Neqa! Blonde Miss Smith, the crazy woman! He ran to embrace her.
"Minos!" she cried. She was naked; her bosom heaved in outline as she brought up her sticks.
Sticks? That could not be Neqa! It had to be--Vara. Coming to kill him. Coming for her vengeance.
But she dropped her weapon again. "I may not resist you, Minos. Come, spit me on your monstrous member. Only let Var go." And she spread her arms in a kind of invitation.
What was happening to her, to him, to Tyl? Neq had fancied Neqa before him; now Vara fancied Var. Or Minos, whoever he was. And Tyl had attacked....
Neq retreated, trying to straighten it out, but confused images continued to spin in his brain. The standing trees seemed menacing, the river was a giant snake, the darkness itself was suffocating. He felt the urge to fight, to kill, to destroy.
Now Tyl was coming again, bearing his sticks. Vara too. Neq got out of the way with almost pusillanimous haste, not liking this situation at all. Tyl might have his grudges and Vara might have reason to kill him, but this was not proper and certainly not normal for either.
Tyl met Vara. "Get out of my camp, you slut!" Tyl cried, raising his sticks.
"No, Bob, no!" she screamed, retreating but keeping her face to him. "Touch me and I kill you!"
They were about to fight each other--and Neq's status was not the issue! They were like demons, prowling about. each other in the night, too cautious to strike until the blow could be lethal. Like outlaws, killers of Neqa....
Neq charged, his sword whistling. Death to them both!
But he did what he never did: snagged his foot in a ground-vine and crashed down ignominiously. The dirt and leaves of the forest floor ground into his face, and the glockenspiel jangled again--an incongruous burst of sound.
Neq rolled over and spat out mud. His body had been humbled, but for the moment his mind was clear. These were the ghosts! These maddened people, seeing visions and attacking each other! That was the death that lurked in this forest!
The fragrance of the night-bloomers came again, anesthetizing his nostrils with its splendor. Like alcohol, the fumes altered his perspective, made the real unreal, the unreal real....
There was killing to be done. The spooks were almost upon him. Neq lurched up, flung himself down the steep bank, into the black water of the river. The shock of cold brought his brain to full clarity again.
There was death here, all right. Death from the spirits. Vapor spirits--windblown alcohol that evoked the kill-passions. A gaseous murderer who left no footprint, no scar. The haunt of the forest. He knew it for what it was, now--yet it could not be avoided. A man had to breathe! Physical shocks could abate it only temporarily; already that insidious fragrance was seeping through his nose and into his lung and on to his brain, modifying his perception. substituting more evocative images....
The sword could not battle this! Only an unarmed man, alone, could hope to survive. And what man would enter this forest that way?
Neq looked at his glistening glockenspiel, the metal glowing faintly in the moonlight. Already it was wavering into the sword again. But it was a ghost sword; his real sword was dead. The ghost-sword could deliver him only into death, for he would be weaponless without believing it.
Suddenly he felt lonely. His existence had never seemed so futile.
He tapped the sword, finding the bells of the glockenspiel by touch and sound. That was one way to keep reminding himself that what he saw was false. He began to pick out a tune, there in the water--the water that seemed like rich warm blood--and the notes were lovely and clear. They expanded to form a melody, each note bearing its private animation but the theme expanding to encompass the world. The tune was marching; each beat was a bright foot. He saw them treading into the sky. JHe sang:
The melody took hold of him compellingly, carried him up out of the river, gave him a glorious and sad strength.
"We must walk this lonesome valley--"
Shapes came at him, male and female... but the music daunted them. Like a cordon of warriors, the band of notes swept back the opposition, softened its determination. He sang and sang, more wonderfully than ever before.
With burgeoning confidence Neq started another sequence, marching down along the path while his body dripped wet water and the others followed.
and the ghost-echo agreed, and they sang together, louder.
Victoriously, Neq continued, throwing new forces of song and music into the fray as the old troops lost their potency against the ghost-fragrance. On down the path, through the dark forest, singlemindedly dispelling the insidious fumes with voice and instrument, leading the captive shapes out of the lonesome valley.
Then it was done. Embarrassed, Neq broke off his singing, finding his voice hoarse. They had walked and sang for hours. Tyl and Vara were there, shaking their heads as though waking from nightmare.
Dawn was coming.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Stay clear of the tribesmen," Tyl said. "Let them think we are dead, or they may kill us to preserve their secret. We'll sleep in the forest today."
"The haunted forest?" Vara demanded nervously.
"It is safe by day. We shall want to visit it again by night."
Again!" Neq was incredulous. "We nearly killed each other there! The ghosts--"
"You spared us that," Tyl said. "Your weapon vanquished them and brought us out. But our conquest is not complete until we know what causes the effect, and why the outlaw tribe chooses to sacrifice ignorant strangers to it. Surely they know; they can not be so stupid as to spend their lives adjacent to it and not fathom the mystery.
I have never fled from an enemy--or left a potential enemy behind me."
He was right. An enemy neglected was doubly dangerous. 'The flowers," Neq said. "Night bloomers."
Tyl removed his weapons. "Sticks to you," he said to Vara. "Sword to you, Neq."
Neq could not hold the sword effectively in his claw, but he understood what Tyl was doing.
Tyl went to a hanging vine and plucked a closed bud. He pulled it open and put it to his nose. He sniffed.
"Faint--not the same." He sniffed again, deeply. Then a third time.
His manner changed. His eyes widened, then narrowed. His hand went for his sword.
Then he grinned and dropped the flower. "This is it!" he cried. "I'm high on it now--but I know what it is. Don't come near me--"
They knew what he meant. The weak, temporary daylight effect of one bud might not overcome a forewarned man, any more than an ounce of alcohol would. But the massed fragrance of thousands of blooms, in the flush of their strength, building up all night long--that would be another matter.
"I don't think we'd better stay the night," Vara said. "It fuels our passions...."
Yes. And there was already a matter of death-vengeance between them.
Tyl went down to the river and dunked his head. He came back dripping but triumphant. "We know the haunt now!"