James P. Hogan Hammer of Darkness

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tire hike from the outskirts of Sybernal.
"The trees militant," he says with a low laugh, and picks up his pace as the
trail narrows and begins to turn back on it-
self. He cannot explain, but in their own way the pines re-
mind him of soldiers.
The chitter of a lone dorle rises over the swish of the pine branches.
Otherwise the trail is silent, as it has been all along.
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"Wild chase, after something that ..." He does not finish the sentence, for
his perceptions catch the power somehow trapped on the far side of the
particular hill his trail circles.
Power ... always power ... nowhere on Aurore it doesn't show up, sooner or
later.
No ... you draw power like a lightning rod.
Is the thought his?
It does not matter, and he proceeds along the trail until it
� straightens at the other side of the hill.
A stone wall, the first thing he has seen that shows lack of attention,
appears on the right-hand side of the trail, which has widened into a
grass-covered path.
The path meanders along the flat between two low hills.
On the left continues the hill Martel has been circling, pine-
covered and silent.
On the right is what he seeks. While he cannot see directly beyond the stone
wall, even though several stones have top-
pled out of the top row and down next to the wall, he knows that behind the
remaining stones are tree gardens. Behind the gardens are emerald-green lawns
that rise to formal gardens and to a white villa.
Both the grounds and the villa broadcast an air of deser-
tion, and emptiness that stretches impossibly far back in time.
Since Martel has visited that villa, he knows the impression is false, strong
as it is, overpowering as it threatens to be-
come with each step he takes toward the shambling graystone wall.
To the sense of desertion, underneath it, nearly lost in the mental patina of
age that the wall and the estate behind it ra-
diate, clings a sense of danger, and of power.
Tend to be synonymous on Aurore ... danger and power do.
Martel ignores the estate, for he has found it, found it de-
serted. He is not disappointed.
Rather ... relieved.
And why might that be?
"I don't have to answer that," he mumbles to himself.
The clear path beckons, and with it his apprehensions.
Brushing them aside, he marches down the grassy trail that soon becomes a
wider lane next to the tumbled stone wall.
With each step the unseen tension tightens, although he sees nothing in front
of him. His vision is limited because both lane and wall curve gently to the
right.
After another quarter-stan, three separate chitters form a dorle on the far
side of the wall, and after another two kilos, he sees the fountain.
As he nears the circular basin the feeling of danger mounts.
Strangely, the fountain operates, for all the desertion, for all the apparent
lack of life. The water does not spray from the single stone figure on the
square pedestal in the middle of the deep basin, but from jets around the
young man, lending the statue a curtain of mist. Likewise, all the mist falls
within the basin, whose black depths stretch toward the center of
Aurore.
Though the statue is that of a young man, handsome, in a simple tunic and
trousers, much like Mattel's, his face is con-
torted in agony.
Martel stands at the edge of the fountain, understanding all too well both the
agony and the danger.
He probes, lets his thoughts enfold the statue, and draws from the darkness
that he knows will always be near him.
Raising his left hand, he gestures. For an instant, a shadow passes over the
statue. When it has fled, the curtain of mist remains, but the figure is gone.
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Martel nods.
While he hopes the other will be wise enough not to return, or not to repeat
his folly in another way, the irony is all too striking.
Saved him from what might have happened to you ...
right, Martel?
He takes a last look at the fountain, at the jets of mist and water concealing
nothing, then at the wall, and finally behind the stones at the unkempt
emerald grass, the straggling gar-
dens, and at the empty rooms and columns.
He stares at his feet.
After a time, he turns to retrace his steps back toward
Sybernal, back along a trail he has already trod once without understanding
why.
This time, occasionally, he whistles.
XXXVI
Should be evening. Or twilight.
Beneath his feet the golden sands stretch down to the wa-
ters of the circular bay. The golden green of the water touches the sand with
a gentle swish-swash, swish-swash.
It is always twilight beneath the waters, Martel. The an-
swering thought is faint but clear.
He looks around the bay, but no one else is present. When he first moved into
the cottage, picnickers and others from
Sybernal often swam in the clear waters. Over the years, its popularity has
declined, and now no one comes. No one comes, except Martel, although the
waters are as clear as ever, and the sands are as warm and golden as always.
With a shrug, he walks into the waters, which part around him, flowing,
encircling, but not touching him.
Thetis joins him as he reaches the underwater shelf where the depths begin.
The green gown flows around her like wa-
ter, like liquid flame, and she bears no trident. Not this time.
Her hands are open and empty.
Have you come to walk with me?
Seemed like a good idea. Don't ask me why.
Her fingertips reach out to touch his, and the warmth sends a jolt through
him.
She laughs.
I'm not cold-blooded, Martel. Even my mermaids are warm and loving, for all
their tails and scales.
He shakes his head, mentally contrasting the goddess be-
side him to Rathe ... both full-bodied, but one he pictures, holds in his
mind, as red, and Thetis is green, cool and green, goddess of the sea.
... and capable of storms and cruelty ... like the sea?
He feels her stiffen at his unguarded thought, but her fin-
gertips remain with his.
Aren't we all?
He nods, not looking at her, but aware that she is one of the few goddesses he
overtops, one of the few he can phys-
ically look down at.
Ahead, rising out of the silver sands, sands unmarked by any marine growth,
stands a rock cube, each pink face smooth stone, polished and glistening.
Not exactly natural.
No. This is my park, if you will.
Hand in hand, they climb on steps of nothing until they stand on the flat top
of the cube.
Martel looks up. The surface of the ocean is at least fifty meters above, and
it is indeed twilight where he stands.
Twilight, and it will come in turn for Aurore.
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Thetis shivers, and disengages her hand from Mattel's, turns to face him.
You could be more terrible than Apollo.
Me? Me? Good old Martel the wishy-washy? Who has yet to really lift a hand?
She takes both his hands in hers.
Apollo does not know what suffering is. You suffer, and do not know how to
grieve. And when you have suffered enough, all Aurore will grieve.
Martel shakes his head again, strongly enough to fluff his hair out, but he
does not remove his hands from hers.
Thetis drops her eyes to the pale pink of the rock under-
foot.
You will be so powerful that nothing can touch you, nor your heart, except as
you wish. You will have everything, and nothing.
And you?
Thetis does not look up, but shivers again.
And you? Martel presses.
When you are done, I will have only what you leave me, and a leaden shield,
gray in color. Unlike some that I know.
And for all his strength ...
Thetis is sobbing silently, refusing to look up to Mattel.
He frowns.
None of what she has said makes any sense, any sense at all. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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