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Authors: Poul Anderson
Tags: Science-Fiction
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dragging out an adolescence
bored, useless, titillated and frustrated; marrying a man, or a series of men, whose work was to sell what nobody needed or
really wanted – marrying also a mortgage and a commuter’s iron schedule; sacrificing all but two weeks a year of carefully
measured freedom in order to buy the silly gadgets and pay the vindictive taxes; breathing smoke and dust and poison; sitting
in a car, at a bridge table, in a beauty parlor, before a television, the spring gone from her body and the teeth rotten in
her mouth before she was twenty; living in the heartland of liberty, the strongest nation earth had yet known, while it crawled
from the march of the tyrants and the barbarians; living in horror of cancer, heart failure, mental disease, and the final
nuclear flame.
Lockridge cut off the vision. He was being unjust to his own age, he knew – and to this one as well. Life was physically harder
in some places, harder on the spirit in others, and sometimes it destroyed both. At most, the gods gave only a little happiness;
the rest was merely existence. Taken altogether, he didn’t think they were less generous here and now than they had been to
him. And here was where Auri belonged.
‘You think much,’ she said timidly.
He started and missed a stroke. Clear drops showered from the paddle, agleam in the level light. ‘Why, no,’ he said. ‘I was
only wandering.’
Again he misused the idiom. The spirit that wandered in thought or in dream, could enter strange realms. She regarded him
with reverence. After a while when nothing but the canoe’s passage and the far-off cries of homing geese broke the stillness,
she asked low. ‘May I call you Lynx?’
He blinked.
‘I do not understand your name Malcolm,’ she explained. ‘So it is a strong magic, too strong for me. But you are like a big
golden lynx.’
‘Why – why —’ However childish, the gesture touched him. ‘If you want. But I don’t think Flower Feather could be bettered.’
Auri flushed and looked away. They continued in silence.
And the silence lengthened. Gradually Lockridge grew aware of that. Ordinarily, this near the village, there was plenty of
noise: children shouting at their games, fishermen hailing the shore as they approached, housewives gossiping, perhaps the
triumphant song of hunters who had bagged an elk. But he turned right and paddled up the cove between the narrowing wooden
banks, and no human voice reached him. He glanced at Auri. Maybe she knew what was afoot. She sat chin in hand, gazing at
him, oblivious to everything else. He hadn’t the heart to speak. Instead, he sent the canoe forward as fast as he was able.
Avildaro came in sight. Under the ancient shaw at its back, it was a cluster of sod-roofed wattle huts around the LongHouse of ceremony, which was a more elaborate half-timbered peat structure. Boats were drawn onto the beach, where nets dried
on poles. Several hundred yards off stood the kitchen midden. The Tenil Orugaray no longer lived at the very foot of that
mound of oyster shells, bones, and other trash, as their ancestors had done; but they carried the offal there, for the half-tame
pigs to eat, and the site was veiled with flies.
Auri came out of her trance. The clear brow wrinkled. ‘But no one is about!’ she said.
‘There must be someone in the Long House,’ Lockridge answered. Smoke curled from the venthole in its roof. ‘We had better
go see.’ He was glad of the Webley at his hip.
He pulled the canoe ashore, with the girl’s help, and made fast. Her hand stole into his as they entered the village. Shadows
darkened the dusty paths between huts, and the air seemed suddenly cold. ‘What does this mean?’ she begged of him.
‘If you don’t know—’ He lengthened his stride.
Noise certainly buzzed from the hall. Two young men stood guard outside. ‘Here they come!’ one of them shouted. Both dipped
their spears to
bored, useless, titillated and frustrated; marrying a man, or a series of men, whose work was to sell what nobody needed or
really wanted – marrying also a mortgage and a commuter’s iron schedule; sacrificing all but two weeks a year of carefully
measured freedom in order to buy the silly gadgets and pay the vindictive taxes; breathing smoke and dust and poison; sitting
in a car, at a bridge table, in a beauty parlor, before a television, the spring gone from her body and the teeth rotten in
her mouth before she was twenty; living in the heartland of liberty, the strongest nation earth had yet known, while it crawled
from the march of the tyrants and the barbarians; living in horror of cancer, heart failure, mental disease, and the final
nuclear flame.
Lockridge cut off the vision. He was being unjust to his own age, he knew – and to this one as well. Life was physically harder
in some places, harder on the spirit in others, and sometimes it destroyed both. At most, the gods gave only a little happiness;
the rest was merely existence. Taken altogether, he didn’t think they were less generous here and now than they had been to
him. And here was where Auri belonged.
‘You think much,’ she said timidly.
He started and missed a stroke. Clear drops showered from the paddle, agleam in the level light. ‘Why, no,’ he said. ‘I was
only wandering.’
Again he misused the idiom. The spirit that wandered in thought or in dream, could enter strange realms. She regarded him
with reverence. After a while when nothing but the canoe’s passage and the far-off cries of homing geese broke the stillness,
she asked low. ‘May I call you Lynx?’
He blinked.
‘I do not understand your name Malcolm,’ she explained. ‘So it is a strong magic, too strong for me. But you are like a big
golden lynx.’
‘Why – why —’ However childish, the gesture touched him. ‘If you want. But I don’t think Flower Feather could be bettered.’
Auri flushed and looked away. They continued in silence.
And the silence lengthened. Gradually Lockridge grew aware of that. Ordinarily, this near the village, there was plenty of
noise: children shouting at their games, fishermen hailing the shore as they approached, housewives gossiping, perhaps the
triumphant song of hunters who had bagged an elk. But he turned right and paddled up the cove between the narrowing wooden
banks, and no human voice reached him. He glanced at Auri. Maybe she knew what was afoot. She sat chin in hand, gazing at
him, oblivious to everything else. He hadn’t the heart to speak. Instead, he sent the canoe forward as fast as he was able.
Avildaro came in sight. Under the ancient shaw at its back, it was a cluster of sod-roofed wattle huts around the LongHouse of ceremony, which was a more elaborate half-timbered peat structure. Boats were drawn onto the beach, where nets dried
on poles. Several hundred yards off stood the kitchen midden. The Tenil Orugaray no longer lived at the very foot of that
mound of oyster shells, bones, and other trash, as their ancestors had done; but they carried the offal there, for the half-tame
pigs to eat, and the site was veiled with flies.
Auri came out of her trance. The clear brow wrinkled. ‘But no one is about!’ she said.
‘There must be someone in the Long House,’ Lockridge answered. Smoke curled from the venthole in its roof. ‘We had better
go see.’ He was glad of the Webley at his hip.
He pulled the canoe ashore, with the girl’s help, and made fast. Her hand stole into his as they entered the village. Shadows
darkened the dusty paths between huts, and the air seemed suddenly cold. ‘What does this mean?’ she begged of him.
‘If you don’t know—’ He lengthened his stride.
Noise certainly buzzed from the hall. Two young men stood guard outside. ‘Here they come!’ one of them shouted. Both dipped
their spears to
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