Anthonology

PHOG

Critics have also objected to my style of writing, calling it pedestrian or clumsy. I tend to talk back to critics of my work, and in consequence I have been blacklisted in several places. Hell has no fury like that of an ignorant critic scorned! The fact is, I use whatever style I deem suitable for the piece. Usually I prefer to have an inconspicuous style, one that does not interfere with clarity, so that the reader can absorb the story painlessly. If that means I'm no stylist, then so be it. But I think a person who places style before substance is a dunce. The following story, "Phog," is an example of a style intended to help convey a mood. Later in the volume there will be another example, for a different mood, in "On the Uses of Torture." Let the critics sink their fangs into that one! Meanwhile, a note on the spelling here: the notion for this story came to me while I was grading high school spelling papers. Naturally both spelling and definition of this fog are strange. I was never a good speller myself, and grading those papers was a hellish chore.

A great boiling mass of grey-brown matter, closing in on tiger's feet: Phog.

Mat's eyes widened in shock. He was young; he lacked a foot of the height of manhood; but his mind assessed the situation immediately. A moment only did the spell of the monstrous mists hold him in thrall; then he gave the alarm in the most natural and effective manner: He screamed in terror.

His sister Sal, next born, jumped up, clutching the bright stone she had been playing with. It was a strange flat fragment, diverting them both until this instant, for it showed a hand inside when she picked it up—a hand that went away when she set it down again. And sometimes it flashed blindingly, rivaling Phoebus himself. But it was forgotten now as Sal too saw the horror that was upon them both. Her scream joined his.

Nearby, a gray-whiskered man came joltingly awake, kicking up dark sand as he scrambled to his ancient feet. He was the children's grandfather, their only surviving relative. He was too old, now, to be a worthy guardian; never before had he been lulled to sleep this far within the shadow zone. Somehow the hot safe sun had pacified his fears, putting him off guard—while Phoebus quietly withdrew, shielded by closing mists above, and left the three of them prey to their own carelessness.

His rheumy eyes took in the crying children and the encroaching horror behind them. Already Phog surrounded their position on three sides, sparing only a dwindling harbor of land—an opening they could not hope to pass in time.

"The fjords," the old man cried. "There is no other way!" Grasping each child by the wrist, he lumbered toward the nearest rift.

Sal came willingly—an openminded innocent who would one day be a lovely woman. Mat held back, frightened by vague tribal taboos. "The fjords are forbidden," he whimpered.

The man had no patience with superstition. He cast loose the boy's hand. "Then wait for Phog. Your father did."

Mat looked behind him. The shape was within a hundred paces, silently consuming the distance between them. Its surging hunger was manifest. "Wait for me, Progenitor!"

The fjords were deep erosion-gullies through which the hot winds gusted. Water spumed in some, in ever-shifting patterns, cutting new channels and filling in the old with rocky debris. It was a dangerous region, shunned by most people; but the hazards would also put Phog at a disadvantage. The sharp cliffs would hinder it; the winds would tug at its fringe and tear painful rifts; the turbulent waters below would wash at its tumbling substance, dissolving it. Phog, mindlessly determined, would waste its impetus filling the deep chasms, building itself up to stretch into the farther clefts, bruising itself and wasting time.

Even so, escape was not certain. Their only real hope was to avoid it long enough for Phoebus to return.

Phoebus and Phog waged perpetual war, on this forgotten colony of Man. Phoebus, the shining sun, was lord of the desiccate plain, burning down in stationary splendor, driving back every living thing. Phog was guardian of the shadow, denizen of ice and glacier, cover for the dread phogRunner.

Between these powers of light and shadow was a narrow strip of habitable territory, a buffer zone, where rain might fall and green plants grow. Here the tribe foraged for wild grains and fruits and dug into the ground for tubers; here were clear springs for water, and animals for fur. Neither Phog nor Phoebus exercised total influence; and here a furtive, timid tribe could live—waiting, waiting for rediscovery.

"Stay close by me." the old man commanded. "Do not touch Phog!" He led the way down the first gully, sliding on the grit and sand.

Mat hesitated again, at the brink; but behind him Phog closed in, towering, noisome. He clambered down, no longer in doubt.

Phog reached the fjord, gathering and rising up at the edge. It spilled over and rolled down the incline in horrendous blobs. It was cutting them off from the deeper, safer center of the gully!

"Past it!" They stumbled over the loose stones.

A foaming section wrenched free and descended, silently obscuring their escape. Sal screamed and swerved, the last to pass, but in time. The dark mass settled in the bottom, filling it up as more piled on from above. There would be no return this way.

Another cloud appeared ahead. Together, front and rear, the ugly bulks expanded, isolating their section of the gully. Above them a beating wall of soiled cloud loomed, a mighty wave just beginning to fall....

"The side!" the old man gasped, scrambling up himself.

They reached the top of the ridge between chasms, spattered by a foul shower of froth as the silent wave collapsed behind. From this height the extent of Phog's advance was evident. The solid mist was everywhere, already overflowing on either side. Only Phoebus could save them now—and Phoebus was hiding. There was nowhere to run; the gully ahead ran parallel to the front, and the farther wall was too steep to ascend in time.

Mat's bright mind was prodded to desperate inspiration. "The water!" he shouted. "Swim under—if we can—"

They galloped down the slope, trying to beat Phog to the deep clear water pooled at the lower end. Water extended throughout the fjords a few thousand feet farther down, eventually unifying in a passive lake. If they could reach this first inlet in time, they'd have a chance.

A narrow gray pseudopod blew across their path, cutting them off from the water. It took on the brownish tinge as it thickened. They pulled up before it, dismayed; sometimes Phog almost seemed to strike with intelligence. This, for it, was a strategic masterstroke. They were trapped.

There was no alternative. The mottled burgeonings were almost upon them, bringing inevitable doom. "Through it," the old man quavered. "As quickly as you can. There may be no Runner near...."

Concealing his own terror from the children, he plunged into the noxious wall. There was an eddy about him; then he was out of sight, as Phog sealed itself again.

Mat drew up short, unable to make that plunge. Sal, seeing him hesitate, lost her own courage. Their fear of Phog was too great to permit voluntary contact. Behind them a dirty mass slid over the rough slope; in a moment it would settle and draw them under anyway, but they could not move.

"Where are you?" the voice came back, muffled. "Come, come, before it is too late—"

This time Sal answered the summons, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, holding her breath, and jumping blindly for the terrible wall ahead. It seemed to pulse and quiver with hungry anticipation. Mat, thrust into action at last, grasped her fleeting hand and dove in after her.

He had taken no breath. The choking mist of Phog's substance stifled him, burning his lungs and making his eyes smart. He coughed involuntarily, inhaling more of the foul gloom. But spurred by fear he pressed on, now running ahead of his sister and drawing her with him. He had known she would get lost, on her own; she was brave enough, but not always sensible.

The run was interminable. Phog held them back, smearing cold grease on face and hands, dragging against the body with the muck of nightmare. Sal cried out, a scream of pain and fear. "Come on!" Mat gritted, knowing they dared not delay for a stubbed toe. They were almost through; they had to be.

She screamed again, piercingly. Abruptly, horribly, her grip became flaccid; her hand was torn from his grasp as she fell. The Runner had come! Terrified, Mat spurted ahead.

He was out, crashing into his grandfather. They stood together, transfixed by fear.

Minutes passed. The haze above parted; the sun brightened. Phoebus returned, saving them from a difficult swim. But Sal did not emerge.

Phog reared back, pulling together, recoiling from the direct rays. It could not face the sun. A putrid stench rose from it as its outer fringe was scorched; it retreated, seeking shade. Man and boy watched with rapt revulsion as it heaved back from the gully, back from the fjords, sucking itself in like a bulbous stomach.

On the cleared and glistening ground they saw the bones of Sal, broken and twisted and almost clean of blood. Beside them was a single print: the taloned spoor of the phogRunner.

The old man muttered incoherently, the dirty tears dribbling down his face. Mat's eyes were fixed on an object half-hidden by matted hair. It was the stone—the shining stone—that she had treasured. It flashed with the light of Phoebus, a glittering eye, watching him, condemning him to unutterable grief and shame: he who had held her hand, who could have brought her to the edge, to safety, so close, so close... and instead had bolted in panic.

"Phog comes!" the old man exclaimed.

Mat looked up, stroking the light growth of beard on his cheek, his pulse leaping in anticipation. The confrontation was at hand, here at the spot Phog had routed them so long ago and driven them to misery in the fjords. Here at the place of the colored and shining stones a second trial of strength was due.

His hand rested on a crude stone structure, a box fashioned from heavy blocks, open above with a fibrous mat inside, hanging between two slanted surfaces. Gently, lovingly, his supple fingers traced the rough contour of the edge, as his eyes traced the approaching menace. There was a tremble in those fingers, a doubt in those eyes; but Mat stood firm.

For a moment his gaze flicked anxiously back over the row of structures extending beyond the horizon, each bearing its facing slabs, each set just so, just exactly so. His breath came rapidly; would the strange weapon he had forged from his dead sister's delight actually defeat Phog?

The ghastly billows came, death-gray, malefic, streaked with sordid brown. Corpulent blisters pushed out, expanded, sagged ponderously and were reabsorbed. Not a sound issued from within that sinister mass; only the belching odor emerged to panic the waiting men.

One hundred feet: a mighty bulge slimed over the ground, four times the height of a man, quivering jellylike as though it sensed its prey. Progenitor's bony body echoed that movement in sympathetic vibration. Mat's gorge rose, fouling his throat as he fought for control over his emotions. He had captured Phoebus in the stone, bringing him far across the plain, winging from surface to surface; but would this tiny spark from the sun's domain daunt Phog?

Seventy-five feet: Terror lashed his mind, convulsed his muscles; muscles hard from the hauling of great slabs. "Now! Now!" the old man shouted, his voice a high-pitched wail. Mat gulped, shaking from head to knee, but held himself from action. He yearned to yank the curtain away—the curtain that held back the fierce sunlight chained in this final relay; but for the sake of the test he dared not unveil this light too soon.

Fifty feet: The impalpable stuff of Phog bubbled and swirled, exhaling digestive vapors. Mat's eyes smarted; his nostrils pinched together in vain attempt to filter out the alien gas. Behind him, Progenitor coughed and racked, unable to call again.

Mat's hands gripped the warm stone spasmodically—and did not act. Suppose, somehow, Phoebus had lost his strength; suppose the light only angered the monster....

Twenty-five feet: Phog loomed, as tall as the distance between them, curling up into a deadly hood. Phoebus was far far away, beyond help—except for the caged beam. Somewhere inside the awful shroud, uncaged, the insatiable Runner slavered. If the weapon failed—

Mat acted. Hands now fumblingly eager lifted free the fiber shield. Suddenly there was a brightness; a coruscating beam stabbed out and struck the ground ahead. It was a ray of the sun, blinding in the gloom, harnessed by tireless labor during Mat's last foot of growth.

He took hold of the balanced stone, tilting it up. The beam followed, reflecting from the polished surface and marching along the ground, up and into Phog itself. Now—

Phog sizzled and folded into itself, trying to escape that burning light. But the darting lance played over its surface, vaporizing the rank mists wherever it touched.

To one side and the other Phog continued its advance; but before that implacable shaft it retreated, wounded, dribbling dismal white droplets. It was unable to attack.

"It works!" Progenitor cried. "We have defeated Phog!"

Mat answered him with a smile, allowing the old man his share of pride. Victory was sweet indeed.

The light failed.

Phog rolled back, facelessly gloating. Feverishly Mat cast about, seeking the malfunction, but there was none. The reflectors were in order, yet the beam was not coming in.

He looked up to see Phog fifteen feet distant, offering a putrescent embrace. Within it—were there malevolent eyes?

The beam snapped on. Phog recoiled furiously. Had the phantom shape within been singed? He kept the light fixed on one spot, drilling a hole in the wall before him, while his mind pondered the meaning of that brief cessation. Would it happen again?

The malodorous veil crept up around the beam, leaving a harmless tunnel. Phog was accommodating itself. Quickly he switched the light to another place.

The glow died. Phog sucked together and reached for him. Fifteen feet....

"Someone is cutting off the relay!" Progenitor cried.

Of course! The tribesmen knew nothing of the careful mechanisms spanning the plain. They would be out searching for food, wandering carelessly between the pylons, intercepting the invisible channel of light.

Anger flushed Mat's face. He had held Phog at bay, had tasted victory over the killer of men—only to be defeated by other people's ignorance. The beam flicked on and off again, as though to flaunt his impotence, and Phog crept up to a hungry ten feet.

"We must go," he called, forgetting the deference due his ancestor. But at the lip of Phog there was no time to stand on ceremony. They ran.

The banks of solid mist were far beyond their position. They were at the nadir of a deep cleft, carved by the light. Phog threatened momentarily to fill in from the sides, capturing them. Even as he ran, Mat made a mental note to provide for the protection of his flank, perhaps with additional relays, if he escaped this time.

Progenitor was puffing hugely, blowing out his white whiskers as he ran. Mat saw that the oldster could not maintain the pace for long. Yet there was no effective or honorable way to assist him; he was the grandfather. If only the beam were reliable, they could make a stand—

Phoebus returned, overhead, and suddenly they were safe. What determined the comings and goings of the high wisps that shrouded it and let Phog come? He would have to study this—

Progenitor collapsed by a relay, exhausted. In the distance Mat observed the tribesmen returning, meandering along the line of relays. Rage blotted his sight for an instant; then he began to think.

When the people arrived there was a pile of stones beside the pylon, buttressing the path of the beam but not interfering with it. "Cross here," Mat told the incurious people. "Climb up the rocks, so; then jump over to the other side and step down."

They looked at him and at the steps transcending empty sand, uncomprehending. "Phoebus is here," he explained. "We must keep it safe, to battle Phog." But he saw that he was making no impression. They knew nothing about his beam of light, or the principles of reflection he had devised to control it. They had no interest in anything except hunger and immediate danger and occasional ancestry of infants. Not one of them would consider standing up to the awesome enemy. Docile and timid, they had abdicated the courage and intelligence of Man. Progenitor had warned him of this.

Mat picked up a ragged stone. "If anyone fails to use the steps," he said, "I will smash this against his head."

The nearest man looked at him. The man was larger than he and older. Mat's bravado deserted him. He did not want to fight; he longed to drop his weapon and flee—as he had from Phog. He was one of the Tribe; he had no courage. If the man crossed the beam....

A girl was watching him, one he had not noticed before. Something about her bothered him; she seemed familiar. Then it came to him; she was the age his sister would have been.

Shame overcame his dread. The ghost of Sal mocked him in this girl's eyes. Not again would his cowardice sacrifice her body to the Runner. Not again would the bloodless bones rise to haunt his memory.

Mat hefted the stone with new purpose. He pointed to the crude stile surmounting the path of the beam. Apprehensively, the man obeyed.

After that, so did the others. It was plain that they did not understand the ritual of treading over nothing; but they gave way to his greater determination. They did the easy thing; they backed down in the face of a threat, as always.

Never again would he be like them.

Last to navigate the stile was the girl. "You're so brave," she said, smiling at him. "My name is Jul."

Three relays marched across the land to converge upon the battlefield of shining stones. The plain was pocked with the marks of their excavation, for the rocky formation had tilted deep into the earth, as though to hide its splendor. Many tribesmen had labored under Mat's direction to bring up the flat slabs and cleave them apart to reveal the brightness inside; many fingers of growth had passed while they rubbed and rubbed to accentuate that shine with fine fibers and make the surfaces ready for Phoebus.

Two mighty structures stood at the terminus, each as high as a man could reach. Each comprised two columns bearing a great stone crosspiece, and the two arches faced each other to form a two-sided cube visible for many thousands of feet. Each column was fashioned from highly glossed stones tilted this way and that, and above the crosspieces were perched more polished fragments.

High mists shrouded the sun. "Phog will come," Progenitor said, excited. He was feeble now, too old to forage for himself. He would have died some time ago, had Mat not made the tribesmen bring him food. But the man's advice was valuable; only he and one other really understood what Mat was trying to do.

Abruptly he lifted the protectors from the two relay boxes near him. Immediately the bright light leaped forth, illuminating the spaces between the columns and forming a glowing cage in the dust. The effect was magical; but Mat well knew that the shafts of Phoebus traveled from stone to stone in fixed pattern, and would go astray if even a single reflector were out of place. Many times had he gone hungry while he struggled with the balance, tapping the surfaces into place, only to have others jarred out of position. The final adjustment had been interminable—but the cage was ready.

"Phog!" Progenitor announced, shivering. Increasing age had not added to his courage. He watched the distant bank with familiar horror.

Mat dropped the curtain on the relay to his right, and the four shimmering walls blinked out. He doused the left, and the fainter bars forming a roof between the crosspieces vanished. Somehow the cage did not show up well unless there was much dust, and the dust was low, usually. But the test had been successful. "Place the bait," he said.

His attention was distracted by an approaching figure, while the old man struggled with the carrion. Jul was running toward them, her dark hair flying back in pretty tangles as she bounced. She had matured considerably.

Mat turned away, keeping his attention on Phog. Progenitor dragged the meat to the center of the cage area and retreated, panting. It was a task he had insisted on doing alone.

Phog approached from one side, Jul from the other. "Are you going to fight it?" she demanded needlessly.

Mat kept his eyes clear of her beauty. "Go away," he said. He knew she would not.

Phog arrived. The stench of it blasted out ahead, sickeningly. It swirled around the stone pillars and smirched the bait, burying it in thick scum. It reached across the gap toward them.

"Not yet," Mat said tightly.

Phog advanced almost to their station. The three stood, fascinated by it as always, but no longer panicked. They knew the power dammed in the relays, as the tribesmen did not; this time they stayed to conquer, not to run.

The menacing bladders distended the filthy surface, no less loathsome for all their insubstantiality. The corrupt froth washed almost at their feet.

"It comes! It comes!" Progenitor shouted.

There was a whirring within; a thump from the direction of the cage. Mat yanked away the curtains.

The fierce beams leaped to the mirrors, slicing through the murky shape immediately. For the first time they saw the actual progress of the light, as it sprang from comer to corner, vaporizing the reluctant mist between and climbing in a quick spiral. In a moment Phog withdrew in agony; but it left a block of its substance behind, snared by the bright enclosure. The trap had been sprung.

The isolated mass hissed and shrank as Mat unveiled the third relay and played its beam upon the interior. "We have you now, killer of children!" he cried. Eagerly they watched for the exposure of the scabrous monster that had to lurk within.

The cube of filth sagged into amorphous lumps. The choking stink of it filled the air as it puffed into a bubbling residue. At last it was gone, revealing—

The untouched carcass.

"But it was here," Jul said. "We heard it."

Mat stared in confusion. The Runner had been present; the spoor was there. But it had not touched the meat.

"It needs live food," Jul said. "A—a sacrifice."

He should have guessed! Furious, Mat looked at the sky. The upper vapors were thinning; Phoebus would return soon, and their chance would be gone.

Too much hung on this encounter. He could not wait for another opportunity. It would be nearly impossible to bring a live animal to the enclosure at the exact moment Phog came, and keep it there untethered. Tied, the animal would jolt the stones, disturbing the delicate alignment necessary for the cage. He had to act now, while the Runner was watching.

Mat picked up the weapon he had fashioned to cow the tribesmen: a long pointed stone fragment. He doused the beams.

Jul clutched his arm as he stepped forward. "No," she said. "The Runner will kill you!"

He shook her off. "Progenitor—you must unveil the beams. Take care that you release them together, or it will take flight as it did before."

The ancient looked at him, comprehending what he intended. Phog was already invading the vital spot, forgetful of its recent misery there. Somewhere—was there a whirring?

"No!" Jul cried again, throwing herself before him. "You are brave, you are a leader. No one else can drive back Phog."

He set her aside, more gently this time. "I will kill the Runner if I can," he said. "Only living flesh will lure it into the cage. Then—Phoebus will not let it escape."

Still she clung. "Not you, not you!" She flung back her head defiantly. "I have no strength, no courage. This only can I do—"

Phog loomed over them, casting out its wispy tentacles. But for the moment Mat forgot it, discovering almost too late what courage was.

This girl—this lovely woman the age of Sal—was asking to sacrifice herself to the Runner, that he might live. He had shunned her as the reminder of his shame, as the sister he had betrayed by his cowardice, so long ago. Now he looked full into the face he had feared, and found there not a ghost but a vital passion, an encompassing love—for him.

He realized that there would after all be other times; that with patience and intelligence he could snare the Runner without risking human life.

An anguished scream rent the air.

"Progenitor!" He bounded to the control boxes, whipping free the restrictive curtains. The dazzling light speared out once more, forming the enclosure. But there was no further sound from the old man.

As Phog retreated, leaving another cube of itself pinioned in the silvery cage, Mat saw that Progenitor's death had not been in vain. There was a frenzied whirring within the enclosure of light. The Runner had been caught at last.

Not alone had Mat borne his guilt.