HENRY LION OLDIE THE TWILIGHT OF THE WORLD BOOK I THE LEGEND OF THOSE WHO GO TO SEEK THE ANSWER Shadow 1. Human. Animal. Divine: Sigurd Yarrow, the Ninefold-Living. 1. For the first time in his life he went so far into the wood. The wood was watching the lonely man curiously and winking with myriads of sunlight specks, and the traveller tried in vain to drive away the sad thoughts. He was thinking about the three lives he still possessed: how insignificant they were compared with the green rustling eternity of the wood... Besides, the Invertings have been on his track for about forty hours by now. He knew it for sure. He'd like to have a glance at the western slopes of the Ra-Muaz Mountains from above, as the eagles fly. But there is hardly anything interesting for the winged master of mountain passes in the tangle of tree stems and lianas that stretched from the border outposts of Kalorra up to the ancient mines, deserted and decayed from times immemorial. Well, fly home, the proud bird, pursue your prey from rock to rock, bathe yourself in the shining blue; even your all-seeing piercing eye cannot penetrate the confusion of the tree branches, cannot see what is hidden in the rustling mass both visáous and fluid. He watched the eagle with his tired eyes as long as it could be seen through the thick leaves. Then he prepared to continue his way. He had a sack and a sword tied on his back. The sack was constantly sliding down. He put it into place and fastened his belt bringing the hilt of his sword nearer his right shoulder. Then he turned his head, raised his arms to make sure that nothing hindered, nothing rattled. And then he resumed his way. A flat-nosed head showed itself out of the grass beneath his feet. The head on a lithe neck (as thick as an adult man's leg) rose high over the grass and moved slowly from side to side feeling the air with a forked tongue. Then it stood still watching intently the verdure of young bamboo. -- Lie still, Zou,-- said the man although he knew well that the snake was almost not able to hear him.-- Don't bother. The time for you to hunt didn't come yet. Calm yourself... He put his hand on the snake's neck and stroked slightly the scales. But the snake didn't want to calm itself. It slided away. The thick gold- and-brown coils of its body unfurled dividing the grass and the warning hiss filled the balmy air of a hot summer day. The man stood motionless as a statue and waited. A small spotted figure appeared among the knotty trees and soon a doe ran to the quiet glade. The animal raised its graceful head with trembling nostrils. Zou gathered his body into a resilent knot preparing for a terrible rush. But the doe strained itself and disappeared in no time among the jessamin bushes. The man laughed gently. -- Night is your time,-- he said to the snake that was hissing disappointedly.-- You'll be hunting at night. D'you understand it, Zou? At daytime we have other things to do. Let's go now! He smiled again: <> was not the word to use when you're speaking to the boa-hunter Zou, the best one among the <>, seven steps long -- surely seven full steps and even a little more... When they crossed the glade the man turned his head and glanced at the bushes where the frightened doe took refuge. The bushes were still shaking. A shadow of anxiety passed over the man's face. -- No,-- he said to himself,-- it can hardly be so. The animal was not of the sort... Just a silly animal. And a weak one. This place here is too wild... A tiny instrument hanged on his belt. It was not bigger than his palm, something like a toy-harp with unproportionally thick strings. He touched it with his fingers, and a low vibrating sound swam over the ground. A strap of waving grass marking the path of the snake began to shift to the right. Zou understood his master's command without mistakes. ...A few hours later the sun, wounded by the tree branches, spilled its blood over the ice-clad summits of the mountains and went to rest. But the man and the snake have already reached the place where they intended to stay for night. As soon as the boa saw a brook that divided an oval glen like a steel blade, it crossed the clayey slope and swam lazily down the stream. The man took his sack off and approached the water too, casting cautious glances around him. He drank some water, rinsed his hands and examined his own face reflected in the stream. He had calm grey eyes with eyelashes unusually long for a man. He had slightly aquiline nose and sharp cheek-bones and a whitish scar across the upper lip. It was just an ordinary face if one didn't try to look deeper into the pool of his grey eyes. But if one dared... The face that was looking at him from the water belonged to Sigurd Yarrow, the Fifth rank Salar; it was the face of one Gliding-in-the-Dusk. With a muffled curse he struck the water with his palm, splashing the reflection, and the drops flew down his cheeks leaving wet tracks. He was crying not with tears but with the lying water of a forsaken stream. He knew well whose face he has just broken. It was the face of a coward. The man who has seen his best friend to die and who has done nothing to revenge. Nothing in round numbers. In fact he had no possibilities to do anything but that didn't matter at all. For the first time he regretted that there were still three lives left to him. * * * The doe dived into the bushes, and the spots of its skin blended with the shadows of leaves and branches, with specks of sunlight... In a while a teenager boy appeared at the edge of the glade. He made several steps and stood still. No, it wasn't a boy. It was a girl with narrow hips and small rigid breasts. She turned her head in the direction where the Gliding-in-the- Dusk has gone and her eyes began to change, as if two shining lakes touched with frost. Ice covered their brims at first, then more and more... The girl clenched her fingers into tight fists resembling the hooves of a doe. She remained motionless for a while, shuffling her feet, and then jumped into the thicket. And the forest engulfed her. * * * [.....................................................................] MEMORY SECTION KALORRA. THE CITY WHERE THEY DON'T LIKE THE HEROES Sigurd is now sixteen. He got his Second Rank recently and he's very proud of his grey cloak with a silver buckle on his shoulder. He is the Salar of the wilds. His coeval and friend Bryan Oygla vied with him in the turning up of their noses and in mannish manners. Elder Gliding-in- the-Dusk shake hands with them and the mentor Pharamarz even takes them to accompany him to Kalorra (although, one must admit, he obliged them to leave home their whips and Bryan's bronze sickle). One shouldn't visit the city being armed. The city is inhabited by the unhappy people having but one life -- the only and the last. It is not decent for an offspring of Gods, awarded with nine lives, to bear in their presence the weapons that can take somebody's life. They are different. They are the Salars of the wilds. The Ninefold-Living. The shield between the city and the forest. Quite different indeed. Sigurd understands everything. He is happy and proud. He's going to visit Kalorra today. Only one question bothers the young hero: what does mentor Pharamarz need companions for? He tries to imagine who might be dangerous for the Grandson of Gods, but his imagination fails him and he drives away silly thoughts. If one takes companions it means one needs them. And that's all. Bryan Oygla is of the same opinion. In his childhood Sigurd visited Kalorra two times with his parents. He has forgotten almost everything but nevertheless it seemed to him that the city has become older and lesser since then. It shrunk like a dry leaf in autumn. Twice they had to cross the deserted quarters. Hot wind was rattling with the half-torn shutters and whirled the dust in the by-streets overgrown with tall weeds, and lean gophers hurried to hide in the shadows when they saw people passing by. Later they met city inhabitants going to and fro but they were not numerous. It was only about the city center that the usual urban crowds appeared. Sigurd was unpleasantly disappointed by the sullen countenances and stooping figures of the Kalorreans. Even young pretty seemed unhealthy and vicious. They both excited and scared the young Salar. At the border villages people often had hard times and were not easy smiling, but still the atmosphere was different. Maybe it was purer? Bryan was likely to think in the same way. And mentor Pharamarz had a surprisingly polite smile on his imperturbable face. It was like a mask. But nevertheless people went round them and hurried away. The city pushed them away just like human flesh resists the inevitable invasion of a surgeon's knife. They stopped near the Palace of the Rulers, and Pharamarz ordered them to wait for him near the stairs and not to go away. Then he went up the polished marble steps and disappeared behind the huge doors lined with bronze. When the door shut the young Salars heard a low-voiced stroke of gong. The audience began. At first they stood still, as still as only the Gliding can stand and examined the noisy square with curiosity. The square examined them too, but the Salars didn't notice it. Two hours later their attention was drawn by a small crowd near a fence at the far end of the square. They loooked at each other, then they looked at the closed door of the palace and directed their steps towards the crowd. ...Three bearded men with identically unshaven faces and equally ragged clothes pressed a fourth man to the wooden fence and were cheerlessly beating him at the chest and mouth. The pressed man squeaked, moaned and looked before him with sad eyes. -- What are they doing? -- asked Bryan Oygla a young plump market- woman who screamed joyfully at each hit of the three man. -- Fighting,-- she said excitedly without turning her head form the event.-- Settling scores. They say the Bold Phan took somebody's money for his own... Fine fellows, aren't they? And the beads on her high breast tinkled again beating the time of her screams. Sigurd didn't understand her. He has never fought yet in his life. Only the animals happen to fight when they're young. Salars don't fight. The Invertings don't fight. They can kill, oh yes, they do kill. And often they are killed themseleves. But what's good in such fighting? He couldn't catch the meaning of the word. It was dirty, dull and senseless. Just like those men at the fence. One of the bearded men drew out a knife. The knife was blunt, curved and inconvenient. Bryan sighed, made his way through the crowd and came near the fighters. -- This knife is bad,-- said Oygla taking the man by his hand.-- And you're not better. Stop this! It's a shame... The bearded man seemed to be at the verge of an apoplexy. He swallowed air with a convulsive movement and all space left at his face between the thick hair and the tiny eyes became bloodshot. He stared at Oygla as if he has never seen a live man before. Then he saw Bryan's grey cloak and breathed noisily and laughed loudly. -- You're a hero,-- he said when his breath calmed down.-- Our glorious defender... Devilish sprawn! So you don't like my knife, do you? Sigurd remembered well the pause after these words, and it often returned afterwards in his nightmares. And each time it seemed to him that he's standing naked at the middle of the silent square and awful inhuman faces crease their noses with disgust and sniff at him. The bearded man drew his hand out of Oygla's grip and hit him with his knife at the breast. He was very surprised to see that he missed the hit. He repeated it once more. And more. Awkward men breathing heavily tried to kick down a boy -- a surprisingly slippery boy -- and the man he had tried to protect was the most diligent of the four. But Bryan moved swiftly and rhytmically as he was taught. The four couldn't reach him. And his hand searched for the sickle at his belt -- but in vain. When he realized that he was unarmed he clenched his fists... -- Excuse him, please,-- said the familiar soft voice at Sigurd's ear. And everything came to an end. The mentor Pharamarz bowed to the crowded people, made his excuses once more, took the offended Bryan by the shoulder and led him away. Sigurd shook off the sticky hot fingers of the market-woman and followed them. There were whispers in the crowd and staring eyes, and the younger women were cocking their eyes at each other and smacking their lips. When they left the city Oygla broke silence at last. -- Why did he behave so, Teacher? -- He was struggling with tears of anger. -- Why? -- Pharamarz thought for a moment and then went on.-- Why does the puma hate the kuguar most of all beats? Because they are alike. Alike but not the same. Do you remember what kind of buckle you wore when you had First Rank, Salar Oygla? -- It was golden, Teacher. -- And now when you've got the Second Rank? -- It us silver, Teacher. -- Quite right. And the Third Rank Salars wear a bronze buckle. I'm a mentor, I'm of the Seventh Rank, and my buckle is made of iron. The golden age passed long ago, my Salars. Or may be it has never begun. The Gods have gone forever to the Penates of Eternity, and the way there is known only to the eldest of Salars, the Sons of Gods. Maybe soon I'll know the way too. Our age is iron one, boys, and it is rusty. And if we, the Gliding-in-the-Dusk, the blue steel of our age, the Ninefold-Living won't defend the people of Kalorra they'll pass away earlier than it should be. They will disappear once and forever. And then it'll make no difference whether they were good or bad. They're of the same tree, of the same root with us, they are our relatives from mother's side. -- And what of it? -- asked Sigurd with perplexity.-- I have passed two times already. I had been ill when a boy... And then a leopard tore me. And each time I returned. -- That's right,-- said the mentor Pharamarz smiling sadly.-- You passed twice, Bryan three times, and I had six times. So we must forgive everything to the people of Kalorra -- they pass away one time and that's all. We the Ninefold-Living shouldn't accuse them. Sigurd nodded. He has already forgiven the people of Kalorra. But why did the bearded men call them -- the offspring of Gods -- the devilish sprawn? Their ancestors surely were not devils! The devils... or the devouted Gods? Or the devious Gods? Or simply -- Divine folk? What they were? * * * [.....................................................................] Shadow 2. Animal. Human. Divine: Solly Of Shaingholm, the Mutable. [.....................................................................] MEMORY SECTION THE HOWLING IN THE NIGHT Old Morn was against this venture and did his best to dissuade them -- but he couldn't to simpy order or forbid them to go. He could not to forbid anything to the people whose kin became cold ashes before his eyes. Morn was against it but they didn't listen to him. And Solly turned away and left his teacher, for his father from that time on would never go hunting to the forest and his mother lost her left hand and whenever she become wolf again she'll be lame and won't be able to catch even the most sluggish beasts. Since then Solly hasn't seen his mother smile softly as she use to before hearting about his successes or how the teacher had praised him. It was all gone. The invisible door that kept her smiles was shut forever. Now he could see in his mother's eyes only anguish and bitterness. She didn't weep and didn't say anything but it would be better if she wept or even howled... ...They marched in silence. They didn't glance back. They marched as animals. Some of them took their weapons tied with belts to their backs, others relied only upon their own claws and fangs. About two dozens of Mutables joined them -- the solitary ones who didn't like to use fire and dwelt in holes or any suitable shelters. Solly knew that his native village was the only one in this land. And it did not exist now. Morn had to lead those who survived to some new place. Solly has heared (also from Morn) that their people dwelt somewhere in the East, but nobody of his fellows ever dared to enter those wild lands. People say that there were some settlements over the mountains, at the other side of Ra-Muaz passes... They could have gathered twice as much Mutables but rage was driving them on and didn't allow to wait. Besides, the scouts told that the Killers from the Constants village had been summoned to some muster and those Ninefold-Living who were left home won't resist long. Solly understood better than his mates what would have happened with them were the Killers present, but now the wood people had a favourable opportunity. An opportunity blinded by rage... The rain lashed their backs as if the sky urged the avengers on. Pitch-black darkness unlike the Constants... Woe to the murderers! Their nine lives won't do them any good. The Mutables will drag their corpses to the woods and there they'll watch them dying again and again, until the last bracelet will appear on their arms as the sign that their crimes are atoned for. ...It took them few moments to strangle the dogs. And a triumphant howl announced the beginning of the feast. A live wave born in the night rolled out of the forest and overflew the palisade; those who have enough time to transform into human from climbed up the pales scratching their skin in a hurry to open the gate. Solly jumped down and helped Rollo to remove the wooden bar, with an evil smile. A lightning showed the wolfish grin at the youth's face in a short flash. And the thunder answered with a hoarse groan of awe. The gate was flung open and the massacre began. The werwolves didn't spare anybody. Invisible death overtook the Constants everywhere, the blades and knives worked untiringly, dissecting the scared night and soft human flesh... Solly was running past at opened door when a Ninefold-Living jumped out of it. He was almost naked but armed with a sword. At the next moment he sank slowly at the porch of his own home. He had no time to notice Solly's instantaneous stroke. The Mutable praised once more the darkness of the night. Then he threw away his bladric and changed himself into a wolf. Wielding the sword wasn't enough for him. He wanted some more than that. Only then his vengeance would be accomplished. He burst into the house. There was another door inside. He pushed it with his paw, and it opened with a creak. The woolf's keen eyes discerned at once the two figures pressed into the corner and clinging to one another. There were a girl, almost a child, frail and clumsy, and a boy about seven whom the girl tried to protect. The boy trembled, terror- stricken. They were the children of the man whom Solly has just killed at the porch. The moon peered cautiously through a gap in the clouds and lighted the room through an opened window. The girl saw the woolf's silhouette and raised her head with a shiver. And Solly clearly saw in her eyes the familiar anguish. They were the eyes oa his mother. It was his father who lay dead at the entrance... It was he himself who was now choking with terror in the corner behind a unsecure shield of his sister slender body in a light dress... Without thinking what he is doind Solly rose to his feet -- his two human feet -- and stood before the girl, and a timid, improbable hope linked them. And the moon, astonished, forgot to hide itself in the clouds. Solly heared a loud noise, and Rollo burst into the room staggering as a drunkard. He was in human form, wholly naked, and his sword was stained with blood. The leopard-man was drunken with blood. -- Ah, you've found some fun too, haven't you, Solly? -- gasped Rollo, showing his teeth in rapture.-- Well, let's halve the prey! You take the girl and the cub is for me. And then we'ii halve them each in turn, and once more... He stuck his sword into the floor prepearing to transform into a leopard, a mad yellow cat, but Solly turned to him, and Rollo looked at his friend's face -- and understood everything at once. -- What's up with you, Sol? -- he muttered stepping back to the door.-- These here... they killed your dad... they crippled your mum... how can you... -- They did it,-- Solly's voice was colourless and toneless as the Morn's.-- Then we do it -- and then it's their turn -- and ours... and again... Constants or Mutables, both of us are constant only in one thing -- equally constant... Solly wanted to stop but he couldn't. The words fell and fell from his lips, but suddenly Rollo's body tightened and Solly became silent at once. Fear seized him. He was afraid not for himself. When a human being he could contend with Rollo, but Rollo-leopard could easily tear both Solly the man and Solly the wolf, and after that... Solly's hand instinctively grasped the hilt of Rollo's sword that protruded from the floor. At this very moment a growling and grinning whirlwind rushed at him out of the dark. Solly raised his hand just to defend himself but his fingers clasped the hilt as if by their own will, and the sharp blade cut the leopard from hinder legs to the throat. The muscular twitching body knocked Solly off his feet, but he hurriedly jumped up and lifted his hand against Rollo. But there was no need to hurry. Rollo was dead. -- Have you here any place to hide yourself? -- asked Solly turning to the girl. She didn't say anything. -- Yes, we have,-- the boy said instead of her. He thought a little and added shyly: -- Thank you... ...Solly hid them in a barn. He brought there the body of their father too: to prevent it to being taking away to the forest. Then he covered them with hay. The father had to come back to life by the morning just like any of the Ninefold-Living and in Solly's opinion he was quite capable to take care of his own family. After that he returned to the forest with his mates. Many of them carried the bodies of the Ninefold-Living to continue their killing tomorrow, but Solly marched without any burden. He carried with him only the memory of the Constant girl with his mother's brown eyes... and the dead body of Rollo lying on the floor... They marched without glancing back. * * * Translated from Russian by Alina Nemirova.