“The Between Times people were unusually harsh,” said Oshere. “Most of your stories concerning them deal with death and destruction.”
“They were harsher than you could possibly imagine,” Chreena responded.
“And the Second Fall was worse than the first?”
“A thousand times worse. By then the world’s population had multiplied many times, and almost eighty percent of them lived in lands that were at best no more than a hundred feet above sea level. Some were below it and relied on seawalls or dikes. When the earth toppled, they were destroyed utterly.”
“And yet man survived, as did the people of the Dianae.”
“We are tough, Oshere—and incredibly resourceful. And God did not want us all to die.”
“But is human man still evil and harsh? Does he still slaughter his fellows beyond the wall?”
“He does. But not all men are evil. There are still those who resist the spell of the land.”
“When they breach the wall, will they come peacefully?”
“I don’t know, Oshere. Now I must return to my work.”
Oshere watched the woman walk to her laboratory. Her skin was ebony dark and glistened as if oiled, and the undulating sway of her hips was a joy to behold. He realized he was now appreciating her beauty on a more aesthetic plane—yet another sign of the impending Change. He raised himself from the bench and ambled down the terraces until he came to the main street. Everywhere there were people moving about their business. They saw him and bowed low, as befitted a man soon to be a god. A god?
The humor of it touched him fleetingly. Soon his mind would lose its intelligence, his voice would become a roar, and he would spend the rest of his days driven not by a lust for knowledge but by the desire to fill a swaying belly.
He remembered the first day when the woman known as Chreena had arrived at the city. Crowds had gathered to gaze on the blackness of her skin. Priests had bowed down before her, and Oshere’s older brother, Prince Shir-ran, had been smitten by her unearthly beauty. She had had a child with her then, a sickly boy with wide sorrowful eyes, but he had died within the first two months of her stay. The physicians had been powerless; his blood, they had said, was weak and diseased. Chreena had mourned him for a long time. Shir-ran, tall and handsome and the finest athlete among the Dianae, had spent his days walking with her, telling her of the legends of the Dianae, showing her statues and holy buildings. At last—when they had become lovers—he had taken her on the long walk to the mountains of the sword. She had returned dazed from the experience.
Then the Change had begun in Shir-ran. The priests had given thanks and blessed him, and a great celebration had been ordered for the dwellers of the city. But Oshere had noticed that Chreena did not join in the festivities.
One night he found her in the ancient medi-chamber of the palace, poring over scrolls of the Lost Ones. And he remembered her words:
“Damn you, you bastards! Was there no end to your arrogance?”
Oshere had walked forward. In those days he, too, had been tall and well formed, his eyes wide-set and tawny, his hair dark and gleaming, held in place by a band of gold. “What troubles you, Chreena?”
“Your whole stupid civilization!” she stormed. “You know, once upon a time a people called the Incas believed that they could make people gods by cutting out their hearts.”
“Stupidity,” Oshere agreed.
“You are no different. Shir-ran is being mutated into some kind of beast, and you all drink to it. I have never mocked your legends or sought to fill you with the arcane knowledge I possess. But this?”
“What are you saying, Chreena?”
“How can I explain this to you? You have seen that dust and water combine to make clay. Yes? Well, all living organisms are the same. We are all a combination of parts.”
“I know all this, Chreena. Heart, lungs, liver. Every child knows it.”
“Wait,” she commanded. “I don’t mean just the organs or the bones or the blood. Oh, this is impossible …”
Oshere sat down facing her desk. “I am not slow-witted. Explain it to me.”
Slowly she began to talk of the genetic material that was vital to all living organisms. She did not use its Between Times name—deoxyribonucleic acid—or the initials by which it had become better known. But she did try to explain its importance in terms of controlling hereditary characteristics. For an hour she spoke, accompanying her words with sketches.
“So,” said Oshere at last, “you are saying that these magic chains divide themselves into exact replicas? For what purpose?”
With extraordinary patience Chreena moved on to talk of genes and chromosomes. At last the light of understanding dawned in Oshere.
“I begin to see. How fascinating! But how does this make us stupid? Until we are told—or discover—new knowledge, we cannot be accused of foolishness. Can we?”
“I guess not,” said Chreena, “but that is not what I meant. What I am saying is that Shir-ran’s genetic structure is changing, mutating. The daughter chains are no longer identical to the parent, and now I know why.”
“Tell me.”
“Because you are not people. You are—” she stopped suddenly and looked away, and Oshere’s tawny eyes narrowed.
“Finish what you were saying.”
“Someone—some group—in the Between Times inserted a different gene into your ancestors—into your basic genetic code, if you like. Now, once in maybe five generations the structure breaks down and reverts. Shir-ran is not becoming a god—he’s becoming what his ancestor was: a lion.”
Oshere rose. “There are statues in the old cities that show lion-headed gods. They were worshiped. I have been educated to believe in the religion of my ancestors, and I will not throw it aside. But I will speak to you again; I will learn which is correct.”
Chreena rose and took his arm. “I’m sorry, Oshere. I should never have told you. You must not mention it to anyone else—especially Shir-ran.”
“It is rather too late for that,” said Shir-ran as he ambled into the room, his huge leonine head tilted. “I am sorry, Chreena. It was rude to listen, but I could not help myself. I don’t know about you, Oshere, but I do know I never felt less like a god.”
Oshere had seen tears in the great tawny eyes and had backed away from the former lovers.
Shir-ran had fled the city three months later, passing from the land without comment. Oshere had spent the time since then with Chreena, learning in secret all the dark lore of the Between Times—save how the world had fallen. Then—a month ago—Oshere himself had awakened in the dawn to find his muscles racked with pain and his face strangely distended.
Chreena had worked ceaselessly to help him, but to no avail.
Now all he wanted was to learn as much as he could about the land, the stars, and the Lord of All Things. And he had one dream he held in his heart like a jewel.
He wanted to see the ocean. Just once.
Her dreams were troubled. She was sitting at a feast, the only woman present. Around her the men were handsome and tall, their smiles easy, full of warmth and friendliness. She reached out to touch her companion, and her hand rested on his arm, felt the fur. Then she recoiled and looked up into tawny eyes that chilled her, saw the long fangs that could rend her flesh. She sat frozen as one by one the men became lions, their eyes no longer friendly.
She awoke in a cold sweat and swung her long legs from the bed. The night was cool, and the breeze from the balcony window caressed her naked body as she walked to the balcony and gazed over the moonlit city.
The people of the Dianae slept in blissful ignorance of the doom that awaited them. She shivered and returned to the bedroom. Sleep would not come again, but she was too tired to work. Wrapping herself in a warm woolen blanket, she pulled a chair to the balcony and sat beneath the stars.
“I miss you, Samuel,” she said, picturing the kindly face of the husband she had lost, the father of the son she had lost. “
If all men had been like you, the world would have remained Eden.”
But all men were not as Samuel Archer had been. They were driven by greed or lust, hate or fear. She shook her head. The people of the Dianae had never known war. They were gentle and conciliatory, kind and understanding. Now, like a perverse cosmic jest, they were beginning a reversion to savagery.
The Bear people had long since lost their humanity. Chreena had journeyed with Shir-ran to one of their settlements close to the Pool of the Sword, and what she had seen there had been terrifying. Only one human had been left among them, and he had begun to revert.
“Go away from us,” he had said. “We are cursed.”
Now their settlement was deserted, the tribe moving to the high timberlands away from prying eyes, far from pity or loathing.
A hunting roar sounded in the distance from the pride that roamed the plain before the city, and Chreena shivered. Some thirty lions were living there, preying on the deer and antelope. Yet once they had been men and women who had talked and laughed and sang.
Her eyes scanned the ancient buildings. Just four hundred of the Dianae remained—not enough to survive and grow.
“Why do you see the lions as gods?” Chreena had asked the old priest, Men-chor. “They lose the power of speech and become mindless.”
“The tale of Elder days,” he replied, smiling as he closed his eyes and began to recite the opening of the book. “First there was the goddess Marik-sen, who walked under the sun and knew no words, nor ancient stories, nor even the name of her father, nor even that her father had a name. The Law of the One touched her, and her name was born. And she knew. Yet in knowing she also realized that she had lost a great gift—something wonderful—and it grieved her. Her son was born but was no god. He was a man. He spoke like a man and walked like a man. He knew his name and the name of his mother and many more names. But he, too, sensed a loss: an empty place in the depths of his soul. And he was the father of the Dianae, and the people grew. And they lived in the Great Garden with the walls of crystal. But one day the Law of the One was assailed by many enemies. The land was in turmoil, the walls split asunder, and great waters destroyed the garden. The Dianae themselves were almost destroyed. Then the waters subsided, and the people gazed upon a different world. The Law of the One visited his presence upon Pen-ran, and he became the prophet. He told us what was lost and what was gained. We had lost the road to heaven; we had gained the path to knowing. He was the first to lead us here and the first to leave the path and find the road.”
The old man opened his eyes. “There is far more, Chreena, but only the Dianae could understand.”
“You believe that knowledge prevents you from seeing heaven?”
“It is the great barrier. The soul can exist only in purity. Knowledge corrupts, fills us with dreams and desires. Such ambition keeps our eyes from the Law of the One.”
“Yet a savage lion knows only hunger and lust.”
“Perhaps. But he does not slay wantonly, and if his belly is full, a young antelope can walk to a pool beside him and drink in safety.”
“You will forgive me for not sharing your … faith?”
“Even as you have forgiven me for not sharing yours. Perhaps we are both correct,” said Men-chor. “For do we not have similar origins? Did you not also originate in a garden, and were you not also cast from it? And did you not also, with the sin of Adam and the crime of Cain, lose the road to heaven?”
Chreena had laughed then and politely conceded the argument. She liked the old man. But she had one last question.
“What happens when, like the Bears, all the Dianae are lions?”
“We will all be close to God,” he told her simply.
“But there will be no more songs.”
“Who knows what songs are heard in the heart of a lion? But can they be more discordant than the songs of death we hear from beyond the wall?”
11
SHANNOW LEFT THE stallion at the stock paddocks, paid the hostler to grain feed and groom the beast, then hitched his saddlebags over his left shoulder and made his way to the Traveler’s Rest, a three-story building to the west of the town. They had one room vacant, but the owner—a thin, sallow-faced individual called Mason—asked Shannow if he could wait for an hour while they “cleaned it up.”
Shannow agreed and paid for a three-day stay. He left his saddlebags behind the counter and walked into the next room, where a long bar stretched some fifty feet. The barman smiled as he entered.
“Name it, son,” he said.
“Beer,” ordered Shannow. He paid for the drink and took the brimming jug to a corner table, where he sat with his back to the wall. He was tired and curiously on edge; his thoughts kept drifting to the woman with the wagon. Slowly the bar began to fill with workingmen, some straight from the mine, their clothes black and their faces streaked with grime and sweat. Shannow cast his eyes swiftly over each newcomer. Few wore pistols, but many carried knives or hatchets. He was ready to move to his room when a young man entered. He was wearing a white cotton shirt, dark trousers, and a fitted jacket of tanned leather, and he bore a pistol with a smooth white grip. Watching him move, Shannow felt his anger rise. He pulled his eyes from the newcomer and finished his beer. They always looked the same, bright-eyed and smooth as cats: the mark of the hunter, the killer, the warrior.
Shannow left the bar, collected his belongings, and climbed the two flights to his room. It was larger than he had expected, with a brass-fitted double bed, two easy chairs, and a table on which sat an oil light. He dumped his bags behind the door and checked the window. Below it was a drop of around forty feet. Stripping off his clothes, he lay back on the bed and slept for twelve hours. He awoke ravenous, dressed swiftly, strapped on his guns, and returned to the ground floor. The owner, Mason, nodded to him as Shannow approached.
“I could do with a hot bath,” he said.
“Outside and turn to your left. About thirty paces. You can’t miss it.”
The bathhouse was a dingy shed in which five metal tubs were separated by curtains hung on brass rings. Shannow moved to the end and waited while two men filled the bath with steaming water; then he stripped and climbed in. There was a bar of used soap and a hard brush. He lathered himself clean and stepped from the tub; the towel was coarse and gritty, but it served its purpose. He dressed, paid the attendants, and wandered across the main street, following the aroma of frying bacon.
The eating house was situated in a long cabin under the sign of the Jolly Pilgrim. Shannow entered and found a table against the wall, where he sat facing the door.
“What will you have?” asked Beth McAdam.
Shannow glanced up and reddened. Then he stood and swept his hat from his head. “Good morning, Frey McAdam.”
“The name’s Beth. And I asked what you wanted.”
“Eggs, bacon … whatever there is.”
“They’ve got a hot drink here made from nuts and tree bark; it’s good with sugar.”
“Fine. I’ll try some. It did not take you long to find work.”
“Needs must,” she said, and walked away.
Shannow’s hunger had evaporated, but he waited for his meal and forced his way through it. The drink was bitter, even with the sugar, and black as the pit, but the aftertaste was good. He paid from his dwindling store of Barta coins and walked out into the sunshine. A crowd had gathered, and he saw the young man from the night before standing in the center of the street.
“Hell, man, it’s easy,” he said. “You just stand there and drop the jug any time you’re ready.”
“I don’t want to do this, Clem,” said the man he was addressing, a portly miner. “You might kill me, goddammit!”
“Never killed no one yet with this trick,” said the pistoleer. “Still, there’s always a first time.” The crowd hooted with laughter. Shannow stood against the wall of the eating house and watched the crowd melt away before the two men, forming a line on either side of them. The fat m
iner was standing some ten feet from the pistoleer, holding a clay jug out from his body at arm’s length.
“Come on, Gary. Drop it!” someone shouted.
The miner did so as Shannow’s eyes flicked to the pistoleer. His hand swept down and up, and the crack of the shot echoed in the street. The jug exploded into shards, and the crowd cheered wildly. Shannow eased himself from the wall and walked around them toward the hotel.
“You don’t seem too impressed,” said the young man as Shannow passed.
“Oh, I was impressed,” Shannow assured him, walking on, but the man caught up with him.
“The name’s Clem Steiner,” he said, falling into step.
“That was exceptionally skillful,” commented Shannow. “You have fast hands and a good eye.”
“Could you have done it?”
“Never in a million years,” Shannow replied, mounting the steps to the hotel. Returning to his room, he took the Bible from his saddlebag and flicked through the pages until he came to the words that echoed in his heart.
“And he carried me away in the spirit to a mountain great and high and showed me the Holy City, Jerusalem, coming down out of Heaven from God. It shone with the glory of God, and its brilliance was like that of a very precious jewel, like a jasper, clear as crystal. It had a great high wall with twelve gates and with twelve angels at the gates … The city does not need the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp … Nothing impure will ever enter it, nor will anyone who does what is shameful or deceitful …”
Shannow closed the book. A great high wall. Just like the one at the end of the valley.
He hoped so. By God, he hoped so …
Awakened by the sound of gunshots, Shannow rolled from the bed and moved to the side of the window, glancing down into the moonlit street below. Two men lay sprawled in the dust; still standing was Clem Steiner, a pistol in his hand. Men were running from the drinking houses and the sidewalks. Shannow shook his head and returned to his bed.
In the morning he took his breakfast in the long bar, a simple bowl of hot oats and a large jug of the black drink called Baker’s after the man who had introduced it to the area some eight years before.