Monument. Lloyd Biggle jr.
generous, loving people to extinction. He knew.
He had known it almost from the moment of his crash landing. In his younger days the knowledge had made him frantic with worry, and he had pondered and debated with himself on long nocturnal walks along the beaches, and paced his hut through innumerable hours of misty darkness while he devised stratagems, and with inspiration and luck and stubbornness he finally fashioned the answers he had to have. He was the one man in the far-flung cosmos who could save this world that he loved and these people that he loved, and he would do it. He painstakingly rehearsed in his mind every step that had to be taken, and every opposing move that would have to be countered, and he was ready to act the moment the world was officially discovered.
The discovery did not happen, and he, Cerne Obrien, had played the fool. He had been content to wait. It was pleasant lounging in his hammock with a gourd of fermented juice at his elbow, acting the part of a veritable oracle, respected, even worshiped. When he was younger he had roamed the length and breadth of this world’s lone continent. He had taken long sea voyages. He was first in every adventure and courted danger with a grin on his face, scorning the world’s hazards and revering its beauties wherever and whenever he found them; but his zest for hazards diminished with age, and he became aware that the view from his own village encompassed as much breath-taking beauty as a man could comprehend in a lifetime.
He was a simple man, an uneducated man. The natives’ awe of his supposed wisdom alarmed and embarrassed him. He found himself called upon to settle complex sociological and economic problems, and because he had seen many civilizations and remembered much of what he had seen, he achieved a spectacular success and enjoyed it not at all.
And now the long pageant of unnumbered, wonderful years had come to this bitter ending: he was the one man in the cosmos who knew how to save this world and this people, and he could not do it because he was dying.
* * * *
Kilometers of coast drifted past, and scores of villages, where people recognized the Langri and crowded the shore to wave. The afternoon waned and evening came on. Fatigue touched the boys’ faces and their singing became strained and breathless, but they worked tirelessly and kept their rhythm.
Dusk was hazing the sea about them and purpling the land when they entered a shallow bay and rode the surf up onto a wide, sloping beach studded with boats. The boys leaped out and heaved their own boat far up onto the sand. Then they slumped to the beach in exhaustion and bounced up a moment later, beaming with pride. There would be feasting tonight, and they would be honored guests. Had they not brought the Langri?
All native villages lay on hillsides overlooking the sea, with their dwellings arranged in concentric circles about a central oval where, at dusk, cooking fires sent fragrant plumes of smoke skyward. Obrien’s march up the village’s central avenue was a triumphal procession. Respectful adults and awed children solemnly trailed after him. He skirted the enormous signal gourd that stood in the center of the oval and continued on to the top of the slope where the Elder’s dwelling stood. The Elder stood waiting for him, a smile on his wrinkled face, his arms forming the native salute: one arm uplifted; the other held across his breast with hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Ten paces from him Obrien halted and returned the salute. The villagers watched silently.
“I greet you,” Obrien said.
“Your greetings are as welcome as yourself,” the Elder replied.
Obrien stepped forward, and they touched hands. This was not a native greeting, but he used it with some of the older men who were almost lifelong friends to him.
“I ordered a feast in the hope that you would come,” the Elder said.
“I came in the hope there would be a feast,” Obrien returned.
The formalities thus satisfied, the villagers drifted away murmuring approval. The Elder took Obrien’s arm and led him to the grove at the top of the hill, where hammocks were hung. They stood facing each other.
“Many days have passed,” the Elder said.
“Too many days,” Obrien agreed.
The Elder’s tall, gaunt frame seemed as sturdy as ever, but his hair was silvery white. The years had etched lines in his face, and more years had deepened them and dimmed the brightness in his eyes. Like Obrien, he was old. He was dying.
“The way is long,” the Elder said, “but at the end is a soft hammock, a full gourd, and a village of friends. Rest!”
They settled into two hammocks hung in a V, where they could lie with their heads close together, and a girl brought drinking gourds. They sipped in silence as darkness slowly settled on the village.
“The Langri is no longer a traveler,” the Elder observed finally.
“The Langri travels when the need arises.”
“Let us then talk of that need.”
“Later. After we have eaten. Or tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better.”
“Tomorrow, then,” the Elder agreed. He pushed Obrien’s gourd toward him.
Below them, the village was girding itself for the feast. New fires had been kindled—the oval blazed with them—and each of the village’s most skilled chefs had brought out the piece of koluf meat that he or she had long been curing, or aging, or marinating, or smoking, or drying for just such an auspicious occasion as a visit from the Langri. The koluf was an authentic sea monster—one of them filled a hunting boat—and Obrien often wondered how many of the natives’ ancestors had died before they found a way to capture this virulently poisonous creature and render it edible. Once found, the meat proved delectable beyond human powers of description. Obrien had tasted thousands of koluf dishes, because each chef had his own technique of seasoning and preparation, and each one tasted more delicious than any of the others.
Fires also leaped high on the distant beach, and soon Obrien heard the thum. . .thum. . .thum of the nabs. Like the smaller nabuls, they were stringed instruments fashioned of gourds, but the enormous nabs towered over the musicians who played them.
The thumming continued. Soon a raln, a type of gourd used as a drum, added its resonant thuds, and then the twanging nabuls were heard. Already the dancing had begun, for the young natives needed no persuasion to perform a festive dance. They were circling the musicians with torches, and soon they would peel off in a sinuous dance line that would weave through the village and summon the guests of honor. The rippling night breeze blended savory odors of the coming feast with the crisp tartness of the sea that heaved tirelessly just beyond the mouth of the bay. Blended words of chant and song were flung up to them as the dance line gained momentum and began its progress through the village.
Obrien felt exhausted—had there been time, he gladly would have slept—but when the Elder touched his arm he dutifully swung to his feet. Escorted by the jubilantly singing dancers, the two walked to their places of honor on the beach.
Except for the chefs and the escorting dancers, the entire village had assembled there. Around the fires, enormous, elongated gourds had been placed in circles, and these served as platforms for the dancing. In the position of honor amidst the waiting villagers was a triple throne with a high seat in the center and lower seats on either side.
Obrien and the Elder took the two lower places, and the dancers returned to the village oval and began to escort the chefs to the beach. They came a few at a time, each carefully carrying his culinary masterpiece on a gourd platter that was lined with colorful leaves and encircled with flowers. The natives’ existence depended absolutely on the whims of the koluf. When they caught enough, they ate well; when they didn’t, they went hungry. But no matter how much or how little food they had, they lavished on it all of the care and skill at their command.
The chefs formed a line at the edge of the beach, and the dancers took the dishes, one at a time, and with great ceremony they moved to the place of honor and presented them to Obrien. The thumming, twanging music and rhythm continued; dancing about the beach fires was now a contortion of violent movement; now a sedate gliding; now a vigorous leaping from gourd to gourd.