Lankar of Callisto

Even armed with a cudgel, what could I do to defend myself against such brutes as the vastodon, the dreaded elephant-boar of the Callistan wild, from which Jandar had once rescued the Princess Darloona in these very jungles? Or the ferocious yathrib, the fearsome dragon-cat from which Koja the Yathoon had once saved Jandar himself? Yes, I soon proved to myself the truth of the age-old adage that “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” My imagination, teeming with ghastly images of slinking monstrous shapes, seized on every rustle in the leaves, every crack of a twig, and peopled the blind red gloom with hideous animals.

However, quite a time had passed by now, and nothing had sprung upon me in the interval, and my fears began to ebb, although I moved with no less caution. Also, by this time, my eyes had adjusted to the dim red murk and it became easier for me to negotiate the thorny thickets and to pass between the knotted black boles without stumbling into them. Almost it could be said I began to enjoy myself; after all, I was only the second man of my world to stand here on the surface of a weird and alien planet, and it was a peculiar experience to find myself in much the sort of predicament in which I am accustomed to place the heroes of my stories. It amused me to wonder if Edgar Rice Burroughs would have felt the same as I, had he suddenly by some inexplicable miracle found himself transported to the jungles wherein his apeman hero generally roamed, or to the dead sea-bottoms of Barsoom under the glory of the hurtling moons.

The experience of being upon a strange planet was endlessly fascinating to me. All about me to every side, unseen life muttered and rustled and crept. Tiny eyes peered at me from thick boughs arching above my head like the beams of a roof. Small, timid creatures fled squeaking and chattering from my approach, although I would very much have liked to have seen them. None of the larger and more dangerous beasts that Jandar had so chillingly described in the five volumes of his memoirs I had read had yet made an appearance. It was easy enough to guess that, during the hours of daylight, the greater predators slept in their lairs, emerging only when darkness fell to hunt and kill. It was this way, I believed, in the jungles of the distant Earth; and I hoped it was true here on Callisto, as well.

Before long I stumbled upon a weapon. I mean that quite literally, for the long length of black, gnarled wood lay directly in my path and I barked my bare shins against it and almost fell fiat on my face. It was a heavy pole or staff, admirably straight, and half again as long as my arm. I suppose the cudgel wouldn’t have been of much use against the yathrib or the vastodon, but, in a pinch, any weapon is probably better than none, and somehow, holding it, I felt far less naked than before.

I began to think about the problem of clothing. By now my legs and arms and torso were criss-crossed with red scratches from rough bark, thorny vines and sharp-edged leaves. One of these bushes with the sharp-edged leaves caught my eye. The leaves were rubbery and fibrous and about as large as dinner plates. Leaning my cudgel against a tree, I pulled off a half-dozen of the big, floppy leaves and found that their spiny edges could be peeled away neatly. With a bit of fussin’ and cussin’ I devised a rude sort of apron to shield my loins fore and aft, knotting the fibers together about my middle. Then, with a bit of ingenuity, I fashioned an abbreviated vest or elongated collar of these same leaves which I hung about my neck to protect my upper arms, chest and shoulders.

This attempt at do-it-yourself haberdashery worked so well (which is to say the garments actually held together and didn’t fall apart after five minutes of use), that I was further inspired to attempt something in the nature of footware. Sitting down on a fallen log I peeled away strips of fiber and tried to cover the soles of my feet with the tough, rubbery leaves, lacing them together over my instep with the long fibrous strands. I used a sharp twig to pierce holes along the upper edges of each leaf, through which with a bit of labor I managed to thread my “shoelaces.” I was somewhat less effective in my solo venture at the fine art of shoe-cobbling, but by pulling the laces tight and knotting them securely, the moccasins actually stayed on and I was convinced they would work, although I thought it wise to carry a generous supply of leaves with me for repair and replacement purposes.

“Eat your heart out, Thom McAn!” I said aloud, chuckling.

The rustling jungle fell silent on the instant. Even to my ears, my voice sounded shockingly loud.

And then I heard the growl.