The Forest of Peldain

The seeming hours he spent with his wife Kirekenawe meant far more to him than the remaining day here in Lakeside, which paradoxically took on the aspect of a drab dream in comparison. They sailed and swam, they dived in the shallow coral reefs abounding in the Hundred Islands. Sometimes they found themselves somewhere in Arelia, even in Arcaiss—but never again did they meet in their villa: neither of them wanted to come upon the helpless form of Kirekenawe in her quarters. The favorite venue, whether selected by the lake or unconsciously by themselves, was an idyllic little island Vorduthe had never in fact seen, and which he was fairly sure did not really exist: a paradisiacal setting complete with lawn-like meadows, perfumed trees and leaping deer.

Only when pressed did Kirekenawe give him news of the rebellion that King Krassos was fighting to contain. The sea battle, apparently, had been inconclusive. Early on Vorduthe had caught a brief glimpse of damaged and partly burned ships in the harbor. He gathered, however, that there was no immediate danger, and he felt confident that Arelians, as always, would prevail.

Today’s would be the sixtieth sojourn, in the dream life, in the distant Hundred Islands.

Vorduthe stopped walking. He looked at the troop leaders one after the other. “You are forgetting that with Octrago’s accession to the throne the situation will be changed. He will be in a position to redeem his oath of allegiance. He promised to engineer a way through the forest so as to give regular communication with Arelia, and he should be given a chance to prove his word.”

“The project is impossible,” Kana-Kem said flatly. “In any case, only a fool would trust him.”

These words were close to insubordination. “Enough!” Vorduthe snapped. “I, and I alone, will decide on any action.”

Dismissing them, he strode toward the lake.

All Vorduthe’s misgivings vanished as the lake’s surface closed over his head. A poignant feeling assailed him. Then his consciousness was drawn inward, into sleeplike trance.

He “awoke” on their dream island. He was standing under a water-fruit tree, near a patch of silky tassel-fern. A young leaping-deer with a dappled fawn-colored coat nibbled the moss.

He did not see Kirekenawe at first. But suddenly there she was, gazing at him from the edge of a small grove. Her smile, as he caught sight of her, was wistful, almost pained. She wore nothing but a short kilt of blue-and-purple grass, whose strands moved sensuously as she came toward him.

“Quickly!” she said breathlessly. “Quickly!”

He let her draw him into the silver tassel fern and they sank down in its softness. It was a perfect bed for love-making, and she gripped him with a desperate ardor, more intense than she had ever shown him.

Usually she liked to prolong the pleasure but now she worked her body with impatient eagerness to satisfy them both as soon as possible. Then, her skin filmed with perspiration, she lay back gasping, gazing at him with soft, sad eyes.

When she had caught her breath she sat up. “Husband, there is little time,” she said. “This is our last meeting.”

“What are you saying?” he growled in alarm.

Sorrowfully she sighed, shaking her head. “It is not fitting that I should hide the truth from you now, at the very end. I have been less than honest with you—I did not want our newfound happiness to be marred by something we could do nothing to change.”

While he stared at her aghast she went on: “The sea battle against the rebels went worse than I told you. It broke Arelia’s naval strength. Since then the savages have taken island after island… how could I tell you this, and make you unhappy? Now the worst has happened. The savages have landed on Arelia… King Krassos is dead, Arcaiss is burning and I can smell the smoke… the Orwanians have reverted to cannibalism, husband…”

Vorduthe recalled with a shock his drugged dream in the forest. “You must have yourself moved at once to a place of safety,” he ordered.

“Too late, they are in the house. I hear the servants being murdered. In moments they will enter my room. Good-bye, husband. I die in happiness, knowing what we have enjoyed together!”

“No!”

Vorduthe clutched at his wife. But suddenly she was not there. He was alone in the tassel bed that was hollowed out by the press of their bodies.

“No!”

This time he cried his protest at the sky. And as if in answer, the world around him trembled and flurried. There was an impression of swift motion. Then he seemed to be looking down on the room where his paralyzed wife lay.

It was impossible to read any emotion in her impassive face. One servant remained with her: a young waiting girl who crouched near her mistress wearing an expression of stark terror. She shrieked as into the room there burst a band of grinning brown-skinned Orwanian primitives, their teeth filed, practically naked except for their weapons.