Part One
Chapter 2
SMAELAER
T he mines of the Traeppedelfere were proof of the tribe's industry. Extensive, wandering, richly veined with ductile ores here, bright and hot-burning deposits there, the mines ran on and on through the mountains, and through the lore and instincts of the Traeppedelfere. Whenever a vein was exhausted or would approach too nearly a previously excavated void, the miners would move on, and others would come to replace them, making workshops and dwelling places in the spent sectors of the mines.
Through long ages of tunneling, the race had accreted sensibilities crucial to a life under dark and ponderous stone. They developed an ability to anticipate irregularities in their surroundings in the jet darkness, which made them seem able to see in the dark. And they gradually inherited a virtually infallible sense of direction or spacial awareness, such that no Traeppedelfere ever got lost in the myriad catacombs, or, indeed, anywhere.
They also became skilled stone-wrights, but the Traeppedelfere had no tribal concept of art, nor of beauty, and their works were inclined to be strictly utilitarian. Alcoves and dens were carved out with tables and benches in place and utterly immovable. But this practical bent didn't completely inhibit innovation, for the stancippians, the stonewrights, had developed many ingenious and complex devices and procedures in pursuit of their craft. Their discovery of strangdeaw, a condensate of certain fumes given off during the coking of a particular combination of ores, led to a marked change in the lives of all the Traeppedelferes. While this solvent could not dissolve all minerals, and it was impossible to produce in large quantities, it was nevertheless found to be most useful in creating small-diameter shafts through the rock, such as vents, flues, and waterways. Thus, they were able to move their furnaces, smelts, forges, and smithies down under the mountain close to the mineshafts, which saved much hauling of ore.
The maciantols, the smiths, were also crafty, but locked into a kind of industrial mindset. Many useful mining tools and implements were turned out, but precious few articles for everyday use outside the mines. Hard, keen bits for excavating solid rock were routine articles for the maciantols, but a knife for the galley was a thing produced only after much exasperating trial and error. The hunters (and only after impassioned persuasion which nearly led to bloodshed) had once finally coerced the maciantols to produce their design of a trap, with much eventual success; but many other practical suggestions had been ignored without a trial.
In the ancient banquet hall, the largest gathering-place in the mountains, four figures sat around a rooted table at the far end, where the soaring ceiling had returned to less giddy heights, and the banquet-stores were warehoused in an alcove off the main chamber. The great hall was not far from the surface of the mountain, and straight shafts brought a thin daylight and fresh air; a precious commodity at banquet time, when the adult population of the race filled the huge hall to capacity and beyond. Now, the hall was filled with nothing more substantial than the echoes of the animated conversation of the four Traeppedelferes. The good-natured banter had become more and more abusive as they had sipped more and more blowanslaep cider from their cups. One of them, apparently, felt he had been teased enough.
"Smaelaer, you mocetan!" Smerian blurted out, stifling a belch with an eye-popping grimace. His companions hooted merrily.
"Let it out," goaded Snecchen, "maybe it make sense!" Smerian was characteristically saelig, and his speech and his thoughts were sagging into a slurry. The other two howled at this dig, perhaps revealing that Smerian was not the only one at the table who was a little saelig. Smerian himself began to chuckle good-naturedly, until he was almost unseated by a sudden and particularly violent hiccough.
"Moc!" he swore vehemently. "Hate gos! Hate, hate, hh-uck!" He lurched again as he was interrupted by another one.
The party went wild. Slimgrene, with tears in her eyes, lost control of herself and fell backwards off her bench. She landed flat on her back on the stone floor, legs waving, hands clasping her stomachs, cramping with laughter. Smerian glanced at the antunge in this suggestive attitude, did a double take, and seemed to sober spontaneously. Slimgrene, once she caught her breath, became aware of Smerian's interest, and immediately stopped laughing.
The two others watched the predictable ritual unfold with envy (Snecchen) and amusement (Smaelaer). Smerian's mind was reeling from the cider, but this had little to do with the mind, and he riveted his attentions on Slimgrene with an elemental singularity of purpose. Slimgrene shuddered with that preliminary spine-tingling chill that started by curling her toes, then unstrung her legs, raced up her back and curled the very tips of her hair. They were drawn together by unseen mysterious forces having nothing to do with conscious thought, and collided in a shameless fusion of writhing limbs.
"Smerian," Slimgrene whispered quaveringly, as if it had to be said, "we go to Haegtesse?"
"Um," murmured the maciantol. "Becumanfisc!" He walked as straight as he could toward the nearest door of the hall, faltering now and again under the combined burdens of Slimgrene in his arms, blowanslaep cider in his veins, and the call of becumanfisc guiding the rest of him.
The Traeppedelferes were a highly communal society. This arose partly out of necessity, and partly out of convenience, as the entire race (except the hunters) lived in limited quarters in their underground lairs. Duties were shared, antunge and twatunge alike, and indeed the sexes came to resemble each other a great deal through their physical labors. As a matter of fact, the only physiological differences that could be expressed at all in the Traeppedelferean language had to do with one or another base sensual act.
The Traeppedelferes were a sensually driven race. Sexual excitement ruled their lives to an enormous extent, sometimes to the exclusion of everything else. Their systems responded to arousal with a continual crescendo of excrutiating titillation, intensifying all their senses in a frustrating but irreversible and addicting rising spiral of primordial impulse, holding them hostage to their own urges for agonizing, blissful days at a time before finally releasing them at the cruel peak of the spiral with an exploding sky of silent shared unconsciousness.
And it was good for them both.
The sexes were regarded utterly indiscriminately in the society, and this egalitarianism carried over to the very act of sex itself. Every imaginable form of licentious buggery and lascivious invention was practiced without censure; indeed, with goading encouragement. The communal experience of the race had evolved utterly devoid of monogamism: every mature member of the race was a potential partner, and no one of them could remember all their past liaisons, or saw any reason to try.
This led to problems. A sliefenumen rarely knew by whom she had been fertilized and, as the resulting offspring were raised exclusively by the communal wellemodors, she would soon lose track of her fisccilds, too. A Traeppedelfere knew neither parent, sibling, nor offspring. The concept of relation did not exist. As a result, inbreeding was a serious threat to the race. Many generations of Traeppedelferes came and went before it came to light, long ago, what the cause of the resulting puny and occasionally insane cilds might be. In the meantime, the Yldras had handed down laws dealing with the problem by simply decreeing death to anyone exhibiting signs of idiocy or insanity.
This seemed to help, but at the cost of a significant portion of the population. Worse yet, the Yldras came to abuse their authority by leading sweeping purges of all those whom they suspected of envying their power or position, declaiming by fiat such real or imagined competitors to be cnawannahwit, and summarily putting them to death. A dark era descended on the Traeppedelferes.
Enter the line of Wrencanmodors. The midwives gradually noted that the incidence of the unwanted symptoms was concentrated amongst the offspring of siblings (even though the very concept of sibling relation had not previously existed in the society), and undertook to prevent such matings in the future. A daunting task, to be sure. It was long before the Yldras could be convinced that this (to them) esoteric notion could have any basis in fact, and longer yet to come to the demand for laws enforcing the punishment of those who unwittingly or intentionally engaged in incest. But after long debate it was settled that the Wrencanmodor would have censure over mating pairs, or the couple would be put to death. Period.
The Traeppedelferes grudgingly came to accept this new constraint, after a brief but convincing round of executions, and a great service was performed for the race. The title of Wrencanmodor became a highly revered and powerful one, and not every morwemodor who aspired to it could achieve it; for in an unlettered race it required incredible powers of memorization and recall.
The trip to the Wrencanmodor eventually became an expected, even an erotic, part of the ritual of becumanfisc. The path to Haegtesse's door was well worn by long seasons of the tread of trysting Traeppedelferes, hoping for the nod.
Snecchen watched with wide eyes as the two throbbing zombies left the hall. "What you think?" she coyly asked Smaelaer. The dance she had just witnessed had had its effect: her limbs were expectently gyrating exactly like a beast's when coiling to spring. Smaelaer, however, was not at the table when she turned; he had taken their cups into the storeroom to be refilled from the cask, and was only now re-entering the hall.
"Cask dryge," he remarked. Snecchen sighed, and looked into the cup he set before her. Sure enough, the dregs of the cider were swirling in the bottom with the motion of the otherwise clear liquid. This would be an unusually potent potion; she would have to sip slowly. Smaelaer sat down opposite her and raised his cup, eyeing the sediment. Suddenly he raised his eyes and looked directly into hers, and his tone softened, "What I think? I think, tomorrow we hunt. I think, sleep tonight."
Snecchen blushed when she realised he had heard her leading question after all, then was disappointed as he finished his thought. He was right. A hunter's first priority was the hunt.
Both Snecchen and Smaelaer were hunters, and good ones. Amongst the hunters, Snecchen had an unrivaled reputation as a stalker, and could surprise her prey with surety, provided only that the wind direction was favorable. Smaelaer, for his part, may have been the premier hunter of the race: he furnished nearly twice as much meat, and a like proportion of pelts, as the quotas called for, and that kind of record could be seriously approached only by a very few. Much of his success came as a result of his unusual powers of concentration, and his overall attitude. Perhaps no other Traeppedelfere would have allowed Snecchen's suggestive question to lead the conversation in any other direction than straight to Haegtesse's den.
"The morwetraeppes run long," Smaelaer went on. "The blowanslaep fall. Thriddahype fat, eat long weodasur. Hunters bring meat for Great Banquet, gather much fruit for wine. Stancippians load wains, maciantols load barrows. Traeppedelferes make ready for Bazaar, and great trade."
"Um," nodded Snecchen, "I know. Same every season. Why you say?" Smaelaer seemed suddenly distant, distracted, and she did not understand this mood.
"Mocwalwians," he replied, to her astonishment, apparently ignoring her question. A sour expression of disgust transmogrified his face. "Mocwalwians work mud, make kernals. Traeppedelferes take fyrstan, take metals, take tools to Mocwalwians, trade for wains and barrows spilling with kernals."
"Um, um," said Snecchen with some impatience, wishing he would come to the point. "Same every season. Why you say?"
"I talk with Maegenyldra Goffe," Smaelaer said, apparently changing the subject. "Goffe say kernal bins dryge. Bazaar soon, but Great Banquet first." Smaelaer looked around the dim hall with prying eyes, checking the doorways for eavesdroppers, and listened intently for a few long moments before he returned his glinting eyes to Snecchen's. "You say to no one, um?" he half-asked, half-demanded in a nervous whisper. "Snecchen, say to no one!" He was most emphatic, and Snecchen was properly impressed, and immensely intrigued. She had been unable, so far, to follow the trail of his conversation, as it jumped from hunt to Banquet to Bazaar to Mocwalwian harvest to Traeppedelfere Maegenyldra, and she had almost forgotten her recent overture to arousal, which she was now prepared to exchange for the promise of unraveling Smaelaer's mysterious rambling. Still, secrets concerning the Yldras were dangerous things, and she debated with herself for a moment whether she wanted, really, to be put in any possible jeopardy. But finally her escalating curiosity and Smaelaer's apparent willingness to divulge this secret conspired to overcome her second thoughts.
"Um!" she whispered with a thrill. "I say to no one!"
Smaelaer was not satisfied. "Swear to Waeccelang!" he demanded, invoking the most binding oath in the Traeppedelferean culture. "Goffe will deny all, will name me cnawannawiht, so I die by water and fire, if you say! Swear to Waeccelang you say to no one!"
The antunge trembled. She had not expected this. A moment before, the conversation had been a simple game, trading secrets in the dark. Suddenly it had become life-and death, metaphysical. She agonized with a burning uncertainty, then realized that she was already committed: merely knowing that Smaelaer held such a secret, even without knowing the secret itself, had made her an accomplice anyway. She might as well know what she had gotten herself into.
"Waeccelang!" she whispered in a trembling voice, eyes searching the dark ceiling of the hall (she knew not why). "Hear me say! Smaelaer say to me, I say to no one."
Smaelaer, now satisfied, glanced through the hall and over his shoulder once more before he spoke. "I talk with Goffe," he repeated. "The kernal bins are dryge. There will be no dust ground from kernals, none to bake. There will be no coecil for Great Banquet!"
Snecchen relaxed. She felt let down, puzzled. This did not seem to be as serious a matter as she had been led to believe, and she felt some irritation at having been made to swear in order to hear of it. "Smaelaer, this not good," she acknowledged, "but not so bad as you say. Great Banquet more than coecil!"
He knew what she meant. At the Banquet, following the reports of the Yldras of the various stancippians, maciantols, widucippians, hunters, and others, the Maeganyldras commenced the repast. After the meal itself, the ritual homage paid to the Wrencanmodor began what most Traeppedelferes considered the real celebration: wholesale becumanfisc, glorious rabelaisian orgy. Indeed, in the dialect their words for ``banquet'' or ``feast'' had come to be synonymous with wanton sensuality. Snecchen sincerely doubted that the absent foodstuff would be missed much, and said so to Smaelaer.
"Um, I say that to Goffe," he said, "but Goffe old, Goffe worry. He see strong Traeppedelferes want to be named Maegenyldra. Goffe say, rivals would make much of dryge kernal bins, would blame Goffe, and name him cnawannawiht."
"Why say to you?" Snecchen asked. "You not Yldra. You not Mocwalwian with wains of kernals."
"Um, Goffe think, Goffe have plan," he said. "Goffe not want to tell Traeppedelferes about dryge bins. He think, after Great Banquet come Bazaar, and great trade for many wains of kernals. Then bins flow, no one blame Goffe. He think, give Traeppedelferes at Banquet no coecil, but something other. Something better. No one remember coecil, Goffe remain Maegenyldra."
"Why say to you?" she asked again. Smaelaer closed his eyes and knitted his brows darkly. The dim light that had been in the hall had now faded altogether, though the two had not noticed, and they sat in inky silence for a moment. Smaelaer took a bracing sip of cider, and spoke.
"Oxagrete," he whispered with a shudder. "Goffe, wise Goffe, think I am great hunter, I can kill oxagrete, I can kill many oxagretes! like he kill sphex. He say, Smaelaer, Banquet with oxagrete will not want coecil. I say to him, um, but much danger, much walking, much time to find oxagrete, then much luck for even great hunter to kill. I say, I kill one oxagrete for feast, or no oxagrete at all, when I can kill many hands-and-feet thriddahypes for feast, and all eat much. He say, oxagrete, Smaelaer, and look with eye at me so I feel sick: Goffe is Maegenyldra, I am hunter." Smaelaer's head dropped, and his shoulders sagged.
Snecchen grieved for him. To be commanded by an Yldra to kill an oxagrete (even more than one!) was a heavy sentence indeed. As a hunter she knew the dangers involved in the assignment, and she cursed the petty machinations of the Yldras that always resulted in such difficult, if not always such dangerous, tasks for the Traeppedelferes. "How you do this, Smaelaer?" she wondered. "What you think?"
Smaelaer looked up sharply. "When I was young morwetraeppe," he began, "I run long, I run far, I run high, like all did, flushing game closer to mines, closer to hunters to kill and carry back to Traeppedelferes. One season I see oxagrete, first one I see! and I follow. I stalk up mountain, down mountain, far and long, many days. Oxagrete not know I follow, or not care, and then, I think I know, it look at me through sceadutreows; it look hard at me, and I become afraid. I think, run away! and look for way to run: but all ways I see oxagretes looking hard at me, behind, before, up slope, down, side... many, many oxagretes! I think then, I not stalk oxagrete, oxagrete stalk Smaelaer, flush into trap, like hunters do thriddahypes. I not know what to do, they so big, so fast. Oxagretes take one step to me, two steps - I feel strong with fear, I was young, so gemaed to follow so far. I hear beasts snort now, see air in mouths, feel thunder in chest; their chests and my chest. And then..." He stopped ominously.
"Um, and then?"
"I think many times after that day, and see that day in dreams," intoned Smaelaer, almost chanting, "and I do not know. In dream, as oxagretes are near to eat me, I awake, and escape. But that day, long ago, when oxagretes were near to eat me, I fall asleep, and escape! and not know how. I awake, I know not how long after; I not eaten, I not hurt, marks of many oxagretes on ground all around me, but no oxagretes to see! I not understand, and start run back to morwetraeppes' cabin. Under sceadutreow I see old hunter, I not know before, and he ask, where I run so long? and I show with arm. He say, that way lie Haunted Lands, you understand me? and I say um, but I was young morwetraeppe, and not know Haunted Lands lore."
"It is forbidden to enter Haunted Lands," whispered Snecchen with a shudder. "If Yldras hear, it is death!"
"Um," nodded Smaelaer, "know now."
"Good that old hunter not say to Yldras," observed the antunge.
"Something about old hunter I not understand," he said. "I not know him. I not see him again. No one see him."
They both sat silently in the darkness. Far, far down in some remote corridor the echoes of the mines rolled up toward the great hall, kneaded by the twists and turns into a homogenous low rumble, barely audible, and only noticeable to the hunters, who were unused to it outside the mines. An eerie feeling crept up Snecchen's spine as she thought about the disappearing old hunter, the mystery of Smaelaer's escape from the oxagretes, and the vague legends of the forbidden Haunted Lands. Her cup slipped from her fingers, completely forgotten, and the ping! as it hit the stone tabletop seemed to bring her out of a dream. "Why say to me?" she asked abruptly.
Smaelaer shrugged his shoulders. "You say, Smaelaer, what you do, and what you think? and I say," he answered. "And I say more to you, I do not care, and you swear to Waeccelang, so I say to you. Tomorrow I go to hunt the oxagrete. I go where I see many, many oxagretes long ago, where many live now, may be. Tomorrow, I walk for Haunted Lands!"
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