The Sword of the Spirits

SEVEN

THE PEOPLE OF THE BELLS

HANS, AFTER THE FIRST SHOCK, accustomed himself well to life in Sanctuary and to the wonders the High Seers showed him. He watched them at work in the laboratories, and put questions which they answered. Apart from the power it might give, this science of theirs had small interest to me. It was not so with Hans. Although his chief passion had been to serve as a warrior, rather than be an armorer like his father, he came of a long line of metal-working craftsmen. Once he had accepted the idea of machines he saw easily enough how they worked. The High Seers were ready to instruct him, and he was quick to learn.

Robb and a man called Kinnell were the ones principally concerned with the Sten gun. I listened when Hans spoke to them but made little sense of it. There was talk of cordite, of percussion caps, of blow-back open-bolt action—and a dozen other things which to me meant nothing. All I was aware of was the gun itself taking shape. I gazed at it as a hungry man might watch a rabbit roasting, tantalized and impatient.

At last it was finished and we gathered in one of the storerooms to see it work. A target was set up at the far end. Robb showed me how to hold the gun and press the trigger. I lifted it and fired. I felt it jerk, almost like a living thing, and the noise of the tongueless stammering giant echoed in the room. And the target showed a ragged line of holes.

Until now, despite the ancient film they had shown me, I had not really believed in the power of this weapon. But it was no longer possible to doubt. I lowered the gun and said:

“You have done well, Robb.”

“It is not so accurate as other weapons of the past,” he said. “And the range is no more than about two hundred yards.”

“Two hundred yards is enough. Give me a hundred of them, fifty even, and no army will stand against me.”

Robb laughed. “We chose this gun because it was the simplest to make, but it still needs making! And we have no more than two hands apiece. Fifty, you say? By next autumn, perhaps, but I would not guarantee it.”

“Autumn! I need them long before that.”

“You are impatient, Luke,” Lanark said, “and we understand why. But things must take their time. It is not only a question of guns. You have an army to find as well. We must wait till winter ends before we can sound out the Wilsh King. And then our messenger will need to go about it warily.”

“It is I who must ask it of Cymru.”

“And chance being sent back to Winchester with your hands roped behind you? Or maybe executed on the spot for the insult to his daughter? It would be an absurd risk to take. No, Luke, this is something you must leave to us.”

• • •

I spoke to Hans next morning when he came to clean my room.

The High Seers had no servants, except for the machines invented by our ancestors to ease house labor. Each looked after himself, even old Lanark. But Hans would have none of this. It was not proper, he said, for a Prince to do such things. The High Seers laughed, but Hans paid no heed and continued to serve me. And I accepted the service, knowing that to reject it would be an insult.

So I watched while he used the machine that cleaned the floor, sucking up dirt and dust. It made a whining noise as it moved, a scream of protest such as one would never have heard from a polymuf. At last he switched it off and it was possible to speak. And for once we were alone with none to hear what passed between us.

I said: “This Sten gun, Hans—you have watched the making and listened to what Robb and Kinnell said of it?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And understood?” He nodded. “You could make such a thing yourself? The bullets also? And teach others to do the same?”

“Yes. It would not be difficult, as long as one could get the materials. For cordite one needs gun cotton and nitroglycerine. Gun cotton itself requires sulphuric and nitric acids . . .”

I cut him short. “It means nothing to me. What matters is that it does to you. The Wilsh would have these things? Or could get them?”

“Yes. It would be no more difficult than making the asbestos cloth, out of chrysotile, which the peddler used to cross the Burning Lands.”

“And therefore their craftsmen could make these Sten guns?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Even though most of them are not dwarfs, they do not lack skill.”

“Good! That is what I hoped to hear. Hans, I think it is time we went on another journey.”

“To Klan Gothlen? But the High Seers forbid it.”

“They had me penned in once before,” I said, “for the greater part of a winter. But I was a boy then. I did not come here to be treated like a boy again.”

“Sire,” he said earnestly, “hear me. There is wisdom in what they say. If you go to Cymru, he may imprison or even kill you. They are a strange people, the Wilsh. They smile easily, but they are good haters too. And the lady Blodwen meant much to them.”

“I will take that chance.”

“And it is high winter. And we have no horses. Those on which we came were sent to the Seer’s stable at Amesbury.”

All this was true and made sense. Few traveled in the winter, and then no farther than to the next city. Earlier that morning I had looked through the television scanner and seen nothing but a white whirling wilderness. It made no difference. I said:

“Will you come with me, Hans, if I ask it?”

He looked at me. “You know it, sire.”

The blizzard raged two days more. The morning after the snow stopped we left Sanctuary before anyone else was stirring. I pressed the button on the top landing of the staircase and the trap door opened over our heads, creaking more than usual under its weight of snow. Some of the snow scattered down on us. It brought with it the cold sting of fresh air and I drew deep breath to fill my lungs.

During those two days, taking care not to be observed, Hans had packed rucksacks for us, with food and other things we would need on the journey. He had also made us snowshoes, such as peasants wear to cross their fields in winter, using plastic instead of the usual strips of hide in a wooden frame. They were oval in shape, about a foot long, and had straps that buckled over our boots.

Even so the going was hard. I was not used to walking; even to go from the palace to the River Road I would have taken horse. And although the shoes prevented one’s feet from sinking below the surface, the snow dragged at them. It was not long before the muscles at the backs of my legs were aching from the strain, and within an hour I had to call a halt to rest. Hans fared better: a dwarf is more strongly muscled in the leg and he had used his more.

I had forgotten also how much wider the world is to a man on foot than it is to a horseman. One would see a mark in the distance and reckon ten minutes as the time needed to reach it. Half an hour later it would seem scarcely nearer. The monotony of the trudging was worse than the fatigue; my muscles accustomed themselves to the strain sooner than my mind did.

We were nearly three days getting to the pass that crossed the Burning Lands. We avoided towns and villages, where travelers at this season would excite interest, but did stay one night at an isolated farm. I told a story of a pilgrimage imposed by the Seer on account of an unwitting act of impiety toward the Spirits. They accepted this but expressed surprise that a dwarf should be my servant. Hans accounted for it by telling them he was not dwarf but polymuf, with marks on his body beneath his clothes. It must have cost him dearly in pride to do so.

The second night we found a deserted hut and slept there. And in the afternoon of the third day we came to the dead landscape lying under the hills of the Burning Lands, where snow gave way to black rock and steaming pools. We took off our snowshoes and started on the last mile or two leading to the pass.

I had thought winter might have chilled the black sand underfoot and made our crossing easier, but it seemed to have had no effect on it. We had each brought three extra pairs of boots, changing them as they got too hot, but we scorched our feet all the same. We crossed, however, and soaked our legs in a tepid pool while our last pairs of boots cooled off. They had suffered badly; and we still had something like two hundred miles of rough and wintry country to travel.

At least it no longer mattered who saw us. We found a village before nightfall, a primitive place but with a cobbler who, for gold, sat up all night and had new boots ready for us in the morning. Hans shook his head over the workmanship—they were poor objects by our Winchester standards—but they would serve.

So we went north, taking much the same route as we had taken under Greene’s command when the peddler guided us. But that had been in spring and on horseback. Now we plodded over fields of snow, wearily through a barren world. We saw few animals, rabbits or an occasional hare, its ears pricked in silhouette against the white skyline, slinking foxes, ermine, once a wild boar. I would have welcomed a change from the dried meat we had brought with us. Given a horse and spear I could have run it down easily. I thought of the Sten gun, which would have killed it more easily still, and put my hand to where it hung at my belt. But though we had brought several magazines of bullets, I would not use it. We must make do with the rations we had.

At last we reached the river whose valley we had followed before. Fresh blizzards sprang up soon after, but we found shelter in a village. We stayed two days, in a stinking hut with stinking savages, taking turns to sleep at night in case one of them seized an opportunity to cut our throats. Though I doubt if there was any real danger of it. They were a cowed lot, undernourished and of poor physique, and they seemed to regard us with fear. All the same I was glad when we could go on.

The river was frozen and there were marks on the fresh snow that covered it, showing where animals had crossed. Some of the prints were very large, much bigger than those of a man, and made, I realized when I studied them, by some creature that walked upright as a man does. Whatever it may have been, we did not see it.

Although the snow had stopped, the wind remained strong and a little west of north. It blew in our faces on the valley floor and we went up onto higher ground where pine trees covering the ridge offered some protection. It was from these trees, in mid-afternoon, that the attack came.

I was not looking that way and my first awareness arose from Hans’ cry of alarm. We were some ten yards apart—he had stopped to tighten a strap on his snowshoes while I plodded on—and I looked back to see long dark shapes racing down the slope toward him. I barely had time to recognize them as huge dogs, a dozen or more, before they reached him. The leader leaped in a great arc, covering many feet of intervening space. Hans put up his arms in defense, but the beast’s weight smashed him to the ground.

Others were on him as he fell. They had swept down from the trees in silence but now they gave savage tongue. Half of them were mauling Hans and the rest ran on toward me. I lifted the Sten gun, not bothering to aim, and fired at them. One fell; at once the others turned tail.

Those attacking Hans retreated also. I went to him and helped him to rise. He was bleeding heavily from bites on the arms, which he had used to protect his face and throat from their teeth. I let go my support of him and he moaned and fell. I saw then that blood was also gushing from his right leg.

I tore up a linen shirt from my pack and set to work to bind up the wounds. That in the leg was the ugliest, a long tear exposing bloody muscle and sinew. It was plain that, tough as he was, he would not be able to stand, let alone walk.

I looked up the snow slope to the line of trees. Shapes skulked there, watchful. One howled, and others followed suit. Their presence being known, there was no need for silence.

We had been told of these creatures by the peddler. They were polyhounds who hunted in packs and, like the building rats, showed signs of more intelligence than a beast should have. A troop of horse such as we then were would be unlikely to encounter them, the peddler said. They watched for people traveling alone or in small groups.

Probably they had been silently tracking us for some time, and had attacked when they could surprise us separated from one another. It was a further indication, both of their cunning and their ferocity, that although the Sten gun had caused an immediate retreat they had not gone far.

They were still much too near for comfort. I got Hans to take a hold round my neck and staggered, carrying him on my back, down toward the valley floor. When we had covered twenty or thirty yards, he said:

“They are coming after us.”

I set him down and fired at them again, and again they retreated into the line of trees. This happened several times, and I scored a hit on one of them at least; it limped away howling and dripping blood on the snow. But the time came when they did not go back as far as the trees. Instead they moved out and round, making a great circle which had us as its center. I tasted fear in my throat, understanding what had happened: by trial and error they had estimated the Sten gun’s range and taken up positions outside it.

The valley was white and empty, apart from us and the surrounding polyhounds. From time to time there were bursts of howling; but their silences were more chilling still. I remembered something else the peddler had said: although hunger might sometimes drive them to attack by day, they were reckoned far more dangerous by night. Already the afternoon was fading into dusk.

I carried Hans, and rested, and carried him again. The polyhounds kept pace and distance, moving when we moved and stopping when we stopped. Progress was arduous, and painfully slow. Hans said at last:

“Sire, you must leave me and go on.”

We had covered scarcely a quarter of a mile. I said, panting:

“It is true, I might find help. There was a village where the river forked—do you remember? It cannot be more than a few miles north. I could bring men back with me.”

Hans looked up from where he crouched in the snow.

“Yes. I will be all right till then.”

I handed him the gun. He tried to refuse it, but I said:

“They know we can wound or kill them from a distance. Therefore they will keep clear of both of us while it is light. But after that you may need to hold them off for a time. I will return as quickly as I can.”

I set off before he could make further protest. The polyhounds also moved. Half followed me while the rest kept their places around Hans. I went a hundred yards, a hundred and fifty. Then Hans’ voice came to me, urgently shouting:

“Back, sire! Come back!”

I had already seen it: the ones that had followed me were closing in. They moved to head me off as I doubled back. I saw one brute loping in toward me and cursed the hampering snowshoes I wore, though I would have been little better off without them. He must intercept me. But the Sten gun chattered and he dropped with a scream of pain. The others fell away and I reached Hans.

It took me some moments to gather breath to speak.

“Cunning indeed,” I said. “They know there is only one gun, and saw me give it to you.”

“You must take it,” Hans said. “And you must go on. The gun is only of use while there is light. After that, nothing will stop them.”

The polyhounds had taken up the same circle as before, just out of range. I said:

“I will get some of them, even in the dark.”

“But it serves no purpose, sire. Remember, you have a mission.”

A mission? He meant, of course, the task laid on me by the High Seers. As if that mattered compared with the life of someone who had twice saved mine. But there was something else, deep in the darkness of my mind. Hans was right in saying that I could not save him by staying: I would only lose my own life along with his. Yet it was not that which filled me with despair and bitterness. It was the thought of dying with my revenge unaccomplished.

I think he read uncertainty in my face. He said:

“Go, sire. You must do your duty as a Prince. Nothing else matters.”

I had left him before in the hope of bringing back help. There was nothing like this now; they would be on him, tearing him to pieces, as soon as I was gone. I shook my head, to clear the black madness from it. I said harshly:

“I am staying, Hans. That is a Prince’s duty; and a friend’s.”

I looked past him to the polyhounds. They had ceased their howling and were silent. They seemed to be listening to something. There was no sound but that of our breathing and the wind’s distant sighing in the pines. Or was there a noise, faint and far off? I strained my ears and heard it. Scarcely audible, it rose and fell with the gusting wind: a tiny jangling tinkle of bells.

The polyhounds had heard it, too. They barked, one to another like men in council. Then the circle was broken as they ran round us to re-form their pack on the slope above. They ran, silent again, into the cover of trees and disappeared.

• • •

I saw figures come into view, bearing down the slope from the north, below the tree line. They were men, but traveling so fast over the snow that I wondered if some sort of machine carried them. But as they came nearer I saw that they were sliding on long thin planks. I waved and shouted and they changed course, dipping down the valley’s side toward us.

They were more than a score in number. They were dressed in furs and looked strong and healthy, well nourished. They greeted us amiably and asked what help we needed.

I told them of the polyhounds and they nodded. They often warred with these beasts and had their measure. One of them, smiling, tapped a wicked-looking knife in his belt and showed a fur cap with half a dozen polyhound tails dangling from it.

They had ropes, and made a litter to carry Hans. Some went on down the valley, moving fast on the thin planks which they called skis, but the rest accompanied us at our slower pace. We traveled south a couple of miles; then west up a side valley. Their village was there. The huts were stoutly built of wood. Blue smoke rose from chimneys and there was an appetizing smell of food cooking.

People came out to greet us. These too were healthy and had smiling faces. The women took Hans and saw to his wounds, replacing my rough bandages with others of clean linen, smeared with a healing ointment. Others poured hot spiced ale into pots for the returning hunters, and for me also.

Unlike that other village in which we had stayed, this one was pleasant, and so were its inhabitants. There were many items one could note: the stoutness and cleanliness of the huts, the signs of good husbandry and prosperity—bins brimming with fat corn, smoked hams and sides of salmon hanging from the roof beams—the comeliness of both men and women, the vigor and merriness of the children. But I felt there was more to it than the sum of these parts. There was a sense of warmth and ease which went deep. It was not quite like anything I had known.

I was concerned at first about their reaction to the Sten gun. Either they might, as would have been the case in the lands of the south, regard it as an evil thing and Hans and me as deserving of death for possessing it; or they might covet it for its power. But neither was the case. They looked at it with scarcely even curiosity, and no desire for possession.

They were altogether strangely incurious. I told them, in explanation of how we got there, that we came from the south and were traveling to Klan Gothlen and the court of King Cymru. They nodded, indicating that they had heard of the city and the king, but asked no other questions.

It was plain that we must stay with them for some days, while Hans’ wounds healed. I offered gold for our lodging. They glanced at the coins with as little interest as they had shown in the Sten gun, and handed them back. Hospitality needed no payment. They might have added, but did not, that in any case they had no use for gold.

During the days that followed I came to know them, and their way of life, better. There was one man, older and bigger than the rest, to whom—it seemed to me—some deference was paid. I guessed he was their chief, and addressed him as such. He denied it, smiling. His name was Jok, and he had no title. None of them did. They had heard of kings and chiefs and such, but there was none here.

I did not believe him at first, thinking it some pretense of modesty or custom. I asked who made decisions among them. He said the Tribe did. But what, I asked, if the Tribe were divided among itself? Jok laughed. That could not be! One might as well speak of a man’s left arm being divided from his right.

This did not convince me. I did not see how any group of people could live together without dissension, always in agreement. It made no sense. But as time passed, though I looked for discord among them, I found none.

They had no marriage as such, and no paternity. The children were children of the Tribe, not of a particular couple. They called all women Mother, all men Father. In a similar fashion those of adult years, when they did not use given names, called each other Brother and Sister.

Most of the things they did seemed to follow one person’s prompting, the rest falling in with whatever notion was put forward. Nor was it always the same person, or group of people, who suggested things. It was almost as though they thought with a single mind, so that it did not matter whose voice it was first uttered any project.

The men were hunters; the women cooked and cleaned for them and cared for the sick and old and, of course, the children. In summer, men and women worked together in the fields, sharing the labor of sowing and planting and harvesting. I saw there were no polymufs or dwarfs among them, and asked about that. I was told they were smothered at birth. This was not out of revulsion or in obedience to the behest of Spirits, but from kindness. It would be cruel, they felt, to let a crippled child live, different from his brothers and sisters and deprived of the fullness of activity which they enjoyed.

And what, I asked, if a man or woman were crippled later in life: in the hunt, perhaps? Again it was Jok I was talking to, and he shook his head. Such a person would be well cared for, in hope of recovery. Should the time come when he knew he would not regain his true strength, he would bid farewell to the Tribe and leave the village. There was an herb growing in the woods which brought a quiet death.

The whole village was a place of cheerful noise. They talked and laughed much, and apart from that there were the bells. They had a passion for them. They wore small bells on their clothes, and larger ones hung outside the huts, to jangle with each puff of wind, and inside on intricate arrangements of cords which could be agitated by the touch of a hand or even by the chance pressure of a footstep. They were so delicately balanced that they would go on sounding long afterward.

Hans’ wounds healed fast: perhaps because of the ointment the women put on them and perhaps to some extent through the happiness and contentment we found here. I had often heard it said that a wound stays angry where a warrior has an angry wife. It may be the opposite is true also.

The days passed easily. I practiced wearing these skis of theirs and in due course went out with the men to hunt, following clumsily and falling a lot in the snow but managing on the whole to keep up with them. We killed deer and boar, stabbing them with long sharp knives—even in deep winter this was good country for game. (While hunting they silenced the bells they wore with strips of cloth.) We saw the tracks and spoor of polyhounds, too, but the trails were old ones.

One night, having watched the women see to Hans’ leg, I said to Jok:

“He is well enough to travel. It is time we bade you farewell.”

He was silent and I did not think he had heard me: the tintinnabulation of the bells was very noisy. I started to repeat myself but he said:

“I was not born of the Tribe.”

It did not seem to have anything to do with my own remark but I listened politely. He went on:

“Sometimes strangers are accepted among us. I was such a stranger once.”

I still did not take his drift and remained silent. He looked at me, smiling:

“Stay with us, Luke.”

I was astonished. I said: “It is a kindness and an honor. But should not the rest of your people be consulted?”

He laughed. “Do you know us so little yet? Each speaks for all.”

I said awkwardly: “Then I am grateful for the offer. But I cannot stay.”

“Why not? You are happy here.”

He spoke with calmness and certainty. And there was more to it than the words by themselves might convey. He meant also that among his people a man would know happiness of a kind that he would find in no other place; and wild though the boast might seem, I could not disbelieve it.

I said: “And Hans?”

“He, as well.”

“A dwarf?”

“We would not keep a babe so stunted, but he has grown to manhood. His legs are short but his body is strong. We welcome Hans also.”

I shook my head. “It is no good. I must go on.”

“For what reason?”

At last he was curious—curious that any should refuse the gift of their comradeship. I hesitated. The hopes and plans of the High Seers would make no sense to him—they meant little enough to me at this moment. So I said nothing of that, but spoke of the wrongs I had suffered: of friendship and trust betrayed, that city lost which was mine by right. Jok listened. At last he said:

“We can heal you of this sickness, Luke.”

“Sickness? I am not sick.”

“Very sick. Those who have been born in the Tribe would not understand you, but I do. I remember things like jealousy and pride and hatred of one’s fellow man. Or woman. They are distant memories, almost forgotten but not quite. The Tribe healed me, and can heal you. Already these wrongs you fancy were done you are less important: is that not true?”

I could not deny it. During recent days I had scarcely thought of Edmund and Blodwen and Harding. My nights had been unbroken, my dreams happy.

“Stay with us,” Jok said. “Forget your ambitions and angers. We have much to give you: an end to loneliness and misery, a peace of heart such as you can only guess at now.”

That too was true. Even after this short time of living with them I knew it to be so. It was absurd on the face of it that I, who had been Prince of three cities, should be tempted by the thought of living, with neither rank nor glory, among a primitive tribe of hut-dwellers; but I was tempted. To forget all wretchedness of the past, for the first time in my life to be at peace . . .

But I summoned up two faces, hers and his, and summoned my resolution with it. I said harshly:

“You mean well, and I thank you for it. But it does not serve my purpose.”

“No?” He put his hand on mine, the touch in itself a token of all he had promised. “Then stay only for a few days longer. Your revenge will wait.”

It would wait, but waiting it might die, withered by this warmth of giving and sharing. And I knew that in my deepest heart nothing—no peace or happiness or goodness—counted with me as this did.

I said: “We leave tomorrow.”

“So be it.” He shook his head slightly. “We could have healed you. Go in what peace you can know. Maybe in the end you will heal yourself; but you will suffer for it.”

• • •

Since Klan Gothlen was a city without walls, there was no guard to challenge us as we entered it. We walked through the streets, with the domed and spired and turreted buildings rising on either side, their colors looking more gaudy still against the snowy hills beyond. People looked at us with interest as we passed, but that meant nothing. The Wilsh were always inquisitive about new things, new faces. Dirty and travel-worn as we were, it was scarcely likely that we would be recognized as Luke, the slayer of the Bayemot, and his servant Hans.

The guard on the palace did not know me either, until I spoke. Then he dropped his spear and let me through. I asked a footman where I would find the King, and he told me in the red chamber. He would have announced me but I told him I would find my own way there. He bowed and stood aside: my reputation was still a passport in this place. I wondered how much longer that would be true.

It was warm after the cold outside: too warm. I remembered Cymru telling me that in winter they heated the floors with fires that warmed air beneath them. Within moments I was sweating. At the door of the red chamber I was challenged again, and passed again. I went through into a hum of talk, which stopped on my appearance.

Cymru was there, lying among cushions on a couch of crimson velvet matching the crimson of the wall hangings. I saw many others I knew: Kluellan, the Colonel of the Guard, Snake, Cymru’s polymuf Chancellor with tentacles for fingers and strangely jointed limbs, Bevili, the Perfumer Royal with his scarlet lips . . . a dozen or more nobles of the city. Snake was the first to address me. He said:

“Luke of Winchester! So our hero returns. But you look as though you have had a hard journey here.”

I had, I knew, offended against Wilsh etiquette by coming into the King’s presence dirty and disheveled. But it seemed to me this was no occasion for etiquette. I eased the pack from my shoulders and let it drop.

Cymru said: “What brings you to us in the full of winter? And in such a state?” He raised himself from his cushions and stared at me. His dark face had no smile of welcome. “Where is Blodwen?”

“In Winchester, sire.”

He frowned. “You have left her there, unguarded?”

“I had no choice.”

His eyes went small. “Do you say so? We put her into your protection.”

“Will you hear me, sire?”

Cymru said grimly: “We will hear you.”

I told my story, sparing nothing. Cymru and the Wilsh nobles watched me as I spoke. There was shock and amazement in their faces but I could not read what else. When I finished there was a pause before Cymru spoke.

“You have lost your city,” he said, “and you have lost Blodwen to one of those Captains who deposed you. What brings you here? Do you seek an audience for your tears? Or perhaps a pension?”

“Neither, sire. I seek an army.”

His cold eyes studied me and he pulled his grizzled beard.

“You beg our aid?”

I shook my head. “I beg nothing, sire. I demand it.”

“Demand?” He was incredulous. “Of me?”

“She was your gift,” I said, “in return for slaying the Bayemot I gave you thanks. I took her in good faith. She played me false and, through her, enemies have stolen my city from me. In breaking faith with me she dishonors you, and all your people. She is your daughter, Cymru. I demand your aid so that I may kill her and her lover.”

His face had changed while I was saying this. Coldness and surprise gave way to heat and anger. By the time I finished it was full of rage. He would have me killed, I thought, and vowed I would not die quietly. I would take some of them with me, perhaps Cymru himself, before they cut me down.

But the rage and anger were not for me. He said:

“All you say is truth. You will have your army. And I will ride with you when you go to take your revenge.”