Downward to the Earth

Thirteen

IT WAS A substantial settlement, forty huts or more arranged in two rows, flanked on one side by a grove of soaring trees and on the other by a broad silvery-surfaced lake. Gundersen approached the village through the trees, with the lake shining beyond. A light fall of snowflakes wandered through the quiet air. The mists were high just now, thickening to an impenetrable ceiling perhaps five hundred meters overhead.

“The man Cullen—?” Gundersen asked.

Cullen lay in a hut beside the lake. Two sulidoror guarded the entrance, stepping aside at a word from Yi-gartigok; two sulidoror more stood at the foot of the pallet of twigs and hides on which Cullen rested. They too stepped aside, revealing a burned-out husk of a man, a remnant, a cinder.

“Are you here to fetch me?” Cullen asked. “Well, Gundy, you’re too late.”

Cullen’s golden hair had turned white and gone coarse; it was a tangled snowy mat through which patches of pale blotched scalp showed. His eyes, once a gentle liquid green, now were muddy and dull, with angry bloodshot streaks in the yellowed whites. His face was a mask of skin over bones, and the skin was flaky and rough. A blanket covered him from the chest down, but the severe emaciation of his arms indicated that the rest of his body probably was similarly eroded. Of the old Cullen little seemed to remain except the mild, pleasant voice and the cheerful smile, now grotesque emerging from the ravaged face. He looked like a man of a hundred years.

“How long have you been this way?” Gundersen demanded.

“Two months. Three, I don’t know. Time melts here, Gundy. But there’s no going back for me now. This is where I stop. Terminal. Terminal.”

Gundersen knelt by the sick man’s pallet. “Are you in pain? Can I give you something?”

“No pain,” Cullen said. “No drugs. Terminal.”

“What do you have?” Gundersen asked, thinking of Dykstra and his woman lying gnawed by alien larvae in a pool of muck, thinking of Kurtz anguished and transformed at Shangri-la Falls, thinking of Seena’s tale of Gio’ Salamone turned to crystal. “A native disease? Something you picked up around here?”

“Nothing exotic,” said Cullen. “I’d guess it’s the old inward rot, the ancient enemy. The crab, Gundy. The crab. In the gut. The crab’s pincers are in my gut.”

“Then you are in pain?”

“No,” Cullen said. “The crab moves slowly. A nip here, a nip there. Each day there’s a little less of me. Some days I feel that there’s nothing left of me at all. This is one of the better days.”

“Listen,” Gundersen said, “I could get you downriver to Seena’s place in a week. She’s bound to have a medical kit, a space tube of anticarcin for you. You aren’t so far gone that we couldn’t manage a remission if we act fast, and then we could ship you to Earth for template renewal, and—”

“No. Forget it.”

“Don’t be absurd! We aren’t living in the Middle Ages, Ced. A case of cancer is no reason for a man to lie down in a filthy hut and wait to die. The sulidoror will set up a litter for you. I can arrange it in five minutes. And then—”

“I wouldn’t ever reach Seena’s, and you know it,” Cullen said softly. “The nildoror would pick me up the moment I came out of the mist country. You know that, Gundy. You have to know that.”

“Well—”

“I don’t have the energy to play these games. You’re aware, aren’t you, that I’m the most wanted man on this planet?”

“I suppose so.”

“Were you sent here to fetch me?”

“The nildoror asked me to bring you back,” Gundersen admitted. “I had to agree to it in order to get permission to come up here.”

“Of course.” Bitterly.

“But I stipulated that I wouldn’t bring you out unless you’d come willingly,” Gundersen said. “Along with certain other stipulations. Look, Ced, I’m not here as Judas. I’m traveling for reasons of my own, and seeing you is strictly a side-venture. But I want to help you. Let me bring you down to Seena’s so you can get the treatment that you have to—”

“I told you,” Cullen said, “the nildoror would grab me as soon as they had a chance.”

“Even if they knew you were mortally ill and being taken down to the falls for medical care?”

“Especially so. They’d love to save my soul as I lay dying. I won’t give them the satisfaction, Gundy. I’m going to stay here, safe, beyond their reach, and wait for the crab to finish with me. It won’t be long now. Two days, three, a week, perhaps even tonight. I appreciate your desire to rescue me. But I won’t go.”

“If I got a promise from the nildoror to let you alone until you were able to undergo treat—”

“I won’t go. You’d have to force me. And that’s outside the scope of your promise to the nildoror, isn’t it?” Cullen smiled for the first time in some minutes. “There’s a flask of wine in the corner there. Be a good fellow.”

Gundersen went to get it. He had to walk around several sulidoror. His colloquy with Cullen had been so intense, so private, that he had quite forgotten that the hut was full of sulidoror: his two guides, Cullen’s guards, and at least half a dozen others. He picked up the wine and carried it to the pallet. Cullen, his hand trembling, nevertheless managed not to spill any. When he had had his fill, he offered the flask to Gundersen, asking him so insistently to drink that Gundersen could not help but accept. The wine was warm and sweet.

“Is it agreed,” Cullen said, “that you won’t make any attempt to take me out of this village? I know you wouldn’t seriously consider handing me over to the nildoror. But you might decide to get me out of here for the sake of saving my life. Don’t do that either, because the effect would be the same: the nildoror would get me. I stay here. Agreed?”

Gundersen was silent a while. “Agreed,” he said finally.

Cullen looked relieved. He lay back, face toward the wall, and said, “I wish you hadn’t wasted so much of my energy on that one point. We have so much more to talk about. And now I don’t have the strength.”

“I’ll come back later. Rest, now.”

“No. Stay here. Talk to me. Tell me where you’ve been all these years, why you came back here, who you’ve seen, what you’ve done. Give me the whole story. I’ll rest while I’m listening. And afterward — and afterward—”

Cullen’s voice faded. It seemed to Gundersen that he had slipped into unconsciousness, or perhaps merely sleep. Cullen’s eyes were closed; his breath was slow and labored. Gundersen remained silent. He paced the hut uneasily, studying the hides tacked to the walls, the crude furniture, the debris of old meals. The sulidoror ignored him. Now there were eight in the hut, keeping their distance from the dying man and yet focusing all their attention on him. Momentarily Gundersen was unnerved by the presence of these giant two-legged beasts, these nightmare creatures with fangs and claws and thick tails and drooping snouts, who came and went and moved about as though he were less than nothing to them. He gulped more wine, though he found the texture and flavor of it unpleasant.

Cullen said, eyes still shut, “I’m waiting. Tell me things.”

Gundersen began to speak. He spoke of his eight years on Earth, collapsing them into six curt sentences. He spoke of the restlessness that had come over him on Earth, of his cloudy and mystifying compulsion to return to Belzagor, of the sense of a need to find a new structure for his life now that he had lost the scaffolding that the Company had been for him. He spoke of his journey through the forest to the lakeside encampment, and of how he had danced among the nildoror, and how they had wrung from him the qualified promise to bring them Cullen. He spoke of Dykstra and his woman in their forest ruin, editing the tale somewhat in respect for Cullen’s own condition, though he suspected that such charity was unnecessary. He spoke of being with Seena again on the Night of the Five Moons. He spoke of Kurtz and how he had been changed through rebirth. He spoke of his pilgrimage into the mist country.

He was certain at least three times that Cullen had fallen asleep, and once he thought that the sick man’s breathing had ceased altogether. Each time Gundersen paused, though, Cullen gave some faint indication — a twitch of the mouth, a flick of the fingertips — that he should go on. At the end, when Gundersen had nothing left to say, he stood in silence a long while waiting for some new sign from Cullen, and at last, faintly, Cullen said, “Then?”

“Then I came here.”

“And where do you go after here?”

“To the mountain of rebirth,” said Gundersen quietly.

Cullen’s eyes opened. With a nod he asked that his pillows be propped up, and he sat forward, locking his fingers into his coverlet. “Why do you want to go there?” he asked.

“To find out what kind of thing rebirth is.”

“You saw Kurtz?”

“Yes.”

“He also wanted to learn more about rebirth,” Cullen said. “He already understood the mechanics of it, but he had to know its inwardness as well. To try it for himself. It wasn’t just curiosity, of course. Kurtz had spiritual troubles. He was courting self-immolation because he’d persuaded himself he needed to atone for his whole life. Quite true, too. Quite true. So he went for rebirth. The sulidoror obliged him. Well, behold the man. I saw him just before I came north.”

“For a while I thought I might try rebirth also,” said Gundersen, caught unawares by the words surfacing in his mind. “For the same reasons. The mixture of curiosity and guilt. But I think I’ve given the idea up now. I’ll go to the mountain to see what they do, but I doubt that I’ll ask them to do it to me.”

“Because of the way Kurtz looks?”

“Partly. And also because my original plan looks too — well, too willed. Too unspontaneous. An intellectual choice, not an act of faith. You can’t just go up there and volunteer for rebirth in a coldly scientific way. You have to be driven to it.”

“As Kurtz was?” Cullen asked.

“Exactly.”

“And as you aren’t?”

“I don’t know any longer,” Gundersen said. “I thought I was driven, too. I told Seena I was. But somehow, now that I’m so close to the mountain, the whole quest has started to seem artificial to me.

“You’re sure you aren’t just afraid to go through with it?”

Gundersen shrugged. “Kurtz wasn’t a pretty sight.”

“There are good rebirths and bad rebirths,” Cullen said. “He had a bad rebirth. How it turns out depends on the quality of one’s soul, I gather, and on a lot of other things. Give us some more wine, will you?”

Gundersen extended the flask. Cullen, who appeared to be gaining strength, drank deeply.

“Have you been through rebirth?” Gundersen asked.

“Me? Never. Never even tempted. But I know a good deal about it. Kurtz wasn’t the first of us to try it, of course. At least a dozen went before him.”

“Who?”

Cullen mentioned some names. They were Company men, all of them from the list of those who had died while on field duty. Gundersen had known some of them; others were figures out of the far past, before he or Cullen had ever come to Holman’s World.

Cullen said, “And there were others. Kurtz looked them up in the records, and the nildoror gave him the rest of the story. None of them ever returned from the mist country. Four or five of them turned out like Kurtz — transformed into monsters.”

“And the others?”

“Into archangels, I suppose. The nildoror were vague about it. Some sort of transcendental merging with the universe, an evolution to the next bodily level, a sublime ascent — that kind of thing. All that’s certain is that they never came back to Company territory. Kurtz was hoping on an outcome like that. But unfortunately Kurtz was Kurtz, half angel and half demon, and that’s how he was reborn. And that’s what Seena nurses. In a way it’s a pity you’ve lost your urge, Gundy. You might just turn out to have one of the good rebirths. Can you call Hor-tenebor over? I think I should have some fresh air, if we’re going to talk so much. He’s the sulidor leaning against the wall there. The one who looks after me, who hauls my old bones around. He’ll carry me outside.”

“It was snowing a little while ago, Ced.”

“So much the better. Shouldn’t a dying man see some snow? This is the most beautiful place in the universe,” Cullen said. “Right here, in front of this hut. I want to see it. Get me Hor-tenebor.”

Gundersen summoned the sulidor. At a word from Cullen, Hor-tenebor scooped the fragile, shrunken invalid into his immense arms and bore him through the door-flap of the hut, setting him down on a cradle-like framework overlooking the lake. Gundersen followed. A heavy mist had descended on the village, concealing even the huts closest at hand, but the lake itself was clearly visible under the gray sky. Fugitive wisps of mist hung just above the lake’s dull surface. A bitter chill was in the air, but Cullen, wrapped only in a thin hide, showed no discomfort. He held forth his hand, palm upraised, and watched with the wonder of a child as snowflakes struck it.

At length Gundersen said, “Will you answer a question?”

“If I can.”

“What was it you did that got the nildoror so upset?”

“They didn’t tell you when they sent you after me?”

“No,” Gundersen said. “They said that you would, and that in any case it didn’t really matter to them whether I knew or not. Seena didn’t know either. And I can’t begin to guess. You were never the kind who went in for killing or torturing intelligent species. You couldn’t have been playing around with the serpent venom the way Kurtz was — he was doing that for years and they never tried to grab him. So what could you possibly have done that caused so much—”

“The sin of Actaeon,” said Cullen.

“Pardon?”

“The sin of Actaeon, which was no sin at all, but really just an accident. In Greek myth he was a huntsman who blundered upon Diana bathing, and saw what he shouldn’t have seen. She changed him into a stag and he was torn to pieces by his own hounds.”

“I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

Cullen drew a long breath. “Did you ever go up on the central plateau?” he asked, his voice low but firm. “Yes. Yes, of course you did. I remember, you crash-landed there, you and Seena, on your way back to Fire Point after a holiday on the coast, and you were stranded a little while and weird animals bothered you and that was when Seena first started to hate the plateau. Right? Then you know what a strange and somehow mysterious place it is, a place apart from the rest of this planet, where not even the nildoror like to go. All right. I started to go there, a year or two after relinquishment. It became my private retreat. The animals of the plateau interested me, the insects, the plants, everything. Even the air had a special taste — sweet, clean. Before relinquishment, you know, it would have been considered a little eccentric for anybody to visit the plateau on his free time, or at any other time. Afterward nothing mattered to anyone. The world was mine. I made a few plateau trips. I collected specimens. I brought some little oddities to Seena, and she got to be fond of them before she realized they were from the plateau, and little by little I helped her overcome her irrational fear of the plateau. Seena and I went there often together, sometimes with Kurtz also. There’s a lot of flora and fauna from the plateau at Shangri-la Station; maybe you noticed it. Right? We collected all that. The plateau came to seem like any other place to me, nothing supernatural, nothing eerie, merely a neglected backwoods region. And it was my special place, where I went whenever I felt myself growing empty or bored or stale. A year ago, maybe a little less than a year, I went into the plateau. Kurtz had just come back from his rebirth, and Seena was terribly depressed by what had happened to him, and I wanted to get her a gift, some animal, to cheer her up. This time I came down a little to the southwest of my usual landing zone, over in a part of the plateau I had never seen before, where two rivers meet. One of the first things I noticed was how ripped up the shrubbery was. Nildoror! Plenty nildoror! An immense area had been grazed, and you know how nildoror graze. It made me curious. Once in a while I had seen an isolated nildor on the plateau, always at a distance, but never a whole herd. So I followed the line of devastation. On and on it went, this scar through the forest, with broken branches and trampled underbrush, all the usual signs. Night came, and I camped, and it seemed to me I heard drums in the night. Which was foolish, since nildoror don’t use drums; I realized after a while that I heard them dancing, pounding the ground, and these were reverberations carried through the soil. There were other sounds, too: screams, bellows, the cries of frightened animals. I had to know what was happening. So I broke camp in the middle of the night and crept through the jungle, hearing the noise grow louder and louder, until finally I reached the edge of the trees, where the jungle gave way to a kind of broad savanna running down to the river, and there in the open were maybe five hundred nildoror. Three moons were up, and I had no trouble seeing. Gundy, would you believe that they had painted themselves? Like savages, like something out of a nightmare. There were three deep pits in the middle of the clearing. One of the pits was filled with a kind of wet red mud, and the other two contained branches and berries and leaves that the nildoror had trampled to release dark pigments, one black, one blue. And I watched the nildoror going down to these pits, and first they’d roll in the pit of red mud and come up plastered with it, absolutely scarlet; and then they’d go to the adjoining pits and give each other dark stripes over the red, hosing it on with their trunks. A barbaric sight: all that color, all that flesh. When they were properly decorated, they’d go running — not strolling, running — across the field to the place of dancing, and they’d begin that four-step routine. You know it: boom boom boom boom. But infinitely more fierce and frightening now, on account of the war-paint. An army of wild-looking nildoror, stamping their feet, nodding their tremendous heads, lifting their trunks, bellowing, stabbing their tusks into the ground, capering, singing, flapping their ears. Frightening, Gundy, frightening. And the moonslight on their painted bodies—

“Keeping well back in the forest, I circled around to the west to get a better view. And saw something on the far side of the dancers that was even stranger than the paint. I saw a corral with log walls, huge, three or four times the size of this village. The nildoror couldn’t have built it alone; they might have uprooted trees and hauled them with their trunks, but they must have needed sulidoror to help pile them up and shape them. Inside the corral were plateau animals, hundreds of them, all sizes and shapes. The big leaf-eating ones with giraffe necks, and the kind like rhinos with antlers, and timid ones like gazelles, and dozens that I’d never even seen before, all crowded together as if in a stockyard. There must have been sulidoror hunters out beating the bush for days, driving that menagerie together. The animals were restless and scared. So was I. I crouched in the darkness, waiting, and finally all the nildoror were properly painted, and then a ritual started in the midst of the dancing group. They began to cry out, mostly in their ancient language, the one we can’t understand, but also they were talking in ordinary nildororu, and eventually I understood what was going on. Do you know who these painted beasts were? They were sinning nildoror, nildoror who were in disgrace! This was the place of atonement and the festival of purification. Any nildor who had been tinged with corruption in the past year had to come here and be cleansed. Gundy, do you know what sin they had committed? They had taken the venom from Kurtz. The old game, the one everybody used to play down at the serpent station, give the nildoror a swig, take one yourself, let the hallucinations come? These painted prancing nildoror here had all been led astray by Kurtz. Their souls were stained. The Earthman-devil had found their one vulnerable place, the one area of temptation they couldn’t resist. So here they were, trying to cleanse themselves. The central plateau is the nildoror purgatory. They don’t live there because they need it for their rites, and obviously you don’t set up an ordinary encampment in a holy place.

“They danced, Gundy, for hours. But that wasn’t the rite of atonement. It was only the prelude to the rite. They danced until I was dizzy from watching them, the red bodies, the dark stripes, the boom of their feet, and then, when no moons were left in the sky, when dawn was near, the real ceremony started. I watched it, and I looked right down into the darkness of the race, into the real nildoror soul. Two old nildoror approached the corral and started kicking down the gate. They broke an opening maybe ten meters wide, and stepped back, and the penned-up animals came rushing out onto the plain. The animals were terrified from all the noise and dancing, and from being imprisoned, and they ran in circles, not knowing what to do or where to go. And the rest of the nildoror charged into them. The peaceful, noble, nonviolent nildoror, you know? Snorting. Trampling. Spearing with their tusks. Lifting animals with their trunks and hurling them into trees. An orgy of slaughter. I became sick, just watching. A nildor can be a terrible machine of death. All that weight, those tusks, the trunk, the big feet — everything berserk, all restraints off. Some of the animals escaped, of course. But most were trapped right in the middle of the chaos. Crushed bodies everywhere, rivers of blood, scavengers coming out of the forest to have dinner while the killing was still going on. That’s how the nildoror atone: sin for sin. That’s how they purge themselves. The plateau is where they loose their violence, Gundy. They put aside all their restraints and let out the beast that’s within them. I’ve never felt such horror as when I watched how they cleansed their souls. You know how much respect I had for the nildoror. Still have. But to see a thing like that, a massacre, a vision of hell — Gundy, I was numb with despair. The nildoror didn’t seem to enjoy the killing, but they weren’t hesitant about it, either; they just went on and on, because it had to be done, because this was the form of the ceremony, and they thought nothing more of it than Socrates would think of sacrificing a lamb to Zeus, a cock to Aesculapius. That was the real horror, I think. I watched the nildoror destroying life for the sake of their souls, and it was like dropping through a trapdoor, entering a new world whose existence I had never even suspected, a dark new world beneath the old. Then dawn came. The sun rose, lovely, golden, light glistening on the trampled corpses, and the nildoror were sitting calmly in the midst of the devastation, resting calm, purged, all their inner storms over. It was amazingly peaceful. They had wrestled with their demons, and they had won. They had come through all the night’s horror, all the ghastliness, and — I don’t know how — they really were purged and purified. I can’t tell you how to find salvation through violence and destruction. It’s alien to me and probably to you. Kurtz knew, though. He took the same road as the nildoror. He fell and fell and fell, through level after level of evil enjoying his corruption, glorying in depravity, and then in the end he was still able to judge himself and find himself wanting, and recoil at the darkness he found inside himself, and so he went and sought rebirth, and showed that the angel within him wasn’t altogether dead. This finding of purity by passing through evil — you’ll have to come to terms with it by yourself, Gundy. I can’t help you. All I can do is tell you of the vision I had at sunrise that morning beside the field of blood. I looked into an abyss. I peered over the edge, and saw where Kurtz had gone, where these nildoror had gone. Where perhaps you’ll go. I couldn’t follow.

“And then they almost caught me.”

“They picked up my scent. While the frenzy was on them, I guess they hadn’t noticed — especially with hundreds of animals giving off fear-smells in the corral. But they began to sniff. Trunks started to rise and move around like periscopes. The odor of sacrilege was on the air. The reek of a blaspheming spying Earthman. Five, ten minutes they sniffed, and I stood in the bushes still wrapped in my vision, not even remotely realizing they were sniffing me, and suddenly it dawned on me that they knew I was there, and I turned and began to slip away through the forest, and they came after me. Dozens. Can you imagine what it’s like to be chased through the jungle by a herd of angry nildoror? But I could fit through places too small for them. I gave them the slip. I ran and ran and ran, until I fell down dizzy in a thicket and vomited, and I rested, and then I heard them bashing along on my trail, and I ran some more. And came to a swamp, and jumped in, hoping they’d lose my scent. And hid in the reeds and marshes, while things I couldn’t see nipped at me from below. And the nildoror ringed the entire region. We know you’re in there, they called to me. Come out. Come out. We forgive you and we wish to purify you. They explained it quite reasonably to me. I had inadvertently — oh, of course, inadvertently, they were diplomatic! — seen a ceremony that no one but a nildor was allowed to see, and now it would be necessary to wipe what I had seen from my mind, which could be managed by means of a simple technique that they didn’t bother to describe to me. A drug, I guess. They invited me to come have part of my mind blotted out. I didn’t accept. I didn’t say anything. They went right on talking, telling me that they held no malice, that they realized it obviously hadn’t been my intention to watch their secret ceremony, but nevertheless since I had seen it they must now take steps, et cetera, et cetera. I began to crawl downstream, breathing through a hollow reed. When I surfaced the nildoror were still calling to me, and now they sounded more angry, as far as it’s possible to tell such a thing. They seemed annoyed that I had refused to come out. They didn’t blame me for spying on them, but they did object that I wouldn’t let them purify me. That was my real crime: not that I hid in the bushes and watched them, but declining afterward to undergo the treatment. That’s what they still want me for. I stayed in the creek all day, and when it got dark I slithered out and picked up the vector-beep of my beetle, which turned out to be about half a kilometer away. I expected to find it guarded by nildoror, but it wasn’t, and I got in and cleared out fast and landed at Seena’s place by midnight. I knew I didn’t have much time. The nildoror would be after me from one side of the continent to the other. I told her what had happened, more or less, and I collected some supplies, and I took off for the mist country. The sulidoror would give me sanctuary. They’re jealous of their sovereignty; blasphemy or not, I’d be safe here. I came to this village. I explored the mist country a good bit. Then one day I felt the crab in my gut and I knew it was all over. Since then I’ve been waiting for the end, and the end isn’t far away.”

He fell silent.

Gundersen, after a pause, said, “But why not risk going back? Whatever the nildoror want to do to you can’t be as bad as sitting on the porch of a sulidor hut and dying of cancer.”

Cullen made no reply.

“What if they give you a memory-wiping drug?” Gundersen asked. “Isn’t it better to lose a bit of your past than to lose your whole future? If you’ll only come back, Ced, and let us treat your disease—”

“The trouble with you, Gundy, is that you’re too logical,” Cullen said. “Such a sensible, reasonable, rational chap! There’s another flask of wine inside. Would you bring it out?”

Gundersen walked past the crouching sulidoror into the hut, and prowled the musty darkness a few moments, looking for the wine. As he searched, the solution to the Cullen situation presented itself: instead of bringing Cullen to the medicine, he would bring the medicine to Cullen. He would abandon his journey toward the rebirth mountain at least temporarily and go down to Shangri-la Falls to get a dose of anticarcin for him. It might not be too late to check the cancer. Afterward, restored to health, Cullen could face the nildoror or not, as he pleased. What happens between him and the nildoror, Gundersen told himself, will not be a matter that concerns me. I regard my treaty with Vol’himyor as nullified. I said I would bring Cullen forth only with his consent, and clearly he won’t go willingly. So my task now is just to save his life. Then I can go to the mountain.

He located the wine and went outside with it.

Cullen leaned backward on the cradle, his chin on his chest, his eyes closed, his breath slow, as if his lengthy monologue had exhausted him. Gundersen did not disturb him. He put the wine down and walked away, strolling for more than an hour, thinking, reaching no conclusion. Then he returned. Cullen had not moved. “Still asleep?” Gundersen asked the sulidoror.

“It is the long sleep,” one of them replied.