“Forgive me. I”—he looked wildly at Larry—”I spoke in haste. We—”
Larry said, speaking the same dialect, “We have been well fed and kept out of the rain, if that is what you mean, sir.” The word he used would also have been translated “Your honor.” “But would your very high honor condescend to explain to us why we are being taken from our road and put in this exceptionally damp and confining place at all?”
The trailman’s face was stern. He said, “Your people burn down the woods with the red-thing-that-eats-the-woods. Animals die. Trees perish. You were being watched and when you built the red-thing-that-eats-the-woods, we seized you.”
“Then will you let us go again?” Kennard asked.
The trailman slowly made a negative gesture. “We have one protection, and only one, against the red-thing-that-eats-the-woods. Whenever your people come into the country of the People of the Sky, they never leave it again. So that your people will fear coming into our world, and there will be no fear of the red-thing-that-eats-the-woods destroying more of our cities.”
Kennard, with a furious gesture, rolled back his sleeves. There were still crimson burn scars on them. “Listen, you—” he began; and with an effort, amended, “Hear me, your—your High Muchness. Just a few days ago, I and my family and my friends spent many, many days putting out a fire. It is not my kind of people who burn down woods. We are—we are running away from the evil kind of people who set fires to burn down woods.”
“Then why were you building a—you call it fire?”
“To cook our food.”
The trailman’s face was severe. “And your kind of—of man”—the word was one of inexpressible contempt on his lips—”eats of our brothers-that-have-life!”
“Ways differ and customs differ,” said Kennard doggedly, “but we will not burn down your woods. We will even promise not to build a fire while we are in your woods, if You will let us go.”
“You are of the fire-making kind. We will not let you go. I have spoken.”
He turned on his heel and walked out. Behind him, his guards stalked out, and the bolt fell into place.
“And that,” said Kennard, “is very much that.”
He sat down, chin in hands, and stared grimly into space.
Larry was also feeling despair. Obviously the trailmen would not harm them. Equally obviously, however, they seemed likely to be sitting here in this prison—well fed, well housed, but caged like alien horrid animals—until hell froze over, as far as the Personage was concerned.
He found himself thinking in terms of the trailmen’s way of life. If you depended on the woods for very life, fire was your worst fear—and evidently, to them, fire was a wild thing that could never be controlled. He remembered their triumphant dance of joy when they had managed to put out Kennard’s little cookfire.
He said thoughtfully, “You still have your flint and tinder, don’t you?”
Kennard caught him up instantly. “Right! We can burn our way out with torches, and no one will dare to come near us.”
Suddenly his face fell. “No. There is a danger that their city might catch fire. We would be wiping out a whole village of perfectly harmless creatures.”
And Larry followed his thought. Better to sit here in prison indefinitely—after all, they were being well fed and kindly treated—than risk exterminating a whole village of these absolutely harmless little people. People who would not even kill a rabbit for food. Sooner or later they would find a way out. Until then, they would not risk harming the trailmen, who had not harmed them.
They were interrupted by the entry of their guard limping heavily, carrying a tray of their food—the nuts, the honey, and what looked like birds’ eggs. Larry made a face—raw eggs? Well, he supposed they were a treat to the trailmen, and they were at least giving their prisoner-guests of their best. But a boiled egg would be a pleasant enough meal.
Kennard was asking the trailman, by signs, how he had hurt his leg. The trailman sprang into a crouch, his head laid into a feral gesture; he actually looked like the great carnivore he was imitating. He made a brutal clawing gesture; he fell to the mossy floor of the hut, doubled up, imitating great pain; then displayed the cruelly festering wound. Larry turned sick at the sight of it; the thigh was swollen to nearly twice its size, and greenish pus was oozing from the wound. The trailman made a stoical shrug, pointed to his flint knife, gestured, struggled like a man being held down, hopped like a man with one leg, folded his hands, closed his eyes, held his breath like a man dead.