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knew how to combat, but the sweet-smelling pink powder was far more
treacherous. It did not threaten death or dismemberment, only a different way
of thinking. But the way a man thought determined who and what he was, the
herdsman knew. Change that and you forever change the individual behind the
thoughts.
Desperately, he struggled to keep rigid, uncompromising images at the
forefront of his thinking. Cloying and insistent, the subtle aroma of the
powder suffused his nostrils, his lungs, the essence of himself. It ate at his
thought processes like acid distilled from orchids.
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Into the Thinking Kingdoms: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 2
No!
he shouted to himself.
I am Etjole Ehomba, and I think thusly, and not thatly. Leave my mind alone
and let my friends and me go!
 Definitely needs another dose. The woman s expression reflected her
compassion and certitude.  Give in to the way of right thinking, traveler! Let
yourself relax don t fight it. From the bottom of my being
I promise that you will be a happier and better man for it.
 A happier and better man perhaps. On the other side of the fog that had
enveloped him he believed he heard his voice responding.  But I will not be
the same man.
The senior of the trio sighed regretfully.  I would rather not do this. I hate
to see anyone lose memories, no matter how insignificant.
 It is for the greater good, the savant on his left pointed out.  Society s
as well as his.
 I know. After performing a quick check of the small canister attached to the
top of the contrivance, the monk raised the metal tube and for a second time
aimed it in Ehomba s direction.
The herdsman was frantic. The pink haze was no longer advancing on his
thoughts, but neither had it gone away. It hovered before him like a fog bank
awaiting a ship being thrust forward by the current, waiting to swallow him
up, to reduce his individual way of thinking to the mental equivalent of zero
visibility. Reinforced by a second burst from the long-barreled device, its
effects would doubtless prove overwhelming.
Ehomba cogitated as hard as he could. Concentrated on bringing to the
forefront of his thoughts the most powerful, most convincing images he could
call up. Not right-thinking notions, perhaps, but those of which he was most
soundly and resolutely convinced. He envisioned Mirhanja, and the village. He
contemplated the stark but beautiful countryside of his homeland, the hunting
and herding trails that crossed its hills and ravines. He conjured up the
faces of his friends and relatives.
Taking careful aim, the well-meaning monk triggered the powder shooter.
Thought-paralyzing pinkness blossomed in the herdsman s direction. When it
surrounded him he knew he would be the same, but different. Identical in
appearance, altered within. He concentrated furiously on the pain of his own
birthing, of the lightning strike that had killed an old childhood friend, of
the way he and the other men and women of the village had spent all of a night
debating how to deal with a visiting hunter who had availed the Naumkib of
their hospitality only to be discovered attacking one of the young women.
Strong thoughts all, couched in his own unique, individual manner of thinking.
From the mouth of the device the salmon-hued haze approached as if in slow
motion, like bleached blood.
He thought of the sea.
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Into the Thinking Kingdoms: Journeys of the Catechist, Book 2
Behind him, the litah yelped. Another time, the herdsman might have remarked
on the unusual sound.
He had heard the big cat snarl, and growl, and snore, and even purr in its
sleep, but he had never heard it yelp. It would not have mattered if Ahlitah
had suddenly burst into traditional village song, so hard was
Ehomba fighting to concentrate on his way of thinking. Had he identified it,
that which had made the cat yelp would have surprised him even more than the
uncharacteristic feline expression itself.
Ahlitah cried out because his feet were suddenly and most unexpectedly
standing ankle deep in water.
Cold, dark water that smelled powerfully of drifting kelp and strong salts.
Nearby, Simna ibn Sind blinked and found himself frowning at something he
could not quite put a finger on. Something was not right and, try as he might,
he couldn t identify it.
Behind the table, the three savants gaped at the water that had materialized
around their feet. Where it was coming from they could not imagine. It seemed
to well forth from the solid floor, oozing upward via the cracks between the
stones, replacing vanished mortar. Oblivious to what was happening around him,
Ehomba continued to concentrate on the oldest, most distinctive entity in his
copious store of memories, one he could reproduce with the least amount of
effort. He thought of how the sea tasted when sips of it accidentally forced
their way past his lips while he was swimming, of the cool, invigorating feel [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]