Land and Overland Omnibus

CHAPTER 5



The dream had returned many times during the night, taking Bartan Drumme back to the day of his airboat flight.

He had just tethered the boat and was walking towards the whitewashed farmhouse. An inner voice was shrieking at him, warning him not to enter the house, but although he was afraid he was unable to turn back. He unlatched the green door and pushed it open—and the creature was waiting inside, gently reaching for him with its single tentacle. As had happened in reality, he sprang backwards and fell, and when he looked again the monster had been transformed into a conglomerate of old clothes hanging on a wallhook. Where the dream differed from the reality was that the apron continued to beckon him, languorously, in a manner which could not have been caused by transient air currents, and somehow that struck more fear into him than the confrontation with the monster itself…

At that point Bartan had always awakened with a moan of alarm, relieved to find himself back in the normal night-time world, but each time he had recaptured sleep the dream had begun again. Consequently, he had welcomed the return of daylight, even though he had risen with a lingering tiredness in his system. He had claimed an entire section on his own behalf, as Jop Trinchil had wanted him to do, and was working himself to exhaustion every day in an effort to get the place ready for Sondeweere's arrival.

Now, as he drove his refurbished wagon towards the Phoratere section, the contrast between the sunlit ambience of the morning and the terrors of darkness was invigorating him, dispelling all traces of weariness from his limbs.

There had been rain during the night and as a result the air was soft, thick and sweet. The mere act of breathing it was subtly thrilling and evocative as though it were wafting around him from out of those years in which he had been a dreamy-eyed child who perceived the future as little more than a shifting aureate glow. And what added a psychic sparkle to the surroundings was the realisation that the instinctive optimism of his boyhood had been fully justified.

Life was good!

Keeping the bluehorn moving at a leisurely pace, Bartan reviewed the various circumstances which were conspiring to make this a special day in a special time. There had been the news from the reeve, Majin Karrodall, that all the expedition's claims had been registered and approved in the provincial capital. The farmers, who had been happy to take over ready-made buildings and cleared land, now regarded Bartan as a benefactor. Jop Trinchil had set a date, only twenty days away, for Sondeweere's wedding. And, finally, there was the prospect of the festive gathering—to celebrate the ratification of the claims—at which there would be many kinds of food and drink, and dancing far into the night.

The revel was not due to begin at a set time, but would gradually accrete during the day as family groups made their way in from outlying sections. Bartan was going exceptionally early in the hope that Sondeweere would do the same, thus giving him some extra hours in her company. He had not seen her for at least twelve days, and he was hungry for the sight of her face, the sound of her voice and the dizzying feel of her body against his own.

The thought that she might already be at the Phoratere farm prompted him to urge the bluehorn to a faster pace. He soon reached the top of a shallow dome, from which he was able to see many miles ahead, and the pastoral serenity of the view accorded with his mood. The night's rain had deepened the blue of the sky, as was evidenced by the fact that he could discern several whirlpools of light in addition to a generous sprinkling of daytime stars. Below the horizon were sweeps and swathes of grassland in which the only perceptible movements were occasional reflections from near-invisible ptertha drifting on the breeze. In the middle distance, fringed by striated fields, were the buildings of the Phorateres' farm, visible as tiny rectangles of white and grey. Harro and Ennda Phoratere had volunteered the use of their place because it was one of the most central.

Bartan began to whistle as the wagon rolled more easily on the downward slope, following the parallel ruts of the track. When he neared the main farmhouse he saw that several wagons were standing by the stable, but Trinchil's—in which Sondeweere would have travelled—was not among them. It was likely that those which had arrived so early belonged to families whose female members were helping with the preparations for the party. A long table had been set up and a number of men and women were standing near it, apparently deep in discussion. Children of various ages were at play in the vicinity, producing a cheerful hubbub of laughs and screams, but as Bartan halted near the stable he received the impression that something was troubling the adults.

"Hello, Bartan—you are early." Only one of the farmers—a ruddy-cheeked young man with spiky straw-like hair—had left the group to greet Bartan.

"Hello … Crain." Bartan named the man with some difficulty because the Phorateres were a large family, with several cousins of similar age and appearance. "Am I too early? Should I depart and return later?"

"No, it's all right. It's just that … something has happened. It has taken the wind out of our sails a bit."

"Something serious?"

Crain looked embarrassed. "Please go into the house. Harro needs to see you. We were on the point of sending a rider to fetch you when we saw your wagon coming over the rise." He turned and walked away before Bartan could question him any further.

Bartan walked to the farmhouse's front entrance with growing curiosity. Harro Phoratere was the head of the family—a reserved and taciturn forty-year-old who had not warmed to Bartan as much as the other members of the community. The fact that he had invited Bartan into his home was unusual in itself, a hint that something extraordinary had occurred. Bartan tapped the planked door and went inside, to find himself in a large square kitchen. Harro was standing by an inner door which probably led to a bedroom. He had a cloth pressed to his right cheek and his face was devoid of the high colouring which was a family characteristic.

"There you are, Bartan," he said in a subdued voice. "I'm glad you came early—I'm sorely in need of your help. I know I haven't shown you much cordiality in the past, but…"

"Put that out of your mind," Bartan said, starting forward. "Only tell me what I can do for you."

"Speak quietly!" Harro said, putting a finger vertically to his lips. "Those wondrously fine little tools that you showed us … the ones you use for repairing jewellery … have you brought them today?"

Bartan's puzzlement increased. "Yes, I always keep some by me. They are in my wagon."

"Could you unlock this door? Even with the key still in the lock on the other side?"

Bartan examined the door. It was unusually well crafted to be in a farm dwelling, and its having a lock instead of a latch was an indication that the original builder of the house had had gentlemanly aspirations. The shape of the keyhole, however, indicated that the lock itself was of the simplest and cheapest warded pattern.

"An easy enough task," Bartan whispered. "Is your wife in that room? I hope she isn't ill."

"Ennda is in there, all right, and I fear she has gone mad. That's why I didn't break the door down. She screams when I so much as touch the handle."

Bartan remembered Ennda Phoratere as a handsome, well-made woman in her late thirties, better educated and more articulate than the other farmers' wives. She was eminently practical, with a good sense of humour, and probably the last person in the community he would have expected to fall prey to fevers of the mind.

"Why do you think she is mad?" he said.

"It started during the night. I woke up and found Ennda pressing herself against me, working herself against me. Intimately, you understand. Moaning she was, and insistent—so I obliged. To tell you the truth, I had little choice in the matter." Harro paused and gave Bartan a hard look. "This is between us, you understand."

"Of course," Bartan said. He had noticed before that, while being fond of using vulgar sexual references in everyday speech, the farming people tended to be reticent about their own personal relationships.

Harro nodded. "Well, at the height of it all she … bit me."

"But…" Bartan hesitated, wondering how much difference there could be between the urban and the rural experience of passion. "It's not uncommon for lovers to…"

"Like this?" Harro said, removing the cloth from his cheek.

Bartan flinched as he saw the wound on the other man's face. There were two curving incisions in the shape of an open mouth, their ends so close that it was obvious that a substantial piece of flesh had almost been torn out of Harro's cheek. The edges of the incisions had been drawn together with a cross-stitching of black thread, but blood was still oozing in places despite a generous dusting of powdered pepperbloom, a traditional Kolcorronian coagulant. The skin surrounding the wound was darkly bruised, and it was evident that Harro would be scarred for life.

"I'm sorry," Bartan mumbled. "I had no idea."

Harro covered his cheek again. "Next thing Ennda was attacking me, beating me about the head with her fists, screaming at me to get out of the room. I was so confounded that I was out of the room before I knew what was happening. Ennda locked the door. For a while she kept screaming something … it sounded like, 'Not a dream, not a dream' … then she fell silent and has been that way for hours. Except when anyone tries the lock, that is—then she starts it again. I'm worried about her, Bartan. I must reach her in case she does some mischief to herself. She sounded so … so…"

"Wait here!" Bartan went to the front entrance and, ignoring the questioning glances of the group by the long table, walked quickly to his wagon. He opened its toolbox and was withdrawing the roll of jeweller's instruments when Crain Phoratere arrived at his side.

"Can you do it?" Crain said. "Can you manage the door?"

"I believe so."

"Good man, Bartan! When the screaming started we ran here from the sidehouses and found him naked and covered with blood. We put some clothes on him and stitched the wound, then he cleared the house. He refuses to speak to anyone—ashamed, perhaps—and we don't know whether to let the revel continue or not. Perhaps it would be unseemly."

"We'll see how she is when we get into the bedroom," Bartan said, hurrying back to the house. "Stay close by and I'll call you if we need assistance."

"Good man, Bartan!" Crain said fervently.

In the house Bartan found Harro still waiting by the bedroom door. Bartan knelt beside him and examined the keyhole closely, satisfying himself that the lock could be successfully manipulated. He selected the instrument best suited for his purpose and looked up at Harro.

"I have to do this quickly in case she guesses what is happening," he said. "Please be ready to go in immediately."

Harro nodded. Bartan turned the key with a single twist and moved aside as Harro brushed by him and into the room beyond. In the half-light from the doorway and the shuttered window he saw Ennda Phoratere standing in the far corner, back pressed to the wall. Her black hair was in wild disarray around a face that was dehumanised by the white-corona'd eyes and the blood caked on her chin. Brownish stains dappled the upper part of her nightdress.

"Who are you?" she shrilled at Harro. "Stay away! Don't come near me!"

"Ennda!" Harro darted forward and seized his wife despite the flailings of her arms as she tried to fight him off. "Don't you know me? I only want to help you. Please, Ennda."

"You can't be Harro! You…" She broke off, staring into his face, and pressed a hand to her mouth. "Harro? Harro?"

"You had a nightmare, but it's over. It's all over, dear one." Harro drew his wife towards the bed and made her sit down, at the same time nodding meaningfully towards the window for Bartan to take heed. Bartan went forward and opened the shutters, expanding a central sliver of brilliance into a wash of sunlight. Ennda looked all around the room, mistrustfully, before turning to her husband.

"But your face! Look what I did to your poor face!" She gave the most anguished sob Bartan had ever heard, lowered her head and—on seeing the bloodstains on her nightdress—began to tear at the thin cotton material.

"I'll fetch some water," Bartan said hastily, leaving the room. He saw Crain Phoratere standing just beyond the front entrance and made a pushing gesture against the air to warn him to remain outside for the time being. His glance around the kitchen located a green glass ewer and basin on a sideboard. He poured some water into the basin, gathered up a washcloth, soap and towel, taking as much time as possible over the operation, and returned to the bedroom door. Ennda's nightdress was lying on the floor and she was swaddled in a sheet taken from the bed.

"It's all right, lad," Harro said. "Come in."

Bartan entered the room and held the basin while Harro cleaned and dried blood from his wife's face. With the disappearance of the scaly disfigurement Harro showed an uplift in his spirits, reminding Bartan that some nursing procedures were as much for the benefit of the caring as the cared for. He too began to feel a sense of relief, though with a twinge of conscience over his own selfishness—his special day had been threatened, but the threat was lifting. Ennda Phoratere had had a very bad dream, with unfortunate consequences, but life was now settling back into its pleasant routine and soon he would be dancing with Sondeweere, belly to belly, thigh to thigh…

"That's better," Harro said, dabbing his wife's face with the towel. "It was only a nightmare, and now we can forget all about it and…"

"It wasn't a nightmare!" Her voice had a thin, wailing quality which somehow checked Bartan's rising tide of optimism. "It was real!"

"It can't have been real," Harro said reasonably.

"What about your face?" Ennda began to rock gently backwards and forwards. "It wasn't like a dream. It seemed real, and it seemed to go on for ever … for ever and ever…"

Harro tried being jocular. "It can't have been worse than some of the dreams I have had, especially after a supper of your suet cakes."

"I was eating your face." Ennda gave her husband a calm, dreadful smile. "I didn't just bite your cheek, Harro—I ate up all of your face, and it took hours. I bit off your lips and chewed them up. I pulled your nostrils off with my teeth and chewed them up. I gnawed the front off your eyeballs and sucked the fluid out of them. When I had finished with you, you had no face left … nothing at all … not even ears…

"There was just a red skull with some hair on top. That's what I was doing to you during the night, Harro, my beloved—so do not try to tell me about your nightmares."

"It's all over now," Harro said uneasily.

"Is that what you think?" Ennda began to rock more vigorously, as though driven by an invisible engine. "There was more, you know. I haven't told you about the dark tunnel … crawling under the ground in the dark tunnel … with all the flat, scaly bodies pressing on me…"

"I think it would be better if I left," Bartan said, turning towards the door with the basin.

"No, don't go, lad." Harro raised a hand to detain Bartan. "She's better with company."

"…they had many legs—and I was the same… I had many legs … and a trunk … a tentacle … growing out of my throat…" Ennda suddenly ceased rocking, tucked her right shoulder under her chin and extended her arm forwards. It made a gentle, boneless rippling movement which was mimicked by something in the deeps of Bartan's consciousness, making him unaccountably afraid.

"Well, I'll just put the basin away," he said, feeling like a traitor, knowing that he intended to get out of the house and leave the two unfortunates to deal with their own problems, none of which had anything to do with him. He evaded Harro's hand, walked briskly into the kitchen and set the slopping basin down on the sideboard. He turned and was on his way to the bright sanity of the front entrance when he was snared by Ennda's psychic web. She had risen to her feet, unmindful that the sheet was slipping down her torso, and could have been performing a strange new dance, her arm snaking and wafting before her.

"It began oddly," she murmured. "Very oddly indeed, and it's wrong to call it a beginning because I kept going back to the house. It was an ordinary farmhouse … whitewashed, green door … but I was afraid to go in … and yet I had to go in…

"When I opened the green door there was nothing there but some old clothes hanging on a hook on the wall … an old hat, an old cloak, an old apron … I knew I should have run away at that stage, while I was still safe, but something made me go in…"

Bartan halted at the bedroom door, chilled.

Ennda looked straight at him, through him. "You see, I was wrong. There weren't any old clothes. It was one of them … that tentacle reaching towards me … ever so gently…"

Harro closed with his wife and gripped her shoulders. "Stop this, Ennda. Stop it!"

"But you don't understand." She smiled again, her arm coiling around his neck as the sheet dropped to the floor. "I wasn't being attacked, dear one … it was an invitation … an invitation to love … and I wanted it. I went into the house and I embraced the horror … and I was happy when I felt its pale grey penis entering me…"

Ennda surged against Harro, her naked buttocks pumping and contracting. With one imploring glance towards Bartan, Harro used his weight and size to force his wife down on to the bed. Bartan stepped into the room, slammed the door behind him and threw himself down against the couple, helping to imprison Ennda's threshing limbs. Her teeth clicked as she bit the air and her pelvis drove upwards again and again, but now with diminishing power. Her eyelids were drooping wearily, peace was returning to her body. Bartan took the initiative and covered her, using the sheet that had fallen to the floor, but his mind was elsewhere, wandering in a strange continuum of doubt and confusion.

Could coincidence ever be stretched far enough to explain two people dreaming the same thing at the same time? Perhaps, if the subject were a very commonplace one, but not when … And at first mine was not a dream! Bartan's brow prickled coldly as he remembered that he had been to the house and had walked through the green door in actuality. But in reality his monster had been a delusion, and in Ennda's delusion her monster had been a reality. The universe does not work this way, Bartan told himself. Something has gone wrong with the universe…

"She looks better now," Harro whispered, stroking his wife's brow. "Perhaps a couple of hours of proper sleep is all she needs. In fact, I know that is what she needs."

Bartan stood up, trying to anchor his thoughts in the solid present. "What of the celebration? Are you going to send everybody away?"

"I want them all to remain here. It will be best if Ennda has her friends around her when she awakes." Harro got to his feet and faced Bartan across the bed. "There's no need to talk too much about all this, is there, lad? I don't want people to think she has gone mad—especially Jop."

"I won't say anything."

"I'm grateful to you," Harro said, leaning forwards to shake Bartan's hand. "Jop has no time for all this talk of dreams and nightmares that we've had of late. He says that if people worked as hard as they ought they would be too tired to dream at night."

Bartan forced a smile. Were other members of the community having bad dreams? Was this what Reeve Karrodall had foretold? Could this be only the beginning, the beginning of something terrible, something which could drive the new wave of settlers away—as had happened to their predecessors?

"When I lay my head down at the end of the day," he said ruefully, pushing aside his memories of the night's disturbing dream, "I experience a small death. There is nothing until daybreak."

"Anybody who tried to start off a whole section on his own is entitled to be exhausted, more so somebody who wasn't brought up to this work."

"I get some help from the neighbours," Bartan said, eager to talk of commonplace things while he strove to come to terms with his new internal picture of the world. "And after I'm married there will be…"

"I must put a bandage on my war wound," Harro interrupted, gingerly prodding his cheek. "You go outside and say I want to know why they are all standing around with both arms the same length instead of preparing for the festivities. Tell them this is to be a day to remember."

News had come that Jop Trinchil and his family would not be arriving until near the middle of the day, so Bartan passed the time by joining in where he could with the various preparations going on around the farm. His efforts were received with good humour, but the women soon made it clear to him that he was hindering rather than helping, especially as he was abstracted and prone to error. He withdrew to a bench facing the kitchen orchard, where several men were already sunning themselves and sharing a jug of green wine.

"That's right, lad," Corad Furcher said companionably, handing Bartan a full cup. "Leave the women to get on with it by themselves." He was a middle-aged man whose yellowish hair betokened a blood relationship with the Phorateres.

"Thanks." Bartan sipped the sweet liquid. "It's all confused back there, and I did seem to be getting in the way a little."

"There's the source of the trouble, up there." Furcher made a gesture which took in the clear blue dome of the sky. "The onset of littlenight was the obvious time to begin a revel when we lived on the Old World, but here the sun goes on shining and shining and shining, and you can't regulate yourself properly. It isn't natural, you know, this living on the outside. I'm as loyal as the next man, but I still say King Chakkell was interfering with the right way of things when he scattered us all around the globe. Look at that sky! Empty! It makes me feel I'm being watched all the time."

The men farther along the bench nodded in agreement and began a discussion about the disadvantages of being on the hemisphere of Overland which was permanently turned away from the sister planet. Some of the theories they put forward about the effects of the uninterrupted day on crop growth and animal behaviour sounded highly dubious to Bartan. He found himself longing for Sondeweere's company more than ever, and in between times wrestling with the problem posed by Ennda Phoratere's terrible nightmare. Coincidence had to be ruled out, but perhaps the key to the mystery lay in the very nature of dreams. Was it possible, as some claimed, that the mind roved out from the body during the hours of sleep? If it were, then perhaps two discarnate personalities could meet by chance and commune briefly in the darkness, influencing each other's dreams.

Bartan was reluctant to abandon his vision of a perfectly happy future, and the new idea seemed to offer its salvation. As the strong wine began to do its work he began to see the episode as rare and unpleasant but perfectly explicable, a manifestation of some of nature's complexities and subtleties. The resurgence of his optimism was aided by the sight of Ennda emerging from the main house and taking part in the seemingly endless preparations for the forthcoming party. She was a little sheepish at first, but soon she was laughing with those around her, and the message for Bartan was that the black humours of the night were dispersed and forgotten. The day would be all the more joyful in comparison.

He was unaccustomed to drinking wine, and by the time the Trinchil wagon appeared in the distance he had reached a state of lightheaded euphoria, an enhancement of the one he had known in the early part of the day. His first impulse was to go out and meet Sondeweere, but it was superseded by a playful desire to surprise her with a sudden appearance. He went to where the other farmers had parked, stationed himself between two of the tall vehicles and waited until the new arrivals had rolled to a halt close by. There were more than a dozen of the Trinchil family on the wagon, and the noise level in the area increased sharply as they spilled over its sides, the children vying with the adults in the calling out of greetings to friends. In spite of his bulk, Jop Trinchil was first to reach the ground. He strode off immediately towards the laden tables, obviously in a boisterous mood, leaving the women to supervise the unloading of infants and some small hampers.

Bartan was enchanted to see Sondeweere wearing her best dress, a pale green tailored garment with an olive filigree pattern, which complemented her fair coloration and reaffirmed his impression of her as being in a class apart from all the other women of the community. She was the last to quit the wagon, languorously rising to her feet in a kind of voluptuous slow-motion shimmy which set Bartan's heart racing.

He was about to go forward when he saw that one of Jop's sons—a precociously muscular seventeen-year-old named Glave—was waiting by the wagon with arms upraised to help Sondeweere descend. She smiled down at him and swung her legs over the side, permitting him to encircle her waist with his large hands. He took her weight easily and lowered her to the ground in a deliberate manner which brought their bodies close together. Sondeweere gave no sign of being offended. She allowed the intimate contact to continue for several seconds, all the while gazing into Glave's eyes, then shook her head slightly. Glave released her immediately, said something Bartan was unable to hear and loped away in the wake of the rest of his family.

Annoyed, Bartan left his place of concealment and approached Sondeweere. "Welcome to the party," he said, quite certain in his mind that she would be disconcerted to learn that she had been under observation.

"Bartan!" Smiling brilliantly, she ran to him, threw her arms around his waist and nuzzled against his chest. "It seems years since I've seen you."

"Does it?" he said, refusing to return the embrace. "Haven't you found a way to make the time pass quickly? And pleasantly at that?"

"Of course not!" Becoming aware of the rigidness of his body, she stepped back to look at him. "Bartan! What are you saying?"

"I saw you with Glave."

Sondeweere's jaw sagged for a moment before she began to laugh. "Bartan, Glave is just a boy! And he's my cousin."

"Full cousin? By blood?"

"That doesn't come into it—you have no reason to be jealous." Sondeweere raised her left hand and tapped the brakka ring on the sixth finger. "I wear this at all times, my love."

"That doesn't prove…" Bartan's throat closed painfully, preventing him from finishing the sentence.

"Why are we behaving like strangers?" Sondeweere fixed Bartan with a soft but purposeful stare and embraced him again, this time putting her arms around his neck and drawing his face down to meet hers. He had never been to bed with her, but before the kiss was over he had a fair idea of what the experience would be like and all thoughts of rivalry, or indeed of anything, had flown from his mind. He responded hungrily until she had broken away from him.

"Labouring in the field is making you very strong," she whispered. "I see I will have to be careful with you and grow a plentiful crop of maidenfriend."

Flattered and uplifted, he said, "Don't you want to have children?"

"Lots of them, but not too soon—we have much work to do first."

"We'll have no talk of work for the remainder of the day." Bartan linked arms with Sondeweere and drew her away from the farm buildings towards the sunlit peacefulness of the open land, where crops in different stages of maturation glowed in strips which narrowed into the distance. They walked together for a good hour, enjoying each other's presence, passing the time with lovers' Smalltalk and counting the meteors which occasionally scribed silver lines across the sky. Bartan would have liked to keep Sondeweere to himself until nightfall, but he gave in with good grace when she decided to return to the others for the start of the dancing.

By the time they had reached the main farmhouse Bartan was thirsty. Feeling it would be prudent not to have more wine, he joined the men clustered around the ale barrels in search of a less heady brew. He fended off the expected ribaldry about what he had been doing while absent with Sondeweere, and emerged from the group with a heavy pot of ale in his hand. Three fiddlers had begun to play in the shade of the barn and several young women—Sondeweere among them—had joined hands and were opening the first of the set dances.

Bartan looked on in a mood of utter contentment, taking small but regular sips of his drink, as some male farmers overcame their self-consciousness and gradually swelled the ranks of the dancers. He finished his ale, set the pot on a nearby table, and had taken one step towards Sondeweere when his attention was caught by a group of small children at play on a grassy patch near the kitchen orchard. All were aged about three or four and were moving in a circle, silently absorbed, performing a dance of their own to a slower rhythm than that of the adults' music. Their chins were tucked down into hunched right shoulders, and their right arms were extended in front, gently wafting and undulating like so many snakes.

The movements were strangely inhuman, strangely unappealing—and exactly simulated those with which Ennda Phoratere had acted out the obscene horrors of her nightmare.

Bartan turned away from the children, frowning, suddenly feeling isolated from the merriment and innocence of his neighbours.