Walter M. Miller - The Soul Empty Ones

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THE SOUL-EMPTY ONES

Walter M. Miller, Jr.

Miller, to my mind, is a writer of exceptional power. He is the author of what may be my all-time favorite story,

"Vengeance for Nikolai," and the novel A Canticle for Leibowitz. When-ever / see his name on fiction, I know it will stir

me. The pres-ent entry is not his best, for reasons explained in the introduction to this volume, but I remember it

across three de-cades as a good, solid adventure. What distinguishes man from animal, apart from intelligence? Is it

his soul? If so, what is the status of an android—that is, a creature crafted in the laborato-ry—who is made in the

complete image of man, feelings and all? Fast action plus a good thematic question—this, to me, is the essence of

conventional science fiction. —PA

Miller had a sensational career beginning in 1951, published stunning novellas and short stories in the magazines

("The Darfstellar," Astounding 1/55, won a Hugo), topped it off with the 1959 A Canticle for Leibowitz, considered by

many to be the single finest science-fiction novel ever published (it is in everyone's top ten), and then utterly ceased

to publish. No one knows why. A mysterious, emblematic figure of science fic-tion's most ambitious (and

emblematic) decade, Miller lives in a southern state in virtual isolation from the genre to which he gave so much;

there are vague rumors of a novel in progress. "The Soul-Empty Ones," a characteristic story and apparently Miller's

only unreprinted shorter work, appeared in Astound-ing in 1952, incited praise from fames Blish (collected in his

volume of criticism, The Issue At Hand), and has not been read by other than collectors and specialists in the last

quarter of a century. Until now.

They heard the mournful bleat of his ramshorn in the night, warn-ing them that he was friend, asking the sentries not to unleash the

avalanches upon the mountain trail where he rode. They returned to their stools and huddled about the lamplight, waiting—two

war-riors and a woman. The woman was watching the window; and to-ward the valley, bright bonfires yellowed the darkness.

"He should never have gone," the girl said tonelessly.

The warriors, father and son, made no answer. They were val-ley men, from the sea, and guests in the house of Daner. The

youn-ger one looked at his sire and shook his head slowly. The father clenched his jaw stubbornly. "I could not let you go to

blas-pheme," he growled defensively. "The invaders are the sons of men. If Daner wishes to attack them, he is our host, and we

cannot prevent it. But we shall not violate that which is written of the in-vaders. They have come to save us."

"Even if they kill us, and take our meat?" muttered the blond youth.

"Even so. We are their servants, for the sons of men created our fathers out of the flesh of beasts, and gave them the appearance

of men." The old one's eyes glowed with the passionate light of con-viction.

The young one inclined his head gravely and submissively, for such was the way of the valley people toward their parents.

The girl spoke coldly. "At first, I thought you were cowardly, old man. Now I think your whole tribe is cowardly."

Without a change of expression, the gray-haired one lifted his arms into the lamplight. His battles were written upon them in a

crisscross of white knife scars. He lowered them silently without speaking.

"It's in the mind that you are cowardly," said the girl. "We of the Natani fight our enemies. If our enemies be gods, then we shall

fight gods."

"Men are not gods," said the young one, whose name was Falon.

His father slapped him sharply across the back of the neck. "That is sacrilege," he warned. "When you speak of the invad-ers.

They are men and gods."

The girl watched them with contempt. "Among the Natani, when a man loses his manhood by age, he goes into the forest with

his war knife and does not return. And if he neglects to go will-

ingly, his sons escort him and see that he uses the knife. When a man is so old that his mind is dull, it is better for him to die."

The old warrior glowered at his hostess, but remained polite. "Your people have strange ways," he said acidly.

Suddenly a man came in out of the blackness and stood swaying in the doorway. He clutched his dogskin jacket against his

bleed-ing chest as a sponge. He was panting softly. The three occupants of the small stone hut came slowly to their feet, and the

woman said one word:

"Daher!"

The man mopped his forehead and staggered a step forward. He kicked the door closed with his heel. His skin had gone

bloodless gray, and his eyes wandered wildly about the room for a moment. Then he sagged to his knees. Falon came to his aid, but

Daner shook him off.

"They're really the sons of men," he gasped.

"Did you doubt it?" asked the old valley man.

Daner nodded. His mouth leaked a trickle of red, and he spat ir-ritably. "I saw their skyboats. I fought with a guard. They are

the sons of men . . . but they . . . are no longer men." He sank to a sitting position and leaned back against the door, staring at the

woman. "Ea-Daner," he breathed softly.

"Come care for your man, you wench!" growled the old one. "Can't you see he's dying?"

The girl stood back a few feet, watching her husband with sad-ness and longing, but not with pity. He was staring at her with

deep black eyes, abnormally brightened by pain. His breath was a wet hiss. Both of them ignored their valley guests.

"Sing me `The Song of the Empty of Soul,' Ea, my wife, " he choked, then began struggling to his feet. Falon, who knew a little

of the Natani ways, helped him pull erect.

Daner pawed at the door, opened it, and stood looking out into the night for a moment. A dark line of trees hovered to the west.

Daner drew his war knife and stood listening to the yapping of the wild dogs in the forest. "Sing, woman."

She sang. In a low, rich voice, she began the chant of the Soul-Empty Ones. The chant was weary, slowly repeating its five

mo-notonous notes, speaking of men who had gone away, and of their Soul-Empty servants they had left behind.

Dauer stepped from the doorsill, and became a wavering shadow, receding slowly toward the trees.

The song said that if a man be truly the son of men, the wild dogs would not devour him in the time of death. But if he be

Empty of Soul, if he be only the mocking image of Man, then the wild dogs would feed—for his flesh was of the beast, and his

an-cestor's seed had been warped by Man to grow in human shape.

The two valley warriors stood clumsily; their ways were not of the Natani mountain folk. Their'etiquette forbade them interfere

in their host's action. Dauer had disappeared into the shadows. Ea-Daner, his wife, sang softly into the night, but her face was

rivered with moisture from her eyes, large dark eyes, full of anger and sad-ness.

The song choked off. From the distance came a savage man-snarl. It was answered by a yelp; then a chorus of wild-dog barks

and growls raged in the forest, drowning the cries of the man. The girl stopped singing and closed the door. She returned to her

stool and gazed out toward the bonfires._ Her face was empty, and she was no longer crying.

Father and son exchanged glances. Nothing could be done. They sat together, across the room from the girl.

After a long time, the elder spoke. "Among our people, it is customary for a widow to return to her father's house. You have no

father. Will you join my house as a daughter?"

She shook her head. "My people would call me an outcast. And your people would remember that I am a Natani."

"What will you do?" asked Falon.

"We have a custom," she replied vaguely.

Falon growled disgustedly. "I have fought your tribe. I have fought many tribes. They all have different ways, but are of the

same flesh. Custom! Bah! One way is as good as another, and no-way-at-all is the best. I have given myself to the devil, because

the devil is the only god in whom all the tribes believe. But he never answers my prayers, and I think I'll spit on his name."

He was rewarded by another slap from his father. "You are the devil's indeed!" raged the old man.

Falon accepted it calmly, and shrugged toward the girl. "What will you do, Ea-Daner?"

She gazed at him through dull grief. "I will follow the way. I will mourn for seven days. Then I will take a war knife and go to

kill one of my husband's enemies. When it is done, I will follow his path to the forest. It is the way of the Natani widow."

Falon stared at her in unbelief. His shaggy blond eyebrows gloomed into a frown. "No!" he growled. "I am ashamed that the

ways of my father's house have made me sit here like a woman while Daner went to fight against the sons of men! Daner said

nothing. He respected our ways. He has opened his home to us. I shan't let his woman be ripped apart by the wild dogs!"

"Quiet!" shouted his father. "You are a guest! If our hosts are barbarians, then you must tolerate them!"

The girl caught her breath angrily, then subsided. "Your father is right, Falon," she said coldly. "I don't admire the way you

grovel before him, but he is right."

Falon squirmed and worked his jaw in anger. He was angry with both of them. His father had been a good man and a strong

warrior; but Falon wondered if the way of obedience was any holier than the other ways. The Natani had no high regard for it.

Ea-Daner had no father, because the old man had gone away with his war knife when he became a burden on the tribe. But Falon

had always obeyed, not out of respect for the law, but out of admiration for the man. He sighed and shrugged.

"Very well, then, Ea-Daner, you shall observe your custom. And I will go with you to the places of the invader."

"You will not fight with the sons of men!" his father grumbled sullenly. "You will not speak of it again."

Falon's eyes flared heatedly. "You would let a woman go to be killed and perhaps devoured by the invaders?"

"She is a Natani. And it is the right of the sons of men to do as they will with her, or with us. I even dislike hiding from them.

They created our fathers, and they made them so that their children would also be in the image of man—in spite of the glow-curse

that lived in the ground and made the sons of animals unlike their fa-thers."

"Nevertheless, I—"

"You will not speak of it again!"

Falon stared at the angry oldster, whose steely eyes barked com-mands at him. Falon shivered. Respect for the aged was

engrained in the fibers of his being. But Daner's death was fresh in his mind. And he was no longer in the valleys of his people,

where the invad-ers had landed their skyboats. Was the way of the tribe more im-portant than the life of the tribe? If one believed

in the gods—then, yes.

Taking a deep breath, Falon stood up. He glanced down at the old man. The steel-blue eyes were biting into his face. Falon

turned his back on them and walked slowly across the room. He sat beside the girl and faced his father calmly. It was open

rebellion.

"I am no longer a man of the valley," he said quietly. "Nor am I to be a Natani," he added for the benefit of the girl. "I shall have

no ways but the ways of embracing the friend and killing the en-emy."

"Then it is my duty to kill my son," said the scarred warrior. He came to his feet and drew his war knife calmly.

Falon sat frozen in horror, remembering how the old man had wept when the invaders took Falon's mother to their food pens.

The old one advanced, crouching slightly, waiting briefly for his son to draw. But Falon remained motionless.

"You may have an instant in which to draw," purred the old-ster. "Then I shall kill you unarmed."

Falon did nothing. His father lunged with a snarl, and the knife's steel sang a hissing arc. Its point dug into the stool where the

youth had been sitting. Falon stood crouched across the room, still weaponless. The girl watched with a slight frown.

"So, you choose to flee, but not fight," the father growled.

Falon said nothing. His chest rose and fell slowly, and his eyes flickered over the old one's tough and wiry body, watching for

muscular hints of another lunge. But the warrior was crafty. He re-laxed suddenly, and straightened. Reflexively, Falon mirrored

the sudden unwinding of tension. The elder was upon him like a cat, twining his legs about Falon's, and encircling his throat with a

brawny arm.

Falon caught the knife-thrust with his forearm, then managed to catch his father's wrist. Locked together, they crashed to the

floor. Falon felt hot hate panting in his face. His only desire was to free himself and flee, even to the forest.

They struggled in silence. With a strength born of the faith that a man must be stronger than his sons, the elder pressed the

knife deeper toward Falon's throat. With a weakness born of despair, Falon found himself unable to hold it away. Their embrace

was slippery with wetness from the wound in his forearm. And the arm was failing.

"I . . . offer you . . . as a holy . . . sacrifice," panted the oldster, as the knife began scratching skin.

"Father . . . don't—" Then he saw Ea-Daner standing over the old man's shoulder. She was lifting a war club.

He closed his eyes.

The sharp crack frightened and sickened him. The knife clat-tered away from his throat, and his father's

body went limp.

Slowly, he extricated himself from the tangle, and surveyed the oldster's head. The scalp was split, and the

gray hair sogging with slow blood.

"You killed him!" he accused.

The girl snorted. "He's not dead. I didn't hit him hard. Feel his skull. It's not broken. And he's breathing."

Falon satisfied himself that she spoke the truth. Then he climbed to his feet, grumbling unhappily. He

looked down at the old man and deeply regretted his rebelliousness. The father's love of the law was greater

than his love for a son. But there was no un-doing it now. The elder was committed to kill him, even if he

re-tracted. He turned to the girl.

"I must go before he comes to his senses," he murmured sadly. "You'll tend his head wound?"

She was thoughtful for a moment, then a speculative gleam came into her eyes. "I understood you meant to

help me avenge my husband?"

Falon frowned. "I now regret it."

"Do the valley folk treat their own word with contempt?"

Falon shrugged guiltily. "I'm no longer of the valley. But I'll keep my word, if you wish." He turned away and

moved to the window to watch the bonfires. "I owe you a life," he murmured. "Perhaps Daner would have

returned alive, if I had accompanied him. I turned against my father too late."

"No, Soul-Falon, I knew when Daner left that he meant to fight until he was no longer able—then drag

himself back for the forests. If you had gone too, it would have been the same. I no longer weep, because I

knew."

Falon was staring at her peculiarly. "You called me Soul-Falon," he said wonderingly; for it was a title given

only to those who had won high respect, and it suggested the impossible—that the Soul-Empty One was really a

man. Was she mocking him? "Why do you call me that?" he asked suspiciously.

The girl's slender body inclined in a slight bow. "You ex-changed your honor for a new god. What greater

thing can a man offer than honor among his people?"

He frowned for a moment, then realized she meant it. Did the Natani hold anything above honor? "I have no

new gods," he growled. "When I find the right god, I shall serve him. But until then, I serve myself—and those

who please me."

The old man's breathing became a low moan. He was beginning to come awake. Falon moved toward the door.

"When he awakes, he may be so angry that he forgets he's your guest," warned the young warrior. "You'd

better come with me."

She hesitated. "The law of mourning states that a widow must remain—"

"Shall I call you Soul-Ea?"

She suffered an uncomfortable moment, then shrugged, and slipped a war knife in her belt thong. Her

sandals padded softly af-ter him as he moved out into the darkness and untethered the horses. The steeds' legs

were still wrapped in heavy leather strips to protect them against the slashing fangs of the wild dogs.

"Leave Daner's horse for your father," said the girl with unsentimental practicality. "The mare's tired, and

she'll be slow if he tries to follow us."

They swung into the small rawhide saddles and trotted across the clearing. Dim moonlight from a thin silver

crescent illuminated their way. Two trails led from the hut that overlooked the cliff. Falon knew that one of

them wound along the clifftops to a low place, then turned back beneath the cliff and found its way eventu-ally

to the valley. The other penetrated deeper into the mountains. He had given his word, and he let the girl

choose the path.

She took the valley road. Falon sighed and spurred after her. It was sure death, to approach the invader's

camp. They had the old god-weapons, which would greet all hostile attacks from the Soul-Empty Ones. And if

the Empties came in peace, the sons of men would have another occupant for their stock pens. He shivered

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摘要：

THESOUL-EMPTYONESWalterM.Miller,Jr.Miller,tomymind,isawriterofexceptionalpower.Heistheauthorofwhatmaybemyall-timefavoritestory,"VengeanceforNikolai,"andthenovelACanticleforLeibowitz.When-ever/seehisnameonfiction,Iknowitwillstirme.Thepresententryisnothisbest,forreasonsexplainedintheintroductiontothi...

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Walter M. Miller - The Soul Empty Ones

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