The Loafers of Refuge (7 page)

The Head Councillor settled himself on his haunches and picked up the fruit he had been munching when the child came for him. They waited for the visitors to speak.

“I am Carey Sheldon, adopted son of Nyyub, Head Councillor of the Tribe of Lindorn, and a Controller,” Carey introduced himself. There was no reaction among the seated men and he realized they must have already heard of him through the tribal grapevine and known an Earthman had become a Controller. Timmy introduced himself in turn, and Carey resumed, “We come here as the representatives of the Council of the Hairless Ones, because of the dispute which has arisen between yourselves and the farmers who tend the land in the wide part of the valley. We have already visited the farmers and heard their story. They say you have refused to let them cut down trees which are on their tribal ground and are theirs to cut as they choose. We have come to ask your reasons for this action.”

There was grave silence for a matter of minutes, and then the Head Councillor struggled to his feet, amid a creaking of aged bones, and stared gravely at them out of eyes grown old and rheumy. “I will speak for the Council, young Controllers. We have stopped the men you call farmers from cutting down the
breshwahr
trees because we attend to them as a sacred trust, and have done so from generation to generation, back through the days to the-time-that-has-no-memory. When we agreed to live within a certain area of this valley and let the farmers have the rest we did not ask that the land where the breshwahr grows be ours because we could not conceive that anyone would ever want to cut one down. Now that we know they would do this we shall have to ask the representative from the Council of Hairless Ones to return that land to us, so that we may continue our trust.”

Carey kept his face impassive as he listened, but his mind was running at lightning speed.
Wahr
was the Loafer word
for tree, and
bresh
their word for that quality that distinguished the animate from the inanimate, or the dead from the living. They were calling them the tree-that-lives, or life-tree.

“We have considered whether or not this should be done, and do not think it would solve the problem,” said Carey. “These trees have put out long roots, running for many man-lengths under the ground. These roots have reached the fields where the peanut grows and strangled the young plants, causing them to die before bearing. This is an evil thing and must be stopped, for the farmers must grow peanuts to eat. I would ask why the tribe-that-grows-its-own-homes has kept a sacred watch over the short trees you call breshwahr. To me it appears much as any other tree, save that its roots grow at great speed.”

The black-haired younger Councillor leapt to his feet, his face angry. “The breshwahr are not as other trees!” he declared loudly. “Only in this valley does the breshwahr grow, and even here, where we protect and cherish it, the number of young sprouts grows fewer each year. Someday we will find the ills that plague it, and it will grow tall and strong like the kanna, and it shall be the friend of the Loafers.”

“Why do the Loafers wish to be the friend of the breshwahr?” asked Timmy.

“Because it is a very wise tree, wise with the wisdom of ages, and can teach us many things.”

“What can a tree teach people who know as much about plants as you?” asked Carey. The black-haired Councillor only smiled and sat down again without speaking.

“I will answer for Brixta,” said the quavering voice of the old man. “The breshwahr speaks, and to him who has the ear to listen it tells many things. It was the sacred breshwahr which taught us how to grow our houses, and how to find our food. It has been our friend in time of need, and we are a friend to it. It is the tree-of-life, and we live in its shade. There is no more to be said.”

“But—” Carey stopped, knowing it was useless. A Loafer
never argued, and most of their conversation consisted of flat statements. The talks were at an end.

“Let us go, Carey,” said Timmy urgently, before Carey should forget his manners again.

Carey sighed, more in vexation than anger, and went through the ritual of thanking his hosts for their hospitality and for the help they had not given. He promised that the matter of turning back to them the land on which the breshwahr stood would be duly considered, and then they took their leave.

“What do you make of it?” Carey asked as they rode back to Harper’s house.

“There is some quality about the trees, themselves which we have not grasped or understood,” said Timmy thoughtfully. “Let us get Doreen and return to the first breshwahr. I want to see it again.”

Carey shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment and followed his friend through the woods. Sometimes Timmy could be exasperating.

They left the horses with Harper, refusing his offer to accompany them, and headed for the sacred grove. Timmy’s face began to mirror strain as they left the edge of the ploughed land and entered the woods, but he kept going. Doreen, all wide-eyed attention, was feeling it also. Her hand crept under Carey’s arm and held tightly as they walked. Carey kept his attention on the ground before him, doggedly refusing to receive or project. And he felt nothing of what was gripping Timmy and Doreen.

They stopped before the short, heavy tree, standing in serene ugliness among its slender and beautiful kanna neighbours, and for a moment Timmy simply stood and regarded it with grave eyes. Then he lay down on the heavy grass, closed his eyes and said, “Carey, I am going to try to make contact. I don’t know what I’ll find. You may have to … come in after me. I think it best you do not try a contact unless you must do so to reach me.”

“As my friend thinks wise,” said Carey, and sat down by his side. Doreen sat opposite him.

Timmy took several deep breaths, and then his breathing
grew shallow and long. He seemed to fall asleep almost immediately, and the lines of strain faded from his face. A minute passed, another; his body stiffened as though shocked, the muscles contracting into bunched knots, his whole posture rigid and hard. He had made contact with some unexpected form of life.

Timmy’s mouth opened and he made a wordless sound. Carey swiftly stretched out beside him and reached for his clenched hand. Before he could project himself and go after Timmy the young Loafer’s body began to relax and the rigidity in his muscles eased. His expression fell into its natural lines and he said in a low, blurred voice,
No … Stay out, Carey … Well.

Slowly Carey relaxed, though he continued to hold Timmy’s hand. A moment passed. Doreen, watching with eager alertness, saw Timmy’s mouth pucker twice and then faint words came.
I … found them … all around us … old … old …
the voice faded and for a moment there was quiet, and then Timmy seemed to gain an equilibrium between projection and communicating through his body and the words came more freely.
The breshwahr, Carey … alive … awareness … intelligence! But slow, so slow … like a great underwater stream … immense minds … seeking, always seeking … only the valley Loafers … and now the food is here! The food of awareness … the salts … white crystals …
the voice dimmed and faded out. The hand Carey was gripping tightened and then relaxed, and Timmy opened his eyes.

Timmy had been in contact less than five minutes, but his face showed tiredness. He struggled erect, and Carey braced him with an arm around his shoulders. The young Loafer breathed deeply, regaining his strength, and then rose to his feet, staggering a little but able to walk. “Let us return to the house,” he said in a subdued voice.

Doreen stepped to his other side and attempted to support him, but Timmy smiled his thanks and walked without assistance. By the time they reached the edge of the ploughed land he was almost normal.

Carey and Doreen refrained from questioning him until
they were seated in Harper’s house and had cups of coffee in their hands. Timmy was broodingly silent, lost within himself. Sam Harper and Cassie waited expectantly, and finally Timmy stirred and raised his eyes. “The breshwahr trees in this valley are alive,” he said to the Harpers. “There is a salt of a special kind, very rare on this planet, that was once abundant in this valley. Because it was here, the trees that could reach it, over a period of many thousands of years, developed that quality you call intelligence. All breshwahr develop awareness, given enough time, but they must be provided with this salt. The aware-trees have not grown in intelligence for hundreds of years, for they long ago drained the last of this salt from the earth. Then you farmers came, and you planted a crop new to the valley, and there was salt in the ground once more.”

Carey felt his respect for Sam Harper rise as he saw him blink once at the news that he had intelligent trees on his farm, and then accept it as a fact.

“For more generations than can be remembered the Loafers in this valley have known of the trees. They have protected them from all harm, taking it upon themselves as a sacred trust to preserve the life of the only intelligent plants on Refuge. In turn the trees have taught them what they know of growing things, which is why these Loafers have such a complete control of plants. Yet the situation was dead, unmoving, until you strangers came. Now, with the salt you have put into the ground the breshwahr can continue to grow in intelligence, both as individuals and from generation to generation. And they must have these salts, or in the years to come their awareness will fade away. They are not deliberately harming the young plants in your fields. But when they draw all these salts out of the ground the plants wither and fall sick, and soon die.”

“And what are these salts?” asked Carey.

“My friend, I do not know. Nor can they give them a name. We only know there is little of it on Refuge. Either you brought it from Earth yourselves or your plants make it as they grow.”

“The fertilizer!” Sam Harper was on his feet, his face
excited. “C.G. furnished me with four tons of superphosphate and their handbook recommended I dust the land with it before planting. It has to be something in the fertilizer!”

“It couldn’t be rock phosphate,” said Carey puzzled. “That’s so common here we grind it ourselves and make our own fertilizer.”

Doreen bounced to her feet. “But we don’t know all that they put into it, Carey. They might be adding something from Earth that isn’t here on Refuge at all.”

Carey rose also. “There’s a quick and easy way to find out. I’ll take the flitter into town and check at the plant. Who wants to go with me?”

Before anyone could volunteer there: was a sudden urgent pounding on the door and Willy Miller entered without waiting for an invitation. His face was as red as his hair from excitement and exertion. “It’s Kronstadt,” he said rapidly. “He’s got the saw blade on his tractor and is headed for those trees near his land. I tried to stop him but he wouldn’t listen to me. And I saw four Loafers coming down the valley at a run, heading in that direction. There’s going to be trouble.”

“Not if we can stop it!” Carey was on his feet, his face angry. To be so close to a solution, and have some fool like Kronstadt foul it up at the last minute! “I’m semi-officially representing C.G. I’ll restrain him forcibly if necessary.”

“But the fertilizer!” said Doreen, and then added immediately, “I’ll go.”

Doreen was studying chemistry and could probably find the vital salt as easily as Carey, but she had never handled a flitter. “Someone will have to fly you, Sis,” he said, sweeping the small group with his eyes. He would need Timmy to help soothe the Loafers, and Willy Miller was an unknown quantity. Cassie was obviously out.

“I’ll go with her,” volunteered Harper, as Carey’s gaze settled on him. “I think I can manage the flitter.”

Carey hesitated a moment, then yielded to the sense of trust the big man inspired and nodded. “Fine. Then let’s get going.”

Carey and Timmy took Harper’s tractor and followed Willy Miller at a breakneck pace across the rough ground.
The red-haired little man led them parallel to the river for a half-mile, past the last of Harper’s fields, then swung into the woods. They heard the high singing of the power saw as they entered the cool green shade.

Willy Miller drove like a maniac, weaving the big vehicle in and out among the tree trunks. They reached the scene of destruction in a few seconds. A huge old breshwahr, a thick-trunked parent of many thousands of seedlings, had at last met its end. Kronstadt was finishing his second cut as they came up and the great bushy top was leaning in the direction of the guide cut. As Carey dismounted from the tractor the great tree tilted further yet, and then with a crash that shook the forest it fell. From the jagged stump, and from the massive trunk lying in mute agony on the ground, oozed several gallons of a thin yellow-green fluid, like anaemic blood.

It is dying … the last agony …
whispered a pain-filled voice, and Carey turned in time to support Timmy. The young Loafer’s face was twisted in sorrow and hurt, and there were tears in his eyes.

And now a great cry … from all breshwahr … the Loafers hear … they come … they are here,
and Timmy straightened up and broke the painful contact with the dying tree. Seconds later four silent figures emerged from the heavy woods and stood looking accusingly at the intruders from Earth. They were led by the black-haired Brixta, whom they had met at the Council meeting.

Kronstadt dismounted from the high tractor seat and walked towards them, his face defiant. Behind him the bright saw blade, extending ahead of the tractor on a mechanical arm, hummed slightly as it spun at several thousand r.p.m. He had neglected to turn it off.

There was cold, controlled anger on Brixta’s face as he walked up to the farmers. He stopped in front of Carey and gestured at the fallen giant, and then Kronstadt. “A life has been taken, and punishment must be given,” he said in the flowing Loafer tongue. Before Carey could speak he gestured again and Kronstadt stiffened as though shocked. A look of startled fear crossed his bearded features, and then they grew
slack and uncontrolled as he waged a terrible internal struggle. Carey glanced at the three Loafers at the edge of the woods and saw that all three had their eyes closed.