Nightfall (40 page)

Some boys on the far side of a lake near the place where he was camped had obligingly killed the animal for him. Of course, they hadn’t known they were doing him any favor—most likely they had been planning to eat it themselves, unless they were so unhinged that they were simply chasing the creature for the sake of sport. Somehow he doubted that. They had been pretty purposeful about it, with a singlemindedness that only hunger can inspire.

The beast was a graben—one of those ugly long-nosed bluish-furred
things with slithery hairless tails that sometimes could be seen poking around suburban garbage cans after Onos had set. Well, beauty wasn’t a requirement just now. The boys had somehow flushed it out of its daytime hiding place and had driven the poor stupid thing into a little dead-end box of a canyon.

As Theremon watched from the other side of the lake, disgusted and envious at the same time, they chased it tirelessly up and down, pelting it with rocks. For a dumb scavenger it was remarkably agile, scooting swiftly this way and that in its desperation to elude its attackers. But finally a lucky shot caromed off its head and killed it instantly.

He had assumed that they would devour it on the spot. But at that moment a shaggy, shambling figure came into view above them, standing for a moment at the rim of the little canyon, then beginning to climb down toward the lake.

“Run! It’s Garpik the Slasher!” one of the boys yelled.

“Garpik! Garpik!”

In an instant the boys scattered, leaving the dead graben behind.

Theremon, still watching, had slipped back into the shadows on his side of the lake. He also knew this Garpik, though not by name: one of the most dreaded of the forest-dwellers, a squat, almost ape-like man who wore nothing but a belt through which an assortment of knives was thrust. He was a killer without motive, a cheerful psychopath, a pure predator.

Garpik stood by the mouth of the canyon for a while, humming to himself, fondling one of his knives. He didn’t seem to notice the dead animal, or didn’t care. Perhaps he was waiting for the boys to come back. But plainly they weren’t planning to do that, and after a time Garpik, with a shrug, went slouching off into the forest, most likely in search of something amusing to do with his weapons.

Theremon waited an endless moment, making certain Garpik didn’t intend to double back and pounce on him.

Then—when he could no longer bear the sight of the dead graben lying there on the ground, where some other human or animal predator might suddenly come along to seize it before he did—he rushed forward, circled the lake, snatched the animal up, carried it back to his hiding place.

It weighed as much as a small child. It might be good for two or three meals—or more, if he could restrain his hunger and if the meat didn’t spoil too quickly.

His head was spinning with hunger. He had had nothing but fruits and nuts to eat for more days than he could remember. His skin had drawn tight over his muscles and bones; what little spare fat he had been carrying he had long since absorbed, and now he was consuming his own strength in the struggle to stay alive. But this evening, at last, he would enjoy a little feast.

Roast graben! What a treat! he thought bitterly. —And then he thought: Be grateful for small meroies, Theremon.

Let’s see—to build a fire, now—

Fuel, first. Behind his shelter was a flat wall of rock with a deep lateral crack in it, in which a line of weeds was growing. Plenty of them were long dead and withered, and had dried out since the last rainstorm. Quickly Theremon moved along the rock wall, plucking yellowed stems and leaves, assembling a little heap of straw-like material that would catch fire easily.

Now some dry twigs. They were harder to find, but he rummaged around the forest floor, looking for dead shrubs or at least shrubs with dead branches. The afternoon was well along by the time he had put together enough of that sort of tinder to matter: Dovim was gone from the sky, and Trey and Patru, which had been low on the horizon when the boys were hunting the graben, now had moved into the center of things, like a pair of glittering eyes watching the sorry events on Kalgash from far overhead.

Carefully Theremon arranged his kindling-wood above the dried plants, building a framework as he imagined a real outdoorsman would, the bigger branches along the outside, then the thinner ones crisscrossed over the middle. Not without some difficulty, he skewered the graben on a spit he had made of a sharp, reasonably straight stick, and positioned it a short distance above the woodpile.

So far, so good. Just one little thing missing, now.

Fire!

He had kept his mind away from that problem while assembling his fuel, hoping that it would solve itself somehow without his having to dwell on it. But now it had to be faced. He needed a spark. The old boys’-book trick of rubbing two sticks
together was, Theremon was certain, nothing but a myth. He had read that certain primitive tribes had once started their fires by twirling a stick against a board with a little hole in it, but he suspected that the process wasn’t all that simple, that it probably took an hour of patient twirling to get anything going. And in any case very likely you had to be initiated into the art by the old man of the tribe when you were a boy, or some such thing, or it wouldn’t work.

Two rocks, though—was it possible to strike a spark by banging one against the other?

He doubted that too. But he might as well try it, he thought. He had no other ideas. There was a wide flat stone lying nearby, and after a little searching he found a smaller triangular one that could fit conveniently in the palm of his hand. He knelt beside his little fireplace and began methodically to hit the flat one with the pointed one.

Nothing in particular happened.

A hopeless feeling began to grow in him. Here I am, he thought, a grown man who can read and write, who can drive a car, who can even operate a computer, more or less. I can turn out a newspaper column in two hours that everybody in Saro City will want to read, and I can do it day in, day out, for twenty years. But I can’t start a fire in the wilderness.

On the other hand, he thought, I will
not
eat this graben raw unless I absolutely have to. Will not. Will not. Not. Not.
Not!

In fury he struck the stones together, again, again, again.

Spark, damn you! Light! Burn! Cook this ridiculous pathetic animal for me!

Again. Again. Again.

“What are you doing there, mister?” an unfriendly voice asked suddenly from a point just behind his right shoulder.

Theremon looked up, startled, dismayed. The first rule of survival in this forest was that you must never let yourself get so involved in anything that you failed to notice strangers sneaking up on you.

There were five of them. Men, about his own age. They looked as ragged as anyone else living in the forest. They didn’t seem especially crazy, as people went these days: no glassy eyes, no drooling mouths, only an expression that was grim and weary and determined. They didn’t appear to be carrying
any weapons other than clubs, but their attitude was distinctly hostile.

Five against one. All right, he thought, take the damned graben and choke on it. He wasn’t foolish enough to try to put up a fight.

“I said, ‘What are you doing there, mister?’ ” the first man repeated, more coldly than before.

Theremon glared. “What does it look like? I’m trying to start a fire.”

“That’s what we thought.”

The stranger stepped forward. Carefully, deliberately, he aimed a kick into Theremon’s little woodpile. The painstakingly assembled kindling-wood went scattering, and the skewered graben toppled to the ground.

“Hey, wait a second—!”

“No fires here, mister. That’s the law.” Brusquely, firmly, bluntly. “Possession of fire-making equipment is prohibited. This wood is to use for a fire. That’s obvious. And you admit guilt besides.”

“Guilt?” Theremon said, incredulously.

“You said you were making a fire. These stones, they seem to be fire-making equipment, right? The law’s clear on that. Prohibited.”

At a signal from the leaders, two of the others came forward. One grabbed Theremon about the neck and chest from behind, and the other took the two stones he had been using from his hands and hurled them into the lake. They splashed and disappeared. Theremon, watching them go, felt the way he imagined Beenay must have felt at seeing his telescopes smashed by the mob.

“Let—go—of—me—” Theremon muttered, struggling.

“Let go of him,” said the leader. He dug his foot into Theremon’s fire-site again, grinding the bits of straw and stems into the dirt. —“Fires aren’t allowed any more,” he said to Theremon. “We’ve had all the fires we’re ever going to have. We can’t permit no more fires on account of the risk, the suffering, the damage, don’t you know that? You try to build another fire, we’re going to come back and smash your head in, you hear me?”

“It was fire that ruined the world,” one of the others said.

“Fire that drove us from our homes.”

“Fire is the enemy. Fire is forbidden. Fire is evil.”

Theremon stared. Fire
evil?
Fire
forbidden?

So they were crazy after all!

“The penalty for trying to start a fire, first offense,” the first man said, “is a fine. We fine you this animal here. To teach you not to endanger innocent people. Take it, Listigon. It’s a good lesson to him. The next time this fellow catches something, he’ll remember that he oughtn’t try to conjure up the enemy just because he feels like having some cooked meat.”

“No!” Theremon cried in a half-strangled voice, as Listigon bent to pick up the graben. “That’s mine, you morons! Mine!
Mine!
”

And he charged wildly at them, all caution swept away by exasperation and frustration.

Someone hit him, hard, in the midsection. He gasped and gagged and doubled over, clutching his belly with his arms, and someone else hit him from behind, a blow in the small of the back that nearly sent him tumbling forward on his face. But this time he jabbed backward sharply with his elbow, felt a satisfying contact, heard a grunt of pain.

He had been in fights before, but not for a long, long time. And never one against five. But there was no running away from this one now. What he had to do, he told himself, was stay on his feet and keep on backpedaling until he was up against the rock wall, where at least they couldn’t come at him from the rear. And then just try to hold them off, kicking and punching and if necessary biting and roaring, until they decided to let him be.

A voice somewhere deep within him said,
They’re completely nuts. They’re perfectly likely to keep this up until they beat you to death.

Nothing he could do about that now, though. Except try to hold them off.

He kept his head down and punched as hard as he could, while steadily pushing onward toward the wall. They crowded around him, battering him from all sides. But he stayed on his feet. Their numerical advantage wasn’t as overwhelming as he had expected. In these close quarters, the five of them were unable all to get at him at once, and Theremon was able to play
the confusion to his own benefit, striking out in any direction and moving as quickly as he could while they lumbered around trying to avoid hitting each other.

Even so, he knew he couldn’t take much more. His lip was cut and one eye was starting to swell, and he was getting short of breath. One more good punch could send him down. He held one arm in front of his face and struck with the other, while continuing to back toward the shelter of the rock wall. He kicked someone. There was a howl and a curse. Someone else kicked back. Theremon took it on his thigh and swung around, hissing in pain.

He swayed. He struggled desperately for air. It was hard to see, hard to tell what was going on. They were all around him now, fists flailing at him from all sides. He wasn’t going to reach the wall. He wasn’t going to stay on his feet much longer. He was going to fall, and they were going to trample him, and he was going to die—

Going—to—die—

Then he became aware of confusion within the confusion: the shouts of different voices, new people mingling in the melee, a host of figures everywhere. Fine, he thought. Another bunch of crazies joining the fun. But maybe I can slip away somehow while all this is going on—

“In the name of the Fire Patrol, stop!” a woman’s voice called, clear, loud, commanding. “That’s an order! Stop, all of you! Get away from him! Now!”

Theremon blinked and rubbed his forehead. He looked around, bleary-eyed.

There were four newcomers in the clearing. They seemed fresh and crisp, and were wearing clean clothes. Flowing green neckerchiefs were tied about their throats. They were carrying needle-guns.

The woman—she appeared to be in charge—made a quick imperative gesture with the weapon she held, and the five men who had attacked Theremon moved away from him and went obediently to stand in front of her. She glowered sternly at them.

Theremon stared in disbelief.

“What’s all this about?” she asked the leader of the five in a steely tone.

“He was starting a fire—trying to—he was going to roast an animal, but we came along—”

“All right. I see no fire here. The laws have been maintained. Clear off.”

The man nodded. He reached down to take the graben.

“Hey! That belongs to me,” Theremon said hoarsely.

“No,” the other said. “You have to lose it. We fined you for breaking the fire laws.”

“I’ll decide the punishment,” the woman said. “Leave the animal and clear off! Clear off!”

“But—”

“Clear off, or I’ll have
you
up on charges before Altinol. Get! Get!”

The five men went slinking away. Theremon continued to stare.

The woman wearing the green neckerchief came toward him.

“I guess I was just in time, wasn’t I, Theremon?”

“Siferra,” he said in amazement. “Siferra!”

He was hurting in a hundred places. He wasn’t at all sure how intact his bones were. One of his eyes was practically swollen shut. But he suspected he was going to survive. He sat leaning against the rock wall, waiting for the haze of pain to diminish a little.