Hothouse - Brian Aldiss [58]
‘All right, that’ll do,’ Gren said, and the Fisher subsided wretchedly, standing on one foot with the other. As they began an excited discussion, he sank to the ground, holding his head dolorously in his hands.
With the morel, Gren and Poyly quickly came to a plan of action.
‘We can save them all from this humiliating way of life,’ Gren said.
‘They don’t want to be saved,’ Yattmur said. ‘They’re happy.’
‘They’re horrible,’ Poyly said.
While they were talking, the Long Water changed colour. A myriad bits and pieces erupted on to its surface, dappling it as they were swept along in the direction of the Tummy-trees.
‘The remains of the Mouth’s feast,’ Gren exclaimed. ‘Come on, before the boat casts off and the Fishers start to fish. Out with your knives.’
Impelled by the morel, he bounded off, Poyly and Yattmur following. Only the latter cast a backward glance at the Fisher. He was rolling on the ground in a bout of misery, indifferent to everything but his own wretchedness.
The rest of the Fishers had by now loaded their net into the boat. On seeing the refuse in the stream they gave a cheer and climbed into the vessel, each paying out his tail over the stern as he went. The last one was scrambling aboard as Gren and the women rushed up.
‘Jump for it!’ Gren shouted, and the three of them jumped, landing on the crude and creaking deck close together. In unison, the nearer Fishers turned to face them.
Unwieldly though it was, built under the direction of the pseudo-aware Tummy-trees, the boat was made to serve a particular purpose: to catch the big scavenger fish of Long Water. It boasted neither oars nor sail, since its only function was to drag a heavy net across the stream from one bank to the other. Accordingly, a stout woven rope had been stretched across the water and anchored to trees on either side. To this rope the boat was loosely secured through a series of eyes, thus preventing its being swept away on the flood. It was manoeuvred across the river by simple brute force, half the Fishers pulling on the guide rope while the others lowered the net into place. So it had been from dimmest times.
Routine governed the Fishers’ lives. When the three intruders landed in their midst, neither they nor the Tummy-trees knew clearly what action to take. Divided in purpose, the Fishers were made half to continue hauling the boat into mid-stream and half to defend their position.
With one uniform rush, the defence force charged at Gren and the girls.
Yattmur glanced over her shoulder. It was too late to jump ashore again; they were away from the bank. She drew her knife and stood by Gren and Poyly. As the Fishers fell at them, she plunged it into the stomach of the nearest man. He stumbled, but others bore her down. Her knife went skidding over the deck and her hands were pinned before she could draw her sword.
The fat men flung themselves at Poyly and Gren. Though they fought desperately, they too were borne down.
Evidently the Fishers and their pot-bellied masters ashore had not thought to use knives until they saw Yattmur’s. Now – as one man – they all produced knives.
Through Gren’s brain, amid his panic and fury, seared the angry jangle of the morel’s thoughts.
‘You brainless tarsiers! Waste no time on these dolls of men. Cut their umbilical cords, their tails, their tails, you fools! Hack their tails off and they’ll not harm you!’
Cursing, ramming a knee into a groin and knuckles into an attacker’s face, Gren knocked aside a down-curving knife and twisted over on to his knees. Impelled by the morel, he grasped another Fisher by the neck, wrenching it savagely and then flinging the man aside. Now his way was clear. With a leap he was up on the stern.
The green tails lay there, thirty of them together, stretching over to the shore.
Gren let out a shout of triumph. Then he brought his blade down.
Half a dozen slashes in cold anger and the thing was done!
The boat rocked violently. The Fishers jerked and fell. All their activity stopped. They moaned and cried, picking