Aldiss, Brian - Greybeard

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GREYBEARD
by
Brian W. Aldiss
THE SCIENCE FICTION BOOK CLUB
by arrangement with
FABER AND FABER LTD
London 1965
With my love
to
CLIVE and WENDY
hoping that
one day they will understand
the story behind this story
© BRIAN W. ALDISS 1964
I. The River: Sparcot
Through broken reeds the creature moved. It was not alone; its mate followed, and behind her five
youngsters, joining the hunt with eagerness.
The stoats had swum a brook. Now they climbed from the chill water, up the bank and through the reeds,
bodies low to the ground, necks outstretched, the young ones in imitation of their father. Father looked out
with an impersonal hunger at rabbits frisking for food not many feet away.
This had once been wheat land. Taking advantage of a period of neglect, weeds had risen up and had their
day, choking the cereal. Later, a fire spread across the land, burning down the thistles and giant grasses.
Rabbits, which prefer low growth, had moved in, nibbling the fresh green shoots that thrust through the ash.
The shoots that survived this thinning process found themselves with plenty of space in which to grow, and
were now fair-sized young trees. The number of rabbits had consequently declined, for rabbits like open
land; so the grass had its chance to return. Now it, in its turn was being thinned beneath the continuing
spread of the beeches. The few rabbits that hopped there were thin of flank.
They were also wary. One of them saw the beady eyes watching in the rushes. It leapt for shelter and the
others followed. At once the adult stoats were covering ground, twin stretches of brown rippling across the
open space. The rabbits bolted down into their warrens. Without pause, the stoats followed. They could go
anywhere. The world - this tiny piece of the world - was theirs.
Not many miles away, under the same tattered winter sky and by the banks of the same river, the
wilderness had been cleared. In the wilderness, a pattern was still discernible; it was no longer a valid
pattern, and so it faded year by year. Large trees, to some of which a raddled leaf still clung, marked the
position of ancient hedges. They enclosed tangles of vegetation covering what had once been fields:
brambles, lacerating their way like rusty barbed wire towards the centre of the fields, and elders, and prickly
briars, as well as a sturdy growth of saplings. Along the edge of the clearing, these unruly hedges had been
used as a stockade against further growth in a wide and ragged arc, thus protecting an area of some few
hundred acres which had its longer side against the river.
This rude stockade was patrolled by an old man in a coarse shirt of orange, green, red, and yellow stripes.
The shirt furnished almost the only splash of colour in the entire bedraggled landscape; it had been made
from the canvas of a deckchair.
At intervals, the barrier of vegetation was broken by paths trodden into the undergrowth. The paths were
brief and ended in crude latrines, where holes had been dug and covered with tarpaulins or wooden battens.
These were the sanitary arrangements of the village of Sparcot.
The village itself lay on the river in the middle of its clearing. It had been built, or rather it had
accumulated in the course of centuries, in the shape of an H, with the cross bar leading to a stone bridge
spanning the river. The bridge still spanned the river, but led only to a thicket from which the villagers
gathered much of their firewood.
Of the two longer roads, the one nearest the river had been intended to serve only the needs of the village.
This it still did; one leg of it led to an old water mill where lived Big Jim Mole, the boss of Sparcot. The
other road had once been a main road. After the houses petered out, it led in each direction into the
stockaded wilderness of vegetation; there it was dragged down like a snake in a crocodile's throat and
devoured under the weight of undergrowth.
All the houses of Sparcot showed signs of neglect. Some were ruined; some were uninhabited ruins. A
hundred and twelve people lived here. None of them had been born in Sparcot.
Where two of the roads joined, there stood a stone building that had served as a post office. Its upper
windows commanded a view both of the bridge in one direction and the cultivated land with wilderness
beyond in the other. This was now the village guardroom and, since Jim Mole insisted that a guard was
always kept, it was occupied now.
There were three people sitting or lying in the old barren room. An old woman, long past her eightieth
year, sat by a wood stove, humming to herself and nodding her head. She held out her hands to the stove, on
which she was warming up stew in a tin platter. Like the others, she was wrapped against a wintry chill that
the stove did little to dispel.
Of the two men present, one was extremely ancient in appearance, although his eye was bright. He lay on
a palliasse on the floor, restlessly looking about him, staring up at the ceiling as if to puzzle out the meaning
of the cracks there, or at the walls as if to solve the riddle of their damp patches. His face, sharp as a stoat's
beneath its stubble, wore an irritable look, for the old woman's humming jarred his nerves.
Only the third occupant of the guardroom was properly alert. He was a well-built man in his middle
fifties, without a paunch, but not so starveling thin as his companions. He sat in a creaking chair by the
window, a rifle by his side. Although he was reading a book, he looked up frequently, directing his gaze
through the window. With one of these glances, he saw the patrol man with the colourful shirt approaching
over the pastures.
"Sam's coming," he said.
He put his book down as he spoke. His name was Algy Timberlane. He had a thick grizzled beard that
grew down almost to his navel, where it had been cut sharply across. Because of this beard, he was known as
Greybeard, although he lived in a world of greybeards. But his high and almost bald head lent emphasis to
the beard, and its texture, barred as it was with stripes of black hair sprouting thickly from the jawline and
fading out lower down, made it particularly noticeable in a world no longer able to afford other forms of
personal adornment.
When he spoke, the woman stopped her humming without giving any other sign she had heard. The man
on the palliasse sat up and put a hand on the cudgel that lay beside him. He screwed his face up, sharpening
his gaze to peer at the clock that ticked noisily on a shelf; then he squinted at his wristwatch. This battered
old souvenir of another world was Towin Thomas's most cherished possession, although it had not worked
in a decade.
"Sam's early coming off guard, twenty minutes early," he said. "Old sciver. Worked up an appetite for
lunch, strolling round out there. You better watch that hash of yours, Betty - I'm the only one I'm wanting to
get indigestion off that grub, girl."
Betty shook her head. It was as much a nervous tick as a negation of anything that the man with the
cudgel might have said. She kept her hands to the fire, not looking round.
Towin Thomas picked up his cudgel and rose stiffly to his feet, helping himself up against the table. He
joined Greybeard at the window, peering through the dirty pane and rubbing it with his sleeve.
"That's Sam Bulstow all right. You can't mistake that shirt."
Sam Bulstow walked down the littered street. Rubble, broken tiles and litter lay on the pavements; dock
and fennel - mortified by winter - sprouted from shattered gratings. Sam Bulstow walked in the middle of the
road. There had been no traffic but pedestrians for several years now. He turned in when he reached the post
office, and the watchers heard his footsteps on the boards of the room below them.
Without excitement, they listened to the whole performance of his getting upstairs: the groans of the bare
treads; the squeak of a horny palm on the hand rail as it helped tug its owner upwards; the rasp and heave of
lungs challenged by every step.
Finally, Sam appeared in the guardroom. The gaudy stripes of his shirt threw up some of their colour on
to the white stubble of his jaws. He stood for a while staring in at them, resting on the frame of the door to
regain his breath.
"You're early if it's dinner you're after," Betty said, without bothering to turn her head. Nobody paid her
any attention, and she nodded her old rats' tails to herself in disapproval.
Sam just stood where he was, showing his yellow and brown teeth in a pant. "The Scotsmen are getting
near," he said.
Betty turned her neck stiffly to look at Greybeard. Towin Thomas arranged his crafty old wolf's visage
over the top of his cudgel and looked at Sam with his eyes screwed up.
"Maybe they're after your job, Sammy, man," he said.
"Who gave you that bit of information, Sam?" Greybeard asked.
Sam came slowly into the room, sneaking a sharp look at the clock as he did so, and poured himself a
drink of water from a battered can standing in a corner. He gulped the water and sank down on to a wooden
stool, stretching his fibrous hands out to the fire and generally taking his time before replying.
"There was a packman skirting the northern barricade just now. Told me he was heading for Faringdon.
Said the Scotsmen had reached Banbury."
"Where is this packman?" Greybeard asked, hardly raising his voice, and appearing to look out of the
window.
"He's gone on now, Greybeard. Said he was going to Faringdon."
"Passed by Sparcot without calling here to sell us anything? Not very likely."
"I'm only telling you what he said. I'm not responsible for him. I just reckon old Boss Mole ought to know
the Scotsmen are coming, that's all." Sam's voice relapsed into the irritable whine they all used at times.
Betty turned back to her stove. She said, "Everyone who comes here brings rumours. If it isn't the Scots,
it's herds of savage animals. Rumours, rumours… It's as bad as the last war, when they kept telling us there
was going to be an invasion. I reckoned at the time they only done it to scare us, but I was scared just the
same."
Sam cut off her muttering. "Rumours or not, I'm telling you what the man said. I thought I ought to come
up here and report it. Did I do right or didn't I?"
"Where had this fellow come from?" Greybeard asked.
"He hadn't come from anywhere. He was going to Faringdon." He smiled his sly doggy smile at his joke,
and picked up a reflected smile from Towin.
"Did he say where he had been?" Greybeard asked patiently.
"He said he had been coming from up river. Said there was a lot of stoats heading this way."
"Eh, that's another rumour we've heard before," Betty said to herself, nodding her head.
"You keep your trap shut, you old cow," Sam said, without rancour.
Greybeard took hold of his rifle by the barrel and moved into the middle of the room until he stood
looking down at Sam.
"Is that all you have to report, Sam?"
"Scotsmen, stoats - what more do you want from one patrol? I didn't see any elephants, if you were
wondering." He cracked his grin again, looking again for Towin Thomas's approval.
"You aren't bright enough to know an elephant if you saw it, Sam, you old fleapit," Towin said.
Ignoring this exchange, Greybeard said, "Okay, Sam, back you go on patrol. There's another twenty
minutes before you are relieved."
"What, go back out there just for another lousy twenty minutes? Not on your flaming nelly, Greybeard!
I've had it for this afternoon and I'm sitting right here on this stool. Let it ride for twenty minutes. Nobody's
going to run away with Sparcot, whatever Jim Mole may think."
"You know the dangers as well as I do."
"You know you'll never get any sense out of me, not while I've got this bad back. These blinking guard
duties come round too often for my liking."
Betty and Towin kept silent. The latter cast a glance at his broken wrist watch. Both he and Betty, like
everyone else in the village, had had the necessity for continuous guard drummed into them often enough,
but they kept their eyes tracing the seamed lines on the board floor, knowing the effort involved in thrusting
old legs an extra time up and down stairs and an extra time round the perimeter.
The advantage lay with Sam, as he sensed. Facing Greybeard more boldly, he said, "Why don't you take
over for twenty minutes if you're so keen on defending the dump? You're a young man - it'll do you good to
have a stretch."
Greybeard tucked the leather sling of the rifle over his left shoulder and turned to Towin, who stopped
gnawing the top of his cudgel to look up.
"Strike the alarm gong if you want me in a hurry, and not otherwise. Remind old Betty it's not a dinner
gong."
The woman cackled as he moved towards the door, buttoning his baggy jacket.
"Your grub's just on ready, Algy. Why not stay and eat it?" she asked.
Greybeard slammed the door without answering. They listened to his heavy tread descending the stairs.
"You don't reckon he took offence, do you? He wouldn't report me to old Mole, would he?" Sam asked
anxiously. The others mumbled neutrally and hugged their lean ribs; they did not want to be involved in any
trouble.
Greybeard walked slowly along the middle of the street, avoiding the puddles still left from a rainstorm
two days ago. Most of Sparcot's drains and gutters were blocked; but the reluctance of the water to run away
was due mainly to the marshiness of the land. Somewhere upstream, debris was blocking the river, causing it
to overflow its banks. He must speak to Mole; they must get up an expedition to look into the trouble. But
Mole was growing increasingly cantankerous, and his policy of isolationism would be against any move out
of the village.
He chose to walk by the river, to continue round the perimeter of the stockade afterwards. He brushed
through an encroaching elder's stark spikes, smelling as he did so a melancholy-sweet smell of the river and
the things that mouldered by it.
Several of the houses that backed on to the river had been devoured by fire before he and his fellows
came to live here. Vegetation grew sturdily inside and outside their shells. On a back gate lying crookedly in
long grass, faded lettering proclaimed the name of the nearest shell: Thameside.
Farther on, the houses were undamaged by fire and inhabited. Greybeard's own house was here. He
looked at the windows, but caught no sight of his wife, Martha; she would be sitting quietly by the fire with
a blanket round her shoulders, staring into the grate and seeing - what? Suddenly an immense impatience
pierced Greybeard. These houses were a poor old huddle of buildings, nestling together like a bunch of
ravens with broken wings. Most of them had chimneys or guttering missing; each year they hunched their
shoulders higher as the roof-trees sagged. And in general the people fitted in well enough with this air of
decay. He did not; nor did he want his Martha to do so.
Deliberately, he slowed his thoughts. Anger was useless. He made a virtue of not being angry. But he
longed for a freedom beyond the fly-blown safety of Sparcot.
After the houses came Toby's trading post - a newer building that, and in better shape than most - and the
barns, ungraceful structures that commemorated the lack of skill with which they had been built. Beyond the
barns lay the fields, turned up in weals to greet the frosts of winter; shards of water glittered between
furrows. Beyond the fields grew the thickets marking the eastern end of Sparcot. Beyond Sparcot lay the
immense mysterious territory that was the Thames valley.
Just beyond the province of the village, an old brick bridge with a collapsed arch menaced the river, its
remains suggesting the horns of a ram, growing together in old age. Greybeard contemplated it and the fierce
little weir just beyond it - for that way lay whatever went by the name of freedom these days - and then
turned away to patrol the living stockade.
With the rifle comfortably under one crooked arm, he made his promenade. He could see across to the
other side of the clearing; it was deserted, apart from two men walking distantly among cattle, and a stooped
figure in the cabbage patch. He had the world almost to himself: and year by year he would have it more to
himself.
He snapped down the shutter of his mind on that thought, and began to concentrate on what Sam Bulstow
had reported. It was probably an invention to gain him twenty minutes off patrol duty. The rumour about the
Scots sounded unlikely - though no less likely than other tales that travellers had brought them, that a
Chinese army was marching on London, or that gnomes and elves and men with badger faces had been seen
dancing in the woods. Scope for error and ignorance seemed to grow season by season. It would be good to
know what was really happening…
Less unlikely than the legend of marching Scots was Sam's tale of a strange packman. Densely though the
thickets grew, there were ways through them, and men who travelled those ways, though the isolated village
of Sparcot saw little but the traffic that moved painfully up and down the Thames. Well, they must maintain
their watch. Even in these more peaceful days - "the apathy that bringeth perfect peace", thought Greybeard,
wondering what he was quoting - villages that kept no guard could be raided and ruined for the sake of their
food stocks, or just for madness. So they believed.
Now he walked among tethered cows, grazing individually round the ragged radius of their halters. They
were the new strain, small, sturdy, plump, and full of peace. And young! Tender creatures, surveying
Greybeard from moist eyes, creatures that belonged to man but had no share of his decrepitude, creatures
that kept the grass short right up to the scrawny bramble bushes.
He saw that one of the animals near the brambles was pulling at its tether. It tossed its head, rolled its
eyes, and lowed. Greybeard quickened his pace.
There seemed to be nothing to disturb the cow except a dead rabbit lying by the brambles. As he drew
nearer, Greybeard surveyed the rabbit. It was freshly killed. And though it was completely dead, he thought
it had moved. He stood almost over it, alert for something wrong, a faint prickle of unease creeping up his
backbone.
Certainly the rabbit was dead, killed neatly by the back of the neck. Its neck and anus were bloody, its
purple eye glazed.
Yet it moved. Its side heaved.
Shock - an involuntary superstitious dread - coursed through Greybeard. He took a step backwards,
sliding the rifle down into his hands. At the same time, the rabbit heaved again and its killer exposed itself to
view.
Backing swiftly out of the rabbit's carcass came a stoat, doubling up its body in its haste to be clear. Its
brown coat was enriched with rabbit blood, the tiny savage muzzle it lifted to Greybeard smeared with
crimson. He shot it dead before it could move.
The cows plunged and kicked. Like clockwork toys, the figures among the brussels sprout stumps
straightened their backs. Birds wheeled up from the rooftops. The gong sounded from the guardroom, as
Greybeard had instructed it should. A knot of people congregated outside the barns, hobbling together as if
they might pool their rheumy eyesight.
"Blast their eyes, there's nothing to panic about," Greybeard growled. But he knew the involuntary shot
had been a mistake; he should have clubbed the stoat to death with the butt of his rifle. The sound of firing
always woke alarm.
A party of active sixty-year-olds were assembling, and began to march towards him, swinging cudgels of
various descriptions. Through his irritation, he had to admit that it was a prompt stand-to. There was plenty
of life about the place yet.
"It's all right!" he called, waving his arms above his head as he went to meet them. "All right! I was
attacked by a solitary stoat, that's all. You can go back."
Charley Samuels was there, a big man with a sallow colour; he had his tame fox, Isaac, with him on a
leash. Charley lived next door to the Timberlanes, and had been increasingly dependent on them since his
wife died in the previous spring.
He came in front of the other men and aligned himself with Greybeard.
"Next spring, we'll have a drive to collect more fox cubs and tame them," he said. "They'll help keep
down any stoats that venture on to our land. We're getting more rats, too, sheltered in the old buildings. I
reckon the stoats are driving 'em to seek shelter in human habitation. The foxes will take care of the rats too,
won't they, Isaac, boy?"
Still angry with himself, Greybeard made off along the perimeter again. Charley fell in beside him,
sympathetically saying nothing. The fox walked between them, dainty with its brush held low.
The rest of the party stood about indecisively in mid-field. Some quieted the cattle or stared at the
scattered pieces of stoat; some went back towards the houses, whence others came out to join them in gossip.
Their dark figures with white polls stood out against the background of fractured brick.
"They're half-disappointed there was not some sort of excitement brewing," Charley said. A peak of his
springy hair stood out over his forehead. Once it had been the colour of wheat; it had achieved whiteness so
many seasons ago that its owner had come to look on white as its proper and predestined hue, and the wheaty
tint had passed into his skin.
Charley's hair never dangled into his eyes, although it looked as if it would after a vigorous shake of the
head. Vigorous shaking was not Charley's habit; his quality was of stone rather than fire; and in his bearing
was evidence of how the years had tested his endurance. It was precisely this air of having withstood so
much that these two sturdy elders - in superficial appearance so unlike - had in common.
"Though people don't like trouble, they enjoy a distraction," Charley said. "Funny - that shot you fired
started my gums aching."
"It deafened me," Greybeard admitted. "I wonder if it roused the old men of the mill?"
He noticed that Charley glanced towards the mill to see if Mole or his henchman, "Major" Trouter, was
coming to investigate.
Catching Greybeard's glance, Charley grinned rather foolishly and said, by way of something to say,
"Here comes old Jeff Pitt to see what all the fuss is."
They had reached a small stream that wound its way across the cleared land. On its banks stood the
stumps of some beeches that the villagers had cut down. From among these, the shaggy old figure of Pitt
came. Over one shoulder he carried a stick from which hung the body of an animal. Though several of the
villagers ventured some distance afield, Pitt was the only one who roved the wilds on his own. Sparcot was
no prison for him. He was a morose and solitary man; he had no friends; and even in the society of the
slightly mad, his reputation was for being mad. Certainly his face, as full of whorls as willow bark, was no
reassurance of sanity; and his little eyes moved restlessly about, like a pair of fish trapped inside his skull.
"Did someone get shot then?" he asked. When Greybeard told him what happened, Pitt grunted, as if
convinced the truth was being concealed from him.
"With you firing away, you'll have the gnomes and wild things paying us attention," he said.
"I'll deal with them when they appear."
"The gnomes are coming, aren't they?" Pitt muttered; Greybeard's words had scarcely registered on him.
He turned to gaze at the cold and leafless woods. "They'll be here before so long, to take the place of
children, you mark my words."
"There are no gnomes round here, Jeff, or they'd have caught you long ago," Charley said. "What have
you got on your stick?"
Eyeing Charley to judge his reaction, Pitt lowered the stick from his shoulder and displayed a fine dog
otter, its body two feet long.
"He's a beauty, isn't he? Seen a lot of 'em about just lately. You can spot 'em more easily in the winter. Or
perhaps they are just growing more plentiful in these parts."
"Everything that can still multiply is doing so," Greybeard said harshly.
"I'll sell you the next one I catch, Greybeard. I haven't forgotten what happened before we came to
Sparcot. You can have the next one I catch. I've got my snares set along under the bank."
"You're a regular old poacher, Jeff," Charley said. "Unlike the rest of us, you've never had to change your
job."
"What do you mean? Me never had to change my job? You're daft, Charley Samuels! I spent most of my
life in a stinking machine tool factory before the revolution and all that. Not that I wasn't always keen on
nature - but I never reckoned I'd get it at such close quarters, as you might say."
"You're a real old man of the woods now, anyhow."
"Think I don't know you're laughing at me? I'm no fool, Charley, whatever you may think to yourself. But
I reckon it's terrible the way us town people have been turned into sort of half-baked country bumpkins, don't
you? What's there left to life? All of us in rags and tatters, full of worms and the toothache! Where's it all
going to end, eh, I'd like to know? Where's it all going to end?" He turned to scrutinize the woods again.
"We're doing okay," Greybeard said. It was his invariable answer to the invariable question. Charley also
had his invariable answer.
"It's the Lord's plan, Jeff, and you don't do any good by worrying over it. We cannot say what he has in
mind for us."
"After all he's done to us this last fifty years," Jeff said, "I'm surprised you're still on speaking terms with
him."
"It will end according to His will," Charley said.
Pitt gathered up all the wrinkles of his face, spat, and passed on with his dead otter.
Where could it all end, Greybeard asked himself, except in humiliation and despair? He did not ask the
question aloud. Though he liked Charley's optimism, he had no more patience than old Pitt with the too easy
answers of the belief that nourished that optimism.
They walked on. Charley began to discuss the various accounts of people who claimed to have seen
gnomes and little men, in the woods, or on roof tops, or licking the teats of the cows. Greybeard answered
automatically; old Pitt's fruitless question remained with him. Where was it all going to end? The question,
like a bit of gristle in the mouth, was difficult to get rid of; yet increasingly he found himself chewing on it.
When they had walked right round the perimeter, they came again to the Thames at the western boundary,
where it entered their land. They stopped and stared at the water.
Tugging, fretting, it moved about a countless number of obstacles on its course - oh yes, that it took as it
has ever done! - to the sea. Even the assuaging power of water could not silence Greybeard's mind.
"How old are you, Charley?" he asked.
"I've given up counting the years. Don't look so glum! What's suddenly worrying you? You're a cheerful
man, Greybeard; don't start fretting about the future. Look at that water - it'll get where it wants to go, but it
isn't worrying."
"I don't find any comfort in your analogy."
"Don't you, now? Well then, you should do."
Greybeard thought how tiresome and colourless Charley was, but he answered patiently.
"You are a sensible man, Charley. Surely we must think ahead? This is getting to be a pensioners' planet.
You can see the danger signs as well as I can. There are no young men and women any more. The number of
us capable of maintaining even the present low standard of living is declining year by year. We-"
"We can't do anything about it. Get that firmly into your mind and you'll feel better about the whole
situation. The idea that man can do anything useful about his fate is an old idea - what do I mean? Yes, a
fossil. It's something from another period… We can't do anything. We just get carried along, like the water
in this river."
"You read a lot of things into the river," Greybeard said, half-laughing. He kicked a stone into the water.
A scuttling and a plop followed, as some small creature - possibly a water rat, for they were on the increase
again - dived for safety.
They stood silent, Charley's shoulders a little bent. When he spoke again, it was to quote poetry.
"The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapours weep their burden to the ground,
Man comes and tills the fields and lies beneath -"
Between the heavy prosaic man reciting Tennyson and the woods leaning across the river lay an
incongruity. Laboriously, Greybeard said, "For a cheerful man, you know some depressing poetry."
"That was what my father brought me up on. I've told you about that mouldy little shop of his…" One of
the characteristics of age was that all avenues of talk led backwards in time.
"I'll leave you to get on with your patrol," Charley said, but Greybeard clutched his arm. He had caught a
noise upstream distinct from the sound of the water.
He moved forward to the water's edge and looked. Something was coming downstream, though
overhanging foliage obscured details. Breaking into a trot, Greybeard made for the stone bridge, with
Charley following at a fast walk behind him.
摘要：

GREYBEARDbyBrianW.AldissTHESCIENCEFICTIONBOOKCLUBbyarrangementwithFABERANDFABERLTDLondon1965WithmylovetoCLIVEandWENDYhopingthatonedaytheywillunderstandthestorybehindthisstory©BRIANW.ALDISS1964I.TheRiver:SparcotThroughbrokenreedsthecreaturemoved.Itwasnotalone;itsmatefollowed,andbehindherfiveyoungster...

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