Midworld Read online

  The Home-tree was the greatest discovery made by Born’s ancestors. Its unique characteristics were discovered when it seemed that the last surviving colonists would perish. At that time no one wondered why a growth unutilized by native life should prove so accommodating to alien interlopers. When the human population made a comeback, scouts were sent out to search for other Home-trees, and a new tribe was planted. But in the years since Born’s great-great-great-great-great-grandfather had settled in this tree, contact with other tribes had first dwindled and then stopped altogether. None bothered to reopen such contact, or cared. They had all they could do to survive in a world that seethed with nightmare forms of death and destruction.

  “Born is back … look, Born has returned … Born, Born!”

  A small crowd gathered around him, welcoming him joyously, but consisting entirely of children. One of them, ignoring the respect due a returning hunter, had the temerity to tug at his cloak. He looked down, recognized the orphan boy Din who was cared for in common.

  His mother and father had been taken one day while they were on a fruit-gathering expedition, by something that had coughed once horribly and vanished into the forest. The rest of the party had fled in panic and later returned to find only the couple’s tools. No sign of them had ever been found. So the boy was raised by everyone in the village. For reasons unknown to anyone, least of all to Born, the youngster had attached himself to him. The hunter could not cast the youth away. It was a law—and a good law for survival—that a free child could make parents of any and all it chose. Why one would pick mad Born, though …

  “No, you cannot have the grazer pelt,” Born scolded, as he gently shoved the boy away. Din, at thirteen, was no longer a child. He was no longer pushed so easily.

  Following at the orphan’s heels was a fat ball of fur not quite as big as the adolescent. The furcot cub Muf tripped over its own stubby legs every third step. The third time he tripped, he lay down in the middle of the village and went to sleep, this being an appropriate solution to the problem. Ruumahum eyed the cub, mumbled disapprovingly. But he could sympathize. He was quite ready for an extended nap himself.

  Born did not head directly for his home, but instead walked across the village to another’s.

  “Brightly Go!”

  Green eyes that matched the densest leaves peeked out, followed by the face and form of a wood nymph supple as a kitten. She walked over to take both his hands in hers.

  “It’s good that you’re back, Born. Everyone worried. I … worried, much.”

  “Worried?” he responded jovially. “About a little grazer?” He made a grandiose gesture in the direction of the carcass. Beneath its great mass Ruumahum fumed and had unkind thoughts about persons who engaged in frivolous activities before considering the comfort of their furcot.

  Brightly Go stared at the grazer and her eyes grew big as ruby-in-kind blossoms. Then she frowned with uncertainty. “But Born, I can’t possibly eat all that!’

  Born’s answering laughter was only slightly forced. “You can have what you need of the meat, and your parents, too. It’s the pelt that’s for you, of course.”

  Brightly Go was the most beautiful girl in the village, but sometimes Born found himself thinking unflattering things about her other qualities. Then, he would eye her thin wrapping of leafleather and forget everything else.

  “You’re laughing at me,” she protested angrily. “Don’t laugh at me!” Naturally, that encouraged him to laugh even more.

  “Losting,” she said with dignity, “doesn’t laugh at me.”

  That shut him up quickly. “What does it matter what Losting does?” he shot back challengingly.

  “It matters to me.”

  “Huh … well.” Something had suddenly gone wrong somewhere. This wasn’t working out the way he had imagined it would, the way he had planned it. Somehow it never did.

  He looked around the silent village. A few of the older people had stared out at him when he had returned. Now that the novelty of his survival had worn off, they had returned to their household tasks. Most of the active adults, naturally, were off hunting, gathering edibles, or keeping the Home clear of parasites. The anticipated adulation had never materialized. He had risked his life, then, to return to a cluster of curious children and to the indifference of Brightly Go. His earlier euphoria vanished.

  “I’ll clean the pelt for you, anyway,” he grumbled. “Come on, Ruumahum.” He turned and stalked angrily off toward the other side of the village. Behind him Brightly Go’s face underwent a series of contortions expressing a broad spectrum of emotions. Then she turned and went back inside her parent’s compound.

  Ruumahum let out a snort of relief when the deadweight was finally untied and he could shake it from his back. Whereupon he walked directly to his corner in the large single room, lay down, and entered that region most beloved of all furcots.

  Muttering to himself Born unpacked his hunter’s pouch-belt, removed his cloak, and set about the business of preparing the grazer. He wielded the bone knife so angrily he almost cut through and ruined the skin several times. The layer of fat beneath the skin was next. Turning the carcass was a laborious job, but Born managed without having to wake Ruumahum. The fat was slung into a wooden trough. Later it would be melted down and rendered into candles. Then he was at the meat, cutting away huge chunks to dry and preserve. Organs and other nonedibles went into the pit at the back of the room. This he covered with the ready mulch mixture, adding water from a wood cistern. The Home would be pleased.

  The hollow backbone and the huge flaring circular ribs he separated, cleaned and scoured, and set outside where the sunlight would dry them. The thick bone would make tools and ornaments. The teeth were valueless, not worth wearing, unlike those of the carnivorous breeder Losting had killed. He would make no necklace of these flat, grinding molars to wear at ceremonies. But he would eat well.

  Once the grazer had been reduced to its useful components, Born cleaned his hands and arms. Moving to a corner he pulled aside a curtain of woven fiber. Rummaging behind it he found his other snuffler. He would have to secure a second one now. He studied it and thought over the problem. He would get Jhelum to make one. His hands were far more skillful at working the green wood than Born’s, and quicker. He smiled slightly. He would lose most of his grazer in trade for the new snuffler, but he would still have good eating for a time. Jhelum, who did not hunt and who had two youngsters and a wife, would be appreciative of the meat:

  “I am going to see Jhelum, the carver, Ruumahum. I’ll—”

  A long low whistling came from the furcot’s corner. Born uttered an angry word. It seemed no one cared whether he lived or died. He ripped the leafleather screen aside and marched off toward Jhelum’s place.

  Most of the remainder of the day was taken up in working out the arrangements of the exchange. In the end, Jhelum agreed to prepare the new snuffler in return for three-fourths of the grazer meat and the whole skeleton. Ordinarily Born would never have gone so high. He had worked nearly a week to get the grazer, and taking such prey involved uncommon risk. But he was tired, frustrated by the indifferent reception, and confused by Brightly Go. Besides, Jhelum showed him an exquisite section of green wood pipe, almost blue in spots, that could be used for the weapon. It would make an exceptionally handsome snuffler. He would not be cheated, but neither would he get a bargain.

  He climbed alone into the upper reaches of the village, to where trunklets started to rejoin to form a single bole. From there he could look back at the village and out at the forest wall.

  The village center was the largest open space he had ever seen in his life, save for the Upper Hell, of course. Here he could relax and study the world without fear of attack. As he watched, a glass flitter touched down alongside a pink vines-of-own blossom. Red and blue wings fluttered lazily, the sun shining through the transparent organic panes.

  This was another thing that prompted some in the village to call Born a little ma
d. Only he sat and wasted his time watching things like flitters and flowers, which could neither nourish nor kill. Born himself did not know why he did such things, but something within him was gratified when he did. Gratified and warmed. He would learn all there was to know about everything.

  Reader, the shaman, had tried numerous times to exorcise the demon that drove Born to such wastefulness, and had failed as many times. Born had submitted to such ministrations only at the urgings of the worried chief couple, Sand and Joyla. Eventually, Reader had given up, pronouncing Born’s aberrations incurable. As long as he harmed no one, all agreed to let Born alone. All wished him well.

  All save Losting, naturally. But Losting’s dislike had its roots not in Born’s aberrations, but in one of his obsessions.

  A drop of lukewarm rain hit Born on the forehead, trickled down his face. It was followed by another and more. It was time to join the council.

  He made his way back through the trunklets into the village. The fire had been lit in the center of the square on the place scorched tough and black by many such fires. A broad canopy of woven leafleather kept the rain off and there was room beneath for all the villagers. Already most of the people were assembled, Sand, Joyla, and Reader foremost among them.

  As he trotted down through the now steady rain, he spotted Losting. Entering the circle, Born took his place among the men opposite his rival. Losting had apparently learned of Born’s return and his offer of the grazer pelt, for he glared with more venom than usual across the fire at him. Born smiled back pleasantly.

  The steady patter of warm rain falling on the leaf-leather and dripping to the wood-ground murmured in counterpoint to the sounds of the assembled people. Occasionally a child laughed, to be shushed by his elders.

  Sand raised an arm for silence. Beside him, Joyla did likewise. The people became quiet. Sand, who had never been a big man—perhaps about Born’s size—now, shrunken and bent with age, appeared even smaller. Nevertheless, his presence was still impressive. He was like a weathered old clock that spent all its time patiently, solemnly ticking, but struck startlingly loud and clear at the necessary moment.

  “The hunting was good,” someone reported.

  “The hunting was good,” the assembly echoed approvingly.

  “The gathering has been good,” Sand intoned.

  “The gathering has been good,” the chorus agreed readily.

  “All who were here last are here now,” Sand observed, staring around the circle. “The sap runs strong in the Home.”

  “The faring of the ready pod,” announced one of the women in the circle. “The seed of Morann and Oh ripens. She will ripen within the month.” Sand and everyone else nodded or murmured approval.

  Somewhere far above, thunder pealed, echoed down cellulose canyons, rolled off chlorophyllous cliffs. The evening litany droned on: how much and what kinds of fruit and nuts gathered; how much of what kinds of meat killed and cured; the experiences and accomplishments and failures of each member of the tribe for that day now past.

  There was an appreciative, admiring murmur from the crowd when Born announced the taking of the grazer, but it was not as strong as he had wished. He did not take into account the fact that there was something else paramount in everyone’s mind. It was for Reader to bring it up.

  “This afternoon,” he began, gesturing with his totem of office, the holy axe, “something came out of the Upper Hell into the world. Something gigantic beyond imagining—”

  “No, not beyond imagining,” Joyla interrupted. “It must be assumed the Pillars are greater.”

  Appreciative mutters sounded in agreement.

  “Well considered, Joyla,” Reader admitted. “Something for its size, heavy beyond imagining, then,” and this time he looked satisfied as Joyla remained silent. “It entered the world northwest of the stormtreader and passed on to the Lower Hell. Probably it was a denizen of that Hell visiting its cousins in the Upper, and it has returned now to its home.”

  “Might we not be wrong about the demons of the Upper?” someone in the crowd ventured. “Might they not in truth grow as large as those below? We know little enough of both Hells.”

  “And I for one,” someone else put in, “have no desire to know more!” There was sympathetic laughter.

  “Nevertheless,” the shaman insisted, gesturing with the axe at the dweller who had preferred his comfortable ignorance, “this particular demon chose to descend near to us. What if it has not returned to its home in the depths? It has made no sound or movement since its arrival. If it remains near us, who can say what it might do?” There were nervous stirrings in the crowd, “There is a chance it might be dead. While the opportunity to inspect a dead demon would be interesting, so much meat would be more valuable.”

  “Unless its relatives come around to claim its corpse,” someone shouted, “in which case I’d rather be elsewhere!” There were mutters of agreement.

  Lightning crackled above the tallest emergent, and thunder rolled down to them again. To his amazement Born found himself suddenly on his feet, speaking. “I don’t think it was a demon.” There was a mass shifting of bodies as all eyes came to focus on him. The abrupt attention made him acutely uncomfortable, but he held his ground.

  “How do you know? Did you see the thing?” Reader finally asked, recovering from Born’s unexpected pronouncement. “You said nothing of this to anyone.”

  Born shrugged, tried to sound casual about it. “No one rushed to ask me about it.”

  “If it was not a demon, this thing you say you saw, then what was it?” asked Losting suspiciously.

  Born hesitated. “I do not know. I had but the briefest glimpse of it as it fell through the world—but see it I did!”

  Losting sat back in his place, his muscles rippling in the firelight, and smiled at those near him.

  “Come, Born,” prompted Joyla, “either you saw the thing or you didn’t.”

  “But that is exactly it,” he protested. “I was falling myself. I saw it, yet did not. As the breaking sounds and shaking of the world reached its peak, I saw a flash of deep blue through the trees. Shining bright blue, like that of an asanis.”

  “Maybe that’s what you saw, a drifting asanis bloom,” Losting said with a smirk.

  “No!” Born spun to glare angrily across at his rival. “It was that color, but brilliant, deep, and too … too sharp. It threw back the light.”

  “Threw back the light?” wondered Reader. “How could this be?”

  How could it? They were all staring at him, half wanting to believe he had seen something that was not a demon. He struggled to recall that instant of falling, that glimpse of alien blue among the branches. It caught the light like an asanis leaf—no, more like his knife when it was polished. His eyes roved absently as he thought furiously for something to compare it with.

  “Like the axe!” he blurted, pointing dramatically to the weapon dangling in the shaman’s hand. “It was like the axe.”

  Everyone’s gaze automatically shifted to the holy weapon, Reader’s included. Soft whispers of derision sprang up. Nothing was like the axe.

  “Perhaps you are mistaken, Born,” Sand ventured gently. “It did, as you say, happen very fast. And you were falling when you saw it.”

  “I’m positive about it, sir. Just like the axe.” He wished he was as certain as he tried to sound, but he could not back down on his story now without sounding like a complete fool.

  “In any case,” he found himself saying, to his horror, “it is a simple enough matter to prove. We need only go and look.”

  The mutterings from the crowd grew louder; they were no longer derisive, but shocked.

  “Born,” the chief began patiently, “we do not know what this thing is or where it has gone. It may have already returned to the depths from which it probably came. Let it stay there.”

  “But we don’t know,” objected Born, leaving his place to stand close by the fire. “Maybe it hasn’t returned. Maybe it’s down
only a level or so, sleeping, waiting to catch the scent of the Home to come seeking us one by one in the night. If it is such a monster, then we would do better to seek it out first and slay it as it sleeps.”

  Sand nodded slowly, stared around at the people. “Very well. Who will go with Born to sniff out the trail of this demon?”

  Born turned to look at his fellow hunters, silently imploring. Long silence, defiant stares. Then, startlingly, a response came from an unexpected quarter.

  “I will go,” Losting announced. He stood and stared smugly across at Born as if to say, if you’re not afraid of this thing, then there can be nothing to be afraid of. Born did not meet the other man’s eyes.

  Reluctant assent came from the hunter Drawn and the twins Talltree and Tailing. The other hunters would eventually have given in and agreed out of fear of appearing cowardly, but Reader raised the axe. “It is enough. I will go, too, despite my better judgment. It is not appropriate that men should visit one of the damned without an authority on damnation.”

  “That’s for sure,” someone muttered. The laughter this provoked was a welcome release from the solemnity of the proceedings.

  Sand put a hand over his mouth delicately to hide an unchiefly chuckle. “Now let us pray,” he intoned forcefully, “that those who seek out the demon shall find him sickly and weak, or not find him at all, and return to us whole and sound.” He raised both hands, lowered his head, and commenced a chant.

  No Earthly theological authority would have recognized that chant. No minister, priest, rabbi, or witch doctor could have identified its source or inspiration, though any bioengineer could. What none of them could have explained was why this chant seemed so effective there under the crying night sky and leaf-leather canopy.

  Triple orbs glowed like hot coals, reflecting the dance of the distant flickering fire. Ruumahum lay in the crook in the branches and stared down doubtfully at the gathered people. His muzzle rested on crossed forepaws. A clumsy scratching and clawing sounded on the limb alongside his resting place. A moment later, forty kilos of awkwardly propelled fur and flesh crashed into his flank. He growled irritably and glanced back. It was the cub who had attached itself to the orphan young person, Din.