"Who or what are the Shadows?" She asked the same question which had lain earlier in my own mind. "Did not your father ever seek answers just as Catha has done? You went willingly with him—"
"Not all the way. He would never let me enter the ruins."
"True. But all he learned there he shared with you, did he not? You see, before I dreamed I went to Portcity and there I asked access to such of his recordings as are known. He left very few there—only answers the authorities demanded from time to time. I listened, I watched. Perhaps he—and now you—know the most of any now living on Voor."
"Which is very little—no more than you could have read in the official tapes."
"Yes, and those tapes which you brought with you," she sat quietly, her hands resting palm upwards on her knees as if she mutely asked for something which could fill them.
Why had I clung to the tapes? I had told myself that they might provide us with a guide—to what? Not Mungo's, for we had never returned there. To my own private questions? I had heard them many times over and never been the wiser.
"I don't know!" My voice was over-loud; in answer I heard Witol grunt heavily out of what was now the true night darkness, as if he too questioned me in some way. "I know nothing more than the tapes."
"You were very close to your father—did he never try to awake your memory?"
"No!" my reply was as quick and hot. "He never asked—he never let the Portcity medics see me when I was little—" That much I could remember, of staying hidden in the wagon whenever we were forced, when my father could not prevent it, to visit that stronghold of the off-worlders. It had been three years or more before he took me with him into the town. In some way I understood he had feared for me. What had he known from his own days off-world that had made him so reluctant to have me questioned?
"Me they tried," she said then and there was a cold note in her voice. "They decided I was memory blocked—"
"But—but that is off-world technique!" I protested. "Do you mean that the Shadow doom is not of Voor—?"
"It is of Voor," her reply was flat. "There is probably more than one way of closing a child's memory—a small child's. Great terror can do it naturally, drugs perhaps—even interference such as one who has the healer's knowledge can use for evil. I think your father knew, or suspected something—that is what he went searching for, always protected in a safe suit. How did he even get such as that? They are not common issue on Voor where it has been generations since the First-In Scouts downed ship here and found—at that time—nothing of a menace."
"I don't know where he got it. He—he just unpacked it one day and used it."
"Used it needlessly—if his reports were correct."
"Yes."
Suddenly then her hands flew upwards, covered her ears. She bent forward as one who has a sharp pain thrust through mid-body.
"The calling!" she cried aloud. There was fear in her voice.
"Now?" I was on my feet, staring out into the dark, turning slowly.
There was no longer any crunching sound from the grazing gars. Instead I heard the thump of a hoof beating hard on the earth in half challenge, such a sound as Witol made should he meet the lead bull of another loper team—a warning as well as a recognition of the other's equal status.
"Never has it come thus before—" her voice trailed away. "We are right—our course lies ahead."
"I go only to do what my father asked of me." My voice sounded sullen in my own ears. I was not going to be drawn into her mysterious quest for a healer who had betrayed her kind by killing. I did not want to know what lay behind the wall in my memory, even if that was what she sought.
"Well enough—" the pain and startlement had gone out of her voice. With the moon yet to rise I could not see more of her than a formless lump on the improvised bed place. "Follow your path as I must mine, Voorloper. Still I believe that those trails are one and the same."
I heard rustling movements as if she were settling herself to sleep. Now, though still uneasy, I lay down and pulled my own blanket over me, pillowing my head on the edge of my back pack. Over me the stars were bright and clear. I thought of the off-worlders who wandered among those as we Voorlopers wander the plains of this world. They were pent in a ship, I lay under the open sky. If they sought strange things and mysteries to beckon them on, so did I have the same, whether I willed it so or not.
The gars had returned to grazing. Whatever had brought that warning stamp from Witol no longer seemed to trouble him. Resolutely I tried not to think of what lay on that crude sled beyond our night resting place. My father was not there—
He had never followed any formal religious practices, though he was a believer. In fact he had pointed out in his education of me that tolerance of the beliefs of others was the mark of a properly taught man, and that one did not force any faith—such must be found each by himself for himself. Yet he had believed also that this life was not the only one which a certain element within us knew. Why had he been so determined that his body be returned to the spot he had avoided all these years? Last night I had been so numbed by my loss I could not have asked those questions. Now I began to realize that what I had known of my father had been perhaps only a small portion of the real man, and that brought a hurt of its own which lay heavy in me.
I must have dreamed that night for I awoke heavy hearted—with a dull pain behind my eyes and a feeling of some danger which I had faced or had sought to face. Illo seemed in no better mood, and there was little talk between us as we broke camp and, once more taking up our burdens and apportioning theirs among the gars, went on. Though first I stepped to the top of that grass-entwined ridge and used the distance glasses.
The dark mass of the Tangle lay there right enough, still forming a low-lying cloud which met the earth at the horizon. Immediately ahead it was farther off and I guessed by comparing what I saw with the lines on my map that I had by luck, chance, or something which perhaps had greater influence than either, chosen rightly. We were headed directly towards Mungo's.
We made good time, also, for the gars fell at once into their distance-eating, long-legged stride. No large head dipped now to catch up a mouthful of grass tops as they went. Rather Witol pressed on, the others followed, at a lumbering trot which soon made me lengthen stride to keep up with him, making no matter of the sled he drew and which skidded from side to side, caught momentarily on some tuft of grass, to be jerked free again by a slight movement of those heavy shoulders.
The sun pushed up the sky and once or twice we paused, drank sparingly of our water and shared part of the second tank with the gars. Loper that I was and used to tramping, I found that this push was greater than I had known before. Still I had no wish to slacken pace. If Illo was drawn by that "call," I had a similar spur within me which demanded speed and yet more speed.
In mid-afternoon we sighted with the naked eye the beginning of Mungo's ruins. Winds and rains, perhaps as punishing as the storm which had driven us across the grass lands at the height of its unleashed fury, had had their way here unchecked. Walls were rubble, the outer ramparts of the settlement looked to be no more than a tumbled hillock. There was the darker vegetation arising about it, that strange, warped vegetation which was the sign of the Shadow doom. Trees which were not wind-twisted awry, but unnaturally so wrung from their sapling birth, clung among the fallen blocks and rotted timbers.
There seemed to be more vivid life there than in the grey-brown of the plains where the grass had been bleached and aged by the sun and was now dying in the autumn chill of the night frosts. The growth marking the town was still dark, still swelling with life, as if it were encapsulated in another season. Yet the swelling plants, the crooked-trunked trees were forbidding.
Our fast forward trot slowed the closer we came to those fallen walls, that choked dark green—a green which in these sites was spotted with black in places, as if a blight-like rot fed upon it from the first moment that each leaf uncurled, and yet was never able to consu
me all it had fastened upon.
At length the gars stopped and the three drew together in a line, facing towards the haunted ruins. I knew their reaction of old—not one of the animals would approach such remains beyond a certain point. Only men went forward; perhaps only my species was foolish enough to venture so.
Chapter 6
I unhooked the sled ties from Witol after shucking my back-pack and freeing the other gars from their burdens. Illo helped in my task without breaking the silence which had fallen between us when we at last sighted my goal. She had said it was hers also—but I determined that the venture which I had sworn to carry out would be mine alone.
Though I had viewed those other ruins my father had prospected down the years and this looked no different, still it was the one which had been my own birthplace, in which I had lived, where something unbelievable had happened. I was frankly afraid, still I knew that I must pass that fear if I could not overcome it.
At last I faced the girl squarely.
"This," I said with all the force I could summon, trying so hard to make my voice have the unyielding authority my father knew so well how to summon, "I must do alone."
I had so much expected a protest from her that I was oddly deflated when she stepped back a pace, plainly joining with the uneasy gars, and answered me:
"This is for you, yes."
I took the cords of the sled in my hands, put all the strength I could muster into drawing the burden behind me as I turned away abruptly to face the sprawling sore which had once been a settlement of my own kind, and in which lurked the unknown which all the beliefs of Voor made out to be our greatest enemy. Night was not too far off and I wanted to have done with my task before the dark closed in, though I had my torch ready to hand, newly furnished with a fresh unit.
It took both strength and will to pull my burden on. I did not look back, rather narrowed and concentrated all my energy and thought on one thing—the speedy fulfilling of the promise I had made. The closer I approached what had been Mungo's Town the more something deep within me fed the beginning of panic. Only that I dared not acknowledge. More than the stubborn weight and heaviness of the sled made me breathe quickly, as a man pants in a grueling race. I set my teeth and pulled viciously, until the cords bit into my wrists and hands, and found that small pain was steadying.
The vegetation did not present too thick a barrier—in fact there was a kind of opening directly ahead of me, as if at one time or other the growth had been cut back to clear a path. Though the very suggestion that that had been done was enough to feed my uneasiness, I had no choice with my bulky and awkward burden but to make that gap my entrance.
The fleshy growth was even less natural looking close by. A small branch I had to fend away broke with a pulpy, squashing sound, while from the mangled leaves which the sled crushed there arose a rank odor, not unlike that which the wind had borne before the coming of the storm.
I tried not to breathe in deeply. Not only were the scents offensive, but I feared they might be poisonous in some way. However, as I advanced, the vegetation thinned, while the ruins it cloaked appeared less broken. In what had once been small gardens about individual buildings were other plants and these, in spite of the lateness of the season, bore flowers—large expanses of petals bigger than I had ever seen before.
Still there was an odd resemblance between them and the much smaller blossoms which holdings still cultivated in the south. Save that these were of angry, vivid oranges, brilliant scarlet, the deep crimson of spilled blood.
There was no wind to reach exploring fingers here—yet—those blossoms moved! Their heads, which appeared near too heavy to be supported by tall, spindly stems, swayed, dipped, arose again. All were wide open and their darker centers had the unpleasant seeming of—eyes—
I battled with imagination and pulled my burden on. Though I had fulfilled my sworn oath in part I was now at a loss. Where should I leave this sled—and what it bore? I paused to turn slowly, looking around me.
Memory was still locked. I could not tell in which house I must once have lived. Though the buildings here appeared near untouched and bore no marks of erosion by storm and season. Where—?
Because I had no clue as yet I pushed on, finding the sled more and more of a burden, needing ever great strength to draw. The settlement apparently followed the plan of those I knew well—a cross-hatching of streets with houses set pleasantly apart, so that each had garden space about it. If the pattern was consistent, just a little farther should bring me to the center of the one-time village, where the meeting hall must stand. Now I conceived the idea that the hall would serve as well as any place in which to leave the sled—it was the heart of Mungo's Town as the planners had seen it.
The doors and windows of the one-story dwellings gaped black—lack of usual glassite coverings there being the only sign of decay. I had no desire to enter any and explore. In fact I averted my eyes and kept them straight on the road before me, for the movement of the flowers grew more disturbing by the moment.
My shoulders ached fiercely and the sled appeared to catch more and more on stones or plants, dragging back like a living thing being pulled against its will. I had to pause and exert effort every step or two to bring it on. Only a little farther—The toe of my tramping boot caught and I sprawled forward without warning. I flung out one hand instinctively to stop my fall and puffy leaves exploded under my weight, shooting out thin streams of sap. Then I was face down and near screaming with pain, for that sap, spattering on my skin, burned like acid. I could see blisters already rising, even in seconds. The sticky liquid had struck, too, along one cheek and the side of my neck, but luckily had not reached my eye. I got to my feet as best I could, and grabbed with my other hand for the canteen of water at my belt. Working free its plug with my teeth I splashed the contents over my burned skin, taking more in the palm of my unburned hand to fling at the fiery torment on my jaw and throat. Easement came almost as quickly as the pain had struck.
Get out—that was a shout filling my mind now—get out!
I kicked about me to clear a path ahead and my efforts uncovered what had brought me down. A blaster lay there, its metal pitted with holes, though it had not been eaten by rust. Another kick sent the weapon flying back into concealment, I pulled at the thongs, and was out into the wide space around the hall.
Here alone there were no dancing flower heads, no acid-sapped vegetation. Instead—I stood staring in disbelief. If such had been in those other ruins my father had described on tapes, he had not been able to mention it.
For what I was looking at was bones—skeletons huddled together along the walls of the hall. Almost as if the whole village had been lined up by a ruthless enemy and blasted down all at one time. Such signs of violent death were difficult to comprehend for a moment—though I had seen death before, but never a slaughter on such a scale. There were no signs of the bleached bones of blaster fire which was my only knowledge of any weapon which could hit so widely and suddenly as to wipe out a whole village.
I forced myself to move forward. There were no other relics visible. The ground under them was barren earth, unmarked by any scorching. Metal objects, a buckle, the hooks on any settler's belt—even perhaps an ornament—nothing of such showed—
The bodies lay in some order. Had they been gathered so by a survivor? Only as far as I knew I had been the only survivor and no five-year-old child could arrange this. Had my father, perhaps someone else who had returned later, arranged the dead in such a manner—but why?
I worked my way around that line of bones, and, taking out my hand torch, entered the hall itself. Perhaps the answer could be found here. In spite of the open window spaces, the vanished door, it was dim within until I turned my torch to full and began a slow sweep about the room.
There were benches, in rows covered with dust. At the far end of the room a platform one step high had given a stage of sorts. I knew that this was like all village halls—it was the center of educati
on, of entertainment, of the necessary meetings to discuss common policy. There was nothing here—
I stumbled a little as I went back into the open. The night was coming fast. I was filled with a need to be free, out of Mungo's Town before darkness fell. There were shadows gathering—Shadows!
What was the Shadow Doom? Who had first called the menace so? That one must have known something to be able to impart a name to the danger. I walked closer now along the line of unknown dead. There were only bones—twice I noted smaller skeletons which must have been children. Why had they died and I survived?
This did not look like the result of a plague—then the unburied dead would have been found in their houses. No, this more resembled an execution!
That thought arose against my fear. For an execution meant an enemy—one which or who must have form and substance, who could be fought—made to pay! Was this what had ridden my father all through the years? Had he come back to look upon the dead and guess—likewise guess enough so that he spent the rest of his life in search?