‘Lord, the priests could not understand the oracle, and the oracle would speak no more. But after many days, the thing came to pass. A priest of the Order of the Blind Ones—who then did not wear a hood, for they had yet to look upon the face of the god-king—was going out to the kappa fields when he saw a great bird covered in brilliant plumage. The bird was uttering the gathering call of the Milanyl birds which, though birds of prey, were nevertheless good to eat… But, lord, this
Milanyl bird had the legs of a man. It was a poor hunter named Enka Ne, who, too weak with hunger to hunt as a man, sought to entice game in this manner.’
‘And this, then, was the god-king.’
‘Yes, lord, Enka Ne was truly the god-king. For he was granted the wisdom of Oruri. On the day that he was shown to the people, he gathered many hunters about him. Then he took off his plumage before the Bayani for the first and last time. He held out his hands. And the people saw that on one there was three fingers and a thumb and on the other four fingers and a thumb. Then, in a loud voice, Enka Ne said: “It is fitting that there should be an end to destruction among us. It is fitting, also, that the hands of a man should be as the hands of his brother. But a man cannot add to the number of his fingers. Therefore let him rejoice that he can yet take away.” Then he held out his right hand and commanded a hunter to strike off the small finger. And he said to the people: “Let all who remain in this land number their fingers as is the number of my fingers. Happy are they whose fingers are already thus. Happier still are they who can make a gift of their flesh to Oruri. Wretched are they who do not give when the gift is required. Let them go from the land for ever, for there can be no peace between us.” When Enka Ne had spoken, many people held out their hands to the hunters. But there was also much fighting. In the end, those who refused to give were either slaughtered or driven away.’
Patches of light were beginning to show through the treetops. The last watch of the night was over. Paul stood up and stretched himself. Suddenly he was pleased with himself. He felt that he had found a missing piece of the puzzle.
‘That was a very wonderful story, Shon Hu,’ he said at length.
‘It is also a terrible story, lord,’ said Shon Hu. ‘I have spoken it once. I must not speak it again. As you have discovered, the shadow of the fingers still lies over Baya Nor; and blood continues to be spilled even after many years. The godkings have never loved those with too much knowledge of this thing. Nor do they love those who, contrary to the desire of
Oruri, are bom with too many fingers.’ Shon Hu also stood up and stretched.
‘I see … I am grateful that you have told me these things, Shon Hu. Let us speak now of the Lokhali.’
‘There is a Lokhali village,’ said the hunter, ‘perhaps the largest, near the bank of the river no more than a few hours of poling from here. Fortunately, we may leave the Watering of Oruri and strike through the forest before we reach it.’
‘Do the Lokhali have barges, Shon Hu?’
‘Yes, lord, but their barges are very poor and very small. They only use the river when they are in great need. For they are much afraid of water.’
‘Then surely it is safer to voyage past their village in the water than to pass through the forest?’
‘Lord, it may be so. But a man does not care to come near to the Lokhali.’
‘Nevertheless, I would pass the village … I think I know why the Bayani and the Lokhali have hated and feared each other for many years. The word Lokhali means accursed, wretched, cast out—does it not?’
‘That is so, lord.’
‘And the Lokhali,’ went on Paul relendessly, ‘do not appear to find four fingers and a thumb offensive … It seems to me, Shon Hu, that the Lokhali and the Bayani were once brothers.’
THIRTY
Compared to the city of Baya Nor, the Lokhali village was a miserable affair. There was only one great hall, or temple, of stone. The rest of the buildings—though many of them were reasonably large—were of mud bricks, wooden frames and thatch. Many of the bricks were decorated with pieces of flint that had probably been pressed into them while they were still wet.
All this Paul noticed as the barge passed the village, keeping well to the far side of the Watering of Oruri, out of the range of spears and darts.
In fact, if size were any criterion, the village could more properly be called a town; for though the houses were primitive there were many of them and they had been carefully arranged with a certain amount of symmetry.
It was mid-morning, and a great many of the Lokhali were about, including a few dozen womenfolk at the water’s edge, some washing and bathing while others were apparently cleaning food, utensils and even children. Those who were actually in the river scrambled rapidly ashore at the approach of the barge. Their cries brought more people down from the village, as well as a party of warriors or hunters. One or two of these roared and shook their weapons ferociously; but none seemed inclined to take to the few small, unstable-looking canoes that lay on the bank.
Paul realized the hopelessness of trying to find out anything of the rest of the crew of the Gloria Mundi. From that distance it would have been impossible to distinguish between European and Lokhali—unless the Europeans were wearing their own clothes. And as he himself had, of necessity, long ago taken to Bayani costume, it seemed reasonably certain that any survivors of the star ship would similarly have adopted the brief Lokhali garments.
It was tantalizing to be so near to a possible source of information and yet to be able to do nothing about it. But was there really nothing at all he could do? He thought carefully for a moment or two. Then he picked up his sweeper rifle and aimed at the water about twenty metres from the line of Lokhali on the bank. He pressed the trigger.
The rifle vibrated, producing its faint whine, then a patch of water began to hiss and bubble until it produced a most impressive waterspout. There were cries of awe and consternation from the Lokhali on the bank. Some ran away or drew back, but most seemed almost hypnotized by the phenomenon.
The display would serve two purposes, thought Paul with satisfaction. It would discourage the Lokhali, perhaps, from following the barge along the bank while at the same time the demonstration of such power—or the news of it—would convey to any surviving Europeans that there was yet another survivor.
He put down the rifle then cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted loudly across the water: ‘I will come again …Je reviens … Ich komm wieder.’
Soon the barge was well past the village. Paul continued to gaze back intently until the river bent slighdy and the Lokhali village was out of sight.
Shortly before the sun had readied its zenith, Shon Hu selected a suitable spot on the river bank and guided the barge in towards it.
‘We must now pass through the forest, lord,’ he said. ‘To travel farther along the Watering of Oruri would only increase the journey.’
‘Then let us eat and rest,’ said Paul. ‘Afterwards we will divide that which we have brought into packs that a man may carry.’
When they had eaten and rested, they took the water skins, the dried kappa, the smoked strips of meat, the skins they had brought to protect themselves in the cold uplands, and the sling that had been made for Nemo, out of the barge. Then they deliberately capsized it and weighted it down to the river bed with heavy stones. It was, perhaps, unlikely that the Lokhali would discover the barge, anyway; but if it were submerged, there would be even less chance. The only real problem, thought Paul grimly, would be in finding it themselves when they returned from the Temple of the White Darkness. It was true that they could get back to Baya Nor without the barge, but the journey would be considerably harder—and more dangerous.