Hothouse - Brian Aldiss [94]
Overcome by several varieties of wretchedness, she began to weep.
They clustered nearer, trying inadequately to comfort her, breathing in her face, patting her breasts, tickling her body, making faces at the baby. She was too miserable to protest.
‘You come with us to the green world, lovely sandwich lady, to be again far from the huge Big Slope with us lovely chaps,’ they murmured. ‘We let you have lovely sleeps in with us.’
Encouraged by her apathy, they began to explore the more intimate parts of her body. Yattmur offered no resistance, and when their simple prurience was satisfied, they left her alone in her corner. One of them returned later, bringing her a portion of scorched leatherfeather, which she ate.
While she chewed, she thought, ‘Gren will kill my baby with that fungus. So I must take a chance for Laren’s sake, and leave when the tummy-bellies leave.’ Once the decision had been made, she felt happier, and sank into a doze.
She was wakened by Laren’s crying. As she attended to him, she peered outside. It was as dark as she had ever known it. The rain had stopped temporarily; now thunder filled the air, as if it rolled between earth and packed cloud seeking escape. The tummy-bellies and sharp-furs slept together in an uncomfortable heap, disturbed by the noise. Yattmur’s head throbbed, and she thought, I’ll never sleep in this rumpus. But a moment later, with Laren cuddled against her, her eyes were closed again.
The next time she was roused, it was by the sharp-furs. They were barking with excitement and scampering out of the cave.
Laren was sleeping. Leaving the child on a pile of dead foliage, Yattmur went to see what was happening. She drew back momentarily on coming face to face with the sharp-furs. To protect their heads from the rain – which was coming down again with full force – they were wearing helmets carved from the same sort of dried gourd that Yattmur used for cooking and washing in.
Holes had been cut in the gourds for their ears, eyes and snouts. But the gourds were too large for the furry heads they covered; they rolled from side to side with every movement, making the sharp-furs look like broken dolls. This, and the fact that the gourds had been clumsily smeared with various colours, gave the sharp-furs a grotesque air, from which the element of fear was not missing.
As Yattmur ran into the pouring rain, one of the creatures jumped forward with its nodding wooden head and barred her way.
‘Yagrapper yow you stay sleeping in the sleeping cave, mother lady. Coming through the rap-yap-rain is coming bad things that we fellows have no like. So we bite and tear and bite. Brrr buff best you stay away yap yay from sight of our teeth.’
She flinched from its clutch, hearing the drum of rain on its crude helmet mingle with its baffling mixture of growls, yaps and words.
‘Why should I not stay out here?’ she asked. ‘Are you afraid of me? What is happening?’
‘Catch-carry-kind come yum yap and catch you! Grrr, let him catch you!’
It pushed Yattmur and leaped away to join its mates. The helmeted creatures were leaping about over their sledge, quarrelling as they sorted out their bows and arrows. The tummy-belly trio stood close by, cuddling each other and pointing along the slope.
The cause of all the excitement was a group of figures moving slowly towards Yattmur’s party. At first, squinting through the downpour, she thought only two things were approaching; then they separated to reveal themselves as three – and for the life of her she could not make out what, in their oddity, they might be. But the sharp-furs knew.
‘Catchy carry kind, catchy carry kind! Killy catchy carry kind!’ they seemed to be calling, growing frenzied about it. But the