Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [113]
“Why?” Ehomba countered innocently. “These are thinking people, inhabitants of one of the Thinking Kingdoms. People who think are not bothered by questions.” Raising his voice, he inquired loudly, “Are you?”
“Not at all, friend, not at all!” declared the villager seated across the table from the herdsman. “Belief does not replace thought. It complements it.” Grinning broadly, he added, “We think about what we believe in.”
“And we believe what we think.” Having had a good deal to drink, the woman who concluded the tenet broke out giggling. Her friend quickly joined in, and once again merriment was general around the table.
Ehomba started to say something else, but this time Simna was in his face before the words had time to emerge. “Hoy, bruther, if you’ve no concern for your own well-being, then have a care for mine, would you? No more of this. A change of subject to something innocuous is in order.”
“I—oh, very well.” Observing the strain in the swordsman’s expression, Ehomba decided to forgo the questions that were piling up inside him—for now. He replaced his intended words with the contents of the ceramic tumbler that had been set out before him.
Someone was speaking from atop a chair near the rear entrance. Ehomba recognized him as the general manager of the inn. Not the owner—that was a title reserved for the husband of the woman they had first met. The speaker had a prominent belly and cleverly coifed mustache that wrapped around much of his jowly face. A logger he was not.
“Friends, visitors! You’ve seen it before, watched it and wondered, and now tonight, we once more bring it before you to embellish your enjoyment of the evening and the solidarity of our precious community.” Pivoting carefully on the slightly shaky chair, he gestured grandly toward the back door. It was particularly wide and tall, with an interesting arched lintel. A sense of anticipation blanketed the crowd. By mutual silent agreement all conversation was muted.
“I give you,” the general manager proclaimed, “the nightmare!”
Cheers and whoops of expectation rose from the crowd, an atavistic howl that rattled the walls of the tavern. By dint of their early arrival and fortuitous seating, Ehomba and his companions had an unobstructed view of the arched doorway. Now they looked on in silence as the doors were flung wide.
Though the cage rolled easily on four thick wheels, it still took the combined exertions of four strong men to pull and push it into the tavern. The spokes of the wheels, the hubs, and the cage itself were decorated with etchings of mystic signs and mysterious figures. Even the bars and the massive padlock were made of wood, lovingly polished to reveal a fine, dark grain. Despite the height of the arched double doorway, the top of the cage barely cleared the twenty-foot-high opening.
Standing inside the cage and gripping two of the bars was a ten-foot-tall something.
It was as massive as it was tall, and Ehomba estimated its weight as equal to that of any three large men. It was hard to tell for sure because the creature was covered entirely in long, thick strands of dark gray hair streaked with black. The skull was more human than simian, and the black eyes that glared out from beneath massive, bony brows were full of rage. The nose was not as flat as an ape’s, but not as forwardly pronounced as a human’s. Through the waving, gesticulating arms of the crowd the herdsman thought he could make out five fingers on each hand and as many toes on each foot.
Not an ape, then, but not a member of the family of man, either. Something in between, or an offshoot unknown to the people of Naumkib. The more it roared and rattled the tree-sized wooden bars of its rolling cage, the more the crowd jeered and hooted.
Yelling an unimaginative and slightly obscene insult, someone in the throng stood up and threw the remnants of a warm meat pie at the cage. Passing