“Find the drude, Maskull,” she said, with a lazy smile. “You had it last night.”
He searched for it. It was hard to locate, for its rays had grown dull and feeble in the sunlight, but at last he found it. Oceaxe placed it in the interior of the monster, and left the body lying on the ground.
“While it’s cooking, I’ll wash some of this blood away, which frightens you so much. Have you never seen blood before?”
Maskull gazed at her in perplexity. The old paradox came back—the contrasting sexual characteristics in her person. Her bold, masterful, masculine egotism of manner seemed quite incongruous with the fascinating and disturbing femininity of her voice. A startling idea flashed into his mind.
“In your country I’m told there is an act of will called ‘absorbing.’ What is that?”
She held her red, dripping hands away from her draperies, and uttered a delicious, clashing laugh. “You think I am half a man?”
“Answer my question.”
“I’m a woman through and through, Maskull—to the marrowbone. But that’s not to say I have never absorbed males.”
“And that means …”
“New strings for my harp, Maskull. A wider range of passions, a stormier heart …”
“For you, yes—But for them? …”
“I don’t know. The victims don’t describe their experiences. Probably unhappiness of some sort—if they still know anything.”
“This is a fearful business!” he exclaimed, regarding her gloomily. “One would think Ifdawn a land of devils.”
Oceaxe gave a beautiful sneer as she took a step toward the river. “Better men than you—better in every sense of the word—are walking about with foreign wills inside them. You may be as moral as you like, Maskull, but the fact remains, animals were made to be eaten, and simple natures were made to be absorbed.”
“And human rights count for nothing!”
She had bent over the river’s edge, to wash her arms and hands, but glanced up over her shoulder to answer his remark. “They do count. But we only regard a man as human for just as long as he’s able to hold his own with others.”
The flesh was soon cooked, and they breakfasted in silence. Maskull cast heavy, doubtful glances from time to time toward his companion. Whether it was due to the strange quality of the food, or to his long abstention, he did not know, but the meal tasted nauseous, and even cannibalistic. He ate little, and the moment he got up he felt defiled.
“Let me bury this drude, where I can find it some other time,” said Oceaxe. “On the next occasion, though, I shall have no Maskull with me, to shock. … Now we have to take to the river.”
They stepped off the land onto the water. It flowed against them with a sluggish current, but the opposition, instead of hindering them, had the contrary effect—it caused them to exert themselves, and they moved faster. They climbed the river in this way for several miles. The exercise gradually improved the circulation of Maskull’s blood, and he began to look at things in a far more way. The hot sunshine, the diminished wind, the cheerful marvellous cloud scenery, the quiet, crystal forests—all was soothing and delightful. They approached nearer and nearer to the gaily painted heights of Ifdawn.
There was something enigmatic to him in those bright walls. He was attracted by them, yet felt a sort of awe. They looked real, but at the same time very supernatural. If one could see the portrait of a ghost, painted with a hard, firm outline, in substantial colours, the feelings produced by such a sight would be exactly similar to Maskull’s impressions as he studied the Ifdawn precipices.
He broke the long silence. “Those mountains have most extraordinary shapes. All the lines are straight and perpendicular—no slopes or curves.”
She walked backward on the water, in order to face him. “That’s typical of Ifdawn. Nature is all hammer blows with us. Nothing soft and gradual.”
“I hear you, but I don’t understand you.”
“All over the Marest you’ll find patches of ground plunging down or rushing up. Trees grow fast. Women and men don’t think twice before acting. One may call Ifdawn a place of quick decisions.”
Maskull was impressed. “A fresh, wild, primitive land.”
“How is it where you come from?” asked Oceaxe.
“Oh, mine is a decrepit world, where nature takes a hundred years to move a foot of solid land. Men and animals go about in flocks. Originality is a lost habit.”
“Are there women there?”
“As with you, and not very differently formed.”
“Do they love?”
He laughed. “So much so that it has changed the dress, speech, and thoughts of the whole sex.”
“Probably they are more beautiful than I?”
“No, I think not,” said Maskull.
There was another rather long silence, as they travelled unsteadily onward.
“What is your business in Ifdawn?” demanded Oceaxe suddenly.
He hesitated over his answer. “Can you grasp that it’s possible to have an aim right in front of one, so big that one can’t see it as a whole?”
She stole a long, inquisitive look at him, “What sort of aim?”
“A moral aim.”
“Are you proposing to set the world right?”
“I propose nothing—I am waiting.”
“Don’t wait too long, for time doesn’t wait—especially in Ifdawn.”
“Something will happen,” said Maskull.
Oceaxe threw a subtle smile. “So you have no special destination in the Marest?”
“No, and if you’ll permit me, I will come home with you.”
“Singular man!” she said, with a short, thrilling laugh. “That’s what I have been offering all the time. Of course you will come home with me. As for Crimtyphon …”
“You mentioned that name before. Who is he?”
“Oh! My lover, or, as you would say, my husband.”
“This doesn’t improve matters,” said Maskull.
“It leaves them exactly where they were. We merely have to remove him.”
“We are certainly misunderstanding each other,” said Maskull, quite startled. “Do you by any chance imagine that I am making a compact with you?”
“You will do nothing against your will. But you have promised to come home with me.”
“Tell me, how do you remove husbands in Ifdawn?”
“Either you
