The preparations for Foscar's funeral went on through the night. A
wooden structure, made up of tied fagots dragged in from the woodland,
grew taller beyond the big tribal camp. The constant crooning wail of
the women in the tents produced a minor murmur of sound, enough to drive
a man to the edge of madness. Ross had been left under guard where he
could watch it all, a refinement of torture which he would earlier have
believed too subtle for Ennar. Though the older men carried minor
commands among the horsemen, because Ennar was the closest of blood kin
among the adult males, he was in charge of the coming ceremony.
The pick of the horse herd, a roan stallion, was brought in to be
picketed near Ross as sacrifice number two, and two of the hounds were
in turn leashed close by. Foscar, his best weapons to hand and a red
cloak lapped about him, lay waiting on a bier. Near-by squatted the
tribal wizard, shaking his thunder rattle and chanting in a voice which
approached a shriek. This wild activity might have been a scene lifted
directly from some tape stored at the project base. It was very
difficult for Ross to remember that this was reality, that he was to be
one of the main actors in the coming event, with no timely aid from
Operation Retrograde to snatch him to safety.
Sometime during that nightmare he slept, his weariness of body
overcoming him. He awoke, dazed, to find a hand clutching his mop of
hair, pulling his head up.
"You sleep--you do not fear, Foscar's dog-one?"
Groggily Ross blinked up. Fear? Sure, he was afraid. Fear, he realized
with a clear thrust of consciousness such as he had seldom experienced
before, had always stalked beside him, slept in his bed. But he had
never surrendered to it, and he would not now if he could help it.
"I do not fear!" He threw that creed into Ennar's face in one hot boast.
He _would_ not fear!
"We shall see if you speak so loudly when the fire bites you!" The other
spat, yet in that oath there was a reluctant recognition of Ross's
courage.
"When the fire bites...." That sang in Ross's head. There was something
else--if he could only remember! Up to that moment he had kept a poor
little shadow of hope. It is always impossible--he was conscious again
with that strange clarity of mind--for a man to face his own death
honestly. A man always continues to believe to the last moment of his
life that something will intervene to save him.
The men led the horse to the mound of fagots which was now crowned with
Foscar's bier. The stallion went quietly, until a tall tribesman struck
true with an ax, and the animal fell. The hounds were also killed and
laid at their dead master's feet.
But Ross was not to fare so easily. The wizard danced about him, a
hideous figure in a beast mask, a curled fringe of dried snakeskins
swaying from his belt. Shaking his rattle, he squawked like an angry
cat as they pulled Ross to the stacked wood.
Fire--there was something about fire--if he could only remember! Ross
stumbled and nearly fell across one leg of the dead horse they were
propping into place. Then he remembered that tongue of flame in the
meadow grass which had burned the horse but not the rider. His hands and
his head would have no protection, but the rest of his body was covered
with the flame-resistant fabric of the alien suit. Could he do it? There
was such a slight chance, and they were already pushing him onto that
mound, his hands tied. Ennar stooped, and bound his ankles, securing him
to the brush.
So fastened, they left him. The tribe ringed around the pyre at a safe
distance, Ennar and five other men approaching from different
directions, torches aflame. Ross watched those blazing knots thrust into
the brush and heard the crackle of the fire. His eyes, hard and
measuring, studied the flash of flame from dried brush to seasoned wood.
A tongue of yellow-red flame licked up at him. Ross hardly dared to
breathe as it wreathed about his foot, his hide fetters smoldering. The
insulation of the suit did not cut all the heat, but it allowed him to
stay put for the few seconds he needed to make his escape spectacular.
The flame had eaten through his foot bonds, and yet the burning
sensation on his feet and legs was no greater than it would have been
from the direct rays of a bright summer sun. Ross moistened his lips
with his tongue. The impact of heat on his hands and his face was
different. He leaned down, held his wrists to the flame, taking in
stoical silence the burns which freed him.
Then, as the fire curled up so that he seemed to stand in a frame of
writhing red banners, Ross leaped through that curtain, protecting his
bowed head with his arms as best he could. But to the onlookers it
seemed he passed unhurt through the heart of a roaring fire.
He kept his footing and stood facing that part of the tribal ring
directly before him. He heard a cry, perhaps of fear, and a blazing
torch flew through the air and struck his hip. Although he felt the
force of the blow, the burning bits of the head merely slid down his
thigh and leg, leaving no mark on the smooth blue fabric.
"Ahhhhhhh!"
Now the wizard capered before him, shaking his rattle to make a
deafening din. Ross struck out, slapping the sorcerer out of his path,
and stooped to pick up the smoldering brand which had been thrown at
him. Whirling it about his head, though every movement was torture to
his scorched hands, he set it flaming once more. Holding it in front of
him as a weapon, he stalked directly at the men and women before him.
The torch was a poor enough defense against spears and axes, but Ross
did not care--he put into this last gamble all the determination he
could summon. Nor did he realize what a figure he presented to the
tribesmen. A man who had crossed a curtain of fire without apparent
hurt, who appeared to wash in tongues of flame without harm, and who now
called upon fire in turn as a weapon, was no man but a demon!
The wall of people wavered and broke. Women screamed and ran; men
shouted. But no one threw a spear or struck with an ax. Ross walked on,
a man possessed, looking neither to the right or left. He was in the
camp now, stalking toward the fire burning before Foscar's tent. He did
not turn aside for that either, but holding the torch high, strode
through the heart of the flames, risking further burns for the sake of
insuring his ultimate safety.
The tribesmen melted away as he approached the last line of tents, with
the open land beyond. The horses of the herd, which had been driven to
this side to avoid the funeral pyre, were shifting nervously, the scent
of burning making them uneasy.
Once more Ross whirled the dying torch about his head. Recalling how the
aliens had sent his horse mad, he tossed it behind him into the grass
between the tents and the herd. The tinder-dry stuff caught immediately.
Now if the men tried to ride after him, they would have trouble.
Without hindrance he walked across the meadow at the same even pace,
never turning to look behind. His hands were two separate worlds of
smarting pain; his hair and eyebrows were singed, and a finger of burn
ran along the angle of his jaw. But he was free, and he did not believe
that Foscar's men would be in any haste to pursue him. Somewhere before
him lay the river, the river which ran to the sea. Ross walked on in the
sunny morning while behind him black smoke raised a dark beacon to the
sky.
Afterward he guessed that he must have been lightheaded for several
days, remembering little save the pain in his hands and the fact that it
was necessary to keep moving. Once he fell to his knees and buried both
hands in the cool, moist earth where a thread of stream trickled from a
pool. The muck seemed to draw out a little of the agony while he drank
with a fever thirst.
Ross seemed to move through a haze which lifted at intervals during
which he noted his surroundings, was able to recall a little of what lay
behind him, and to keep to the correct route. However, the gaps of time
in between were forever lost to him. He stumbled along the banks of a
river and fronted a bear fishing. The massive beast rose on its hind
legs, growled, and Ross walked by it uncaring, unmenaced by the puzzled
animal.
Sometimes he slept through the dark periods which marked the nights, or
he stumbled along under the moon, nursing his hands against his breast,
whimpering a little when his foot slipped and the jar of that mishap ran
through his body. Once he heard singing, only to realize that it was
himself who sang hoarsely a melody which would be popular thousands of
years later in the world through which he wavered. But always Ross knew
that he must go on, using that thick stream of running water as a guide
to his final goal, the sea.
After a long while those spaces of mental clarity grew longer, appearing
closer together. He dug small shelled things from under stones along the
river and ate them avidly. Once he clubbed a rabbit and feasted. He
sucked birds' eggs from a nest hidden among some reeds--just enough to
keep his gaunt body going, though his gray eyes were now set in what was
almost a death's-head.
Ross did not know just when he realized that he was again being hunted.
It started with an uneasiness which differed from his previous
fever-bred hallucinations. This was an inner pulling, a growing
compulsion to turn and retrace his way back toward the mountains to meet
something, or someone, waiting for him on the backward path.
But Ross kept on, fearing sleep now and fighting it. For once he had
lain down to rest and had wakened on his feet, heading back as if that
compulsion had the power to take over his body when his waking will was
off guard.
So he rested, but he dared not sleep, the desire constantly tearing at
his will, striving to take over his weakened body and draw it back.
Perhaps against all reason he believed that it was the aliens who were
trying to control him. Ross did not even venture to guess why they were
so determined to get him. If there were tribesmen on his trail as well,
he did not know, but he was sure that this was now purely a war of
wills.
As the banks of the river were giving way to marshes, he had to wade
through mud and water, detouring the boggy sections. Great clouds of
birds whirled and shrieked their protests at his coming, and sleek water
animals paddled and poked curious heads out of the water as this
two-legged thing walked mechanically through their green land. Always
that pull was with him, until Ross was more aware of fighting it than of
traveling.
Why did they want him to return? Why did they not follow him? Or were
they afraid to venture too far from where they had come through the
transfer? Yet the unseen rope which was tugging at him did not grow less
tenuous as he put more distance between himself and the mountain valley.
Ross could understand neither their motives nor their methods, but he
could continue to fight.
The bog was endless. He found an island and lashed himself with his suit
belt to the single willow which grew there, knowing that he must have
sleep, or he could not hope to last through the next day. Then he slept,
only to waken cold, shaking, and afraid. Shoulder deep in a pool, he was
aware that in his sleep he must have opened the belt buckle and freed
himself, and only the mishap of falling into the water had brought him
around to sanity.
Somehow he got back to the tree, rehooked the buckle and twisted the
belt around the branches so that he was sure he could not work it free
until daybreak. He lapsed into a deepening doze, and awoke, still safely
anchored, with the morning cries of the birds. Ross considered the suit
as he untangled the belt. Could the strange clothing be the tie by which
the aliens held to him? If he were to strip, leaving the garment behind,
would he be safe?
He tried to force open the studs across his chest, but they would not
yield to the slight pressure which was all his seared fingers could
exert, and when he pulled at the fabric, he was unable to tear it. So,
still wearing the livery of the off-world men, Ross continued on his
way, hardly caring where he went or how. The mud plastered on him by his
frequent falls was some protection against the swarm of insect life his
passing stirred into attack. However, he was able to endure a swollen
face and slitted eyes, being far more conscious of the wrenching feeling
within him than the misery of his body.
The character of the marsh began to change once more. The river was
splitting into a dozen smaller streams, shaping out fanlike. Looking
down at this from one of the marsh hillocks, Ross knew a faint surge of
relief. Such a place had been on the map Ashe had made them memorize. He
was close to the sea at last, and for the moment that was enough.
A salt-sharpened wind cut at him with the force of a fist in the face.
In the absence of sunlight the leaden clouds overhead set a winterlike
gloom across the countryside. To the constant sound of birdcalls Ross
tramped heavily through small pools, beating a path through tangles of
marsh grass. He stole eggs from nests, sucking his nourishment eagerly
with no dislike for the fishy flavor, and drinking from stagnant,
brackish ponds.
Suddenly Ross halted, at first thinking that the continuous roll of
sound he heard was thunder. Yet the clouds overhead were massed no more
than before and there was no sign of lightning. Continuing on, he
realized that the mysterious sound was the pounding of surf--he was near
the sea!
Willing his body to run, he weaved forward at a reeling trot, pitting
all his energy against the incessant pull from behind. His feet skidded
out of marsh mud into sand. Ahead of him were dark rocks surrounded by
the white lace of spray.
Ross headed straight toward that spray until he stood knee-deep in the
curling, foam-edged water and felt its tug on his body almost as strong
as that other tug upon his mind. He knelt, letting the salt water sting
to life every cut, every burn, sputtering as it filled his mouth and
nostrils, washing from him the slime of the bog lands. It was cold and
bitter, but it was the sea! He had made it!
Ross Murdock staggered back and sat down suddenly in the sand. Glancing
about, he saw that his refuge was a rough triangle between two of the
small river arms, littered with the debris of the spring floods which
had grounded here after rejection by the sea. Although there was plenty
of material for a fire, he had no means of kindling a flame, having lost
the flint all Beaker traders carried for such a purpose.
This was the sea, and against all odds he had reached it. He lay back,
his self-confidence restored to the point where he dared once more to
consider the future. He watched the swooping flight of gulls drawing
patterns under the clouds above. For the moment he wanted nothing more
than to lie here and rest.
But he did not surrender to this first demand of his over-driven body
for long. Hungry and cold, sure that a storm was coming, he knew he had
to build a fire--a fire on shore could provide him with the means of
signaling the sub. Hardly knowing why--because one part of the coastline
was as good as another--Ross began to walk again, threading a path in
and out among the rocky outcrops.
So he found it, a hollow between two such windbreaks within which was a
blackened circle of small stones holding charred wood, with some empty
shells piled near-by. Here was unmistakable evidence of a camp! Ross
plunged forward, thrusting a hand impetuously into the black mass of the
dead fire. To his astonishment, he touched warmth!
Hardly daring to disturb those precious bits of charcoal, he dug around
them, then carefully blew into what appeared to be dead ashes. There was
an answering glow! He could not have just imagined it.
From a pile of wood that had been left behind, Ross snatched a small
twig, poking it at the coal after he had rubbed it into a brush on the
rough rock. He watched, all one ache of hope. The twig caught!
With his stiff fingers so clumsy, he had to be very careful, but Ross
had learned patience in a hard school. Bit by bit he fed that tiny blaze
until he had a real fire. Then, leaning back against the rock, he
watched it.
It was now obvious that the placement of the original fire had been
chosen with care, for the outcrops gave it wind shelter. They also
provided a dark backdrop, partially hiding the flames on the landward
side but undoubtedly making them more visible from the sea. The site
seemed just right for a signal fire--but to what?
Ross's hands shook slightly as he fed the blaze. It was only too clear
why anyone would make a signal on this shore. McNeil--or perhaps both he
and Ashe--had survived the breakup of the raft, after all. They had
reached this point--abandoned no earlier than this morning, judging by
the life remaining in the coals--and put up the signal. Then, just as
arranged, they had been collected by the sub, by now on its way back to
the hidden North American post. There was no hope of any pickup for him
now. Just as he had believed them dead after he had found that rag on
the sapling, so they must have thought him finished after his fall in
the river. He was just a few hours too late!
Ross folded his arms across his hunched knees and rested his head on
them. There was no possible way he could ever reach the post or his own
kind--ever again. Thousands of miles lay between him and the temporary
installation in this time.
He was so sunk in his own complete despair that he was long unaware of
finally being free of the pressure to turn back which had so long
haunted him. But as he roused to feed the fire he got to wondering. Had
those who hunted him given up the chase? Since he had lost his own race
with time, he did not really care. What did it matter?
The pile of wood was getting low, but he decided that did not matter
either. Even so, Ross got to his feet, moving over to the drifts of
storm wrack to gather more. Why should he stay here by a useless beacon?
But somehow he could not force himself to move on, as futile as his
vigil seemed.
Dragging the sun-dried, bleached limbs of long-dead trees to his half
shelter, he piled them up, working until he laughed at the barricade he
had built. "A siege!" For the first time in days he spoke aloud. "I
might be ready for a siege...." He pulled over another branch, added it
to his pile, and kneeled down once more by the flames.
There were fisherfolk to be found along this coast, and tomorrow when he
was rested he would strike south and try to find one of their primitive
villages. Traders would be coming into this territory now that the
Red-inspired raiders were gone. If he could contact them....
But that spark of interest in the future died almost as soon as it was
born. To be a Beaker trader as an agent for the project was one thing,
to live the role for the rest of his life was something else.
Ross stood by his fire, staring out to sea for a sign he knew he would
never see again as long as he lived. Then, as if a spear had struck
between his shoulder blades, he was attacked.
The blow was not physical, but came instead as a tearing, red pain in
his head, a pressure so terrible he could not move. He knew instantly
that behind him now lurked the ultimate danger.