Lankar of Callisto

The sword was about three feet from pointed tip to hilt and looked more like a rapier than anything else to which I could assign a name. The blade was thin and sharp, honed to razor keenness on each edge, and made of good, springy steel. It was obviously tailored to the boy’s proportions and looked rather small and unimpressive in my fist, but I bore it with a measure of confidence. It had been too many years since I had last practised with the sword for me to feel very confident of my ability to use it expertly; still, it was a slim, exquisitely balanced weapon of beautiful workmanship and a joy to have in your hand. I strode along the jungle path, feeling like John Carter of Barsoom in my loincloth, my naked sword by my side, thinking: If only Sprague could see me now!

To pass the time, as I have just mentioned, I let Taran tutor me in the universal language of Thanator (his name for the moon Callisto). I am not very good at picking up foreign languages, I’m afraid, but it was very important that Taran and I be able to communicate on a verbal level just as soon as possible, for I was going to need the boy’s help. We spent some hours at it and by the end of the day I was quite surprised at how many Thanatorian words I was able to use. In all honesty it must be admitted that I already had quite a healthy headstart on learning the language of Callisto. Jandar’s manuscripts had given me an acquaintance with something like forty or fifty words, so we had a sketchy but serviceable background on which to rear more complicated linguistic structures. And sign language helped a lot, of course. Even before the language lessons began, I apprised the youngster of my intentions by pointing ahead in the direction I wished to travel and repeating the name Shondakor. He wrinkled up his nose at my pronunciation* but he caught my meaning, and eagerly indicated the correct direction, which was a bit further to the south than I had thought. We headed off in that direction, since it was probable that the boy knew better than I where the city lay.

These language lessons with which we passed the hours of our weary trek, by the way, were pretty rudimentary. I learned the names of trees and flowers, and the Thanatorian words for “walking,” “sword,” and so on. The boy taught me the proper word for various parts of the body by simply pointing to his foot or knee or ear or whatever, and repeating in a clear voice the native word for each appropriate part. As I already knew some words, I picked up a very rough vocabulary surprisingly fast, although of course it was quite a while before I was able to make anything resembling a coherent sentence―and I’m sure I never did manage to get rid of a terribly “Earthian” accent.

Dinner that night consisted of the remnants of the vastodon meat, varied by a number of curious fruits, such as a deliciously sweet and meaty purple-fleshed berry that looked like a kind of prickly-skinned banana, and a large, succulent fruit that resembled a bright red pumpkin, but which tasted almost exactly like a very large and very overripe peach. We camped even before daylight ended and night fell, for I was still stiff and sore from all this unaccustomed exercise, and Taran was still pretty weak from his many hours of imprisonment in the ximchak web.

I tried to make fire again, having carried along in my bundle of leaves two of the flinty stones, but failed. The grasses were too damp and dry leaves were scarce in this part of the jungle. Taran took charge at that point; borrowing the sword he vanished into the depths of thicket, returning with an armful of thorny branches which he began to arrange around the trunk of a large tree in barricade-fashion. For some reason this reminded me of the “thorn-boma” people are always making in the Tarzan books, and I couldn’t help laughing at the sight. Between the two of us, Taran and I gathered enough of these sharp-spined branches to build a waist-high barrier around the base of the tree. There were no masses of dry grass to burrow under, so the youngster and I spent that night cuddled together for warmth while Bozo (still suspicious of the strange boy) kept guard outside the barricade.

Towards the middle of night, though, he must have joined us. For when day came, I awoke to find Taran sound asleep, his tousled head pillowed comfortably on the burly warm shoulder of the great othode, and his arms locked about the chest of the sleeping beast. I grinned at the sight, assuming that from now on, both of my friends would be friends. In this assumption I was right, for beginning’ that night, Bozo displayed no further wariness or suspicion towards the little boy, and defended him as staunchly as he defended me.

The following day we discovered a .wide, shallow pool amidst a jungle clearing. Fed by subterranean springs, the water was crystal clear―and gaspingly cold, as I soon discovered. As I started to make my way around the pool, Taran grabbed my arm, halting me. He jabbered something in his bright, inquisitive voice, pointing at the pool. Then, impatient at my inability to understand his words, the boy illustrated them by kicking off his sandals, dropping his cudgel, stripping off his loincloth and diving in.