“Come and drink,” he said, in his husky voice.
Maskull looked at him inquiringly.
The man led him a little way into the forest, and walked straight up to a certain tree. At a convenient height in its trunk a hole had been tapped and plugged. Polecrab removed the plug and put his mouth to the aperture, sucking for quite a long time, like a child at its mother’s breast. Maskull, watching him, imagined that he saw his eyes growing brighter.
When his own turn came to drink, he found the juice of the tree somewhat like coconut milk in flavour, but intoxicating. It was a new sort of intoxication, however, for neither his will not his emotions were excited, but only his intellect—and that only in a certain way. His thoughts and images were not freed and loosened, but on the contrary kept labouring and swelling painfully, until they reached the full beauty of an aperçu, which would then flame up in his consciousness, burst, and vanish. After that, the whole process started over again. But there was never a moment when he was not perfectly cool, and master of his senses. When each had drunk twice, Polecrab replugged the hole, and they returned to their bank.
“Is it Blodsombre yet?” asked Maskull, sprawling on the ground, well content.
Polecrab resumed his old upright sitting posture, with his feet in the water. “Just beginning,” was his hoarse response.
“Then I must stay here till it’s over.... Shall we talk?”
“We can,” said the other, without enthusiasm.
Maskull glanced at him through half-closed lids, wondering if he were exactly what he seemed to be. In his eyes he thought he detected a wise light.
“Have you travelled much, Polecrab?”