Ecce and Old Earth Page 8

  Another half hour passed. From the near structure, which Glawen now thought to be the cook shed, came the gaunt dark-haired man, whom Glawen identified as the cook. He carried several buckets though the gate and out upon the prison strip. He set the buckets upon a table near the gate, and struck the table three times with a stick, by way of signal. The prisoners approached the table, bringing with them pannikins. The cook served them from the buckets, then returned through the gate to the cook shed.

  Five minutes later the cook emerged once more, carrying two smaller buckets. He took these across the summit, in the direction the prisoner had been taken, and disappeared from Glawen’s sight behind the first ledge of rock. Five minutes later, he returned to the cook shed.

  The time had progressed to late afternoon. From the far side of the summit came other men in groups of two or three. Glawen thought that the total number might be nine or ten. After consuming their supper in the cook shed, they returned the way they had come.

  Syrene sank in the west; Lorca and Sing cast a rosy twilight murk over the swamps and jungles, which abruptly dimmed as clouds again swept over the sky and again rain thundered down upon Ecce. Glawen at once descended from his vantage, ran through the downpour, and climbed to another of the tree huts, where he waited.

  Half an hour passed; the rains ceased as suddenly as they had come, leaving a heavy darkness, broken only by a few soft yellow lights within the compound the glow of three bulbs at the top of the stockade which illuminated the prison strip. From the cook house came the gaunt dark haired cook. He crossed the compound, opened the gate, stood for a moment surveying the strip to make sure that it harbored no savage beasts, then closed the gate and walked swiftly to the tree which supported his hut. He climbed the ladder, pushed through the opening which gave on the little porch in front of the hut, closed the trap door and secured it against intruders. Turning, he started to enter his hut only to stop short.

  Glawen said: “Come into the hut. Make no disturbance.”

  The cook spoke in a strained reedy voice: “Who are you?” And then, more sharply: “What do you want?”

  “Come inside and I will tell you.”

  Step by unwilling step the cook came forward, to halt warily just within the open doorway, where the wan illumination of the stockade cast black shadows on his long face. He tried to speak in a firm voice: “Who are you?”

  “My name would mean nothing to you, “said Glawen.” I have come for Scharde Clattuc. Where is he?”

  The cook stood rigid a moment, then jerked his thumb toward the stockade. “Inside.”

  “Why is he inside?”

  “Hah!” – a bitter laugh. “When they want to punish someone, he is put down in a doghole.”

  “What might that be?”

  Lights and shadows shifted along the cook’s face as he grimaced. “It is a pit eight feet deep and five feet square, with bars on top, open to both sun and rain. Clattuc has so far survived.”

  For a moment Glawen was silent. Then he asked: “And who, then, are you?”

  “I am not here by my own choice: I assure you!”

  “That was not my question.”

  “It makes no great difference; nothing is changed. I am a Naturalist from Stroma. My name is Kathcar. Every day it becomes more difficult to remember that other places exist.”

  “Why are you here at Shattorak?”

  Kathcar made a dreary guttural sound. “Why else? I ran afoul of the Oomphaw, and a cruel trick was played upon me. I was brought here and given a choice: working at the cook house or sweltering in a doghole.” Kathcar’s voice rang with bitterness. “Is it not preposterous?”

  “Yes, of course. The Oomphaw is preposterous. But for the moment, how best can we rescue Scharde Clattuc from the doghole?”

  Kathcar started to blurt out a protest, then reconsidered and fell silent. After a moment he spoke, in a somewhat what different tone of voice and his head tilted to the side. “You are planning, I gather, to free Scharde Clattuc and take him away?”

  “That is correct.”

  “How will you cross the jungle?”

  “A flyer is waiting below.”

  “Kathcar pulled at his beard. “It is a dangerous project: a true doghole affair.”

  “I expect that it is. First, there will be killing, of anyone who hinders me or raises an alarm.”

  Kathcar gave a wincing jerk of the head, and turned a nervous glance over his shoulder. He spoke in a cautious voice: “If I help you, you must take me out as well.”

  “That is reasonable.”

  “This is your guarantee?”

  “You may count on it. Are the dogholes guarded?”

  “Nothing and everything is guarded. The compound is small. Folk are irritable and on edge. I have seen some strange sights.”

  “Then when is the best time to act?”

  Kathcar considered a moment. “For the doghole, one time is as good as another. The glats come up from the jungle in an hour or two, and then no one dares stir from the trees, since glats merge with the shadows and one never knows they are near until it’s too late.”

  “Then we had best go now for Scharde.”

  Again Kathcar seemed to wince, and again he looked over his shoulder. “There is no real reason to wait,” he said hollowly. He turned and stepped furtively out on the little porch. “We must not be seen by the others; they might raise an outcry out of pure anger.” He peered right and left along the strip, among the huts: there was nothing to see, neither movement nor flicker of light. Heavy overcast smothered the sky and every trace of starlight. Humid air reeked with the odors of jungle vegetation. Away from the dim glow of the stockade lamps the shadows were opaque and absolute. Kathcar, at last reassured, descended the ladder, with Glawen coming close behind.

  “Be quick now,” said Kathcar. “The glats sometimes come early. Do you carry a gun?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hold it ready.” At a crouching bent-kneed lope Kathcar ran to the gate. He reached through the port, worked the latch mechanism. The gate swung open, just far enough to allow a man to pass. Kathcar peered through the opening, then spoke in a husky whisper “No one seems to be out. Come, to the rock yonder.” He sidled along beside the stockade, seeming to merge with the texture of the materials. Glawen followed, and joined Kathcar in the dense shadow behind a rock ledge. “That was the risky part. We could have been seen from the high hut had anyone looked.”

  “Where are the dogholes?”

  “Just yonder, up and around that shoulder of rock. Now we had best go on hands and knees.” He set off crawling through the shadows. Glawen followed. Kathcar suddenly dropped flat. Glawen inched up beside him.

  “What is the trouble?”

  “Listen!”

  Glawen listened, but heard nothing. Kathcar whispered: “I heard voices.”

  Glawen listened, and thought to hear a mutter of conversation, which presently became still.

  Kathcar moved off through the shadows, crouching low. He stopped, turned his face down, spoke softly: “Scharde Clattuc! Do you hear me? Scharde? Scharde Clattuc?”

  A husky response arose from the doghole. Glawen crawled forward. He felt horizontal bars under his hands. “Father? It is Glawen.”

  “Glawen! I am alive, or so I believe.”

  “I have come for you.” He looked to Kathcar. “How do we lift the bars?”

  “At each corner is a rock. Move it aside.”

  Glawen groped along the bars and found a pair of heavy rocks, which he pushed aside, while Kathcar did the same on the opposite side. The two lifted the barred frame aside; Glawen reached down into the pit. “Give me your hands.”

  A pair of hands reached up; Glawen grasped and pulled. Scharde Clattuc emerged from the doghole. He said: “I knew that you would come. I only hoped that I would be alive at the time.”

  Kathcar spoke fur a reedy whisper: “Come; we must put the bars back in place, along with the rocks, so that no one will notice.�
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  The doghole was covered once again and the rocks put back in place. The three crawled away: first Kathcar, then Scharde and Glawen. In the shadow of the ledge they paused to rest and to assess the compound. A glimmer of light fell on Scharde’s face; Glawen stared unbelieving into the haggard countenance. Scharde’s eyes seem to have sunk into his head; the skin of his face stretched taut over bone and cartilage. He felt Glawen’s eyes upon him and grinned a ghastly grin. “No doubt I look in poor case.”

  “In very poor case indeed. “Are you fit to walk?”

  “I can walk. How did you know where to find me?”

  “It is a long story. I only arrived home a week or so ago.” Floreste supplied the information. “

  “Then I must thank Floreste.”

  “Too late! He is dead.”

  Kathcar said, “Now! To the gate, along beside the stockade, as before.”

  Like flitting shadows the three arrived at the gate without challenge, and sidled out upon the strip, where wind blowing through the trees created a mournful sound. Kathcar searched the terrain, then gave a signal. “Quick then! To the tree!” On long strides he ran to the tree and started up the ladder. Scharde came next, at a hobbling trot, followed by Glawen. Kathcar gained the porch and looked over as Scharde climbed a painful step at a time. Kathcar reached through the opening and pulled Scharde up on the porch. He called urgently down to Glawen: “Hurry; a rackleg is running this way!”

  Glawen scrambled through the opening; Kathcar slammed down the trapdoor. From below came a rasping thump, a hiss, a jar. Glawen looked to Kathcar, “Shall I kill it?”

  “No! The carrion would bring all manner of things; let it go its way. Come into the hut.”

  Inside the hut the three composed themselves to wait. A glimmer from the stockade lamps entered the hut, to illuminate Scharde’s face; once again Glawen was appalled by his father’s wasted countenance. “I returned to the Station only about a week ago – and I have much to tell you – but no one knew where you were. Floreste gave us the facts and I came as quickly as I could; I am sorry it could not have been sooner.”

  “But you came, as I knew you would!”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I was lured and trapped, neatly and cleverly. Someone at the Station betrayed me.”

  “Who was it, or do you know?”

  “I don’t know. I went out on patrol and over the Marmion Brakes I noticed a flyer, heading east. It was not one of ours and I was sure it had come from Yipton. I dropped low and followed at a distance, where I would not be noticed. The flyer flew east, around the Tex Wyndom Hills and out over Willaway Waste. It descended and landed in a small meadow. I came in low and circled, looking for a place to land where I would not be observed. My intent was to capture the flyer and the passengers, and to learn what was going on, if possible. I found a perfectly situated landing area about half a mile north, behind a low ridge of rock. So I landed, armed myself and set off to the south, toward the ridge. The route seemed easy: too easy. As I passed a jut of rock, three Yips dropped down on me. They took my gun, tied my arms, and brought me and my flyer to Shattorak. It was a neat and clever trick. Someone at the Station who had access to the patrol schedules is a spy, and perhaps a traitor.”

  “His name is Benjamie,” said Glawen. “At least, that is my guess. What happened then?”

  “Not a great deal. They put me into the doghole, and there I stayed. After two or three days someone came to look down at me. I could not see clearly: no more than a silhouette. The person spoke: it was a voice I instantly loathed, as if I had heard it before - a heavy chuckling voice. It said: ‘Scharde Clattuc: here you are and here you shall bide. Such is your punishment.’”

  “I asked: ‘Punishment for what?’”

  “The answer came: ‘Need you ask? Consider the wrongs you have done to innocent victims!’”

  “I said nothing more, since I had nothing to say. Whoever it was went away, and that is my last contact with anyone.”

  Glawen asked: “Who do you think spoke to you?”

  “I don’t know. I have not thought about it.”

  Glawen said: “I will tell you what happened to me, if you like. It is a long story; perhaps you would rather rest.”

  “I have been doing nothing else. I am tired of rest.”

  “Are you hungry? I have dry rations on my pack.”

  “I am hungry for something other than porridge.’’

  Glawen brought out a packet of hard sausage, biscuits and hard cheese and passed them over to Scharde. “Now then - this is what happened after Kirdy Wook and I left the Station.”

  Glawen spoke for an hour, ending his narrative with a description of Floreste’s letter. “I would not be surprised if the person who spoke to you were not Smonny herself.”

  “It might be so. The voice was odd.”

  Rain had started to fall, drumming down upon the roof in what seemed a solid sheet of water. Kathcar looked out the doorway. “This storm goes on and on, worse than usual.”

  “Scharde gave a grim laugh. “I am happy to be out of the doghole. Sometimes it would fill up to my hips with water.”

  Glawen turned to Kathcar. “How many dogholes are there?”

  “Three. Only one was occupied, by Scharde Clattuc until this afternoon, when they brought in another prisoner.”

  “You took food to him; who was he,” asked Glawen?

  Kathcar made a fluttering gesture of the hand. “I pay no attention to such things; to save my own neck I obeyed orders, no more.”

  “Still, you must have taken note of the prisoner.”

  “Yes, I saw him.” Kathcar hesitated.”

  “Go on. Did you recognize him, or hear his name?”

  Kathcar responded grudgingly: “As a matter of fact, they spoke his name in the cookhouse, and they were all laughing together, as if at some great joke.”

  “Well then, what was the name?”

  “Chilke.”

  “Chilke! In the doghole?”

  “Yes. That is correct.”

  Glawen went to look out the door. The rain obscured his vision; he could see nothing but the stockade lamps. He thought of Bodwyn Wook and his cautious plans; his calculated risks and compared them to the impulses of his emotions, but the entire process required less than a minute. He gave one of his guns to Scharde. “The crawler is down the hill, across the first gully. There is a flame-thrower tree just beyond. Directly below, where the river bends you will find the flyer. This is in case I do not come back.”

  Scharde, without comment, took the gun. Glawen signaled to Kathcar. “Come.”

  Kathcar held back. He cried out: “We should not presume upon our luck! Do you not agree? Our lives deserve to be cherished; let us not ponder lost opportunities from the dogholes!”

  “Come.” Glawen started down the ladder.

  “Wait!” cried Kathcar. “Look first for beasts!”

  “There is too much rain,” said Glawen. “I can’t see them. Nor can they see me.”

  Cursing under his breath, Kathcar followed down the ladder. “This is senseless and reckless!”

  Glawen paid no heed. He ran through the rain to the stockade. Kathcar followed, still crying out complaints which went unheard in the storm. He opened the stockade gate; the two passed through.

  Kathcar spoke into Glawen’s ear: “In the rain they might think to activate their motion sensor, so we had best go the same way as before. Are you ready? Come along then! To the rock!”

  The two ran crouching beside the stockade, with the rain hissing around their ears. Under the rock they halted. “Down low!” Kathcar ordered. “As before! Follow close, or you will lose me.”

  On hands and knees the two scuttled through the muck, past the first doghole, up and around a ledge, down into a rocky hollow. Kathcar halted. “We are here.”

  Glawen felt for the bars. He called down into the blackness: “Chilke Are you there? Can you hear me? Chilke?”

  A voice
came from below. “Who’s calling for Chilke? It’s a waste of time; I can’t help you.”

  “Chilke its Glawen! Stand up; I’ll pull you out.”

  “I’m already standing, so that I don’t drown.”

  Glawen and Kathcar moved aside the bars and pulled Chilke to the surface. “This is a glad surprise,” said Chilke.

  Glawen and Kathcar replaced the bars; the three crawled across the compound to the stockade, ran crouching to the gate, passed through. For a moment the rain seemed to diminish its force; Kathcar peered up and down the strip. He gave a startled hiss. “There’s a glat! Quick! To the tree!”

  The three ran to the tree and scrambled up the ladder. Kathcar secured the trap door just as something heavy slammed against the tree.

  Kathcar spoke to Glawen in dour tones: “I hope no more of your friends are captives?”

  Glawen ignored the remark. He asked Chilke “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing at all complicated,” said Chilke. “Yesterday morning two men jumped me, threw a bag over my head, taped my arms, stowed me aboard our new J-2 flyer and flew away. Next thing I knew I was here. One of the men, incidentally, was Benjamie; I could smell the fancy pomade he wears in his hair. When I get back to the Station, he is out of a job, since he cannot be trusted.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I heard some new voices. Someone led me into a shack and pulled the bag from my head. Certain peculiar things happened next which I am still sorting out. Afterwards, I was conducted to the doghole and dropped in. This gentleman here brought me a bucket of porridge. He asked me my name, and mentioned that it looked like rain. After that I was left alone, until I heard your voice, which I was glad to hear.”

  “Odd,” said Glawen.

  “What will we do now?”

  “As soon as we can see, we leave. We won’t be missed. Until they come to the cookhouse for breakfast and find no Kathcar.”

  Chilke peered through the dark. “Your name is Kathcar?”

  “That is correct.” Kathcar spoke stiffly.

  “You were right about the rain.”

  “It is a terrible storm,” said Kathcar. “The worst I have seen.”