Terra Incognita




Terra Incognita
by Carroll Brown
~



"I have developed a theory," said Hui-Shen. "It is
my proposition that this land which I have heretofore called Fusang,
this green and fertile paradise, full of wonders and amazements unknown
in the Middle Kingdom, upon which we now rest, that this model of
solidity which for each of us was the end point after wide and harrowing
fluidity, which is, of course, to say the sea, that this land is nothing
more than a mirage, a phantasm, no matter how admirably solid and
convincing it may be. What say you?" * *
*
When Brendan, Navigator of the seas and later among
the ranks of the canonized that sit beside the Lord in Heaven, guided
his curragh ashore, he was surprised and a little fearful to be greeted
by three strange looking men, or so he assumed them to be. One was
certainly recognizable as such, but the other two appeared to him almost
more as demons, with sallow skin and thin slanted eyes that turned up
even further as they smiled at his approach.
Having traversed the Great Ocean for more days than
his weary mind could now remember, hounded by the angry breath of demons
and confounded by sights of miraculous and strange creatures and places
hence unknown, in order to reach the Isle of the Blest promised by the
Saints, he was speechless. While the land undoubtedly lived up to the
legends and visions, he had assumed the population to be both more dense
and more...angelic.
"Welcome, welcome, welcome," the three smiling men
shouted as they plunged into the surf, grasping lines that trailed in
the water and dragging the curragh onto the beach. Their hands steadied
him as he swung himself over the the boat's side and held him up as his
knees, still feeling the undulation of the past weeks, buckled.
He was led further up the beach, past the edge of the
sands and into the grassy periphery of the tidal lands that separated
the shore from the burgeoning treeline further inland. A low table of
intricately carved wood stood next to a small fire. On it sat three
round handleless cups of delicate porcelain, to which one of the
demonic-in-appearance members of this strange band quickly added a
fourth, retrieved from inside a large trunk nearby, while over the fire
hung a covered pot from which rose trailers of pungent steam, the sultry
breath of boiling tea. Still adled by the sudden and unexpected end to
his long journey, Brendan found himself, before he knew it, seated
comfortably on a stool cradling a warm mug while the three men leaned
eagerly forward from similar situations, scanning his face with great
enthusiasm.
"Um," he said, "hello."
"Yes, yes, yes! Hello, hello!" One of the demons
laughed wildly and clapped his hands, rolling his stout body back and
forth on the stool.
"Calm down, Hui-Shen. You're scaring him." The
admonishment came from the one man that Brendan could definitively
identify as such, although he was certainly not an Irishman. His dark
hair and eyes were matched by the deep hue of his skin, a rich copper
color. A full black beard fell to his chest.
"I am so sorry," said Hui-Shen. "I am just so excited
you are here with us, us castaways in Paradise." He made a visible
effort to calm himself, but his eyes still glowed wildly. "Please allow
us to make introductions, and then perhaps you may rest; we, more than
any others, know the tremendous journey you have made. I am, as Isaac
has said, Hui-Shen, emissary of the Son of Heaven Wu Ti, and this, as I
have just said, is Isaac bar- Joshua of the land of Judah. This fellow
here to my right --"
"I am capable of speech, Hui-Shen. It is just that
you never pause long enough to grant me the opportunity." The third man
(and already Brendan was beginning to think of them all as such, not
just Isaac) spoke in a rough, guttural voice, but he rose and bowed with
dignified grace, his elegant robes emphasizing a leanness of body that
contrasted sharply with Hui- Shen's jolly rotundity. "I am Tomito
Matsamaro, a humble fisherman and nothing like this 'diplomat', and we
are most honored that you could join us . . ." He looked up, eyebrows
raised expectantly.
"Brendan," said Brendan. "Of Eire and the Holy
Church."
"And which direction is Eire?" asked Hui-Shen.
Brendan glanced out at the waves, thinking the answer
obvious, but when Hui-Shen and the others continued waiting for his
reply, he said, "Across the sea. Eastward."
Hui-Shen clapped again and laughed aloud, his whole
body seeming to join in his glee.
"Then we are even again. Two from the east and two
from the west."
"Again?"

"We had the company of a most cordial gentleman, one Zakarbaal of Sidon,
for a short period," said Matsamaro. "But he . . . left us."
"Left?" Brendan didn't like the uncomfortable
hesitation in the little man's voice, the obvious euphemism. He found
his head spinning, and as much as he wished to attribute it to the
length of his voyage and his own physical exhaustion, he knew further
down that it was sheer bafflement that was causing the reeling sensation
between his ears, a profound confusion at God's great plan and a certain
sinking feeling that this was not, after all, the Isle of the Blest.
"You're not angels, are you," he said quietly.
This sent Hui-Shen into gales of laughter yet again,
until Brendan thought he would roll himself right off his stool and into
the sand. But a stern look from Isaac brought him back from that
precipitous brink, and he wiped away the tears that had been forming.

"Goodness, no, not of Heaven at all," he said. "We
are, like you, men of this earth. The question," and now he truly did
become serious, and Brendan could discern in his new expression a
definite intellect beneath the many jocund levels. "The question is,
whether this earth is of this earth; if it is, in fact, an ephemera.
Since we each know we are real men, and thus cannot be dreams walking
the earth, then in fact we must be men walking in a dream."
That only made Brendan's head spin more, and now the
whirling was coalescing into a very sharp and very definite pain,
directly behind his eyes.
"Perhaps that is enough for one day," said Isaac,
noticing the way Brendan's eyes had squinted shut. "The first day is
always difficult."
"Matters of this proportion and complexity are best
handled like fine pottery," agreed Matsamaro. "With great delicacy and
careful attention to their fragility." He gave a deferential bow toward
Brendan.
"To bed then!" Hui-Shen leapt up, clapping his hands
as if summoning servants, and the noise made Brendan wince again.
They all rose and filed to the far side of the odd
little encampment, leaving the fire burning and the furniture where it
sat, though Matsamaro carefully lifted the pot of tea from over the
flame and set it in the sand, nestling the porcelain kettle carefully
among the soft grains.
* * *
That night the gods of war visited their camp.
Brendan had been dreaming troubling dreams, not only
in their imagery but in their implication. Demons gathered in circles,
laughing at him and burning images of the Holy Cross; gargoyles and
unnamed leather-winged beasts swooped and dove, clutching at his eyes
and raking his cheeks with their talons; madmen and monsters roamed the
landscape, snatching and killing women and children, and even when he
tried to intervene his fists were insubstantial and his voice a
meaningless whisper on the wind. Truth to tell, he dreamed such things
often, though perhaps not with the same density and uninterrupted
frequency. But if this was the Isle of the Blest, should not such
minions of the Evil One be banished entirely? Can one have nightmares in
Heaven?
He awoke to the sound of breakage: wood, porcelain,
fabric and other materials whose particular deathcries he did not
recognize. He bolted upright but was quickly pulled back down by several
sets of hands, one of which clamped tightly over his mouth in
anticipation of the scream which, in fact, he had been preparing to
utter. The hands turned his head slowly toward their masters, and he
immediately relaxed, seeing the troubled but familiar faces of his three
fellows in this strange land. But they were no longer alone.
Now properly warned, the hand was removed from his
mouth and he was allowed to look upon the carnage of these apparent
wrathful deities that had descended so suddenly on their odd but
hitherto pleasant gathering.
Hulking men, wrapped in furs and with hair like
streaming fire, strode about the camp, stomping and crushing the few
pieces they had not already destroyed (and it told Brendan something of
his exhaustion that he had slept through the better part of the
demolition). Long swords, broad and blunt-tipped, were in their hands,
and the air was filled with their guttural cries as they whooped and
hollered with abandon.
The four men hunkered further beneath the ridge of
the dune that separated them from certain death at the hands of these
newest arrivals, whom Brendan, with a touch of disappointment that
surprised him, began to suspect were also mere mortals when several of
them stopped to urinate in the sand. The thin grass and scrub plants hid
their peering eyes from detection, leaving them free to witness the
final destruction as one warrior lifted the great carved chest above his
head, the sinews of his arms expanding until Brendan was sure each limb
must be as big around as his waist, and flung it toward the water. While
it did not really travel very far (it was, after all, quite tremendously
heavy, and the four voyeurs took some satisfaction in the grunt of pain
from the warrior that accompanied his feat), it fell with horrific force
onto the water-hardened sand at the sea's edge, cracking and splintering
along several of its sides.
With that accomplished, the warriors, after one final
check that no stone had been left unturned and no object left unbroken,
turned and tromped back up the beach where, now that he was looking,
Brendan was shocked to see a great dragon lying in wait, half reclining
on the sand and half floating in the waves. Slapping each other
heartily, their loud cries now turned to loud laughter, the ravagers
swung themselves onto its back, and it was not until several of the men
began pushing at the beast's chest while others dipped their oars
heavily into the foam that Brendan realized the beast was in fact a
craft, a boat of a design not seen before, with the high prow simply
carved to resemble the dreadful creature for which he had mistaken it.
He was glad to see them--war-gods and
dragon-ship--go, and collapsed in a quivering heap into the underbrush,
where the four men spent the remainder of the night huddling and
watching the distant moonlit horizon.