Worlds That Weren't

King shook his head, suddenly aware of how glorious the young morning sunlight was. “He’d have killed the dog,” he said.

They were close. Suddenly the clan-girl was in his arms, and their lips met. The moment went on…

…until Robre cleared his throat. Sonjuh jumped back, two spots of red in her cheeks. King straightened, suddenly conscious that he’d lost his turban. The Bear Creek man was leaning on his spear beside the body of the other boar, scowling and brushing at a trickle of blood from his nostrils.

Eric King laughed, smoothing back his mustache with the knuckle of his right hand. “Looks like we’re having pork tonight,” he said gaily.

“I left a turkey just back there,” Sonjuh blurted, and ran off after it.

’N’ when the snow-winds lifted

Then summer came again;

Three summers of snow ’n’ ice

Then the warmth once more;

Olsatyn, he cursed ’n’ fled

No more he held the Sun enslaved

Black hammer that broke the Sun,

Broke on the sword of Lord o’ Sky;

He called the tribes out!

Out from where they sheltered

Blessed them for staying clean

Not eating of man’s-flesh,

When hunger was bitter;

Gave them His blessing

Gave seed corn ’n’ stock

Set the bounds ’n’ the bans

Named clan ’n’ tribe ’n’ law;

But those others who’d fallen

Who’d eaten of man’s-flesh;

Them did God curse forever

Lord o’ Sky gave us their lands;

With steel ’n’ fire we drove them out

Drove the devils east into the swamps

Festering land of evildoers

Eric King leaned back in his canvas chair and gnawed the last of the savory meat from a rib as he listened-one of the yearling piglets, to be precise, slathered with a fiery-hot tomato-based sauce full of garlic and peppers before grilling. Sonjuh dawtra Pehte had outdone herself, from the stuffed turkey to the pudding of cornmeal, molasses, and spices.

Hunter Robre sat on a log on the other side of the fire, his fingers moving on an instrument he called a gittah — surprisingly like the sitar in both form and name-as he half sang, half chanted his people’s creation-myth. The flickering of the low fire showed a ring of rapt bearded faces. And one beardless one, her chin propped in a palm and the other scratching in the ruff of the great gray dog lying beside her, the firelight bringing out the ruddy color of her hair as she puffed meditatively on a corncob pipe.

A huge crimson oak stood over the campsite, and its leaves took fire as well from the yellow flames, shifting in a maze of scarlet and gold amid the rising column of sparks. The stars above were bright and many, if you let your eyes recover from the fire glow a little. The air had turned soft and a little cool, with wisps of mist drifting over the little stream to the south; it smelled pleasantly of cooking and hickory smoke and horses. Somewhere a beast squalled in the distance, and an owl hooted.

King tossed the bone into the coals as Robre finished. Well, that’s another, he thought. I’ve heard worse. I’ve definitely heard sillier ones.

Every folk he knew of had some sort of legend attached to the Fall; even the Empire had Kipling’s great Exodus Cantos, about St. Disraeli and the evacuation that had taken his own ancestors from England to India. He smiled wryly to himself. Kipling had made it all sound very heroic, but the Kings had a tradition of scholarship as well as Imperial service, and lived near refounded Oxford. From what he’d read in sources of the time, it had been more of a panic flight, teetering on the brink of chaos, with only the genius of Disraeli and Salisbury and the others to make it possible at all. A lucky few had made it out to India and the Cape and Australia before the final collapse; the other nine-tenths of the population had stayed perforce, and starved, and died.

Robre’s version of his people’s origins made the founders of the Seven Tribes a host of saintly warriors, when they’d probably been a handful of scruffy but successful bandits; the great battles against the “devils” were probably bloody little skirmishes with a few hundred, or perhaps a few score, on each side.

Still, the epic had a certain barbaric vigor; much like the people who had made it. They’d certainly done well over the past few generations, pushing their borders back on all sides…from what Banerjii and the garrison commander at Galveston had told him.

“Heya, Jefe,” one of the clansmen said. “Tell us some more ’bout the Empire.”

He did; a rousing tale of raid and counter-raid along the North West Frontier courtesy of the great Poet Laureate, and described the mountains in his own home province, Kashmir. They were even more eager for stories of the great cities and oceangoing steamships, locomotives and flying machines, but those they took as fables, more so than their own tales of haunts and witches and Old Man Coyote, evidently some sort of minor godlet-trickster. Their own bogies frightened them, but foreign marvels were merely entertainment.