Into the Thinking Kingdoms (7 page)

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Authors: Alan Dean Foster

Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #FIC009000

BOOK: Into the Thinking Kingdoms
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A single tawny eye popped open halfway. “Don’t. It’s hot, and I still get bitten on both ends if not in between.”
Ehomba tilted back his head to watch a flock of a hundred or more turquoise flamingos glide past overhead, their coloration rendering them almost invisible against the sky. Unlike much of what he was seeing and hearing, they were a familiar bird. They acquired their brilliant sky hue, he knew, as a consequence of eating the bright blue shrimp that thrived in warm, shallow lakes.
Disturbed by their passing, a covey of will-o’-the-wisps broke cover and drifted off in all directions, their ghostly white phosphorescence difficult to track in the bright light of day. A herd of sitatunga went splashing past, their splayed feet allowing the downsized antelope to walk on a surface of lily pads, flowering hyacinth, and other water plants. Capybara gamboled in the tall grass, and the guttural honking of hippos, like a convocation of fat men enjoying a good joke, reverberated in the distance.
Yellow-and-gray-spotted coats dripping, giant ground sloths shuffled lugubriously through the water, their long prehensile tongues curling around and snapping off the succulent buds of flowering plants. Web-footed wombats competed for living space with families of pink-nosed nutria. The marshland was a fertile and thriving place, catalyzed with life large and small.
But no horses, mentally unbalanced or otherwise. Not yet.
“Maybe old Red-hair was right
and
wrong.” Simna poled a little faster, forcing Ehomba to increase his own efforts to keep up. “Maybe there are a few crazy horses living in here, but they can’t be everywhere at once. In a swamp this big they could easily overlook us.” He paused briefly to wipe perspiration from his brow. The interior of the marshland was not particularly hot, but the humidity was as bad as one would expect.
“It is possible.” The herdsman was scanning their immediate surroundings. All around the boat there was motion, and noise, and small splashings, but no sign of the equine impediment the ape had warned them against. “If this morass is as extensive as he said, then we certainly have a chance to slip across unnoticed. It is not as if we represent the forerunners of a noisy, invading army.”
“That’s right.” The farther they traveled without confrontation, the more confident Simna allowed himself to feel. “There’s just the three of us in this little boat. It has no profile to speak of, and neither do we.”
“We will try to find some land to camp on tonight. If not, we will have to sleep in the boat.”
Simna grimaced. “Better a hard dry bed than a soft wet one. I know—in my time I’ve had to sleep in both.”
It was not exactly a rocky pinnacle thrusting its head above the surrounding reeds, but the accumulation of dirt had small trees with trunks of real wood growing from it and soil dry enough to suit the swordsman. Ehomba was especially appreciative of the discovery. The damp climate was harder on him than on his companions, since of them all he hailed from the driest country. But he was a very adaptable man, and rarely gave voice to his complaints.
As was to be expected, all manner of marsh dwellers sought out the unique opportunities created by dry land, whose highest point rose less than a foot above the water. Birds nested in every one of the small-boled trees, and water-loving lizards and terrapins came ashore to lay their eggs. Boomerang-headed diplocauls kept their young close to shore for protection while on the far side of the little island juvenile black caimans and phytosaurs slumbered on, indifferent to their bipedal mammalian visitors.
Night brought with it a cacophony of insect and amphibian songs, far fewer mosquitoes than feared, and still no horses.
“There are meat-eaters here.” Simna lay on his back on the sandy soil, listening to the nocturnal symphony and watching the stars through the clouds that had begun to gather above the marsh. “We haven’t seen any really big ones, but with this much game there would have to be some around.”
“You’d think so.” Nearby, the black litah dug his bloodied muzzle deep into the still warm belly of the young water buffalo he had killed. Its eyes were closed, its fins stilled. “Easy meat.”
“That is one thing about Ahlitah.” Ehomba rested nearby, his hands forming a pillow beneath his braided blond hair. “He sleeps lightly and would wake us if any danger came near.”
“Hoy, I’m not worried about being trampled in my sleep. Bitten maybe, but not trampled.” Simna turned away from his friend, onto his side, struggling to find the most comfortable position. “I’m even beginning to think that our only concern here might be the tall tales of one crazy old ape, instead of crazy horses.”
“He did not seem to me to be mad. A little senile perhaps, but not mad.”
“I don’t care, so long as we make it safely through this stinking slough.” A sharp report punctuated the smaller man’s words as he slapped at a marauding hungry bug. His swordsman’s instincts and reactions served him well: His clothes were already covered with the splattered trophies of his many mini conquests.
Their slumber was not disturbed, and they slept better than they had any right to expect. Save for the unavoidable bites of night-flying insects that prudently waited until Simna was unconscious before striking, they emerged unscathed from their fine rest.
Rising last, the swordsman stretched and yawned. For sheer degree of fetidness, his untreated morning breath matched any odor rising from the surrounding bog. That was soon mended by a leisurely breakfast of dried meat, fruit, and tepid tea.
Throughout the meal Ehomba repeatedly scanned the reed-wracked horizons, occasionally urging his friends to hurry. Ahlitah was naturally slow to wake, while Simna was clearly relishing the opportunity to dine on dry land.
“Those wise old women and men of your tribe seem to have filled your pack with all manner of useful potions and powders.” The swordsman gestured with a strip of dried beef. “Didn’t they give you anything to make you relax?”
Ehomba’s black eyes tried to penetrate the froth of surrounding vegetation. “I do not think any such elixir exists. If it did, I promise you I would take it.” He glanced back at his friend. “I know I worry too much, Simna. And when I am not worrying about things I should be worrying about, I find myself worrying about things I should not be worrying about.”
“Hoy now, that makes you a bit of a worrier, wouldn’t you say?” The swordsman tore off a strip of dark brown, white-edged, fibrous protein.
“Yes,” the herdsman agreed. “Or perhaps I am just exceedingly conscientious.”
“I know another word for that.” His friend gestured with the remaining piece of jerked meat. “It’s ‘fool.’”
“That may be.” Ehomba did not dispute the other man’s definition. “Certainly it is one reason why I am here, patiently tolerating your prattle and the grunts of that cat, instead of at home lying with my wife and listening to the laughter of my children.”
Simna’s words rattled around a mouthful of meat that required more mastication than most. “Just confirms what I said. Geeprax knows it’s true.” A look of mild curiosity swept down his face as he folded the last of the jerky into his mouth. “What’s up? You see something?” Immediately he rose to peer anxiously in the direction in which his tall companion was staring.
“No.” The litah spoke without looking up from its kill. But it began to eat a little faster. “Heard something.”
“The cat is right.” Wishing he were taller still, Ehomba was straining to see off to the west. Nothing unusual crossed his field of vision. But several large wading birds tucked their long legs beneath them and unfurled imposing wings as they took to the saturated sky. “I cannot see anything, but I can hear it.”
Simna had always believed he possessed senses far sharper than those of the average man, and in this he was in fact correct. But as he had learned over the past weeks, he was blind and deaf when compared to both his human and feline companions. It was all that time spent herding cattle, Ehomba had explained to him. Alone in the wilderness, one’s senses naturally sharpened. Simna had listened to the explanation, and had nodded understanding, because it made sense. But it did not explain everything. Nothing that he had heard or seen since they had first met quite explained everything about Etjole Ehomba.
With a grunt of contentment, the satiated Ahlitah rose from the neatly butchered remnants of his kill and began to clean himself, massive paws taking the place of towels, saliva substituting for soap and water. Ignoring him, Ehomba continued to stare stolidly westward.
“I still don’t hear anything.” Simna strained to listen, knowing that with his shorter stature there was no way he would see something before the beanpole of a herdsman did. “By Gyiemot, what are you two hearing, anyway?”
“Splashing,” Ehomba informed him quietly.
“Splashing? In an endless marsh? Now there’s a revelation. I certainly wouldn’t have expected to hear anything like that.” As usual, his sarcasm had no effect on the southerner.
“Feet,” Ehomba told him somberly. “Many feet.”
The swordsman tensed slightly. Looking around, he made certain he knew the location of his sword, removed and set aside during the night. “Hoy. Feet. How many feet?”
The fine-featured herdsman glanced down at him, his voice unchanged. Sometimes Simna found himself wondering if it would change if its master suddenly found himself confronted with the end of the world. He decided that it would not.
“Thousands.”
Nodding somberly, Simna ibn Sind turned and bent to pick up his sword.

 

 

VI
T
he pulsing, living wave came at them out of the west, inclining slightly to the north of the island. For a brief moment Ehomba and Simna thought it might pass them in its inexorable surge eastward. Then it began to turn, to curl in their direction, and they knew it was they that the wave sought, and that it would not rush on past.
Its leading edge was uneven, not the regular, predictable curl of a sea wave but a broken, churning froth. The reason behind the raggedness soon became apparent. It was not a wave at all, but water thrown up from beneath thousands of hooves. The horses were driving the water before them, the flying spume like panicked insects fleeing a fire.
The two men and one cat stood their ground. It was an easy decision to make because they had no other choice. The island on which they had spent the night was the only ground on which to stand, and despite their most vigorous poling, the sturdy but unhydrodynamic flat-bottomed boat would have been hard pressed to outrun a determined turtle, much less a stampeding herd. So they stood and watched, and waited.
Potential for trampling aside, it was a magnificent sight. For Ehomba, who had never before seen a horse, the beauty and grace of the massed animals was a revelation. He had not expected that such a variety of size and color might be found within a single fundamental body type. Simna’s description had been accurate—within its limitations. These horses
were
much like zebras, but whereas the herdsman knew only three different kinds of zebras, the vast herd thundering toward them exhibited as many varieties as could be conjured from a drawn-out-dream.
Simna was equally impressed, but for different reasons. “I’ve never seen so many kinds. Most of them are unknown to me.”
Ehomba looked over at his friend as they stood side by side on the sodden shore, their sandaled feet sinking slightly into the mushy sand. “I thought you said that you knew this animal.”
“A few breeds and colors, yes, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” He indicated the approaching mob. “I have a feeling no one’s ever seen anything like this—not the barbarians of the Coh Plateau, who practically live on horseback, or the cavalry masters of the Murengo Kings, who account the residents of their gilded stables their most precious possessions. A man with a good rope, experience, and strong tack could take some prizes here.”
“I think you speak of capture and domestication in the wrong place.” Ahlitah had finally risen from his drowsing to consider the approaching herd. “These grazers stink of wildness.”
Simna sniffed. “You see them as just food.”
“No. Not these.” The big cat’s eyes narrowed as he assessed the onrushing torrent of strong legs and long necks. “Ordinarily, in the midst of such a dense gathering I could make a quick and easy kill and settle down to eat, but these grass-eaters smell of panic and desperation. Crazed grazers don’t act normally. They’d be likely to turn on me and trample. Give me sane prey any day.”
“Then they
are
mad.” Ehomba leaned on his spear and contemplated the massed ranks of animals, which had finally begun to slow as they neared the little island. “I wonder why? They look healthy enough.”
“Look at their eyes,” Ahlitah advised. “They should be set forward, and staring. Too many roll, as if they’re loose in their sockets.” Stretching front and then back, he drew himself up to his full height. “Crazy or not, I don’t think they’ll rush me. No one wants to be the first to die. Stay close, and watch out for their front hooves.”
Splashing through the shallows, the front ranks of the equine regiment approached the island and its three occupants. Round, piercing eyes stared, but not all were focused on the intruders. Just as the litah professed, many spun wildly and uncontrollably, staring at nothing, gazing at everything, enfolding visions that were denied to the tense but curious travelers. Several stallions sniffed of the boat where it had been pulled up on shore and tied by a single small line to a tree. One bite of heavy teeth could sever the cord. Or the weight of massed bodies could trample the craft to splinters, marooning them on the island. If the herd chose to do so, Ehomba knew, nothing could prevent them.
Simna’s thoughts were exploring similar territory. “Whatever they do, don’t try to stop them. They’re obviously on edge and unbalanced enough as it is. We don’t want to do anything to set them off.”
“I do not set anyone off,” the herdsman replied quietly. “It is not in my nature. But with the insane, who knows what may be considered a provocation?”
“Steady,” Ahlitah advised them. “I’ve confronted panicked herds before. It’s important to hold your ground. Flee, and they’ll run you over.”
An uneasy silence settled over the standoff, enveloping visitors and herd alike. Even the waterbirds and insects in the immediate vicinity of the island were subdued. Perspiration glistened on the faces of the two men while the litah fought down the urge to pant. Meanwhile, the horses watched quietly. A few lowered their mouths to sample the water plants near their feet that had not been trampled into the mud. Others shook their heads and necks, tossing manes and sending water flying. Neighbors pawed uncertainly at the shallows.
Straining, Ehomba tried to see over their backs, to ascertain the size of the herd. He could not. Graceful necks and elegant heads stretched as far as he could see in all directions. Certainly there were thousands of them. How many thousands he could not have said. If something startled them, if they all chose to rush forward in a frenzy, he and his friends would go down beneath those pounding hooves as helplessly and fatally as mice.
Simna was whispering names at him. Breeds and types in unanticipated profusion. Palomino and bay, chestnut and grizzle, calico and sorrel, roan and dapple-gray rainbowed alongside pintos and Appaloosas. Massive Percherons and shires shaded diminutive but tough ponies while tarpans snorted at the hindquarters of wild-eyed mustangs, and Thoroughbreds held themselves aloof and proud.
There were breeds so exotic and strange even the well-traveled Simna had not a clue to their origins. Despite their outlandish appearance, under the skin every one of them was all horse. There were unicorns pure of color and mottled, with horns ranging in hue from metallic gold to deep green. Eight-legged sleipnirs jostled for space with black mares whose eyes were absent of pupil. Mesohippuses pushed against anchitheriums as hipparions and hippidons nuzzled one another nervously.
“Surely there are not so many kinds in the country you come from,” Ehomba whispered to his friend.
The swordsman was overwhelmed by the diversity spread out before him. “Etjole, I don’t think there are so many kinds in
any
country. Or maybe in all countries. I think we are seeing not only all the horses that are, but all that ever were. For some reason they have been trapped here, and gone mad.”
“You know, Simna, I do not think they look deranged so much as they do frustrated.”
“It won’t matter if something spooks them and they bolt in our direction. Their frustration will kill us as surely as any insanity.” He spared a glance for the sky. Except for a few wandering streaks of white, it was cloudless. No danger to the herd from thunder, then.
But the animals, magnificent and alert, would not leave.
“Let’s try something,” the swordsman suggested.
Ehomba indicated his willingness. “You know these animals better than I.”
“I wonder.” Turning, Simna started across the island, careful to make no sudden movements. Along the way, he picked up his sword and pack. Ehomba duplicated his actions while Ahlitah trailed along behind.
The herdsman glanced back. “They are not following.”
“No. Now, let’s see what happens if we turn north.” He proceeded to do so.
The percussive sloshing of water behind them heralded movement on the part of the herd. When the travelers reached the eastern edge of the island and found themselves once more facing the distant, haze-obscured hills, they found that the herd had shifted its position just enough to block their way once again.
Having verified what they had been told, Simna was nodding to himself. “The ape was right. They won’t let anyone pass. We can go east or west, or back, but not across the bog.”
“We have to cross the marshlands.” Ehomba watched the horses watching him. “I have been too long away from home already and we do not know how far it is to this Hamacassar. I do not want to spend months bypassing this place, especially when we are halfway across already.”
Simna grooved the wet sand with his foot. “Maybe you should ask them why they won’t let anyone through.”
The herdsman nodded once. “Yes. Maybe I should.” He started forward.
“Hoy! I didn’t mean that literally, long bruther.”
Swordsman and Ahlitah tensed as the tall southerner strode forward until he was standing ankle deep in the warm water. Among those animals nearest him, one or two glanced sharply in his direction. Most ignored him, or continued to roll their eyes.
“
Can
he talk to them?” The black litah’s claws dug into the moist, unfeeling earth.
“I don’t see how. Before today he claimed he’d never even seen one.” Simna stared at his friend’s back. “But I’ve learned not to underestimate our cattle-loving companion. He seems simple—until he does something extraordinary.” The swordsman gestured at the pack that rode high on narrow shoulders. “Maybe some village elder made him a potion that lets him talk to other beasts.”
But Ehomba did not reach for his pack. Instead, he stood straight and tall in the shallow water, one hand firmly clutching his spear. Properly wielded, Simna knew that spear could spread panic and terror. Such a reaction would be counterproductive with all of them standing exposed in the path of an unstoppable stampede.
Raising his left hand, palm facing the herd, Ehomba spoke in clear, curious tones in the language of men. “We were told you would not let anyone cross the marshland. We were told that this is because you are deranged. I see wildness before me, and great beauty, but no madness. Only frustration, and its cousin, concealed rage.”
At the piercing tones of the herdsman’s voice several of the horses stirred nervously, and Simna made ready to run even though there was nowhere to run to. But the herd’s composure held. There was, however, no response to Ehomba’s words.
Anyone else would have turned and left, defeated by the massed silence. Not Ehomba. Already he carried too many unanswered questions in his head. It was stuffed full, so much so that he felt he could not abide another addition. So in the face of imminent death, he tried again.
“If you will not let us pass, then at least tell us why. I believe you are not mad. I would like to leave knowing that you are also not stupid.”
Again there was no response. Not of the verbal kind. But a new class of horse stepped forward, shouldering its way between a sturdy Morgan and a deerlike eohippus. Its coat was a gleaming metallic white, its outrageous belly-length mane like thin strips of hammered silver. In the muted sunlight it looked more like the effort of a master lapidary than a living creature, something forged and drawn and pounded out and sculpted. It was alive, though.
“I am an Argentus.” It spoke in the dulcet tones of a cultured soprano. “A breed that is not yet.” Eyes sweet and sorrowful focused on the entranced Simna.
What a mount that would make, the swordsman was thinking, on which to canter into frolicsome Sabad or Vyorala-on-the-Baque! Delighted maidens would spill from their windows like wine. Regretfully, he knew the spectacular courser was not for riding. As the equine itself had proclaimed, it did not yet exist. Somehow he was not surprised. Not so extraordinary, he mused, to find the impossible among the demented. He was moved to comment.
“Horses cannot talk,” he declared conclusively, defying the evidence of his senses.
The directness and acumen of the animal’s stare was disconcerting. Simna was left with the uneasy feeling that not only was this creature intelligent, it was more intelligent than himself.
“These my cousins cannot.” The great wealth of mane flowed like silver wine as the speaker gestured with his perfect head. “But I am from tomorrow, where many animals can. So I must speak for all. You were right, man. Here are representatives of all the horses that are, all that ever were—and all that will be. To a certain point in time, anyway.” Displaying common cause with its diverse kin, it pawed at the water and the mud underfoot with hooves like solid silver. “I know of none that come after me.”
Etjole Ehomba was too focused to be dazzled, too uncomplicated to be awed, either by sight or by confession. “Why will you not let anyone cross the marshland?”
“Because we are angry. Not insane, as other humans who come and affront us claim. Not maddened. We act, just as you see, from frustration.” Again the magnificent head shook, sending waves of silver rippling sinuously. “In our running, which is what we do best, each of us has come to find him- or herself trapped in this place. Whether it is something in the heavy, humid air, or in the lukewarm waters, or something else, I do not know. I know only that, run hard and fast as we might, we cannot break free of the grip of this fey fen. It holds us here, turning us individually or as a herd, whenever we try to run free.

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