A Voyage to Arcturus by David Lindsay (reading strategies book TXT) 📗

clumsily, as if it were bearing a heavy weight under the surface. When it landed at its master’s feet, they saw that each set of claws was clutching a fish—six in all. Polecrab took them from it. He proceeded to cut off the heads and tails with a sharp-edged stone which he picked up; these he threw to the arg, which devoured them without any fuss.

Polecrab beckoned to Maskull to follow him and, carrying the fish, walked toward the open shore, by the same way that he had come. When they reached the sands, he sliced the fish, removed the entrails, and digging a shallow hole in a patch of violet sand, placed the remainder of the carcasses in it, and covered them over again. Then he dug up his own dinner. Maskull’s nostrils quivered at the savoury smell, but he was not yet to dine.

Polecrab, turning to go with the cooked fish in his hands, said, “These are mine, not yours. When yours are done, you can come back and join me, supposing you want company.”

“How soon will that be?”

“About twenty minutes,” replied the fisherman, over his shoulder.

Maskull sheltered himself in the shadows of the forest, and waited. When the time had approximately elapsed, he disinterred his meal, scorching his fingers in the operation, although it was only the surface of the sand which was so intensely hot. Then he returned to Polecrab.

In the warm, still air and cheerful shade of the inlet, they munched in silence, looking from their food to the sluggish water, and back again. With every mouthful Maskull felt his strength returning. He finished before Polecrab, who ate like a man for whom time has no value. When he had done, he stood up.

“Come and drink,” he said, in his husky voice.

Maskull looked at him inquiringly.

The man led him a little way into the forest, and walked straight up to a certain tree. At a convenient height in its trunk a hole had been tapped and plugged. Polecrab removed the plug and put his mouth to the aperture, sucking for quite a long time, like a child at its mother’s breast. Maskull, watching him, imagined that he saw his eyes growing brighter.

When his own turn came to drink, he found the juice of the tree somewhat like coconut milk in flavour, but intoxicating. It was a new sort of intoxication, however, for neither his will not his emotions were excited, but only his intellect—and that only in a certain way. His thoughts and images were not freed and loosened, but on the contrary kept labouring and swelling painfully, until they reached the full beauty of an aperçu, which would then flame up in his consciousness, burst, and vanish. After that, the whole process started over again. But there was never a moment when he was not perfectly cool, and master of his senses. When each had drunk twice, Polecrab replugged the hole, and they returned to their bank.

“Is it Blodsombre yet?” asked Maskull, sprawling on the ground, well content.

Polecrab resumed his old upright sitting posture, with his feet in the water. “Just beginning,” was his hoarse response.

“Then I must stay here till it’s over.... Shall we talk?”

“We can,” said the other, without enthusiasm.

Maskull glanced at him through half-closed lids, wondering if he were exactly what he seemed to be. In his eyes he thought he detected a wise light.

“Have you travelled much, Polecrab?”

“Not what you would call travelling.”

“You tell me you’ve been to Matterplay—what kind of country is that?”

“I don’t know. I went there to pick up flints.”

“What countries lie beyond it?”

“Threal comes next, as you go north. They say it’s a land of mystics... I don’t know.”

“Mystics?”

“So I’m told.... Still farther north there’s Lichstorm.”

“Now we’re going far afield.”

“There are mountains there—and altogether it must be a very dangerous place, especially for a full-blooded man like you. Take care of yourself.”

“This is rather premature, Polecrab. How do you know I’m going there?”

“As you’ve come from the south, I suppose you’ll go north.”

“Well, that’s right enough,” said Maskull, staring hard at him. “But how do you know I’ve come from the south?”

“Well, then, perhaps you haven’t—but there’s a look of Ifdawn about you.”

“What kind of look?”

“A tragical look,” said Polecrab. He never even glanced at Maskull, but was gazing at a fixed spot on the water with unblinking eyes.

“What lies beyond Lichstorm?” asked Maskull, after a minute or two.

“Barey, where you have two suns instead of one—but beyond that fact I know nothing about it.... Then comes the ocean.”

“And what’s on the other side of the ocean?”

“That you must find out for yourself, for I doubt if anybody has ever crossed it and come back.”

Maskull was silent for a little while.

“How is it that your people are so unadventurous? I seem to be the only one travelling from curiosity.”

“What do you mean by ‘your people’?”

“True—you don’t know that I don’t belong to your planet at all. I’ve come from another world, Polecrab.”

“What to find?”

“I came here with Krag and Nightspore—to follow Surtur. I must have fainted the moment I arrived. When I sat up, it was night and the others had vanished. Since then I’ve been travelling at random.”

Polecrab scratched his nose. “You haven’t found Surtur yet?”

“I’ve heard his drum taps frequently. In the forest this morning I came quite close to him. Then two days ago, in the Lusion Plain, I saw a vision—a being in man’s shape, who called himself Surtur.”

“Well, maybe it was Surtur.”

“No, that’s impossible,” replied Maskull reflectively. “It was Crystalman. And it isn’t a question of my suspecting it—I know it.”

“How?”

“Because this is Crystalman’s world, and Surtur’s world is something quite different.”

“That’s queer, then,” said Polecrab.

“Since I’ve come out of that forest,” proceeded Maskull, talking half to himself, “a change has come over me, and I see things differently. Everything here looks much more solid and real in my eyes than in other places so much so that I can’t entertain the least doubt of its existence. It not only