Hothouse - Brian Aldiss [59]
‘You see,’ remarked the morel, ‘the fight is over.’
As Poyly picked herself up, a flailing movement caught her eye, and she looked at the bank they had left. A low cry of horror was wrenched from her lips. Gren and Yattmur turned to stare where she did. They stood transfixed, their knives still grasped in their hands.
‘Get down!’ Poyly shouted.
Scintillant leaves like toothed swords whirled above them. The three Tummy-trees heaved in wrath. Bereft of their willing slaves, they were lashing the tall leaves that formed their poll into action. Their whole bulk trembled as the dark green blades flashed above the vessel.
As Poyly flung herself flat, the first leaf struck, throwing a great raw weal across the rough wood of the deck. Splinters flew. A second and a third blow fell. Such a terrible bombardment, she knew, would kill them all in no time.
The unnatural anger of these trees was fearful to see. Poyly did not let it paralyse her. As Gren and Yattmur crouched under the frail shelter of the stern, she jumped up. Without heeding the morel to guide her, she leant over the side and hacked at the tough fibres that kept the boat square across the river.
Armoured leaves flayed near her. The Fishers were struck once and then again. Parabolas of blood patterned the deck. Crying, the poor creatures tumbled together while their limbs bled and they staggered from the centre of the deck. Still the trees struck out mercilessly.
Tough though the securing rope was, it parted at last under Poyly’s attack. She gave a shout of triumph as the boat freed itself and swayed round under the force of the water.
She was still climbing to cover when the next leaf crashed down. The spines along one fleshy edge of it raked her with full force across the chest.
‘Poyly!’ Gren and Yattmur cried with one voice, springing up.
They never reached her. The blows caught her off balance. She doubled up as blood came weeping from her wound. As her knees buckled she fell backwards. Momentarily her eyes caught Gren’s in tender appeal, and then she disappeared over the side and hit the waters.
They rushed to the side and peered down. An extra turbidity marked where she had sunk. One hand appeared on the surface, its fingers outspread, severed from its arm. It vanished almost at once in a welter of smooth fish bodies and then there was no more sign of Poyly.
Falling on to the deck, beating his fists on it in sorrow, Gren cried to the morel.
‘Could you not have saved her, you miserable fungus, you useless growth? Could you not have done something? What did you ever bring her but trouble?’
A long silence followed. Gren called at it again – in grief and hatred. At length the morel spoke in a small voice.
‘Half of me is dead,’ it whispered.
chapter sixteen
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By this time the boat had begun to whirl away down the flood. Already they were safe from the Tummy-trees, which fell rapidly behind, their murderous polls still beating the water into lines of spray.
Seeing that they were being carried off, the Fishers began a chorus of groans. Yattmur paraded before them with her knife out, allowing herself to show no pity for their wounds.
‘You Tummy-belly men! You long-tailed sons of swollen plants! Cease your noise! Someone real has died and you shall mourn her or I’ll throw you all overboard with my own two hands.’
At that the Fishers fell into abject silence. Grouped humbly together, they comforted each other and licked each other’s wounds. Running over to Gren, Yattmur put her arm round him and pressed her cheek against his. Only for a moment did he try to resist her.
‘Don’t mourn too much for Poyly. She was fine in life – but a time comes for all of us to fall to the green. I am here now, and I will be your mate.’
‘You will want to get back to your tribe, to the herders,’ Gren said miserably.
‘Ha! They lie far behind us. How shall I get back? Stand up and