very strenuous, and again Rorn protested. “I don’t give a belch
if it’s fair or not,” I threw back at him. “Somebody has to spend full time learning the language, and Hugh’s got more talent
for that sort of thing than any two of you clumpfeet put together.”
Which was true. With the help of his omnisonor for noises that the human throat would not form, he could soon produce every
Azkashi phoneme; and then it was not so much linguistics as a sense of poetry that was needed to fit them into meaningful
phrases.
I was not too surprised when, after several Earth-days, he told me that ya-Kela and the others wanted to go home—taking him
along. He was eager to make a visit. What could I do but agree?
VIII
W ITH A woodsranger’s wariness, ya-Kela reserved judgment. Perhaps he had misunderstood those few words and gestures the stranger
called ya-Valland could make. Perhaps ya-Val-land did not really claim to be the emissary of God.
For surely he had curious weaknesses. He was as night blind as any downdevil once he took off his fish-resembling mask. Without
tail or footwebs, he stumbled awkward through the marshes; and whenever the party swam across a body of water, he was still
more clumsy and soon grew tired. Besides, he must push those things he carried on his back ahead of him, lashed to a log.
One could accept that he did not speak the speech of the Pack—God must use a tongue more noble—but he was ignorant of the
simplest matters, must actually be restrained from walking into a dart bush. There might be some magical reason for his not
touching ordinary food and, instead, opening little packets of powder and mixing them with water to swell the bulk before
he cooked himself a meal. But why must he send the water itself steaming through a thing of bottles joined by a tube, rather
than lap up a drink on his way?
Ya-Eltokh, one of the four who had remained to accompany them back, growled, “He is weirder than any of the Herd. And that
great thing he came in, sitting out in Lake Silence! How sure are you that he is not some downdevil animal sent to trap us?”
“If so, the Herd has been clever,” ya-Kela said, “for our watchers told how their canoes fled when the strangers triedto come near. And you know well that prisoners we tortured were made to confess that the downdevils did not appear to have
anything to do with that which, generations ago, came from the sky. Why, then, should the enemy have brought this new manifestation
about?” He signed the air. “I am the One of the Pack. The thought was mine that we should seek the strangers out, for they
might be from God. If I was wrong, it is my souls that will suffer; but with this hand I will plunge the first spear into
ya-Valland.”
He hoped that would not come to pass. The big ugly creature was so likable in his fashion, and the music he made was somehow
more important than the sharp blade he had given. He explained, after much fumbling on both sides, that the tune he made most
often was a song to his she. But when he heard those notes, little ghosts ran up and down the skin of ya-Kela. There was strong
magic in that song.
They continued to seek understanding whenever they camped. Ya-Valland guided the lessons with marvelous skill. By the time
they reached the lairs, he could do a little real talking.
It was good to be back in hill country. The Herd fighters seldom ventured into this land of long ridges and darkling valleys,
noisy rivers and silent woods. Ya-Kela snuffed a wind that bore the odor of ninla nests, heard the remote scream of a kurakh
on the prowl, saw God swirl radiant above Cragdale, and bayed to call his folk. They slipped from dells and thickets until
the trail was a stream of lithe, padding hunters, and went together to the caves where the Pack dwelt.
Ya-Kela took ya-Valland into his own place. His aunt, su-Kulka, made the guest welcome and prepared a bed. His she and youngs
if it’s fair or not,” I threw back at him. “Somebody has to spend full time learning the language, and Hugh’s got more talent
for that sort of thing than any two of you clumpfeet put together.”
Which was true. With the help of his omnisonor for noises that the human throat would not form, he could soon produce every
Azkashi phoneme; and then it was not so much linguistics as a sense of poetry that was needed to fit them into meaningful
phrases.
I was not too surprised when, after several Earth-days, he told me that ya-Kela and the others wanted to go home—taking him
along. He was eager to make a visit. What could I do but agree?
VIII
W ITH A woodsranger’s wariness, ya-Kela reserved judgment. Perhaps he had misunderstood those few words and gestures the stranger
called ya-Valland could make. Perhaps ya-Val-land did not really claim to be the emissary of God.
For surely he had curious weaknesses. He was as night blind as any downdevil once he took off his fish-resembling mask. Without
tail or footwebs, he stumbled awkward through the marshes; and whenever the party swam across a body of water, he was still
more clumsy and soon grew tired. Besides, he must push those things he carried on his back ahead of him, lashed to a log.
One could accept that he did not speak the speech of the Pack—God must use a tongue more noble—but he was ignorant of the
simplest matters, must actually be restrained from walking into a dart bush. There might be some magical reason for his not
touching ordinary food and, instead, opening little packets of powder and mixing them with water to swell the bulk before
he cooked himself a meal. But why must he send the water itself steaming through a thing of bottles joined by a tube, rather
than lap up a drink on his way?
Ya-Eltokh, one of the four who had remained to accompany them back, growled, “He is weirder than any of the Herd. And that
great thing he came in, sitting out in Lake Silence! How sure are you that he is not some downdevil animal sent to trap us?”
“If so, the Herd has been clever,” ya-Kela said, “for our watchers told how their canoes fled when the strangers triedto come near. And you know well that prisoners we tortured were made to confess that the downdevils did not appear to have
anything to do with that which, generations ago, came from the sky. Why, then, should the enemy have brought this new manifestation
about?” He signed the air. “I am the One of the Pack. The thought was mine that we should seek the strangers out, for they
might be from God. If I was wrong, it is my souls that will suffer; but with this hand I will plunge the first spear into
ya-Valland.”
He hoped that would not come to pass. The big ugly creature was so likable in his fashion, and the music he made was somehow
more important than the sharp blade he had given. He explained, after much fumbling on both sides, that the tune he made most
often was a song to his she. But when he heard those notes, little ghosts ran up and down the skin of ya-Kela. There was strong
magic in that song.
They continued to seek understanding whenever they camped. Ya-Valland guided the lessons with marvelous skill. By the time
they reached the lairs, he could do a little real talking.
It was good to be back in hill country. The Herd fighters seldom ventured into this land of long ridges and darkling valleys,
noisy rivers and silent woods. Ya-Kela snuffed a wind that bore the odor of ninla nests, heard the remote scream of a kurakh
on the prowl, saw God swirl radiant above Cragdale, and bayed to call his folk. They slipped from dells and thickets until
the trail was a stream of lithe, padding hunters, and went together to the caves where the Pack dwelt.
Ya-Kela took ya-Valland into his own place. His aunt, su-Kulka, made the guest welcome and prepared a bed. His she and youngs
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