"Hadwell!" she cried, and strained close to him. Abruptly she pulled free, looking at him with worried eyes.
"What's the matter, honey?" Hadwell asked.
"Hadwell, is there anything more you could do for the village? Anything? My people would appreciate it so."
"Sure there is," Hadwell said. "But I thought I'd rest up first, take it easy."
"No! Please!" she begged. "Those irrigation ditches you spoke of. Could you start them now?"
"If you want me to," Hadwell said. "But—"
"Oh darling!" She sprang to her feet. Hadwell reached for her, but she stepped back.
"There is no time! I must hurry back and tell the village!"
She ran from him. And Hadwell was left to ponder the strange ways of aliens, and particularly of alien women.
Mele ran back to the village and found the priest in the temple, praying for wisdom and guidance. Quickly she told him about the emissary's new plans for aiding the village.
The old priest nodded slowly. "Then the ceremony shall be deferred. But tell me, daughter. Why are you involved in this?"
Mele blushed and could not answer.
The old priest smiled. But then his face became stern. "I understand. But listen to me, girl. Do not allow love to sway you from the proper worship of Thangookari and from the observances of the ancient ways of our village."
"Of course not!" Mele said. "I simply felt that an Adept's death was not good enough for Hadwell. He deserves more! He deserves — the Ultimate!"
"No man has been worthy of the Ultimate for six hundred years," Lag said. "Not since the hero and demigod, V'ktat, saved the Igathian race from the dread Huelva Beasts."
"But Hadwell has the stuff of heroes in him," Mele cried. "Give him time, let him strive! He will prove worthy!"
"Perhaps so," the priest mused. "It would be a great thing for the village ... But consider, Mele! It might take a lifetime for Hadwell to prove himself."
"Wouldn't it be worth waiting for?" she asked.
The old priest fingered his mace, and his forehead wrinkled in thought. "You may be right," he said slowly, "yes, you may be right." Suddenly he straightened and glanced sharply at her.
"But tell me the truth, Mele. Are you really trying to preserve him for the Ultimate Death? Or do you merely want to keep him for yourself?"
"He must have the death he deserves," Mele said serenely. But she was unable to meet the priest's eye.
"I wonder," the old man said. "I wonder what lies in your heart. I think you tread dangerously close to heresy, Mele. You, who were among the most orthodox."
Mele was about to answer when the merchant, Vassi, rushed into the temple.
"Come quickly!" he cried. "It is the farmer, Iglai! He has evaded the taboo!"
The fat, jolly farmer had died a terrible death. He had been walking his usual route from his hut to the village centre, past an old thorn tree, Without warning, the tree had toppled on him. Thorns had impaled him through and through. Eyewitnesses said the farmer had writhed and moaned for over an hour before expiring.
But he had died with a smile on his face.
The priest looked at the crowd surrounding Iglai's body. Several of the villagers were hiding grins behind their hands. Lag walked over to the thorn tree and examined it.
There were faint marks of a saw blade, which had been roughened over and concealed with clay. The priest turned to the crowd.
"Was Iglai near this tree often?" he asked.
"He sure was," another farmer said. "Always ate his lunch under this tree."
The crowd was grinning openly now, proud of Iglai's achievement. Remarks began to fly back and forth.
"I wondered why he always ate here."
"Never wanted company. Said he liked to eat alone."
"Hah!"
"He must have been sawing all the time."
"For months, probably. That's tough wood."
"Very clever of Iglai."
"I'll say! He was only a farmer, and no one would call him religious. But he got himself a damned fine death."
"Listen, good people!" cried Lag. "Iglai did a sacrilegious thing! Only a priest can grant violent death!"
"What the priests don't see can't hurt them," someone muttered.
"So it was sacrilege," another man said. "Iglai got himself a beautiful death. That's the important thing."
The old priest turned sadly away. There was nothing he could do. If he had caught Iglai in time, he would have applied strict sanctions. Iglai would never have dared arrange another death and would probably have died quietly and forlornly in bed, at a ripe old age. But now it was too late. The farmer had achieved his death and on the wings of it had already gone to Rookechangi. Asking the god to punish Iglai in the afterlife was useless, for the farmer was right there on the spot to plead his own case.
Lag asked, "Didn't any of you see him sawing that tree?"
If anyone had, he wouldn't admit it. They stuck together, Lag knew. In spite of the religious training he had instilled in them from earliest childhood, they persisted in trying to outwit the priests.
When would they realize that an unauthorized death could never be so satisfying as a death one worked for.
deserved, and had performed with all ceremonial observations?
He sighed. Life was sometimes a burden. A week later, Hadwell wrote in his diary:
There has never been a race like these Igathians. I have lived among them now, eaten and drunk with them, and observed their ceremonies. I know and understand them. And the truth about them is startling, to say the
least.
The fact is, the Igathians do not know the meaning of war\ Consider that, Civilized Man! Never in all their recorded and oral history have they had one. They simply cannot conceive of it. I give the following illustration.
I tried to explain war to Kataga, father of the incomparable Mele. The man scratched his head, and asked, "You say that many kill many? That is war?"
"That's a part of it," I said. "Thousands, killing thousands."
"In that case," Kataga said, "many are dead at the same time, in the same way?"
"Correct," said I.
He pondered this for a long time, then turned to me and said, "It is not good for many to die at the same time in the same way. Not satisfactory. Every man should die his own individual death."
Consider, Civilized Man, the incredible naivete of that reply. And yet, think of the considerable truth which resides beneath the naivete; a truth which all might do well to learn.
Moreover, these people do not engage in quarrels among themselves, have no blood feuds, no crimes of passion, no murder.
The conclusion I come to is: violent death is unknown among these people — except, of course, for accidents.
It is a shame that accidents occur so often here and are so often fatal. But this I ascribe to the wildness of the
surroundings and to the lighthearted, devil-may-care nature of the people. And, as a matter of fact, even accidents do not go unnoticed and unchecked. The priest, with whom I have formed a considerable friendship, deplores the high accident rate, and is constantly proclaiming against it. Always he urges the people to take more caution.
He is a good man.
And now I write the final, most wonderful news of all. (Hadwell smiled sheepishly, hesitated for a moment, then returned to his notebook.)
Mele has consented to become my wife! As soon as I complete this, the ceremony begins. Already the festivities have started, the feast prepared. I consider myself the most fortunate of men, for Mele is a beautiful woman. And a most unusual woman, as well.
She has great social consciousness. A little too much, perhaps. She has been urging me constantly to do work for the village. And I have done much. I have completed an irrigation system for them, introduced several fast-growing food crops, started the profession of metal-working, and other things too numerous to mention. And she wants me to do more, much more.