A Voyage to Arcturus - David Lindsay (list of e readers .TXT) 📗

side, what resources had he, a feeble, ignorant traveller to oppose, from a tiny planet on the other side of space, to avoid being utterly destroyed?⁠ ⁠… Then he smiled to himself. “I’ve already been here two days, and still I survive. I have luck⁠—and with that one can balance the universe. But what is luck⁠—a verbal expression, or a thing?”

As he was putting on his skin, which was now dry, the answer came to him, and this time he was grave. “Surtur brought me here, and Surtur is watching over me. That is my ‘luck.’⁠ ⁠… But what is Surtur in this world?⁠ ⁠… How is he able to protect me against the blind and ungovernable forces of nature? Is he stronger than Nature?⁠ ⁠…”

Hungry as he was for food, he was hungrier still for human society, for he wished to inquire about all these things. He asked himself which way he should turn his steps. There were only two ways; along the shore, either east or west. The nearest creek lay to the east, cutting the sands about a mile away. He walked toward it.

The forest face was forbidding and enormously high. It was so squarely turned to the sea that it looked as though it had been planed by tools. Maskull strode along in the shade of the trees, but kept his head constantly turned away from them, toward the sea⁠—there it was more cheerful. The creek, when he reached it, proved to be broad and flat-banked. It was not a river, but an arm of the sea. Its still, dark green water curved around a bend out of sight, into the forest. The trees on both banks overhung the water, so that it was completely in shadow.

He went as far as the bend, beyond which another short reach appeared. A man was sitting on a narrow shelf of bank, with his feet in the water. He was clothed in a coarse, rough hide, which left his limbs bare. He was short, thick, and sturdy, with short legs and a long, powerful arms, terminating in hands of an extraordinary size. He was oldish. His face was plain, slablike, and expressionless; it was full of wrinkles, and walnut-coloured. Both face and head were bald, and his skin was tough and leathery. He seemed to be some sort of peasant, or fisherman; there was no trace in his face of thought for others, or delicacy of feeling. He possessed three eyes, of different colours⁠—jade-green, blue, and ulfire.

In front of him, riding on the water, moored to the bank, was an elementary raft, consisting of the branches of trees, clumsily corded together.

Maskull addressed him. “Are you another of the wise men of the Wombflash Forest?”

The man answered him in a gruff, husky voice, looking up as he did so. “I’m a fisherman. I know nothing about wisdom.”

“What name do you go by?”

“Polecrab. What’s yours?”

“Maskull. If you’re a fisherman, you ought to have fish. I’m famishing.”

Polecrab grunted, and paused a minute before answering.

“There’s fish enough. My dinner is cooking in the sands now. It’s easy enough to get you some more.”

Maskull found this a pleasant speech.

“But how long will it take?” he asked.

The man slid the palms of his hands together, producing a shrill, screeching noise. He lifted his feet from the water, and clambered onto the bank. In a minute or two a curious little beast came crawling up to his feet, turning its face and eyes up affectionately, like a dog. It was about two feet long, and somewhat resembled a small seal, but had six legs, ending in strong claws.

“Arg, go fish!” said Polecrab hoarsely.

The animal immediately tumbled off the bank into the water. It swam gracefully to the middle of the creek and made a pivotal dive beneath the surface, where it remained a great while.

“Simple fishing,” remarked Maskull. “But what’s the raft for?”

“To go to sea with. The best fish are out at sea. These are eatable.”

“That arg seems a highly intelligent creature.”

Polecrab grunted again. “I’ve trained close on a hundred of them. The bigheads learn best, but they’re slow swimmers. The narrowheads swim like eels, but can’t be taught. Now I’ve started interbreeding them⁠—he’s one of them.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“No, I’ve got a wife and three boys. My wife’s sleeping somewhere, but where the lads are, Shaping knows.”

Maskull began to feel very much at home with this unsophisticated being.

“The raft’s all crazy,” he remarked, staring at it. “If you go far out in that, you’ve got more pluck than I have.”

“I’ve been to Matterplay on it,” said Polecrab.

The arg reappeared and started swimming to shore, but this time 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