Lurulu (25 page)

Wingo’s preoccupation affected his ordinary conduct more than he realized. His cheerful ebullience became muted; his loquacity dwindled to absent-minded mutters. The change attracted the attention of his shipmates and finally Schwatzendale, confronting him across the galley table, put an uncompromising question. Wingo gave an evasive answer, but Schwatzendale persisted and in the end Wingo reported his conversation with Cuireg in full detail and went on to say: “Despite his manner, which is hardly engaging, he is a most complicated man: a savant of high prestige, also an epicure, a cynic, and, at the basis — almost incredibly, a romantic adventurer!”

“Peculiar!” said Schwatzendale. “He seems modest and retiring, with a rather sour disposition.”

“That is an illusion,” said Wingo. “He cultivates a manner of supercilious detachment to discourage excessive familiarity. The pose actually masks a keen perceptivity; when he chooses to speak, his views are most illuminating. I now understand the true nature of Kyril and the conditions which the pilgrims encounter as they travel the great circuit. The march is not altogether sterile; there are surprises along the way — not always happy, but those who ultimately return to Impy’s Landing find the triumph of their achievement an adequate requital for the hardships suffered along the way.”

“Bah!” growled Schwatzendale, after a moment. “If this moment of relief is the only reward for so much toil, what is the point of the pilgrimage? It would seem a useless exercise, except for hermetics and flagellants.”

“Not so!” Wingo declared. “The pilgrimage has a subliminal purpose, which, admittedly, can not easily be verbalized.”

“I have no trouble,” Schwatzendale stated. “It is an exercise in sheer futility, leading from nowhere to nowhere. It seems inexpressibly pointless.”

Wingo managed a patient smile. “There are aspects to the pilgrimage which you do not understand! They are admittedly on a subliminal level, but still they are intensely important! The great march is a gauge by which a pilgrim can measure personal worth. When he returns to Impy’s Landing from the east, he feels a personal vindication which must be close to exaltation!”

“Understandable,” said Schwatzendale. “They are tired of walking.”

Wingo, still smiling, shook his head. “Cuireg has already made the circuit. He has found imponderable aspects to the pilgrimage which, in candor, I do not fully understand, but I am bound to take seriously.”

“My dear fellow, you have been hypnotized,” said Schwatzendale, rising to his feet. “I see that I must have a word with this redoubtable savant!”

Wingo’s smile became wry. “I wonder which of you will end up the more bewildered.”

Schwatzendale said: “Despite his erudition, Cuireg still pulls on his trousers one leg at a time.” He departed the galley, leaving Wingo first to sigh, then to ponder.

Schwatzendale found the scholar in a relatively expansive mood. In amusement he described himself as not only a scholar, an epicure and an adventurer, but also a creative financier who might undertake certain commercial developments at Impy’s Landing. In response to Schwatzendale’s questions, he provided information regarding the pilgrimage, some of which Schwatzendale found intriguing, some daunting or even macabre.

Time passed and the voyage approached its termination. On the day that a cold white spark, indicating the star Rhys, appeared ahead, Wingo entered the pilot-house where Captain Maloof sat checking the entry on Kyril in
Handbook to the Planets
. Wingo, distraught and half-desperate, came directly to the point. “Captain! After much turmoil, I have finally arrived at a decision!”

“Indeed!” said Maloof, looking up and setting aside the Handbook. “In regard to what?”

Wingo came to stand before him. “Over the last few weeks I have taken stock of my life, and I find that it has arrived at a juncture. In one direction I continue as before, along an easy route. In the other direction there are challenges; the way is difficult and often bleak, but this route shows me to myself. After weighing both options, I have made my decision. At Impy’s Landing I will resign my post aboard the
Glicca
; I will then set off to the west, like any other pilgrim. In the end I will return from the east, inflated with pure triumph much like lurulu!” Wingo held up a clenched pink fist as a peroration to his remarks. “That is the gist of it. You have heard what I came to tell you. Our friendship persists!”

“Naturally!” said Maloof. “Perhaps more than ever! But a thought occurs to me. Perhaps you will lose more than you gain.”

Wingo grimaced. “I know what I am losing. It is a fellowship which I cherish beyond words! My dearest wish would be that we dock the
Glicca
at Impy’s Landing and all four of us march off into the west, to return at last from the east, where we would share our triumph together, in the happiest moment of our lives!”

Maloof spoke dryly: “I am sure that we would all be glad to get back.” He sighed. “Even in a dream such a fantasy would seem bizarre.”

“You must open your mind!” declared Wingo. “With dedication the vision becomes real and the triumph lives with us forever!”

Maloof sighed again, and leaned back in his chair. “Let us call in Schwatzendale and test his reaction to the scheme.”

Wingo said dubiously: “Schwatzendale is often indecisive … We must remind him of his bent for gallant adventure.”

“Ha hm,” said Maloof. He spoke into a mesh and a moment later Schwatzendale appeared. He glanced from one to the other. “What is required of me?”

“We need your counsel,” said Maloof. “We are faced with an unprecedented situation. Wingo intends to leave the ship at Impy’s Landing and set off pilgrim-style on a circuit of the continent.”

“Truly?” Schwatzendale turned Wingo a grave inspection.

“That is not the whole of it. He wants the entire crew to join the venture, so that, when we return to Impy’s Landing from the east, we shall celebrate the triumph together. Am I right, Wingo?”

“You have stated the matter concisely,” said Wingo. “I might add that the feat is guided by a set of subliminal archetypes which will transfigure the rest of our lives with grandeur.”

“It is a novel idea,” Schwatzendale admitted. “Startling, preposterous and innocent! It would never have occurred to me — especially after my conversation with Cuireg.

“Apparently there are negative aspects to the pilgrimage which are never publicized, for instance, the fact that only a modest percentage of those starting out from Impy’s Landing to the west ever return from the east. Many abandon the venture after a day or two; the way is especially hard on folk with sensitive feet, because of sharp flints in the road.” Wingo stared down at his own delicate feet. “This makes for poor hearing,” he told himself. “Still, it cannot be ignored!”

Schwatzendale went on to discuss more of what he had learned from Cuireg. “Many old persons with little vitality set out from Impy’s Landing, and die along the way from disease, hunger, dysentery, physical abuse. Nights are especially dangerous; thugs come to steal boots; they use cudgels to smash knees and ankles at so much as a whimper!”

“That is inhuman!” gasped Wingo. “One should travel only with trusted companions!”

“The plan is attractive, but not always practical. You must pay the leader of the band a large sum for a place in the group. They march at a quick-step and you must keep pace, sore feet and all, otherwise you will be left behind. If you pay out all your money, you will not have enough to buy food from the roadside shelters — should you choose to do so. If you are squeamish, you will avoid them; avoid the pale pink stew at all costs, and forage on tubers and seeds. But the worst is still ahead. Where the way crosses the hills it is paved with flints which cut your feet into bloody lumps; what then?”

Wingo considered the unpleasant possibility. “I have no choice! I must continue on hands and knees until the road is better; I have no choice.”

“All very well,” said Schwatzendale, “but the road is still only a tumble of shards and flints, and in the end your knees are a clutter of broken bones; what now?”

Wingo spoke in a taut thin voice: “I have not thought that far ahead, but I suppose that if I must, I will turn about and skooch along on my backside. It is slow and painful, but it is better than sitting alone in the wilderness, by night under the light of the three dim moons. It is not a happy prospect.”

“Even where the way leaves the hills, another enemy awaits you. The thorn trees hang overhead and drop thorns into the way. As you skooch along, these thorns will be driven into your bottom, so that every thorn will require a halt, a search, the withdrawal and then the gallant surge forward. I suppose that a person in this condition might complete the circuit in ten years, to gain what? Glory? Triumph? More likely a sickening grief for the tribulations which they have suffered for nothing.”

Wingo sighed. “It has become clear — starkly so! — that I am not the man to test my fortitude in this fashion. It is troubling, certainly, but I must alter my resolve, and gladly.”

Maloof asked with gentle solicitude: “Then you are not leaving the
Glicca
after all?”

Wingo sighed again. “Definitely not. The pilgrimage no longer carries a romantic association.”

“You have arrived at a wise decision,” said Maloof. “Do you not agree, Fay?”

“Totally, and in every respect,” said Schwatzendale.

Chapter X

1

The
Glicca
arrived at Impy’s Landing at noon local time. The pilgrims disembarked with graceless haste, led by the ineffable Cooner. Cuireg followed more deliberately, ignoring the others as if they had been strangers. He took himself to the most pretentious hostelries of the town, where, if his statements were to be credited, he would prepare to transact the business which had brought him to Kyril. As soon as the chests of sanctified soil had been discharged from the cargo bay, the
Glicca
departed Kyril and set off toward Port Tanjee, on the world Taubry.

Myron noticed that Naharius lay not far to the side of the direct route between Kyril and Port Tanjee. Prompted by a surge of old emotion he felt a strong impulse to visit Naharius, if only to learn what transformation, if any, the fabulous local therapies had worked upon Dame Hester. Captain Maloof was also curious and made no difficulty about altering course so that the
Glicca
might put into Naharius.

Handbook to the Planets
, for whatever reason, had little to say about Naharius. After citing geo-physical statistics, the text went on to state:

The population of Naharius, for a variety of reasons, is relatively sparse and is concentrated in the neighborhood of Trajence, a partially urbanized settlement adjacent to the spaceport. A few miles east of Trajence an extinct volcano, Mount Maldoun, rises from a line of low hills. Down the mountainside flow three streams which, after seeping through wooded vales grown over with unique plants and mosses, become charged, according to local beliefs, with remarkable powers.

Even more potent are the waters from the sacred springs appearing at the base of the mountain. These waters, when used in conjunction with the therapies provided by local practitioners, reputedly neutralize the ravages of time and are said to restore at least the superficial aspects of youth. It must be noted that such reports, whether or not accurate, attract ailing and aged persons from far and wide, hoping to participate in a miracle.

What is the truth? There are anecdotes, but rigorous evidence is hard to come by. The Handbook advises caution.

2

In due course the
Glicca
arrived at the Trajence spaceport. Other vessels were docked at the far end of the field; the
Glodwyn
was not among them.

Wingo and Schwatzendale rode an omnibus into town, while Maloof and Myron set off to learn what they could of Dame Hester Lajoie. They inquired first at the three principal clinics, then at less formal facilities.

During the afternoon of the second day they were referred to the Wayfarer’s Hospice, a cheerless block of gray concrete on the outskirts of the settlement, providing terminal shelter for the aged, the ailing and the indigent. An orderly conducted them into a cavernous chamber, dim and ill-smelling, lined along the walls with narrow cots, at the moment only partially occupied. He indicated a cot at the far end of the chamber, then returned to his station and left them to their own devices.

Maloof and Myron approached the indicated cot. Under the sheet a thin and fragile shape barely created an outline. A gaunt head protruded, the skin drawn drum-taut around the contours of the skull. Arms brittle as twigs, terminating in bird-like claws, lay on the sheet beside the body.

Myron studied the bony wisp, controlling inner spasms of pity and horror with an effort. A limp straggle of maroon hair, a long pointed chin, a twisted tendril of what once had been a rapacious nose identified a version of Dame Hester Lajoie.

A slight up-and-down shift of the sheet indicated that vitality had not yet been exhausted. Peering into the dull eyes, Myron thought to see a flicker of recognition. Her lips twitched; her throat clenched; she produced a rasping sound. Myron leaned forward, and thought to hear her say: “You have come at last.” Her voice faded, then once again she managed to whisper: “It is very late. They took all my money; then they abused me and cheated my hope and put me here to take my wonderful life from me.”

Myron could think of nothing to say. As if driven by an obsession, gasping and wheezing, Dame Hester contrived to tell the bitter tale of what had befallen her. In the beginning, the practitioners, after receipt of their fees, had seemed to fall in with her requirements. They started her on a regimen of standard therapy which she found overly stringent, but which they would not modify. There was arduous exercise; she was fed coarse black biscuits and a thin grassy soup. Daily she was rubbed with a few minims of water from one of the magic springs and daily she ingested a gill of a secret ichor compounded from water of the three potent streams. As time went on, the practitioners took more of her money, but she discerned no significant changes in her personal attributes. The practitioners warned her against impatience and continued the regimen, but despite all, the metamorphosis to lissome new youth was slow in coming.