Mylai Tui smiled. ‘It is ingenious, my lord. Who knows, perhaps it is also beautiful. I am not skilled to judge the purpose of this thing it has pleased my lord to create.’
‘My name is Paul.’
‘Yes, Paul. I am sorry. It is only that it gives me some happiness to call you my lord.’
‘Then you must remember, Mylai Tui, that it also gives me some happiness to hear you call me Paul.’
‘Yes, Paul. This I know, and this I must remember.’
‘Do you know what you are looking at?’
‘No, Paul.’
‘You are looking at something for which there is no Bayani word. So I must give you a word from my own tongue. This thing is called a cart.’
‘A kay-urt.’
‘No. A cart.’
‘A kayrt.’
‘That is better. Try it again—cart.’
‘Kayrt.’
‘This cart runs on wheels. Do you know what wheels are?’
‘No, Paul.’
‘Say the word—wheels.’
‘Wells.’
‘That is good. Wheels, Mylai Tui, are what men need to lift the burden from their backs.’
‘Yes, Paul.’
‘You have seen the poor people hauling logs, carrying water and bending themselves double under heavy loads of kappa and meat.’
‘Yes, Paul.’
‘The cart,’ said Poul Mer Lo, ‘will make all this toil no longer necessary. With the cart, one man will be able to carry the burden of many, and because of this many men will be free to do more useful work. Is that not a wonderful thought?’ ‘Truly, it is a wonderful thought,’ responded Mylai Tui obediently.
‘Lord,’ said one of the workmen, ‘now that we have built the kayrt, what is your pleasure?’
‘It is my pleasure to visit Enka Ne,’ said Poul Mer Lo. ‘It is my pleasure to take this gift to the god-king, that in his wisdom, he will cause many carts to be built, thus greatly easing the toil of the people of Baya Nor.’
Suddenly the smile vanished from the face of the small Bayani. ‘Lord, to build the kayrt is one thing—indeed, it has given much amusement—but to deliver it to Enka Ne is another.’
‘You are afraid?’
‘It is proper to be afraid, my lord. It is proper to fear the glory of Enka Ne.’
‘It is proper, also,’ said Poul Mer Lo, ‘to make offerings to the god-king. I am a stranger in this land, and the cart is my offering. Come, let us go … See, I shall ride in the cart and you, taking the shafts, shall draw me. It may be that Enka Ne will have need of men who know how to fit a wheel to an axle. Come.’
Poul Mer Lo perched himself on top of the small cart and waited patiendy. The two Bayani muttered briefly to each other and urinated where they stood. He had witnessed such a ritual many times. It was the way in which a low-caste Bayani anticipated sin by giving himself absolution beforehand.
Presently, having touched hands and shoulders, the two men took a shaft each and began to draw the cart slowly along the Road of Travail towards the Third Avenue of the Gods. Poul Mer Lo waved cheerily to Mylai Tui.
‘Oruri be with you,’ she called, ‘at the end as at the beginning.’
‘Oruri be with you always,’ responded Poul Mer Lo. Then he added informally: ‘Let there be the paint of dancing upon you this night. Then shall pleasure visit us both.’
It was a fine morning. The air was clear and warm but not heavy. As Paul Mer Lo sat on his cart, listening to the squeaky protest of the wooden wheels against the stone axle-tree, he felt at peace with the world.
A light wind was blowing in from the forest. It carried scents that were still strange and intoxicating to him. It carried the incense of mystery, the subtle amalgam of smells that made him feel almost at times that he was the most fortunate man in the universe. Here, indeed, was the farther shore. And his footprints were upon it.
Presently, the cart overtook a group of early morning hunters returning to the city, laden with their kill. They gazed at the vehicle in amazement. Poul Mer Lo smiled at them gaily.
‘Oruri greets you,’ he said.
‘The greeting is a blessing,’ they returned.
‘Lord,’ said one, ‘what is the thing upon which you sit and which men may move so easily?’
‘It is a cart. It runs on wheels. With the grace of Enka Ne, soon you will be carrying your meat to Baya Nor on carts. Soon the people of Baya Nor will learn to ride on wheels.’
‘Lord,’ said the hunter, perplexed, ‘truly it is a wondrous thing. I pray only that it may be blessed by a sign.’
‘What sign?’
‘Lord, there is only the sign of Oruri.’
The cart had now reached the end of the Road of Travail, and the broad dirt track gave way to the broader and stone paved Third Avenue of the Gods. The wheels rattled noisily over the cobblestones. There were more people about—city people, sophisticated Bayani, both high and low bom, who gazed at Poul Mer Lo with a mixture of what he interpreted as amusement and awe.
He would have been more accurate if he had interpreted the smiling stares as antagonism and awe. But he was not aware of the antagonism until it was too late.
The cart was already half across the causeway leading to the sacred city. By this time it had collected a retinue of more than fifty Bayani. This, in itself, was not unfortunate.
What was unfortunate was that Poul Mer Lo should encounter one of the blind black priests and that the wheels of the cart should pass over his bare toes.
The priest screamed and tore the hood from his face.
His eyes, unaccustomed to daylight, were screwed up painfully for quite a long time before he was able to focus on Poul Mer Lo.
‘Oruri will destroy! ’ he shouted in a loud voice. ‘This thing is an affliction to the chosen. Oruri will destroy! ’
There was a dreadful silence. Poul Mer Lo gazed at the hoodless priest uncomprehendingly.
Then somebody threw the first stone. It bounced off the cart harmlessly. But it was a signal.
More stones came. The crowd began to rumble. Part of the causeway itself was torn up as ammunition.
‘Oruri speaks! ’ screamed the priest.
And then the stones began to fall like giant hail.
‘Stop! ’ shouted Poul Mer Lo. ‘Stop! The cart is a gift for Enka Ne.’
But the woodcutter, holding one of the shafts, had already been struck in the small of the back by a sharp piece of rock. He fell, bleeding. The mason abandoned his shaft and tried to flee. The crowd seized him.
‘Stop!’ shouted Poul Mer Lo. ‘In the name of Enka Ne,
I ’
He never finished the sentence. A strangely heavy round pebble, expertly aimed by a child on the fringe of the crowd, caught him on the forehead. He went down with the sound of a great roaring in his ears.
FIFTEEN
Poul Mer Lo was aware of an intense, throbbing pain. He opened his eyes. He was in a room to which there seemed to be no windows. Here and there, smoky oil lamps burned in niches in the stone walls.
He felt cold.
He tried to move, and could not.
He was chained to a stone slab.
A Bayani with a white hood over his face leaned over the slab and peered through narrow eye-slits. ‘The spirit has returned,’ he announced to someone outside Poul Mer Lo’s field of vision. ‘Now the stranger will speak.’
‘Who—who are you? What am I doing here? What happened?’
‘I am Indrui Sa, general of the Order of the Blind Ones. You are Poul Mer Lo, a stranger in this land, quite possibly an instrument of chaos.’
‘Where are the two men who were with me?’
‘Dead.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Oruri crushed them to his bosom. Stranger, they were the victims of chaos. Speak of them no more. Their names are undone. Their fathers had no sons. Their sons had no fathers. They are without meaning … But you, stranger, you Oruri did not take. Oruri looked upon you but he did not take you. This we must understand.’