Brian W. Aldiss - Saliva Tree.pdf

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Here is the story which fought Zelazny's "He Who Shapes" to a
standstill for the novella award. It is set not in the far future or
even in the familiar present, but in that curiously bright and
timeless late-Victorian world, glimpsed as if through the wrong
end of a telescope, in which the wonderful events of H. 0.
Wells' stories take place.
The author of this brilliant pastiche was born in the mid-
twenties into the East Anglia depicted as background to "The
Saliva Tree," where many farms still had their own little
electricity generators. He has been Literary Editor of the
Oxford Mail for eight years. He made a happy second marriage
in 1965, now lives in a beautiful old sixteenth-century
thatched house in Oxfordshire, "seeing slightly crazy visions."
Nebula Award, Best Novella 1965 (tied with "He Who Shapes," by Roger Zelazny)
THE SALIVA TREE
Brian W. Aldiss
There is neither speech nor language: but their voices are heard
among them. Psalm xix .
"You know, I'm really much exercised about the Fourth
Dimension," said the fair-haired young man, with a suitable
earnestness in his voice.
"Um," said his companion, staring up at the night sky.
"It seems very much in evidence these days. Do you not
think you catch a glimpse of it in the drawings of Aubrey
Beardsley?"
"Um," said his companion.
They stood together on a low rise to the east of the sleepy
East Anglian town of Cottersall, watching the stars, shivering a
little in the chill February air. They are both young men in their
early twenties. The one who is occupied with the Fourth
Dimension is called Bruce Fox; be is tall and fair, and works as
junior clerk in the Norwich firm of lawyers, Prendergast and
Tout. The other, who has so far vouchsafed us only an urn or
two, although he is to figure largely as the hero of our account,
is by name Gregory Rolles. He is tall and dark, with gray eyes
set in his handsome and intelligent face. He and Fox have
sworn to Think Large, thus distinguishing themselves, at least
in their own minds, from all the rest of the occupants of
Cottersall in these last years of the nineteenth century.
"There's another!" exclaimed Gregory, breaking at last from
the realm of monosyllables. He pointed a gloved finger up at
the constellation of Auriga the Charioteer. A meteor streaked
across the sky like a runaway flake of the Milky Way, and died
in mid-air.
"Beautiful!" they said together.
"It's funny," Fox said, prefacing his words with an oft-used
phrase, "the stars and men's minds are so linked together and
always have been, even in the centuries of ignorance before
Charles Darwin. They always seem to play an ill-defined role in
man's affairs. They help me think large too, don't they you,
Greg?"
"You know what I think1 think that some of those stars may
be occupied. By people, I mean." He breathed heavily,
overcome by what he was saying. "People whoperhaps they
are better than us, live in a just society, wonderful people . . ."
"I know, socialists to a man!" Fox exclaimed. This was one
point on which he did not share his friend's advanced thinking.
He had listened to Mr. Tout talking in the office, and thought he
knew better than his rich friend how these socialists, of which
one heard so much these days, were undermining society.
"Stars full of socialists!"
"Better than stars full of Christians! Why, if the stars were
full of Christians, no doubt they would already have sent
missionaries down here to preach their Gospel."
"I wonder if there ever will be planetary journeys as
predicted by Nunsowe Greene and Monsieur Jules Verne"
Fox said, when the appearance of a fresh meteor stopped him
in mid-sentence.
Like the last, this meteor seemed to come from the general
direction of Auriga. It traveled slowly, and it glowed red, and it
sailed grandly towards them. They both exclaimed at once, arid
gripped each other by the arm. The magnificent spark burned
in the sky, larger now, so that its red aura appeared to encase a
brighter orange glow. It passed overhead (afterwards, they
argued whether it had not made a slight noise as it passed),
and disappeared below a clump of willow. They knew it had
been near. For an instant, the land had shone with its light.
Gregory was the first to speak.
"Bruce, Bruce, did you see that? That was no ordinary
fireball!"
"It was so big! What was it?"
"Perhaps our heavenly visitor has come at last!"
"Hey, Greg, it must have landed by your friend's farmthe
Grendon placemustn't it?"
"You're right! I must pay old Mr. Grendon a visit tomorrow
and see if he or his family saw anything of this."
They talked excitedly, stamping their feet as they exercised
their lungs. Their conversation was the conversation of
optimistic young men, and included much speculative matter
that began "Wouldn't it be wonderful if" or "Just supposing"
Then they stopped and laughed at their own absurd beliefs.
Fox said slyly, "So you'll be seeing all the Grendon family
tomorrow?"
"It seems probable, unless that red-hot planetary ship has
already borne them off to a better world."
"Tell us true, Gregyou really go to see that pretty Nancy
Grendon, don't you?"
Gregory struck his friend playfully on the shoulder.
"No need for your jealousy, Bruce! I go to see the father, not
the daughter. Though the one is female, the other is
progressive, and that must interest me more just yet. Nancy has
beauty, true, but her fatherah, her father has electricity!"
Laughing, they cheerfully shook hands and parted for the
night.
On Grendon's farm, things were a deal less tranquil, as
Gregory was to discover.
Gregory Rolles rose before seven next morning as was his
custom. It was while he was lighting his gas mantle, and
wishing Mr. Fenn (the baker in whose house Gregory lodged)
would install electricity, that a swift train of thought led him to
reflect again on the phenomenal thing in the previous night's
sky. He let his mind wander luxuriously over all the possibilities
that the "meteor" illuminated. He decided that he would ride
out to see Mr. Grendon within the hour.
He was lucky in being able, at this stage in his life, to please
himself largely as to how his days were spent, for his father was
a person of some substance. Edward Rolles had had the
fortune, at the time of the Crimean War, to meet Escoffier, and
with some help from the great chef had brought onto the
market a baking powder, "Eugenol," that, being slightly more
palatable and less deleterious to the human system than its
rivals, had achieved great commercial success. As a result,
Gregory had attended one of the Cambridge colleges.
Now, having gained a degree, he was poised on the verge of
a career. But which career? He had acquiredmore as a result of
his intercourse with other students than with those officially
deputed to instruct himsome understanding of the sciences;
his essays had been praised and some of his poetry published,
so that he inclined toward literature; and an uneasy sense that
life for everyone outside the privileged classes contained too
large a proportion of misery led him to think seriously of a
political career. In Divinity, too, he was well-grounded; but at
least the idea of Holy Orders did not tempt him.
While he wrestled with his future, he undertook to live away
from home, since his relations with his father were never
smooth. By rusticating himself in the heart of East Anglia, he
hoped to gather material for a volume tentatively entitled
"Wanderings with a Socialist Naturalist," which would assuage
all sides of his ambitions. Nancy Grendon, who had a pretty
hand with a pencil, might even execute a little emblem for the
title page . . . Perhaps he might be permitted to dedicate it to
his author friend, Mr. Herbert George Wells. . .
He dressed himself warmly, for the morning was cold as well
as dull, and went down to the baker's stables. When he had
saddled his mare, Daisy, he swung himself up and set out along
a road that the horse knew well.
The land rose slightly towards the farm, the area about the
house forming something of a little island amid marshy ground
and irregular stretches of water that gave back to the sky its
own dun tone. The gate over the little bridge was, as always,
open wide; Daisy picked her way through the mud to the
stables, where Gregory left her to champ oats contentedly. Cuff
and her pup, Lardie, barked loudly about Gregory's heels as
usual, and he patted their heads on his way over to the house.
Nancy came hurrying out to meet him before he got to the
front door.
"We had some excitement last night, Gregory," she said. He
noted with pleasure she had at last brought herself to use .his
first name.
"Something bright and glaring!" she said. "I was retiring,
when this noise come and then this light, and I rush to look out
through the curtains, and there's this here great thing like an
egg sinking into our pond." In her speech, and particularly
when she was excited, she carried the lilting accent of Norfolk.
"The meteor!" Gregory exclaimed. "Bruce Fox and I were
out last night, as we were the night before, watching for the
lovely Aurigids that arrive every February, when we saw an
extra big one. I said then it was coming over very near here."
"Why, it almost landed on our house," Nancy said. She
looked very pleasing this morning, with her lips red, her cheeks
shining, and her chestnut curls all astray. As she spoke, her
mother appeared in apron and cap, with a wrap hurriedly
thrown over her shoulders.
"Nancy, you come in, standing freezing like that! You ent
daft, girl are you? Hello, Gregory, how be going on? I didn't
reckon as we'd see you today. Come in and warm yourself."
"Good-day to you, Mrs. Grendon. I'm hearing about your
wonderful meteor of last night."
"It was a falling star, according to Bert Neckland. I ent sure
what it was, but it certainly stirred up the animals, that I do
know."
"Can you see anything of it in the pond?" Gregory asked.
"Let me show you," Nancy said.
Mrs. Grendon returned indoors. She went slowly and
grandly, her back straight and an unaccustomed load before
her. Nancy was her only daughter; there was a younger son,
Archie, a stubborn lad who had fallen at odds .with his father
and now was apprenticed to a blacksmith in Norwich; and no
other children living. Three infants had not survived the
mixture of fogs alternating with bitter east winds that
comprised the typical Cottersall winter. But now the farmer's
wife was unexpectedly gravid again, and would bear her
husband another baby when the spring came in.
As Nancy led Gregory over to the pond, he saw Grendon
with his two laborers working in the West Field, but they did
not wave.
"Was your father not excited by the arrival last night?"
"That he waswhen it happened! He went out with his
shotgun, and Bert Neckland with him. But there was nothing to
see but bubbles in the pond and steam over it, and this morning
he wouldn't discuss it, and said that work must go on whatever
happen."
They stood beside the pond, a dark and extensive slab of
water with rushes on the farther bank and open country
beyond. As they looked at its ruffled surface, they stood with the
windmill black and bulky on their left hand. It was to this that
Nancy now pointed.
Mud had been splashed across the boards high up the sides
of the mill; some was to be seen even on the top of the nearest
white sail. Gregory surveyed it all with interest. Nancy,
however, was still pursuing her own line of thought.
"Don't you reckon Father works too hard, Gregory? When
he's not outside doing jobs, he's in reading his pamphlets and
his electricity manuals. He never rests but when he sleeps."
"Um. Whatever went into the pond went in with a great
smack! There's no sign of anything there now, is there? Not
that you can see an inch below the surface."
"You being a friend of his. Mum thought perhaps as you'd
say something to him. He don't go to bed till ever so
latesometimes it's near midnight, and then he's up again at
three and a half o'clock. Would you speak to him? You know
Mother dassent."
"Nancy, we ought to see whatever it was that went in the
pond. It can't have dissolved. How deep is the water? Is it very
deep?"
"Oh, you aren't listening, Gregory Rolles! Bother the old
meteor!"
"This is a matter of science, Nancy. Don't you see"
"Oh, rotten old science, is it? Then I don't want to hear. I'm
cold, standing out here. You can have a good look if you like but
I'm going in before I gets froze. It was only an old stone out of
the sky, because I heard Father and Bert Neckland agree to it."
"Fat lot Bert Neckland knows about such things!" he called
to her departing back.
He looked down at the dark water. Whatever it was that had
arrived last night, it was here, only a few feet from him. He
longed to discover what remained of it. Vivid pictures entered
his mind: his name in headlines in "The Morning Post," the
Royal Society making him an honorary member, his father
embracing him and pressing him to return home.
Thoughtfully, he walked over to the barn. Hens ran clucking
out of his way as he entered and stood looking up, waiting for
his eyes to adjust to the dim light. There, as he remembered it,
was a little rowing boat. Perhaps in his courting days old Mr.
Grendoii had taken his prospective wife out for excursions on
the Oast in it. Surely it had not been used in years. He dragged
the boat from the barn and launched it in the shallows of the
pond. It floated. The boards had dried, and water leaked
through a couple of seams, but not nearly enough to deter him,
Climbing delicately in among the straw and filth, he pushed off.
When he was over the approximate center of the pond, he
shipped his oars and peered over the side. There was an
agitation in the water, and nothing could be seen, although he
imagined much.
As he stared over the one side, the boat unexpectedly tipped
to the other. Gregory swung round. The boat listed heavily to
the left, so that the oars rolled over that way. He could see
nothing. Yethe heard something. It was a sound much like a
hound slowly panting. And whatever made it was about to
capsize the boat.
"What is it?" he said, as all the skin prickled up his back and
skull.
The boat lurched, for all the world as if someone invisible
were trying to get into it. Frightened, he grasped the oar, and,
without thinking, swept it over that side of the rowing boat.
It struck something solid where there was only air.
Dropping the oar in surprise, he put out his hand. It touched
something yielding. At the same time, his arm was violently
struck.
His actions were then entirely governed by instinct. Thought
did not enter the matter. He picked up the oar again and smote
the thin air with it. It hit something. There was a splash, and
the boat righted itself so suddenly he was almost pitched into
the water. Even while it still rocked, he was rowing frantically
for the shallows, dragging the boat from the water, and running
for the safety of the farmhouse.
Only at the door did he pause. His reason returned, his heart
began gradually to stop stammering its fright. He stood looking
at the seamed wood of the porch, trying to evaluate what he
had seen and what had actually happened. But what had
happened?
Forcing himself to go back to the pond, he stood by the boat
and looked across the sullen face of the water. It lay
undisturbed, except by surface ripples. He looked at the boat
A quantity of water lay in the bottom of it. He thought, all that
happened was that I nearly capsized, and I let my idiot fears
run away with me. Shaking his head, he pulled the boat back to
the barn.
Gregory, as he often did, stayed to eat lunch at the farm, but
he saw nothing of the farmer till milking time.
Joseph Grendon was in his late forties, and a few years older
than his wife. He bad a gaunt solemn face and a heavy beard
that made him look older than he was. For all his seriousness,
he greeted Gregory civilly enough. They stood together in the
gathering dusk as the cows swung behind them into their
regular stalls. Together they walked into the machine house
next door, and Grendon lit the oil burners that started the
steam engine into motion that would turn the generator that
would supply the vital spark.
"I smell the future in here," Gregory said, smiling. By now, he
had forgotten the shock of the morning.
"The future will have to get on without me. I shall be dead
by then." The farmer spoke as he walked, putting each word
reliably before the next.
"That is what you always say. You're wrongthe future is
rushing upon us."
"You ent far wrong there. Master Gregory, but I won't have
no part of it, I reckon. I'm an old man now. Here she come!"
The last exclamation was directed at a flicker of light in the
pilot bulb overhead. They stood there contemplating with

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