Hothouse - Brian Aldiss [44]
‘Hit her and then she may speak,’ twanged the silent voice of the morel.
‘But that will make her more fearful.’
‘It may loosen her tongue. Hit her face, on that cheek you seem to admire – ’
‘Even though she is causing me no danger?’
‘You silly creature, why can you never use all of your brain at once? She causes us all danger by delaying us.’
‘I suppose she does. I never thought of that. You think deep, morel, that I must admit.’
‘Then do as I say and hit her.’
Gren raised his hand hesitantly. Morel twitched at his muscles. The hand came down violently across Yattmur’s cheek, jerking her head. Poyly winced and looked questioningly at her mate.
‘You foul creature! My tribe will kill you,’ Yattmur threatened, showing her teeth at them.
His eyes gleaming, Gren raised his hand again.
‘Do you want another blow? Tell us where you live.’
The girl struggled ineffectually.
‘I am only a herder. You do wrong to harm me if you are of my kind. What harm did I do you? I was only gathering fruit.’
‘We need answers to questions. You will not be hurt if you answer our questions.’ Again his hand came up, and this time she surrendered.
‘I am a herder – I herd the jumpvils. It is not my job to fight or to answer questions. I can take you to my tribe if you wish.’
‘Tell us where your tribe is.’
‘It lives on the Skirt of the Black Mouth, which is only a small way from here. We are peaceful people. We don’t jump out of the sky on to other humans.’
‘The Skirt of the Black Mouth? Will you take us there?’
‘Do you mean us harm?’
‘We mean no harm to anyone. Besides you can see there are only two of us. Why should you be afraid?’
Yattmur put on a sullen face, as if she doubted his words.
‘You must let me up then, and set my arms free. My people shall not see me with tied hands. I will not run away from you.’
‘My sword through your side if you do,’ Gren said.
‘You are learning,’ the morel said with approval.
Poyly released Yattmur from her bonds. The girl smoothed her hair, rubbed her wrists, and began to climb among the silent leaves, her two captors following close. They exchanged no more words, but in Poyly’s heart doubts rose, particularly when she saw that the endless uniformity of the banyan was breaking.
Following Yattmur, they descended the tree. One great mass of broken stone crowned with nettlemoss and berrywish thrust itself up beside their way, and then another. But although they descended, it grew lighter overhead; which meant the banyan was here far from its average height. Its branches twisted and thinned. A spear of sunlight pierced through the travellers. The Tips were almost meeting the ground. What could it mean?
Poyly whispered the question in her mind, and the morel answered.
‘The forest must fail somewhere. We are coming to a broken land where it cannot grow. Do not be alarmed.’
‘We must be coming to the Skirt of the Black Mouth. I fear the sound of it, morel. Let us go back before we meet fatal trouble.’
‘We have no back to go to, Poyly. We are wanderers. We can only go on. Have no fear. I will help you and I shall never leave you.’
Now the branches grew too weak and narrow to bear them. With a flying leap, Yattmur threw herself on to a massive outcrop of rock. Poyly and Gren landed beside her. They lay there looking at each other questioningly. Then Yattmur raised a hand.
‘Listen! Some jumpvils are coming!’ she exclaimed, as a sound came like rain through the forest. ‘These are the beasts my tribe catches.’
Below their island of rock stretched the ground. It was not the foul quagmire of decay and death about which Gren and Poyly had so often been warned in their tribal days. It was curiously broken and pitted, like a frozen sea, and coloured red and black. Few plants grew in it. Instead, it seemed to have a frozen life of its own, so indented was it with holes that had stretched themselves into agonized navels, eye sockets or leering mouths.
‘The rocks have evil faces,’ Poyly whispered as she gazed down.
‘Quiet! They’re coming this way,’ Yattmur