Elephant Song

TWENTY-NINE

As he entered the darkness, suddenly No One could see nothing. The dim reflection from Waco's laughing skull was gone, as were the stars. He tried to turn and see the fire, but he could not move. "Ssura!" The echoes returned with ten times the strength of his call. But the echoes were in his mind, not against his ears. "Ssura!"

Laughter. Loud, raucous, laughter. The ground fell away from beneath his feet, and he turned and tumbled in the blackness, the laughter growing louder. He held his hands to his ears, but could not feel his hands touch his head. Then, first his right leg, his nose, his left eye, were assaulted with stabbing pains, and from there every scrap of his body was filled with agony. No One screamed, flailing his non-existent arms and legs at the nothingness.

"Mother! Help me, Mother!"

Knives of searing white light split the dark, and he felt himself being sucked into a mire of tentacled, slime-covered horror. He screamed and screamed until the blackness covered his mind.

Little Will sat up on her sleeping cushions, torn from her sleep by the screams in her head. "Johnjay? Johnjay, where are you?"

She drove everything from her mind, listening for her son's thoughts. Minutes later, her shoulders slumped, and she sighed. Nothing but a stronger version of the same nightmare? She shook her head.

She pushed herself up from the floor cushions and walked to her window. That evening there had been a cold wetness in the air, and the window was shut. She propped it open, looked into the darkness toward the kraal, and listened. On the still air she could hear distant yells and laughter coming from the direction of the tavern. From the kraal came a snort and the sound of heavy footsteps.

"Reg!"

She turned, grabbed her bullhook, and rushed from her room, through the eating room, out into the night. As she came to the fence, she stopped, then listened to her mind as she spread a net of thought over the kraal. There could be nothing inside the net, and she would have felt it if something was attacking from outside. "Johnjay? Are you here, Johnjay?"

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue as a sickness filled her stomach. Looking into the darkness of the kraal, she wondered aloud. "Have you already done your terrible deed, Johnjay? Have you killed the last bull?"

Little Will climbed the fence and came down inside. "Reg? Reg? Come, Reg!"

She heard a snort, then the pachyderm's great feet thundering against the lowgrass. In the dimness of the cloud-shrouded night, she saw the shadow of a mountain coming at her. "Reg—"

First she felt the slam of a great weight against her face and chest; an instant later, her upper left arm being crushed, thrust into the soil by a foot weighted with six tons of stampeding flesh.

... Bullhook Willy had told her the story of Black Diamond when she was only eight. It was an old, old story, and only one of a thousand such stories that had the same moral: bulls only mind one bullhand at a time. Curley Prichett used to be Black Diamond's bullhand, years before; but at the stand in Corsicana, Texas, Black Diamond's handler was Jack O'Grady. Curley had made his home in Corsicana, and he had asked Jack O'Grady if he could lead Diamond from the loading runs to the lot. He wanted to impress his neighbors.

On the way to the lot, the street lined with spectators, Curley assumed Diamond knew him and would obey him. That was why, when the baggage nags held up everything, Curley gave the spectator, Eva Donohoe, permission to pet Black Diamond. But Curley used to be Diamond's bullhand, and wasn't any longer. Not the way Diamond saw it. Diamond caught Curley with one of his tusks and flung the retired bullhand over the nearest car. Then Diamond knocked Eva Donohoe to the sidewalk and ran his tusks through her body...

All of the bullhands of Miira, in turn, had been handling Reg. How else were they to maintain their skills? How else were their children to learn them? But bulls only mind one bullhand at a time. Little Will used to be Reg's handler, but no longer. Reg had been under the hooks of hundreds of different bullhands, and was confused, angry, desperate, old. Little Will understood this as her mind went blank.

It is said by those who traveled the road between Arcadia and the Porse Cutoff that for two years the swamp rocked with the pained screams and frightened footsteps of the creatures that lived there. Great scars appeared in the surface of the road, cutting the road clean through in places. The trees, highgrass, and brush surrounding the body of water they called Nightmare Lake turned black and were swept with fires. Trade along the route halted, and whatever ice or cast iron that made it to Tarzak came south through Kuumic and then across the Great Desert. The towns north of Tieras, as well as the entire Emerald Valley, could bring in trade goods only at prohibitive prices.

It became so bad that talk was begun among the peoples of the Central Continent towns. At The Season the thirty-fourth, in Tarzak's Great Ring, the talk led to the possibility of constructing a road north from the White Top Mountain Road, west of the Great Muck, to the base of the Snake Mountain Range, and from there, east to the town of Miira. The route would avoid the swamp altogether.

But the only bull left was Reg, and Reg was old. The proposed road could be constructed with horses, wagons, and Steengrease, but it would take at least another two years. Also, the cost would be measured in lives as well as movills. The Season ended with no plans agreed upon, no contracts awarded. Soon after, in May of the thirty-fifth Year Since The Crash, lone travelers that braved the cursed route reported that all was quiet in the Great Muck. The vegetation around Waco's Lake was again green. The story was confirmed by others, and soon the gashes in the road were repaired and trade resumed as though nothing had happened. Everyone, save the Great Mootch Movill, was at a loss to explain what had occurred. Mootch's story involved the landing of the great treasure ship Caddywampus, with its holds laden with jewels, spices, fine fabrics, and a potion he called "real whiskey." But Mootch was a storyteller, and was known as such. It was a fine story; but for answers that could be relied upon, there was no supplier. However, by The Season the thirty-fifth, the only memory of the event was lost deep within the scriptorium of the Tarzak Priesthood; on the road all that was remembered was Mootch's tale of the Caddywampus.

No One placed the final rock upon Waco's grave, stood, and walked the few steps to the fresh water pool at the edge of the clearing. He pushed back his hood and knelt to sip from the pool. Just before his lips touched the water, he saw his own image in the water backgrounded by an angry black sky. His hair was as white as his clown-whited face. He reached his left hand up and touched it to his hair. When had it turned white?

More rocks.

No One looked away from the water to see Ssura standing behind her father's grave. He turned back to the water, took a drink, then sat back upon his heels.

More rocks!

He shook his head. "No more rocks. Enough." He looked again at Ssura. She stood, naked as always, her fists upon her hips. "Ssura, where is my child?"

She shook her head. Not yours. She pointed toward the edge of the clearing closest to the road. You go now.

No One looked up toward the mound on the top of the rise. He shook his head. "No. First the eggs must speak to the others. Tarzaka and Trouble."

Ssura laughed, her voice at a wild pitch that assaulted No One's ear drums. No want. Eggs no want. No need them; no want them. She presented her back to him and ran away; presumably toward whatever she used for a shelter.

No One shook his head, trying to remember the hateful, clawing, repeated acts that eventually produced the child. It could not be called the making of love. It was the cold, unfeeling manufacture of a child. No One's eyes narrowed as he again saw his image in the pool. He had not been able to perform. Alone with a crazy-strong wild woman in the dark of the jungle screaming at you—who could? The eggs—the eggs made him perform. He clenched his jaws against the indignity—the exploitation—the shame.

And the child? No name. No One's child had no name. He didn't even know if the child was male or female. It had been a year, alone among the trees of the swamp, since Ssura had lost her stomach. And No One had no claim to the child. Both the swamp woman and the eggs had made that very clear. The week before, the eggs had nothing more to teach him; but they refused to teach Tarzaka and Trouble. They had what they wanted from No One; the bargain was off.

No One pushed himself to his feet and began walking up the rise to the mound. Tarzaka and Trouble could roast themselves as far as he was concerned. But the eggs. Those damned, cursed eggs. They had made a bargain.

Come no closer, No One!

No One felt the feeble thoughts of the eggs working upon him. You are small, he said to the eggs. You are too small and too weak. We have made a bargain. I have done what you wanted; now you shall do what I want.

The feeling of scorn washed from the mound down the rise toward No One. We do what we choose, stud beast. And we need you no longer. Have we not given you full command of your powers? Have we not shown you the two great visions you will someday have? Go away unless you want us to make you give yourself a child.

No One's mind reached out and placed its fingers around the eggs within the mound. I can crush you, now. I will, unless you live up to your part of the bargain.

The eggs cried out: Ssura! Kill! Ssura! Kill!

No One laughed. Your thoughts cannot get beyond me, now. His fingers reached within one of the shells. They wrapped around the head of a cold, slime-covered creature. How does it feel? All I must do is to close my fingers and your head will be crushed!

We agree! We agree, No One. Whatever you want! We agree! We agree!

No One released his mental grip upon the Ssendissian infant, and then studied the mound. Are all of you listening to me?

They all answered: Yes.

Then hear this. Any time I choose, no matter where I am on this planet, I can reach out and destroy the lot of you. This is the power you helped me to achieve. Do you all understand this?

The eggs answered in unison. Yes.

No One nodded. Then you shall meet your side of the bargain that we made. There is now a child that is doomed to spend its life in twisted horror, caring for you. I have done my part. Now you must teach Tarzaka and Trouble all that you can teach them. If you do not, I shall reach out and smash your shells! If I now have the power to kill a bull with my mind, your insignificant lives are in even greater peril.

No One looked down from the mound at the shack where Trouble and Tarzaka stood in the doorway looking back at him. He held his hands to his mouth. "It is settled..."

He laughed, then lowered his hands and spoke to the pair with his mind. I have talked with them. Now your school begins. Do you understand?

The pair waved back. Tarzaka began running after him. She shouted. "No One, wait! You must not do what you are planning. Wait!"

He lifted his hand and the fortune teller stopped as though she had run into a masonry wall. No One studied them for a moment. Good-bye. He turned and faced the edge of the clearing nearest the road. Within a few moments he had located his pack, now rotten and crumbled with age. He set his jaw and continued moving his feet through the trees and highgrass toward the Arcadia-Miira Road.

Little Will sat upright against the litter's raised back. Clutched in her right hand and resting upon her lap was the gold-and-mahogany bullhook. The bullhands of Miira were gathered behind her and at her sides, and all watched as Bigfoot, new Master of the Miira Bullhands, entered the kraal and approached Reg.

Little Will studied Bigfoot as the young woman approached the old bull. Her motions were sure, unhurried. To look at her from the outside, fear was not in Bigfoot's vocabulary. But the bullhands knew the things Bigfoot's guts were telling her. Run. Run and don't look back. This bull is a killer. Run!

After crushing Little Will's arm to a useless stump and shattering the bones in her left leg so badly that two years later she still did not have the use of it, Reg had broken through the kraal fence and had headed into town. Reg's trumpeting had brought the sleeping Miirans out of their beds into the street just as the bull entered it. They fought to get out of the bull's way, but by the time Reg was brought under control, six broken bodies lay in the dust.

Since then Reg had killed two more bullhands and had crippled a third. Little Will sat forward as Bigfoot stopped directly in front of Reg. The bull snorted and, with her long trunk, took a swipe at the bullhand. As the trunk came around, Bigfoot smacked it with her bullhook. Reg's head reared up and the bull's massive feet shuffled uncertainly in the lowgrass.

As Reg settled down, and Bigfoot held her hand out toward the beast, Little Will leaned back and closed her eyes. She listened as Bigfoot spoke gentle words to the elephant, and let her mind's image rise from her body. Little Will's image sailed upward, then rolled among the clouds. This image had two good arms and two good legs. She turned and looked far below at the scene in the kraal. Reg's trunk was wrapped around Bigfoot's left wrist. The young woman's bullhook was in her right hand, in conspicuous view of the elephant. The bull's trunk crept up Bigfoot's arm and shoulder, sniffed at Bigfoot's hair, then slithered off. Bigfoot held out a raw cobit root, and Reg took it.

Little Will watched the scene, a touch of jealousy in her heart, when blackness began crowding the edge of her vision. She rolled until she faced the blackness. It extended up from the horizon until it blotted out the sun. She looked down but none of the bullhands seemed to notice anything different. She again faced the blackness, startled at how much it had grown.

What are you?

She moved toward the black, again shouting at it. What are you?

The voice came from the center of the darkness. Get out of my way, Mother.

Johnjay?

Get out of my way. I am here to finish the job that I started.

Johnjay! No! I'll stop you!

You cannot.

The blackness swept her from the sky and she opened her eyes to find herself in her litter. She looked up at the sky but could see nothing but cloud-dotted blue. She closed her eyes tightly. Johnjay, don't do it. Don't do it, Johnjay.

Wind rustled the tops of the trees, and the clouds began to darken. Bigfoot had Reg kneeling. She climbed upon the beast, sat astride its neck, then the beast stood. Bigfoot said something, and Reg began walking. Straight, then left, then right, then the bull stopped and reared up upon its hind legs and stood there. The bullhands surrounding Little Will applauded, cried, cheered.

The tears trickled down Little Will's cheeks. Can't you see what you would be destroying, Johnjay? Can't you see that, even now?

You, Mother! You and all of those sanctimonious people! You... you shall see the powers I now have.

The sky darkened and thunder began rumbling from the west. The bullhands surrounding the kraal looked up at the sky. Little Will closed her eyes, forced her image from her body, and flew up at the dark clouds. Johnjay, stop! Stop!

The darkness before her shaped itself into an enormous black and green dragon. Tongues of fire leaped from its mouth, its talons, each one the size of a tree, reached down toward the kraal. Nothing can stop me. I have a debt to pay to this bull and to all of my good, good friends and neighbors.

He swatted her from the sky, and as she tumbled toward the ground, she screamed. Look at them, Johnjay! Look at their minds! Look at what you are doing! Look at their minds! Blackness covered everything, and Little Will collapsed unconscious upon her litter.

She awakened in her room, screaming. Mortify knelt next to her. "Be calm! Calm yourself!"

Little Will shook her head. "Johnjay, the blackness, the... dragon..."

Mortify patted her hand. "Everything is all right, Great Little Will. Please believe me. You've simply had a bad nightmare."

"Reg? Is Reg all right?"

Mortify nodded. "Reg is fine; as is Bigfoot. That girl has that bull minding her manners."

"The blackness... the dark."

"It was just a little sour weather. That and you're tired. Get some rest, and you'll see that everything will be just fine."

Little Will pointed at her room's window. "Help me up and bring me there."

"Well, I don't know if I should. I mean—"

"I said help me up!"

"Very well." Mortify took Little Will's hand and pulled until she was standing upon her wobbly legs. Placing an arm around her waist, he helped her to her window. She looked out toward the kraal and saw Bigfoot still working Reg, the bullhands of Miira still watching the pair. Mortify held a hand out toward the scene. "See? Did I tell you?"

She examined the scene again and again. Then she faced Mortify. "Help me to my bed."

After he had done as he had been requested, Mortify bade farewell and left. Little Will stared for a long time through her window at the sky. The strength of the thing she had felt; Johnjay could have razed the entire town of Miira if he had wanted to. And the hate. His hate of Reg was a malignant thing that had seemed to engulf her. But Reg still lived. "Reg is still alive, and the bullhands still have a bull."

And, she thought, Johnjay is still an exile. He could have killed the bull, but didn't. "My poor son. Is it because you only now see the terribleness of your deed? If you have just learned that, how you must be suffering."

She closed her eyes and let her image float freely. Johnjay! Johnjay! Let me come to you. Let me come to you now. Johnjay? As she called, she drifted off to sleep.