The hunting party is too large. The leader knew it as soon as it was assigned. It is all very well to insist that the youngsters are trained but the object of the exercise is to bring back meat. What will anyone learn on a bungling expedition, doomed to failure because the prey can smell their combined scent and hear their combined breathing over two decent throws away? Under the circumstances he has opted not to try for the lowland herds, and delivered a sharp rebuke to the grumbling trainee who fancied he could kill an ice grazer on his first day. The forest bounders are not particularly easy to kill either, but they offer some hope for a large group. If he can position the five members of his team carefully and skilfully round the burrows, they might be able to flush one into the path of an agile knife.
At ten meter intervals they are spread out in a rough triangle which advances slowly up the hill. At the apex, prey will be funnelled to the leader but he doesn’t really expect much yet. It is cheerless and cold, and they all pull furs tighter from time to time in an effort to retain some body heat.
The trees are grim and ironic. Brown needles have dripped acid onto the soil for year upon year, and silent hopeless cones crunch excruciatingly loud beneath the feet of the novices. Black green foliage is even more depressing on these evergreen trees than the lowland plants which at least have the honesty to die back before the winter snows, instead of persisting in enraged half life, too bitter to surrender. The shadows cast by late afternoon are crisp and chill on the forest floor. Resin oozes from the rough trunks, only squeezed out for the sole reason blood can flow from a stone; iron pity cracked by irresistible dark forces. A faint scent, it is the concentrated essence of pain at the edge of awareness.
The leader shifts his knife from hand to hand. Something strange is happening. The breeze is changing. The scent is changing.
How were they to know ? When the shadows and the trunks changed, the new story was written. Fracture. The continuum bleeds with its own silent agony. These are not the same trees. This is not the same land.
The Green World smiles up at the sun. A brightly coloured pastoral arc it runs heavily through the black and empty void, and in other places it spins other stories to while away the million years.
This one is close in time, if not in space. There are dark trees here too. These trees despise their distant northern cousins. These trees are rulers and their domain is truly frightening to strangers. Through the jungle Rosalind, the major, and the doctor walk in silence. It is hard going. At first, the major had to use his sword every few minutes to hack at obstructing undergrowth. Now they are well under the canopy and little grows in the gloomy gothic cathedral, but twisted roots grasping the earth like a miser present almost as great an obstacle to progress. The doctor’s left arm was twisted horribly in the crash and he holds it awkwardly in his right hand. Rosalind’s dress has been torn, her hair is loose and her face unmade. Often she stumbles.
But nervous exhaustion has set in and at least the travellers no longer jump at every noise which startled them earlier. The party by the lakeside is a memory like weak tea fading in the stomach. Even the major hardly looks like a commanding officer. His training in the blinkered acceptance and imposition of discipline assumed too much. Despite outward calm, inside he is slowly turning mad. Only the physical demands of putting one foot in front of the other are keeping him going. Perhaps they will find people at the fires who can help them; people who can explain. First, though, they are aiming for the coast. It is a long and confusing way, but at last the dreadful monarchs seem to be giving way. A sluggish brown stream guides them under waving fronds to a promising clearing.
They emerge into bright yellow sunlight and surprise. There is a village here. Around a central fire stand a varied collection of wooden houses and huts. Some are quite simple but others show considerable sophistication. At the far end of the clearing is a large stone building, well built and carved with abstract patterns.
There are people round the fire and at the doorways. They turn to stare at the newcomers, but they are not human. They have never been human. They would not want to be human. On back jointed knees their thin legs support great barrel chested bodies. Two long pairs of arms, spread out like wings or folded against the chest seem to possess a multitude of digits. More arresting than any other part of their anatomy, their large faces peer in wonder at three strange animals intruding on their life. Feathers run from the top of their heads in mottled browns and blacks, like the head-dress of a Red Indian chief, but more than a simple adornment these feathers are still growing. The eyes are enormous. Some are amber pools of light, some purple, but all are wide and dark with narrow pupils. The flat brown beak at the centre of each face would look comical if it were not for those eyes. They are quite quiet.
It is all too much for the major. Suddenly old superstitions break through. He remembers the temples of the infidels. This is all a curse laid on him when he led his men in triumph through that unholy capital of the defeated horde on the stone plain. It is clear to him now. Despite the easy words of the new chaplains, he knows that the old devils are not dead. These are demons. He draws his sword and charges with an insane cry for the honour of his God. Tiny darts hit him as he moves. They seem so small. Why does he feel so weary ? The doctor and Rosalind are shrunken and standing still. Even the enemy do not move. He cannot raise his sword to smite them. In the tropical sun a darkness comes, and as he collapses a little corner inside weeps to know that for all his high training in violent ends he cannot understand his own new alien death. The breathing stops and there is no one left inside.
