The Days of Peleg (48 page)

He almost fell as they started down a short flight of steps, but soon he was ushered into a room. Hands pressed down on his head, forcing him to clear the low entrance, and he soon discovered the hard way (when he straightened up) that the ceiling in this low room was the same height as the doorway.

His two escorts pressed him down onto a wide stone bench, and when a third person brought in a light-panel, he saw that he was sitting in front of a large stone table. The man holding his wrist-ropes went to the far side of the table and stood in the corner, keeping a firm grip on his line.

They remained in this silent impasse until finally a man entered, dressed
not
in the skins and furs of his captors, but rather in a short robe, much like Peleg would have expected back home.

He sat on a bench across from Peleg and, without looking up, began speaking.

“I am called Alapar. I have been summoned to speak with you. The residents here are a very closed community, and they have no one here who speaks your language. Supposedly, you have tried to speak in a variety of tongues, but once they determined your homeland from your dress, they sent for me.”

He paused and began to unroll some parchments he had brought with him. Then he looked up for the first time and fastened his eyes directly on Peleg’s.

“I assume you can understand me,” he stated with full assurance of an affirmative response.

Peleg gave the expected nod, but added a glare of pure hate and rage.

Alapar was taken aback by the look, but dutifully continued.

“I have been asked to express this community’s sorrow in the destruction of your vessel. It was assumed to be a stealth attack from some of Sargon’s mercenaries, and they dealt with it accordingly. They regret…”

Peleg interrupted with an explosion of violent fury.

“You murdered my companions, you cave-dwelling butchers!” Peleg erupted with angry despair. His voice cracked with pent-up rage and weeks of disuse. He tried to rise, but strong hands clapped down on his shoulders, forcing him back to the bench. He looked at the other men in the room one by one, trying to force eye contact so that his accusations would hit home, but they were oblivious to his words.

Alapar drew back, and began speaking to the guard with the wrist-rope in the guttural brogue that Peleg had heard ever since his arrival here. When he finished, he looked back at Peleg.

“When they realized their error, they rescued as many as they could. Forty-seven survivors were brought to shore where they were given food and medical attention.”

Alapar locked his gaze into Peleg’s eyes, and Peleg was shocked to discover a compassion and deep sorrow in them. Peleg unwillingly began to soften. This meant that only six or nine people had died—depending upon the fate of Thaxad and the Captain and his wife.

“Many were badly burned,” Alapar continued, “but we treated them as best we could.”

Peleg noticed the switch from ‘they’ to ‘we’.

“How could we have known that an exploration vessel would appear from that direction?” Alapar’s distress appeared genuine.

Peleg spoke, more quietly this time.

“Was there a woman among the survivors?” he asked.

Alapar chatted briefly with the rope-holder, then answered.

“I’m sorry, but only men were found. Once we had provided for them, the rescuers left the area. Since this location is a heavily guarded secret, none of the survivors knew who had cared for them, nor which direction they went. Your companions never knew who rescued them. There are enough materials in the area for them to put together a small boat and travel to wherever they need to go.”

Peleg was only half listening as he began to picture Thaxad, Phaxâd, and Utebbibassu heading off into their own adventures, not knowing that the lives of most of their shipmates had been spared.

His reverie was interrupted by a sudden silence from Alapar, who was staring directly into Peleg’s face with a look of cautious disbelief—mixed with what appeared to be the recognition of an old friend.

“Eber?” he began slowly, then spoke more quickly before Peleg could protest.

“Eber, is that you? The last I heard you had traveled with your son’s family into the Far East.” He continued with growing confidence. “How did you manage to arrive here? Do you remember me?”

Peleg managed to raise his bound hands to quiet Alapar, and shook his head.

“I have never heard of a man by that name, and I am certainly not he.” He watched as Alapar’s excitement dwindled.

He continued to stare into Peleg’s face.

“I swear that once you are cleaned up, and your beard removed, you will look just like him.” He looked over at the dim light-panel as if it were responsible for his mistake.

“I was born approximately four years before the Great Awakening…” Peleg said, and then stopped suddenly at Alapar’s look of bewilderment.

It passed quickly, replaced by comprehension. Alapar mumbled, “So
that
is what you call it.” He nodded for Peleg to continue.

“I was reared in an orphanage in Babel, then traveled with Ur-Nammu to be raised and trained in his settlement. I began studies at the
Citadel
…”

Alapar interrupted with renewed interest. “An orphanage?”

“Yes, there were dozens of us in my ward. Why?”

“Because most in the orphanages were
not
orphans,” he said as a look of disgust and sadness passed over his face.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Peleg. A strange shudder coursed through him, as if his entire personal history would soon be under revision.

Alapar sat still for a moment, then looked down.

“It’s not possible,” he muttered, shaking his head.

He took a deep breath and looked up at Peleg.

“The Founder will want to speak with you when he arrives.”

Chapter 32

Confusion

“History is merely a list of surprises. It can only prepare us to be surprised yet again.”

H
e had been ushered back to his room (cell?) without another word of explanation. A storm of confusing questions swirled in his mind.

What was his status here?
His ‘interview’ had not been of an interrogative nature, and the conversation had not implied he was a prisoner of war.

Why was this place so secretive?
The stone door had slid closed behind him, but they had not fastened his ankles. Perhaps he was still treated like a prisoner because they didn’t know what to do with him. They seemed to fear knowledge of this place getting out.

Who was this Founder?
What significance was attached to being raised in an orphanage? Why would this cause him to be worth speaking to?

Who were these people?

The ultimate question. It was expected that, after the Great Awakening, small, unknown settlements would be found almost anywhere. That had been the point of the Great Discovery. But what had caused
this
group to hide in caves? It was hard to imagine a small group carving out such a community. New settlements spent their time building cities, observatories, and places of learning, not digging caves—or moving into ones that already existed.

He sat on his mat, watching the thin film of water course down the wall. He was slightly comforted by the realization that (apparently) his quarters were no worse than those of the other inhabitants here. Also, he had learned two important things.

First: Most of the men on the
Urbat
had survived. They would probably never know the truth about their rescuers—or even about the attack; but they had not been left to die. This gave Peleg a slightly better opinion of his ‘hosts’.

And the second was this: He now knew the true nature of the mysterious flute outside of his door.

On his return, when they had approached his room, a swathe of pale-green light from his doorway splashed into the room across from his. The flute-player was playing inside, but had stopped suddenly when they drew near. Peleg had looked inside and saw a young man holding a bone—probably a femur—of a young bear or large cat. They had locked eyes as the boy slowly returned the bone to his lips—but instead of playing, the boy had flashed a smile at Peleg which sent chills down into his lower back.

It wasn’t that the smile was unfriendly—it was very warm and relaxed. What had troubled him were the man’s teeth! The front ones were pointed—and looked very sharp! But the lips had quickly closed around the bone flute, and soon the rich, grainy notes had refilled the cavern.

That was almost two weeks ago—or the best approximation Peleg could determine. He hadn’t bothered to keep track of the meal count—he was sure it was at least thirty-six. He was finishing the very tough, over-cooked (or dried) mystery meat which apparently was the only food here. His jaw ached as he chewed, and he reached over to the wall to collect a handful of water.

He laughed quietly at a sudden, stupid joke.
At least these cave-people have running water!

He hoped the Founder—whoever he was—would get here soon. This ‘Founder’ might be his only hope of getting out of here.

He was dreaming about when he first met young Serug. The ten-year-old boy had just been admitted to the Citadel, and the seventy-four-year-old Peleg had just become a Master Cartographer. He had taken an instant liking to the precocious, inquisitive kid, and later—as Serug became an adult—they had become fast friends.

“
Fasten your feet
!”

Peleg awoke, instantly alert. Since his return, they had not demanded that his feet be stockaded. Even when his light-panel was replaced, someone had simply stood guard outside of the door.

He dutifully placed his feet in position, and waited for the familiar ‘clack’ of stone. The door opened, and again he was asked to place his wrists into a noose. His feet were loosed, and he was led away—flanked again by two guards—into the pitch black of the outside corridors.

They walked for what seemed like half an hour, traveling ever downward. Sometimes the smooth flooring pitched at a steep decline, and other times they made their way down stone staircases—both straight and winding.

The temperature grew warmer the farther they walked, and something in the air reminded Peleg of bathhouse steam—with a slight aroma of sulfur mixed in.

They entered into a large, circular room where a large, clean-shaven man with short, curly black hair and very large ears (and obviously a Mentor) was sitting behind a small stone table. A wide stone platform scattered with a large number of small stones stood to the man’s right, and several light panels filled the room with dim blue-green light—much brighter that anything Peleg had experienced since his capture. Peleg winced slightly, squinting as his eyes adjusted. Under normal lighting, this man would probably have a dark olive complexion, but everything appeared bluish pale-green in this room.

The man said something to Peleg’s escorts, and immediately his wrist-rope was removed. The three men left through the doorway they had just entered, leaving Peleg alone with the seated man. A stone slab slid into the opening, giving the impression that they were both trapped.

The man beckoned, and Peleg approached. Upon closer inspection the first thing Peleg noticed was that the man had a very heavy and even sad look about him. But the second thing he saw jolted him like nothing else. The man had a reddish-brown teardrop-shaped tattoo on his left cheek! Just like the one marking Mentor Thaxad—and the one he had seen briefly on the rancher Dōgon!

The third thing he noticed was the incredible maturity in the man’s eyes. Even though the man appeared younger than Peleg, they looked as if they held a thousand mysteries, and their depth was enhanced as they peered out from under his large, Mentor brow.

Peleg suddenly realized he had been staring—quite impolitely—at the man’s large, smooth face and big ears, and was about to turn away apologetically when he realized that he was being scrutinized in the same manner.

He looked downward and relaxed, allowing this man (whom he now hoped was the aforementioned Founder) to continue studying him.

Finally the man spoke. It was a strong, melodic voice which resonated around the curved walls of this room.

“And you are quite certain that your name is
not
Eber?”

Peleg was taken aback by the question, but recovered quickly.

“Yes,” he said. “I am quite sure. I was born about four years before the Great Awakening, and was raised in an orphanage in…”

The man looked up abruptly and stopped him with a wave. His eyes were shining with an excitement that Peleg would have sworn was impossible when he first met him.

“I understand now,” the man spoke, rambling. “No, I see now that you are not Eber, but you
are
the answer to all of my desires.”

Peleg squirmed in discomfort, unsure of the man’s intentions. But the man continued talking without pauses.

“I had completely abandoned all hope of achieving my mission. For more than one-hundred years we have been attacked, exiled, and despised, while our task became more and more hopeless.”

The gleaming eyes which had been focused inward now widened and flashed a piercing beam up into Peleg’s face, who was still standing.

“And now you have been delivered directly to our home!” He ended with a huge smile—which twisted into a loud laugh and an upward wave of his hand.

The man was obviously quite mad, Peleg decided. He’s been living here, underground, for far too long.

Peleg took a step back, and tried to speak, but was interrupted.

“I apologize,” the man said as his eyes began to calm down. “I’m sure it is quite a shock to hear such things. Please, sit down.”

He pointed to a bench across from himself, and Peleg sat. Before the man could start again, Peleg spoke, trying to gain some control of the situation.

“So, since I am not this Eber person, who is it that you believe me to be?”

If Peleg hoped this would focus this strange man and yield some answers, he was mistaken.