A Far Sunset

TWENTY-SEVEN

The forest was ancient, overwhelming and oppressive in its great green luxuriance. Amid all the noisy chatter of the wild things it contained, there were strange pockets of silence where it seemed to Paul Marlowe—never a connoisseur of forests, even on Earth—something intangible lay, lurking and brooding.

Perhaps it was the Life Force; for if a Life Force existed, surely the forest—a place teeming with crawly living things— must be its home. Of the large wild creatures, Paul did not see a great deal but he sa\V enough to make him feel that, in evolutionary terms, Altair Five must be at least a million years behind Earth.

Here and there, on the banks of the far reaches of the Canal of Life, were colonies of large iguana-like animals—spiked, scaly, twice the length of a man and, so the hunters told him, virtually harmless. They were vegetarians. The only time they ever displayed ferocity was during a short mating season—and then only to others of their kind. On the other hand, there were small, delicate crab-like creatures—bright red and remarkably attractive, no larger than a man’s fist. These, the hunters pointed out with respect as being among the most deadly killers in the forest.

Only once did Paul see a really massive creature during the day-time. It was a creature that the hunters called an ontholyn. It was furry, and fearsome, with tremendous clawed forepaws and a cavernous mouth. Paul watched it rear up on its hind legs to pick carefully of some fruit hanging at the top of a tall tree. It made a strange sound, half roaring and half trumpeting, then it sat back on its haunches to nibble the fruit. The sound, which had reverberated through the forest was, so the hunters said, merely an expression of pleasure. They claimed that the ontholyn was so slow that it was possible for a nimble man to run up to one, climb up its furry sides, tweak its nose and climb down again before the creature realized what was happening.

As the barge sped farther away from Baya Nor along the Canal of Life, it seemed to Paul that he and his companions were making a journey back in time. The clusters of giant ferns, the bright orchidaceous flowers, the stringy lianas that now laced overhead from bank to bank of the canal, the tall, sad and utterly lethal Weeping Trees which leaked a tough, quick bonding and poisonous glue down their trunks to trap and kill small animals that would then putrefy and feed the exposed roots of the tree—all these conspired to make him feel that he was riding down a green tunnel into pre-history.

And, in fact, he was now riding through a green tunnel; for the banks of the Canal of Life had narrowed considerably. The foliage had closed in overhead, and sunlight was visible only as a dazzling maze of thin gold bars through which the barge seemed to cut its way with miraculous and hypnotic ease.

As the light died, and the green gloom deepened, Shon Hu inspected the banks for a suitable place to moor the barge for the night.

‘Lord,’ he said, ‘we have made good travelling. We are very near now to the Watering of Oruri.’

‘Would it not be good to journey on to the great river while we can still see?’

Shon Hu shrugged. ‘Who can say, lord? But my comrades like to see where they can plant their poles.’

‘That is very wise, Shon Hu. Therefore let us rest.’

They found a small patch of ground near a group of the Weeping Trees. Shon Hu explained that most animals could smell the trees—particularly at night—and took great trouble to avoid them. That was why he had chosen the place. Nevertheless, he advised that everyone should sleep in the barge.

The first night passed without incident. After their evening meal the hunters began to exchange stories, as was their custom. Paul listened drowsily for a while, half drugged by the heavy night scents of the forest and the vapours rising from the water. The next thing he knew, it was daybreak—and a smiling Zu Shan was trying to tempt him with a handful of kappa and a strip of smoked meat that tasted like scorched rubber.

‘You slept very soundly, Paul. We did not think you would take to the forest so well. How do your bones feel?’ Zu Shan spoke in English, proud of the one distinction over the hunters that he possessed.

Paul groaned and tried to stretch. He groaned again—this time with much feeling. ‘I feel like an old man,’ he complained. ‘I feel as if the glue from the Weeping Trees had penetrated all my joints.’

‘It is the vapours from the water of the Canal of Life,’ explained Zu Shan. ‘They cause the bones to ache, but the pain passes away with vigorous movement. Poor Nemo feels it worst, I think, because his bones do not have their natural shape.’

Little Nemo was crying like a baby. Paul picked him up and began to gently massage the twisted limbs. ‘Lord,’ gasped Nemo in Bayani, ‘you shame me. I beg of you, put me down.’

Paul ruffled his hair affectionately and set him down in the stem of the barge. ‘It shall be as my son commands,’ he said gravely, ‘for I acknowledge before all present that you are truly my son.’

‘Lord,’ said Shon Hu, ‘there is much poling to be done. Will you speak the word?’

Paul raised his eyes to the steaming green roof overhead. Judging from the already oppressive atmosphere, it was going to be another hot and enervating day.

‘Let us go, then,’ he said in Bayani, ‘with the blessing of Oruri.’