View from Another Shore : European Science Fiction Read online

  could smell it through our filters, and black clouds rose in the air.

  There weren’t any open fires, though; they just smouldered. The wind

  kept blowing ash in our faces, and the air was hot. Nearby we found

  strange fleshy plants growing in the pools of water, broad green leaves

  tinged with pink. Ed climbed out to gather a couple. Suddenly there

  was a splash—this big greyish animal had his leg between its jaws, and

  he tripped . . . more animals moved in, from all directions . . . We were completely helpless.’

  The biologist cleared his throat. ‘Govin submitted photos. It’s

  related to the crocodile, but larger.’

  ‘Go on’, Vertain commanded. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘There were five of us left. I don’t think I have to tell you we turned

  around on the spot. As we were trying to move a pile of beams that

  blocked our path, Anthony heard this sound from a cellar, like

  somebody crying. He and I crept down a short flight of stairs and

  saw a man in rags, filthy, with matted hair. He was beating the child.’

  As if on command, they all looked at the little girl on the screen.

  She had fallen asleep in an armchair, but tossed her body from side to

  side restlessly.

  ‘The moment he saw us, he slipped away down some dark hole,

  and we let him go. The child was crying. Anthony tried to pick her up,

  but she scratched him, and I had to give him a hand. She fought us off

  like a wildcat—she even tore my respiratory mask off my face. Then I

  noticed that she—well, she stank. With all that filth around - what

  else could you expect? But Anthony lost his head. He took her along,

  gave her a shower and something to eat. After about an hour, she let

  Anthony hold her. Nobody else, just Anthony. We had to take her

  along; he wouldn’t let up until we did. Then they started to attack us

  openly, and we got a look at them: men in rags, freaks and cripples

  with ugly faces. The gleam in their eyes was pure hate.’

  ‘Maybe their reaction was normal enough. Maybe they were just

  trying to defend their property.’

  ‘Maybe’, said Govin edgily. He went on. ‘We tried to find a way out

  of the rubble, but they must have realized we were about to escape

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  forever. There was only one narrow pass left to get through, but they

  tried once more to stop us. They built up a barricade and started

  throwing stones. Then they started to shoot. There couldn’t have been

  more than three or four shots, but one of them broke through the

  dome and got Anthony.’

  Again there was a brief pause. Govin stared dully at the sleeping

  child. No one spoke. He ended his report: ‘Up until that moment we

  hadn’t made any real attempt to defend ourselves, but now—we

  might not have been equipped with weapons, but we did have the

  flamethrower that we used once in a while to level the path. So we

  used it this time to break through the barricades. Four hours later, we

  were picked up. That’s about it.’

  Vertain tore the dictation reel out of the output slot, smoothed out

  the paper and folded it. The official part of the agenda was over, but

  the men remained seated where they were.

  ‘What now?’, Petrovski asked. ‘Those are human beings out there,

  and we were never even aware of their existence. They must be the

  descendants of the ones who didn’t emigrate - the ones who chose

  smog, filth and pollution over the purity of suboceanic life. They

  clung to their world, to their lives in the cities; but they couldn’t keep that world from decaying. No one ever dreamed that any of them

  would survive.’

  Vertain expressed the question that burned in every mind. ‘Is it our

  duty to help them? There can’t be many of them. Should we take

  them in, open our safe, hygienic world to them—to others like that

  little girl?’ He nodded toward the screen. The child shielded her eyes

  with her hand, as if to make herself invisible.

  Govin was as perplexed as the rest. The child—would she be happy

  down here? His eyes wandered back to the window. The water

  outside was murky; clumps of bacteria and plankton drifted by,

  sludge from the sewage system.

  Where did their responsibility lie? Out there? Or with those inside?

  Vaguely, Govin recalled an old legend about the sea—something

  about turquoise waters, turquoise and crystal clear.

  translated by CHRIS HERRIMAN

  GERMANY

  The Land of Osiris

  WOLFGANG JESCHKE

  1

  Master Jack

  He came down the Shari River from the south out of the country of

  the Lagones and Bagirmi. He had three horses with him, two of which

  he used as pack animals. He rode the third himself, a small brown

  mare with a white blaze and dark brown eyes, a beautiful horse.

  It was on the day of the feast of Id El Kebir, the Bairam. I remember

  it as if it were yesterday—a hot morning—there was the smell of

  warm blood and entrails, of freshly baked bread. That morning rams

  had been slaughtered in front of all the houses—even before the huts

  of the poor. The king, Allah be praised, had animals distributed to

  them for slaughter, so that no one in the town would be without his

  roast for the Easter celebration. The men had already begun to drink

  Laqbi early in the morning. They were lighthearted and merry and

  some of them were even slightly inebriated. Then news came that a

  stranger had ridden through the southern gate of the town.

  Annur, the barber, brought the news. In spite of the heat, he had

  his melefa slung tightly around his shoulders. His toothless smile froze

  into a grimace. He rubbed his long nose and his small eyes—lively

  from curiosity and Laqbi—sparkled in his brown wrinkled face under

  his bleached barbusch that had once been red. ‘So, so, one of light

  skin’, my father said slowly, laying his knife and the bloody liver

  beside the head of the ram on the bench in front of our hut. He

  cleaned his hands on the blood spattered apron, which he had put on

  over his burnouse, wiping the sweat off his brow with his arm. ‘A

  travelling doctor?’

  ‘Not a Tabib’, Annur said and looked with the eye of an expert at

  out ram. ‘He says that he is a man of learning, a sort of stargazer.’

  ‘Stargazer?’

  The barber shrugged and snorted. ‘At any rate, he comes from

  somewhere way down south, somewhere where there are not only

  blacks. In former times, whites are said to have lived there.’ Annur

  sniffed in disgust and spat on the freshly swept clay floor in front of

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  our hut. My father looked at him sternly. ‘One thing is certain, he’s

  an unbeliever’, he continued scornfully, without even noticing our

  disapproval. ‘Were Hassan in power—pah—such so-called scholars

  would have been forbidden entry into our town or would have had

  their heads chopped off and nailed to the city gate as a warning to all.’

  ‘That is not the way to talk during our Easter celebration’, my

  father reprimanded. ‘The
times of Hassan in which every light-

  skinned man was stoned or hanged, whether he was a mutant or

  not, are past—Allah be thanked. King Ahmed ben Brahim is a good

  ruler. He gave me this fat ram as a present.‘

  ‘Truly a fine animal’, the barber had to admit with a touch of envy,

  as he belonged to those who had enough money to buy their own

  ram.

  ‘Where is the stranger, Annur?’, I asked curiously as I had never

  seen a white adult before.

  ‘He’s staying in the caravansary and has been brought to the king’s

  palace by the guards of the city.’ Then he turned to my father and

  said, ‘According to a discreet, preliminary examination, he doesn’t

  seem to be a mutant. When he comes out of the palace we will know

  more.’ Then with a touch of doubt in his voice, he said, ‘Maybe, he is

  really telling the truth—perhaps he does come from the south and not

  from the countries of the dead in the north. We’ll know in time. One

  thing is certain, he’s an unbeliever.’ This time my father caught him

  with a reproachful look before he could spit on the floor. The barber

  pressed his lips to a thin line and made do with repeating sharply,

  ‘One thing is certain!’

  I ran in the direction of the caravansary in order to see the

  mysterious stranger. The sun was bright in the yard. The first things

  I saw were the saddles and packs near the stalls. Hazaz sat on a mat

  made of palm leaves in the shade and was mending a camel saddle.

  One would never have thought that such powerful hands could make

  such adept and quick movements. He stuck holes in the worn leather

  with an awl. He waved to me and rubbed his crocheted cotton Taqija

  which he always kept on his shaven head.

  Abarshi and Sliman, the most famous vagabonds in town, crouched

  behind the packs of the stranger, pulled as if unintentionally on the

  straps and buckles and blinked to emphasize their boredom into the

  sun.

  ‘Hands off!’, Hazaz snarled without taking the tarred string from

  between his teeth.

  ‘He’s a white devil’, Abarshi said as an excuse. ‘Who knows what

  The Land of Osiris

  89

  kind of diseases he’s brought with him!’ One eye clouded with a

  cataract stared accusingly at the dusty leather cases of the stranger as

  if it hoped to divine their contents with some hidden power, while the

  other eye glanced covetously around.

  ‘All the more reason to keep your hands off!’, Hazaz replied, pulling

  the string through the holes and hammering it into place with the

  wooden handle of the awl.

  ‘Beware of the beast that arrives from the north, says the prophet.

  He is ill and carries with him slow invisible death’, Sliman proclaimed

  with a dark frown, stroking his white beard which hung like plucked

  cotton around his chin. He looked so wise that he seemed about to

  turn into a marabout.

  ‘The prophet never said anything of the sort, you cunning bastard’,

  Hazaz replied. ‘It was one of those drivelling preachers, who visit us

  year after year, poisoning the souls of our people while draining the

  last penny out of their pockets. Besides, the stranger doesn’t come

  from the north, but from the south.’

  ‘The devil has many dwellings, says the prophet’, Sliman replied,

  uneasily balancing the weight of his bleached blue turban on his

  head. ‘Allah’s wrath will crush those who disobey his laws just as the

  crocodile whip crushes the scorpion who raises its sting.’

  ‘Then take care, Sliman; if you don’t keep your poisonous tongue

  still, you’ll be mistaken for a scorpion.’ Sliman fumed with rage and

  crouched down beside Abarshi in the shade. The noise of the crickets

  in the palm trees of the caravansary was like a persistent metallic

  shriek. Somewhere, under the roof of the stalls, pigeons cooed and we

  could hear the breathing of the stranger’s horses.

  ‘Beschir’, Hazaz asked, ‘have you done your good deed for the day

  on this holiest of all days?’

  I looked at him sceptically as I had no idea just what he was trying

  to get at. ‘No’, I said hesitantly.

  ‘Then feed the horses. I have given them water.’

  ‘What’s his name?’, I asked.

  ‘Jack Freyman. He’s called Master Jack.’

  I went into the kitchen and put on the tea. Then I gave the horses

  millet and hay and brushed them down. Ticks had nested in their hide

  and their legs were covered with leech wounds, like all the animals

  coming from the humid hot south.

  A clatter of hooves was heard and we rushed out to the yard. A

  royal escort, the vizier himself, was accompanying the stranger. The

  vizier rode at the stranger’s side under a canopy held by four slaves

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  flanked by six cavalrymen of the king’s guard in full armour riding

  horses with blue quilted armour, the slit toes of their curly pointed-

  toed shoes hooked into the stirrups. The visors of their helmets

  glittered in rivalry with the silver harnesses and the polished brass

  plates at the heads and necks of the horses. They made a magnificent

  sight.

  I was disappointed by the stranger’s appearance. I had seen light-

  skinned ones before, young eunuch slaves such as the barbarians

  make of the healthy children of the refugees. But this man’s skin was

  almost as dark as that of a Tuareg. He was of medium height and

  strongly built. He looked more like a merchant from the west, with his

  black turban which hid his hair and his black beard. However, when

  he rode nearer and got down from his saddle I noticed that his eyes

  were as blue as the waters of an oasis reflecting the midday sun.

  The cavalrymen loosened their shoes from the stirrups, sprang

  down from their horses and thrust their spears into the dust of the

  caravansary. I recognized one of them called Chalilu. He lived not far

  from us, but didn’t seem to recognize me and stared straight ahead.

  Perspiration ran down his face from under his helmet, down on to the

  thick cotton armour. His round face, instead of registering the

  worthiness of his station, bore the expression of an imbecile.

  Hazaz bowed before the Vizier, who took out an official document

  and began to read it aloud.

  ‘By order of his majesty, the King, our Master, Jack Freyman

  Effendi, travelling scholar from the far off country of Zimbabwe and

  guest of our King is to receive a Bishari riding camel from his

  Majesty’s herd as well as three pack animals of our best breed.

  Further, to accompany him to Darfur to protect and to serve him,

  he is to receive a guide familiar with the route and a camel herder.

  These men will also receive the appropriate riding animals from the

  King’s herd. Further, he shall receive the following provisions for

  forty days from the stock of the caravansary: dates 40 pounds, millet

  30 pounds, sugar 6 pounds, tea 5 pounds and salt 2 pounds. . .’

  I looked the stranger over. He was wearing a white tunic such as is

  worn in the south and unusually cut t
rousers of light grey cloth, held

  up by a belt in which two knives were fastened, and falling over low

  boots of shiny leather. On a shoulder strap, he carried a quiver of

  short metal arrows. As he dismounted, he took a weapon from his

  saddle horn. It looked like a cross between a short-barrelled gun and a

  bow. I found out later that it was called a crossbow and that one could

  shoot more accurately with it than with many a gun.

  The Land of Osiris

  91

  As he turned his face towards me, I saw that his black beard was

  greying on the cheeks and at the corners of his mouth. His face

  seemed young. How old could he be? Forty or even older?

  ‘Master Jack Effendi?’, I said.

  He hesitated and looked at me with a critical glance. ‘Yes?’, he

  asked.

  ‘Give me your horse. I’ll look after it.’

  He handed me the reins.

  And so it happened that Hazaz was chosen by the King himself to

  show Master Jack the way to the east and I, as I had often

  accompanied Hazaz as his camel herder, was allowed to follow him

  this time too. What a journey this would be! It would lead us through

  the land of the dead to the very edge of the world—and Master Jack

  beyond it.

  Extracts from the Journal of Master Jack

  March 29th, 2036

  We have just reached Kotoko on Lake Chad. The brothers of Fort Sibut were right. It is mortal danger for a white man to let himself be seen north of the Niger River. However, it’s no different south of the Zambezi. But how one could hold it against the people? The white race has destroyed its own world—

  brought itself to a spectacular end. The fact that they took countless other races to their deaths in the process and brought them unspeakable misery doesn’t interest these people in the least. Should I expect gratitude?

  In spite of this, I meet people everywhere with whom one can talk quite

  reasonably—chiefs, tribal princes, rulers—more sensible and wiser perhaps than the politicians and rulers of our race who were only capable of

  presenting one another with an expensive cremation.

  King Ahmed ben Brahim is about my age. He has a natural dignity—a sense

  of humour—and is quick to understand. He asked me about my itinerary and

  I showed him the way on my map from Mt Darwin to the north into the

  former Zambia, down the Lualaba and the Congo, up the Ubangi and the

  Tomi past the ruins of Dekoa and Fort Lamy and down the Shari—the great