Gods of Green Mountain (14 page)

She had shadows in her eyes so much colored like his own, and Far-Awn saw her not as an old, old woman, but as the girl who had danced for him when she was but twelve. "You don't have to go with me," he said with some regrets, for her sake, not his own. He leaned and put kisses on her face that he saw as still lovely, not old and wrinkled. "I have always wanted to reach the Green Mountain where the Gods live, but I can go that way alone, and you can live out your days here in comfort and luxury."

Mar-Laine shook her head. "No. Where you go, I will go. I believe, like you, that to die striving for an objective is better than to just sit and wait."

Sighing, Far-Awn caught her hand in his, and with her went for the last time to stand on a balcony that overlooked the city. The wraths from the bays came only now and then to buffet against the transparent walls of the cities, before they retreated in defeat to their lairs beyond Bay Sol and Bay Gar. The people were accustomed to the controlled atmosphere of the domed cities. Very seldom did they venture beyond the walls to drink of the old, dry air. All of life's necessities and most of life's luxuries were provided for in one way or another, by the pufar flesh, its stems, its hulls.

"It's a city such as I saw once only in dreams," Far-Awn said softly to his wife. "I never even dared speak to anyone of my dreams. They seemed so foolish and out of reach." His eyes hazed over with abstraction as he pondered a subject that was always with him. "I fear, though, that life can be
too
perfect, and lose incentive." Mar-Laine laughed easily. "Darling, life can
never
be too perfect, as long as we are alive--we can always think of some way to spoil perfection."

Soon after that, Far-Awn sat down at his impressive desk made of the pounded pufar hulls and burnished over with a golden metal mined from the inner-earth, and he wrote a long letter to his minister of state. He signed it with a flourish as grand as any Sal-Lar could make, stamped his letter with his seal of authority, and then wrote another, and much longer, letter to his grandson, Ras-Far. His own son, Star-Far, had been killed in an accident. He signed the letter in a simple way, just "Grandfather," though he stamped it with his royal seal to give it legality. He rolled the letter into a neat tube, and over it he slipped his jeweled ring that signified might and power.

In the quiet of a dark and still night, while the tiny triple moons crept cautiously from one stringy cloud to another, Far-Awn and his wife, dressed now in simple clothing, slipped unseen from the crystal palace. With them they carried only two small bags, containing a single change of clothing for each, a concentrated supply of food, and two small packets of pufar seeds to scatter as they traveled toward the Green Mountain. Following closely behind them were four puhlets with smoke-blue fur, with plush purple noses on violet faces. Both Far-Awn and his wife realized it wasn't likely they would live to reach the Green Mountain--not at their advanced ages. But they weren't needed now, and Ras-Far had to have his chance. He would make a good king, and he was young, not yet weary of life with its problems to solve and decisions to make.

Long ago, the sophisticated populace of El Dorraine had outgrown the rustic, primitive need for immediate sleep at nightfall. Now they could turn the night into day, and day into night, whenever they wished, merely by flicking a switch. Clusters of the luminous pufar seeds lit the city. Machines toiled for men now, so that days were free of labor, though many chose to work because they still liked it--and men had to make the machines from the plans other men designed. In order to become skilled enough to design and construct machines there were long years of study in advance, and for many, the acquiring of new knowledge became the everlasting pursuit.

On reaching the top of a distant hill, the Founder King and his queen, with the four puhlets, turned and looked back at the great city. Far-Awn rested his hand on the giant head of the male puhlet at his side, one of Musha's descendants. As he stood there, looking back, Far-Awn recalled this was the exact place from which he had viewed the government city in his youthful forecasting dream. How strange life was. How odd the way it worked out. Then he turned, and with Mar-Laine's hand in his, they glided silently into the outer-regions.

"Promise me you will go on to the Green Mountain if I can't make it," Mar-Laine said, but Far-Awn couldn't promise. In his visions of the future, he had seen a girl there. That was the way it had to be.

One day, in the reign of King Ras-Far, grandson of Far-Awn, the king was having breakfast with his wife. Ras-Far had been king for some years now, long enough to become accustomed to the long days of royal duties and responsibilities. He was very much like his grandfather in appearance, though his hair was flame red, and his jaw was square but not bearded. And he was much taller than Far-Awn had been. He ate with gusto his breakfast of quicket eggs and sizzled ham, his attention divided between his meal, the wall news-reflector, and the prattle of his wife. A sudden sharp pain in his stomach diverted his thoughts from all three. He suffered in silence, trying hard not to see the mountainous pile of official documents stacked neatly on his desk in the adjoining room, all awaiting his considerations, decisions, and signature.

"Sometimes I think the old simple life of El Sod-a-Por had a few advantages that we don't. At least one could eat a meal in peace, without watching people make idiots of themselves, it turns the stomach."

His wife, La Bara, smiled his way indulgently. "If you are speaking of the news-reflector, dear, you can always turn it off. And besides, I think at times, it is such
fun
to play the idiot." Her heavily ringed hand reached up automatically to adjust her crown.

Ras-Far thought it was idiotic to wear a crown at the breakfast table, with the two of them eating alone, but the only time she took off the crown was when she was in bed.

"War is not
fun,
La Bara, even for idiots!" Ras-Far replied coldly. He gave her a hard, chastising look, rose to his feet, and stomped from the room, slamming the door of his office behind him.

Blessed were the olden days, when no one knew how to read or write, he thought sourly. Why, the problems presented him in one letter alone were enough to drive a man out onto the unshielded bays. Thinking of the bays brought his grandfather to mind, and he wondered again, as he had wondered so many times, just why his grandfather, Far-Awn, had chosen that particular way to end his life. Many old people were choosing all sorts of ways to pass from here, into the unknown, the black eternity from which they had sprung.

He sighed, putting that sort of speculation from him, and turned his full attention to the work on his desk. Each letter he read contained a request, at least a half-dozen complaints, or an urgent petition that demanded an immediate solution. A new pain burned behind his eyes, blending with the familiar one that ached in his stomach. Was there no one satisfied? Was no one happy?

He turned to another pile of mail. It seemed of utmost importance for his royal presence to attend seventeen parties, three balls, twelve banquets for visiting officials, seven court sessions, two ground-breakings, and one sky-flitter launching. It was only the usual, and natural expectation to find all these occasions, so needing of him, were all within the same week. Ras-Far checked his calendar, every day noted fully with reminders. Wistfully he thought of a day with nothing at all to do but sit, and think, and take a nap...and maybe walk through the palace gardens with his daughter.

La Bara bustled into his office without knocking, carrying in her arms three glorious and glittering ball-gowns. An expression of extreme anxiety clouded her lush purple eyes, and frowned her plump, creamy face, so that most of her beauty was lost.

"Dear, you must help me to decide!" she said to him in her excited breathless way. "Which one shall I wear to the ball tonight?" The three gowns were spread before him on the desk, brushing many of the official documents and letters to the floor.

"The blue one is just fine," Ras-Far answered, as he stooped to gather up the fallen papers.

His wife gave him a look of annoyed impatience. "You said that too quickly, without thought. You know I wore a blue gown last night! Didn't you notice?"

"Then wear the red one; you know I like red."

"If you like red so much, then why did you tell me to wear the blue one first?" she asked.

Ras-Far was still on his hands and knees, gathering up the papers as he replied to this: "My dear wife, it may not occur to you that I have other, and much more important, things to decide than select a gown for a ball that you called stupid only this morning, and which you stated, incidentally, that you positively would rather die than attend."

"But, darling, I said that
before
breakfast! You know how I am
before
breakfast." She frowned at him as he got to his feet. "Your trouble is, Ras-Far, you just don't
care
what I wear! If you cared the least little bit about my appearance, you would tell me which one of these gowns is the most flattering."

"But Bara, my love, I do care, very much. As I just told you, wear the red. It is an absolutely stunning gown!" He carried the papers to a table, far from the heap of ball gowns, and smiled at her in a most charming way.

She knew him too well to be consoled by a smile. "How do you
know
this red gown is becoming? Have you seen me model it? You know perfectly well that red is not my color! It makes me look green!"

Ras-Far put his elbows on his desk, resting his chin on his clasped hands, wearily explaining, "Darling, we all used to be green, and proud of it too!"

"But red makes me look
too
florid! I want to look ivory like Sharita."

"Then, by all the Gods that live on that mountain, wear the gold gown! Hopefully, it will reflect on your skin and give you a lighter complexion."

"But the gold one is too tight across the bust--and too large in the hips, and it makes me look
fat!"

The king couldn't help it if this time his voice became a shade too loud, and was edged with impatience: "If something is wrong with each one of these gowns, then why did you bother to bring them to me for a selection?"

Ras-Far's wife's look told him he was being annoyingly obtuse. "They are all new, and all so beautiful...I can't help it if I just can't make up my mind, and you, dear, have such excellent taste."

"La Bara, if I possess the excellent good taste you credit me with, then please wear the white gown you wore two nights ago. You were positively ravishing in that one."

"You see! I knew it! You don't care! You never notice anything--I wore that white gown twice already! Here I have three lovely, brand new gowns, never worn, and you tell me to wear an old rag to the most important ball of the season! A fine husband you are! You know
blue
is my most becoming color!" La Bara then snatched up her three new gowns and stormed from the room, slamming hard the door behind her.

The room quivered with the new silence while Ras-Far thought there should be a law made that kept wives in bed until the setting of the first sun.

The door opened again. This time the minister of state, Gar-Rab, entered and bowed very low. Ras-Far glanced at his clock. So soon it had reached the time of this daily conference with a man he barely tolerated. "Your majesty, I have a matter of extreme importance to discuss with you."

"Of course you have. What is it today?"

"Begging your indulgence, sire, perhaps it's not my place to speak of it, but it's your daughter, Princess Sharita."

As if he had any other daughter.

"There are rumors drifting about the palace that say she will not attend the ball given in her honor tonight."

Ninety percent of the palace rumors concerned Ras-Far's daughter. "Another ball. Can't anyone think of a different way to pass the time pleasurably?"

"But sire, everyone likes to dance, and the princess refuses to go. At least that is what I've heard whispered about, and she must go. Absolutely."

"And why must a princess go anywhere, absolutely?"

"Why I thought you knew," continued Gar-Rab, not in the least upset by the king's sarcasm. "Sire, the bakaret of the largest province in Lower Dorraine has brought his only son to our city especially to meet the Princess Sharita. For her to skip this particular ball, like she has others will bring about a political crisis. You are aware those upstarts down there are just looking for some excuse to come out into open rebellion."

Ras-Far nodded in tired agreement. "Yes, I am aware. My desk this morning is piled high with their complaints and petitions. According to them, they are the most unjustly treated people of all time. The more we do, the less we seem to please."

Solemnly Gar-Rab nodded. "The situation won't be improved if the princess slights this ball."

In a quandary, Ras-Far reached for his cup, forgetting it was empty. He touched a little buzzer that would bring a footman. "Well, Gar-Rab, you know how my daughter intensely dislikes attending these nightly balls. She says they are overdone, and I am inclined to agree with her. Who is giving this ball in her honor, and where is it to be held?"