Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [119]
‘See the lights?’ Dathka said.
There was tension in his voice. She fought with herself, terrified by the lust that flooded her. Should he lay a finger on her, this silent man, she would fall into his arms, would rip away her furs, strip herself naked, fall copulating with him in the dark subterranean bed. Obscenely delightful images filled her.
‘I want to go up again,’ she said, forcing the words from her throat.
‘Don’t be scared. Look at the lights.’
In a daze, she looked about, still catching his scent. She was staring into the second branch down from the surface. There spots of light, starlike – galaxies of red stars, imprisoned in the tree.
He shuffled in front of her, eclipsing constellations with his shoulder. He thrust something pillowlike into her arms. It was light, covered with what she took for coir, as stiff as the hairs of a stungebag. Its star eyes looked unwinkingly up at her. In her confused state she did not identify it.
‘What is it?’
For answer – perhaps he felt her desire after all; but could he make no stronger response, if so? – Dathka stroked her face with a clumsy tenderness.
‘Oh, Dathka,’ she sighed. Trembling took her, beginning from the viscera and spreading through her eddre. She could not control herself.
‘We’ll take it up. Don’t be scared.’
The black-haired pigs were scuttling among the brassimip leaves as they emerged into daylight. The world seemed blindingly bright, the ring of axes intolerably loud, the scent of jassiklas unduly strong.
Vry sank down and listlessly regarded the small crystalline animal she held. It was in a state like the phagor’s tether, curled into a ball with its nose tucked into its tail, its four legs folded neatly into its stomach. It was immobile, and felt as if made of glass. She could not uncurl it. Its eyes fixed her with a remote gaze, unwinking between immobile lids. Through its dusty grey coat, striations of faded colour showed.
In some way, she hated it, as she hated him – so insensitive to a woman’s feelings that he had mistaken her trembling for the vibrations of fear. Yet she was grateful that his stupidity had prevented her from certain disgrace, grateful and resentful.
‘It’s a glossy,’ Dathka said, squatting by her, looking aslant into her face as if puzzled.
‘A gossie?’ For a moment she wondered if he was trying to be uncharacteristically funny.
‘A glossy. They hibernate in the brassimips, where it’s warm. Take it home.’
‘Shay Tal and I have seen them west of the river. Hoxneys. That’s what they’re called when they emerge from hibernation.’ And what would Shay Tal have thought if …
‘Take it,’ he repeated. ‘A present from me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, with contempt. She rose, emotions in place again.
She found she had blood on her cheek, where he had stroked her with his cut hand.
The slaves were still hacking away at the monstrous carcass. Laintal Ay had arrived, and was talking to Tanth Ein and Aoz Roon. The latter summoned Dathka vigorously, waving his hand over his head in command. With a resigned look of farewell to Vry, Dathka made off towards the Lord of Embruddock.
The busy things men did were nothing to her. She tucked the glossy between her arm and her shallow bosom and turned downhill towards the distant towers.
When she heard the sound of someone running to catch her up, she said to herself, Well, he’s too late now, but it was Laintal Ay.
‘I’ll walk down with you, Vry,’ he said. As she remarked, he seemed in a carefree mood.
‘I thought you were having trouble with Aoz Roon.’
‘Oh, he’s always a bit touchy after a brush with Shay Tal. He’s a great man, really. I’m pleased about the stungebag, too. Now that the weather is warming up, they’re harder to find.’
The children were still romping by the geysers. Laintal Ay admired her glossy, and burst into a snatch of hunter’s song:
‘The glossies that sleep
When the snowdrifts are deep
Will wake up to eddre-filling rain,