Read Online The Enemy of My Enemy by Avram Davidson - Free Book Online

“Year ten, Cycle 80 — ”
    Her full red mouth moved in silent amusement, then grew serious. “You know more than those of us who grew up being bored to the point of death,” she said, “by tutors who crammed us full of facts.”
    He said, “My father often spoke of Tree and of everything connected with it.”
    “I can understand how the smallest detail can grow dear in exile … . Exile … . It will never happen to me, I must hope. Sometime, we must talk about — no. Forgive me. We will never talk about it. Let that die away from your memory, Tonorosant.” She placed the tips of her fingers lightly on his wrist and looked up at him as though emphasizing that hers was no mere figure of speech, that she was in full fact asking a favor of him. There was something in this newly returned son of the exiles which was, well,
new
: and almost for that reason alone: interesting. A bit exciting. It was only by contrast with the occasional tartness of the exile’s manner that the never-left-home people seemed, at least to her, Atoral, over-smooth and over-sweet. He returned her look. After a slow second they turned again to the great Tree, the convolutions of its great bole velveted with moss, its patterned leaves dipping up the sunlight, the great flowers of an intense crimson and an almost waxy texture. Sapient Laforosan had told them something of this species of tree before they had set out early in the morning to visit the most famous specimen. Even in its (within historical times) sole remaining habitat, high up in the hills and deep within the valleys of southern Tarnis — still largely Volanth country — the tree was rare. Looking at this one now, it seemed small wonder that even the brute Volanth held it in awe and conducted certain of their perhaps better left undetailed ceremonies beneath. This one in particular was planted by the famous hero Tulan Soloniant to commemorate his first victory over the Volanth, and the Synod of Guardians had met for many years under its then youthful shade.
    At length Sarlamat smiled. “Enough. Or else we shall all begin painting leaves, and the air this morning is too crisp and delightful for such sedate pursuits. What shall we do now?”
    “Swim,” said Atoral.
    They wandered down to the pavilion by the lovely little lake, paused to savor the scent of the frothy purple flowers in the reedbeds, tossed bits of food to the red-billed, black-winged lake birds. “Don’t delay,” she said, as they parted. Her words and smile were directed at both of them, but as Sarlamat turned away, once again she rested, lightly, so lightly, the tips of her long fingers on Tonorosant’s wrist. Then she turned away, her brocaded skirt swirling.
    The pavilion was dim and cool and smelling of wood and sap. Over the low partitions dividing the dressing-cubicles, Sarlamat turned his rather prominent green eyes to his friend. “She is rather nice, I must hope,” he said.
    Tonorosant didn’t answer the question.
    “You’re all right, I must — ”
    “Oh, yes, don’t worry. My health, in mind and form, is excellent and will continue to be so, I must hope. I was preoccupied … By something for which I don’t have a name. It’s not confusion. ‘Superimposition?’ That’s the closest … . I
do
remember my father telling me about Tree. I
do
know that I don’t remember any father and that if I did he’d never have heard of Tree. I
know
that it’s perfectly proper to swim without clothes but that to be seen taking off clothes is embarrassing. And I
know
, also, that whether you are nude or clothed is merely a matter of having or not having money to buy clothes. I
am
aware that I spent the last two years as an underpaid free-lance teacher of Tarnisi in Ludens. And I am
also
aware that two years ago I never could speak a word of Tarnisi, that I have never been in Ludens, that I’ve spent that period of time cutting tows in the Inner Sea of Pemath.
    “I can, very clearly, see the events in