Hothouse - Brian Aldiss [46]
‘What is instinct?’
‘Green thoughts,’ said the morel, and would not elaborate.
At length Yattmur halted. Her first sullenness had worn away, as if the journey had made them friends. She was almost gay.
‘You are standing in the middle of my tribal area, where you wished to be,’ she said.
‘Call them, then; tell them that we come with good desires and that I shall speak to them,’ Gren said, adding anxiously for the morel’s benefit, ‘but I don’t know what to say to them.’
‘I shall tell you,’ twanged the morel.
Yattmur raised a clenched hand to her lips and blew a piping note through it. Alertly, Poyly and her mate looked about them… Leaves rustled, and they became surrounded by warriors who seemed to rise up from the ground. Glancing upwards, Poyly saw strange faces there regarding her from the branches overhead.
The three jumpvils shuffled uneasily.
Gren and Poyly stood absolutely still, allowing themselves to be inspected.
Slowly Yattmur’s tribe came closer. Most of them, as was customary, were female, with flowers adorning their private parts. All were armed, many were as striking of feature as Yattmur. Several wore round their waists the same weighted trapping lines that Yattmur had carried.
‘Herders,’ Yattmur said, ‘I have brought you two strangers, Poyly and Gren, who wish to join us.’
Prompted by the morel, Poyly said, ‘We are wanderers who will do you no harm. Make us welcome if you wish to Go Up in peace. We need rest and shelter now, and later we can show you our skills.’
One of the group, a stocky woman with braided hair in which was inserted a gleaming shell, stood forward. She held out her hand palm upwards.
‘Greetings, strangers. I am called Hutweer. I lead these herders. If you join us, you follow me. Do you consent to that?’
If we do not consent, they may kill us, thought Gren.
Right from the first we must show we are leaders, replied the morel.
Their knives point at us, Gren told it.
We must lead from the start or not at all, the morel returned.
As they stood wrapped in conflict, Hutweer clapped her hands impatiently.
‘Answer, strangers! Will you follow Hutweer?’
We must agree, morel.
No Gren, we cannot afford to.
But they will kill us!
You must kill her first then, Poyly!
No!
I say yes.
No… No… No…
Their thoughts grew more fierce as a three-cornered argument grew up.
‘Herders, alert!’ Hutweer called. Dropping her hand to her sword belt, she came a pace nearer, her face stern. Obviously these strangers were not friends.
To the strangers something strange was happening. They began to writhe, as if in an unearthly dance. Poyly’s hands twisted up to the darkly glistening ruff about her neck, and then curved away as if dragged by force. Both of them twisted slowly and stamped their feet. Their faces stretched and wrinkled in an unknown pain. From their mouths came foam, and in their extremity they urinated upon the hard ground.
Slowly they moved, staggered, turned, arching their bodies, biting their lips, while their eyes glared madly at nothing.
The herders dropped back in awe.
‘They fell on me from the sky! They must be spirits!’ Yattmur cried, covering her face.
Hutweer dropped the sword she had drawn, her countenance pale. It was a sign to her followers. With frightened haste they dropped their weapons, hiding their faces in their hands.
Directly the morel saw that it had inadvertently achieved what it had wished to do, it ceased trying to impose its will on Gren and Poyly. As the wrenching pressure on their minds relaxed, they would have fallen had the fungus not stiffened them again.
‘We have won the victory we need, Poyly,’ it said in its harplike voice. ‘Hutweer kneels before us. Now you must speak to them.’
‘I hate you, morel,’ she said sullenly. ‘Make Gren do your work – I won’t.’
Strongly prompted by the fungus, Gren went over to Hutweer and took her hand.
‘Now you have acknowledged us,’ he said, ‘you need fear no more. Only never forget that we are spirits inhabited by spirits. We will work with you. Together we shall establish a mighty