and showed that the angel within him wasn’t altogether dead. This finding of purity by passing through evil—you’ll have to come to terms with it by yourself, Gundy. I can’t help you. All I can do is tell you of the vision I had at sunrise that morning beside the field of blood. I looked into an abyss. I peered over the edge, and saw where Kurtz had gone, where these nildoror had gone. Where perhaps you’ll go. I couldn’t follow.
