The eleven jumped to their feet. “Farewell.”
“Where do you go?” asked Garstang.
“No matter. Seek your fane if you must; we go about our own affairs.” With the briefest of farewells they marched to the village of the lizard folk, where they slaughtered the males, filed the teeth of the females, dressed them in garments of reeds, and installed themselves as lords of the village.
Garstang, Subucule, Casmyre and Cugel meanwhile traveled south along the shore. At nightfall they pitched camp and dined upon molluscs and crabs. In the morning they found that the four remaining pack-beasts had departed, and now they were alone.
“It is the will of Gilfig,” said Subucule. “We need only find the fane and die!”
“Courage!” muttered Garstang. “Let us not give way to despair!”
“What else is left? Will we ever see Pholgus Valley again?”
“Who knows? Let us first perform our devotions at the fane.”
With that they proceeded, and marched the remainder of the day. By nightfall they were too tired to do more than slump to the sand of the beach. The sea spread before them, flat as a table, so calm that the setting sun cast only its exact image rather than a trail. Clams and crabs once more provided a meager supper, after which they composed themselves to sleep on the beach.
Somewhat after the first hours of night Cugel was awakened by a sound of music. Starting up, he looked across the water to find that a ghostly city had come into existence. Slender towers reared into the sky, lit by glittering motes of white light which drifted slowly up and down, back and forth. On the promenades sauntered the gayest of crowds, wearing pale luminous garments and blowing horns of delicate sound. A barge piled with silken cushions, moved by an enormous sail of cornflower silk, drifted past. Lamps at the bow and stern-post illuminated a deck thronged with merry-makers: some singing and playing lutes, others drinking from goblets. Cugel ached to share their joy. He struggled to his knees, and called out. The merry-makers put down their instruments and stared at him, but now the barge had drifted past, tugged by the great blue sail. Presently the city flickered and vanished, leaving only the dark night sky.
Cugel stared into the night, his throat aching with a sorrow he had never known before. To his surprise he found himself standing at the edge of the water. Nearby were Subucule, Garstang and Casmyre. All gazed at each other through the dark, but exchanged no words. All returned up the beach where presently they fell asleep in the sand.
Throughout the next day there was little conversation, and even a mutual avoidance, as if each of the four wished to be alone with his thoughts. From time to time one or the other looked half-heartedly toward the south, but no one seemed in a mood to leave the spot, and no one spoke of departure.
The day passed while the pilgrims rested in a half-torpor. Sunset came, and night; but none of the group sought to sleep.
During the middle evening the ghost city reappeared, and tonight a fête was in progress. Fireworks of a wonderful intricacy bloomed in the sky: laces, nets, starbursts of red and green and blue and silver. Along the promenade came a parade, with ghost-maidens dressed in iridescent garments, ghost-musicians in voluminous garments of red and orange and capering ghost-harlequins. For hours the sound of revelry drifted across the water, and Cugel went out to stand knee-deep, and here he watched until the fête quieted and the city dimmed. As he turned away, the others followed him back up the shore.
On the following day all were weak from hunger and thirst. In a croaking voice Cugel muttered that they must proceed. Garstang nodded and said huskily: “To the fane, the fane of Gilfig!”
Subucule nodded. The cheeks of his once plump face were haggard; his eyes were filmed and clouded. “Yes,” he wheezed. “We have rested; on we must go!”
Casmyre nodded dully. “To the fane!”
But none set forth to the south. Cugel wandered up the fore-shore and seated himself to wait for nightfall. Looking to his right he saw a human skeleton resting in a posture not dissimilar to his own. Shuddering, Cugel turned to the left and here was a second skeleton, this one broken by time and the seasons, and beyond yet another, this a mere heap of bones.
Cugel rose to his feet and ran tottering to the others. “Quick!” he called. “While strength yet remains to us! To the south! Come, before we die, like those others whose bones rest above!”
“Yes, yes,” mumbled Garstang. “To the fane.” And he heaved himself to his feet. “Come!” he called to the others. “We fare south!”
Subucule raised himself erect, but Casmyre, after a listless attempt, fell back. “Here I stay,” he said. “When you reach the fane, intercede for me with Gilfig; explain that the entrancement overcame the strength of my body.”
Garstang wished to remain and plead, but Cugel pointed to the setting sun. “If we wait till darkness, we are lost! Tomorrow our strength will be gone!”
Subucule took Garstang’s arm. “We must be away, before nightfall.”
Garstang made a final plea to Casmyre. “My friend and fellow, gather your strength. Together we have come, from far Pholgus Valley, by raft down the Scamander, and across the dreadful desert! Must we part before attaining the fane?”
“Come, to the fane!” croaked Cugel.
But Casmyre turned his face away. Cugel and Subucule led Garstang away, with tears coursing down his withered cheeks; and they staggered south along the beach, averting their eyes from the clear smooth face of the sea.
The old sun set and cast up a fan of color. A high scatter of cloud-flakes glowed halcyon yellow on a strange bronze-brown sky. The city now appeared, and never had it seemed more magnificent, with spires catching the light of sunset. Along the promenade walked youths and maidens with flowers in their hair, and sometimes they paused to stare at the three who walked along the beach. Sunset faded; white lights shone from the city, and music wafted across the water. For a long time it followed the three pilgrims, at last fading into the distance and dying. The sea lay blank to the west, reflecting a few last umber and orange glimmers.
About this time the pilgrims found a stream of fresh water, with berries and wild plums growing nearby, and here they rested the night. In the morning Cugel trapped a fish and caught crabs along the beach. Strengthened, the three continued south, always seeking ahead for the fane, which now Cugel had almost come to expect, so intense was the feeling of Garstang and Subucule. Indeed, as the days passed, it was the devout Subucule who began to despair, to question the sincerity of Gilfig’s command, to doubt the essential virtue of Gilfig himself. “What is gained by this agonizing pilgrimage? Does Gilfig doubt our devotion? Surely we proved ourselves by attendance at the Lustral Rite; why has he sent us so far?”
“The ways of Gilfig are inscrutable,” said Garstang. “We have come so far; we must seek on and on and on!”
Subucule stopped short, to look back the way they had come. “Here is my proposal. At this spot let us erect an altar of stones, which becomes our fane; let us then perform a rite. With Gilfig’s requirement satisfied, we may turn our faces to the north, to the village where our fellows reside. Here, happily we may recapture the pack-beasts, replenish our stores, and set forth across the desert, perhaps to arrive once more at Erze Damath.”
Garstang hesitated. “There is much to recommend your proposal. And yet —”
“A boat!” cried Cugel. He pointed to the sea where a half-mile offshore floated a fishing boat propelled by a square sail hanging from a long limber yard. It passed behind a headland which rose a mile south of where the pilgrims stood, and now Cugel indicated a village along the shore.
“Excellent!” declared Garstang. “These folk may be fellow Gilfigites, and this village the site of the fane! Let us proceed!”
Subucule still was reluctant. “Could knowledge of the sacred texts have penetrated so far?”
“Caution is the watchword,” said Cugel. “We must reconnoiter with great care.” And he led the way through a forest of tamarisk and larch, to where they could look down into the village. The huts were rudely constructed of black stone and housed a folk of ferocious aspect. Black hair in spikes surrounded the round clay-colored faces; coarse black bristles grew off the burly shoulders like epaulettes. Fangs protruded from the mouths of male and female alike and all spoke in harsh growling shouts. Cugel, Garstang and Subucule drew back with the utmost caution, and hidden among the trees, conferred in low voices. Garstang at last was discouraged and found nothing more to hope for. “I am exhausted, spiritually as well as physically; perhaps here is where I die.”
Subucule looked to the north. “I return to take my chances on the Silver Desert. If all goes well, I will arrive once more at Erze Damath, or even Pholgus Valley.”
Garstang turned to Cugel. “And what of you, since the fane of Gilfig is nowhere to be found?”
Cugel pointed to a dock at which a number of boats were moored. “My destination is Almery, across the Songan Sea. I propose to commandeer a boat and sail to the west.”
“I then bid you farewell,” said Subucule. “Garstang, will you come?”
Garstang shook his head. “It is too far. I would surely die on the desert. I will cross the sea with Cugel and take the Word of Gilfig to the folk of Almery.”
