The Robert Stanek Short Story & Novella Collection Page 8

  Hearing no sounds of movement nearby, and alarmed by this silence, he returned to frantic engagement. Eventually, he worked one leg free, but as it became unglued he toppled over, finding himself gargling the murky substances he had been churning up. Arms flailing, legs kicking, staff in one hand, pushing the pack in the other and using it for ballast, he scrambled, giving it his all.

  Old Bull looked on from a new vantage point, mostly oblivious to the hand that stroked its oblong head and whispered things it understood but barely so. Bathing in the bright, warm sunshine, satisfied with the fledgling’s crossing, it closed its eyes, scratching with absent direction at the moistened earth beneath it. It would wait for a while longer before pushing on its way.

  Ray brushed himself down, cleaning away most of the muck with a bit of grit, making for the low rounding he gleaned in the distance. He had not recognized Old Bull, nor seen the grizzled, timeworn elder stroking the bull’s head. This was just as well, as Ray wouldn’t have understood.

  Ray sucked in at the air, fighting a burning weariness. He knew better than to persist in respite, but he did not heed this knowledge. He lunched early and ate more than he should have, reworking the cake-mud when he had finished and leaving himself a reminder that he needed to collect more supplies: two pieces of weed-grass, the thick, limber tufts from down near the root, which he tied around his left wrist.

  He leaned heavily on his staff as he surveyed the distance and the close. “One step at a time,” offered a whisper in a melancholy tone. Ray took a laden step forward, and thus he continued on his way. The stone land beckoned. My path is long, he thought, considering the weight of the words upon him. He did not jump, nor skip, nor did he take joy in the sense of the hunt; he simply moved on.

  The avenues he ambled across, shifting from house to house, faded rapidly away from memory and sight. It was under a mid-afternoon sun that he descried a low scrub not far off and he wrestled with an undeniable yearning to stop for the day. He knew he could rest there in the scrub’s shade and watch the night pull in. The temptation grew until it took a conscious effort to maintain his pace as he crossed the residence.

  He dropped the pack from his shoulder in front of the scrub, slumping down to his knees, mindful of the waiting shade. He slipped the seal, delving inside the pack until he came upon a dark, round leaf.

  Skillfully, he divided the leaf into two pieces, slipping one into his mouth between cheek and gum, and the other he sacrificed to the shade. He lingered no longer, however. He hated the pasty taste of the black leaf and so he could envy without regret.

  A partial grimace touched his countenance as he came to a new house. He recalled with distinction a day Ephramme and Keene had been selected and not him and Tall. Tall had been the one to slip the half leaf into their packs, claiming a piece for himself and giving Ray the other.

  Ray didn’t understand at first, though later he had. He wondered how long he could keep the paste at the side of his cheek this time, thus holding his muse. Tall had also been the one that had told him to take the black nut, though Ray still saw no use for it.

  A childhood rhyme came to mind. “Scatter bush and weed-grass blowing in the wind. Scatter bush and weed-grass shaking in the rain. Scatter bush and weed-grass sticking through it all.” Ray chuckled to himself, hearing the mild, playful voice of his mother in his ear, more memories of the past. He repeated the words now from the rest of the rhyme, softly aloud as he walked. “The tall, the thick, the wide, the deep, in and around, out and in, out and around, scatter bush and weed-grass,” there were more lines, and though he knew them all, he stopped. He was mindful of his step again, and that which was around him.

  The playful thoughts didn’t stop the weariness from setting through him sooner than he would have hoped, and after venturing across a second widening, one neighborhood farther along his path, he called it a full day. His body demanded rest, regardless of the lingering light above, and heedless of the paste on cheek and gum. He did not find such a comfortable spot as he had passed up, yet he did not care. Immediately after laying stinging to ground, he went to sleep, and many dreams played out and in before his unhindered eyes.

  Chapter Six:

  Watching at the Edge

  Ray greeted early morning thinly and coldly, and several hours of travel did not improve his demeanor. He found no limberness in limbs, no skill of feet this day. He simply plodded on. An empty dream just before awakening had left him feeling lost and alone, and as he contemplated his surroundings he knew this to be true.

  He was not part way or mid way along the stretch from Third Village to Second as he had sought to hope; he was passing along and through places he had never been, and as far as he knew no one had ever been.

  Scattered clouds overhead followed him throughout the morning, though he paid them no heed. High day came, though he did not care.

  Sweat trickled from his furrowed brow, his sores itched and burned, making him want to scratch them at every turn, and somewhere along the path he had lost his covers, so now he trudged upon bare feet. This day he had meant to do some gathering, yet so far he had not, and so this was what he set his concentrations upon with the coming of afternoon. His list was long. He needed to gather the dark and the light, the bitter and the sweet, and of course the gritty.

  The rough, low bush, the gritty, was the easiest to find, for he knew the type of abode it favored, yet it was not the first bush he came upon. The first he found was low, yet wiry, and he snatched up its slender branches, taking even more than he should have, and this seemed to appease his disposition somewhat. He worked in an arching circle, outward from his find, searching for the other things on his list, and thus he passed the time until dusk.

  During the time of twilight, he continued his pursuit, while also seeking a not so somber locale to pass the darkness in. A hot wading, he thought, what he wouldn’t give for one to soothe his troubled soul and weary body in. He settled for a low scrub, though its warding shade was not as pleasant as it would have been in the day. He still had a lingering taste in his mouth, which he spit out. He ate absent of taste, reminiscing, placing the small of his back against the thin trunk of the scrub.

  A few strands of the day’s light lingered and he seized the time to fiddle with his pack, organizing its contents from top to bottom. He came upon the arbor tube and placed it on the ground with pained airs, for it represented something he could not have.

  He tore a leaf of the black in two and placed one in his mouth and the other he slipped in the small holes of the mesh. The pasty sampling on cheek and gum accompanied him as he slept.

  Molested by vivid, pointed renderings, he awoke before the day. He had felt things crawling on his hands and face, up his back, along his arms and legs, despite the ward he had provided. His thoughts swirled and swirled, and in his deepest dreams he saw the eyes—the eyes of the wizard towering over him as he climbed and clung to the rock.

  Hurriedly he inspected his skin from head to toe, expecting to find a legion of suckers, though he found none. It was with the first pink-orange branches of the new day’s sun that he saw the tiny creature nestled beside him, seemingly taking of the warmth his body provided.

  He was stunned as tiny eyes sprang open and a small tongue flitted in and out of a mouth. Holding his breath, he held out his hand, palm turned out, and to his utter delight, the baby slither crawled up into it, accepting his offer.

  Awestruck, he sat motionless, yet his heart thumped wildly. Dawn came; morning passed. Ray did not notice and later he would not be able to recall a single moment of the hours that ensued from finding to choice to movement. Steadfast, able feet carried him onward. He placed his walking stick with distinction, walking without pain and without worries.

  He fumbled through a list of names he had fancied before setting out. Keene had been the one that had told him he must name his new companion and so he stopped every now and again to whisper a name into the small cage.

  The little slither had n
ot responded to any of the names and he was getting flustered, that is until he forgot the names he had learned, leaning towards inclination. “I will call you True,” he called out, which as he said it, face against the mesh, earned the first response.

  “True, it is,” he re-invoked.

  A low murmur from his stomach spoke of his negligence to himself. He released the latch on the cage, no longer afraid that True would slip away from him. He delved into his sack, relieving it of a full dark root and a full light, one piece of sour weed and a bitter nut—his celebration feast.

  He was unsure if he could eat it all, but he was sure going to try. He spread his banquet onto the top of the pack with care and began working his way from left to right, nibbling on a piece of this, mixing it down with a bit of that.

  Hesitantly, he turned his eyes away from his meal, feeling a longing presence upon him. Until that moment, he had had only thoughts for the food before him. Now he saw the flashing tongue and large, piercing stare fixed on him. He sensed longing and hunger, understood his blunder of etiquette.

  He offered the tiny slither a chunk of the light, but True only turned away from it; a piece of dark received a similar rebuttal. “What do you want?” Ray asked, “Will you eat this?” He had a bit of sour weed. True turned a full circle, and sprang away towards the wet.

  He panicked, chasing after his small companion, nearly stepping on it in his haste. Ray froze in place, examining the ground beneath him. “TRUE?” he called out, hearing a tiny splash nearby.

  He scrambled to the edge of the wet, galloping in huge pacing strokes. “True, are you still there? Don’t leave me!”

  He waited, struggling with a myriad of rampant thoughts. “I didn’t know!” he added in a whimper.

  Something slick and wet crossed his foot, and he shrieked. His first instinct was to smash down with the opposite foot, yet he did not and this was a good thing as True was sitting on his foot, tongue flashing, eyes nearly closed.

  He walked back to his spot, the low scrub not far off, carefully tendering his bantam friend. With soft fingers, he dropped True into the comforts of the nest, picking up his pack, sliding the thin strap attached to the cage over his shoulder. He adjusted the strap so the tube was propped directly under his arm. True would ride beside him, with a full view.

  A late outset would mean a late stop for lunch, so he kept the foodstuffs he hadn’t finished handy. He paused at the edge of the wet to gather a few handfuls of its preciousness and with thirst quenched, it was time to move on. He found purpose of foot and direction; his spirits were high and his thoughts lofty, all because of a minuscule creature, no bigger than his pinkie stretched out full.

  Just after passing across to the adjacent dwelling, he coughed out into the silence, “Where are you, Old Bull? The day is young. Come help me on my way!”

  Anxious feet could delay no longer, and with them, he swept away. The feeling of sport had returned; the hunt was on. A warning groan breaking the air startled him and set his mind to frenzied reaction. He was running, racing; his elation peaked.

  He had indeed stumbled onto a residence that was occupied. The bull was swift, but Ray was swifter. The bull was crafty and wise, yet Ray had the advantages of youth. He plunged into the wet with the bull just seconds behind him, though he did not have to look back to know this.

  His jubilation soared as he met the dry, racing over the small plot, thundering into the wet once more. Now he was unsure if the other still followed, although he hoped the bull did, for he did not slacken his pace. “Catch me, catch me if you can!” he taunted.

  Hesitantly, he slowed after crossing several avenues, plopping a large piece of the bittersweet into his mouth, and only then as he turned eyes back out to his surroundings did he realize what was ahead. The dead land rose up before him and he feared its touch and its approach—the touch of mourning, the touch upon land which was not his own.

  Behind him, a thin arm toted a firm hand, waving it back and forth, before rounded shoulders and unsteady legs carried the wizened figure away, though Ray only looked ahead and didn’t see this. Old Bull slipped off the lackluster log it had adjourned upon, lazily following the retreating figure.

  Eyes fixed straight ahead, never veering, he pressed on, those last few blocks seemed to last an agonizing eternity. Unrestrained considerations ripped through his mind, he would race up to it and plunge headlong onto its tracks. Except the closer the dark stone loomed, the more his determination waned. The hill grew before him. He could not see beyond it. He could only see the gradual slope lifting away into the distance.

  He did look right and left now, studying the long gray line he approached. A hunch bade him to take True from his cage. “Look!” he said, “Look what awaits us!” True slipped around his palm in close circles and then made for open spaces, in particular, the wet. Instinct told the slither it was hungry and where to find its next meal. He watched it go, this time without fear or anxiety, waiting patiently for the tiny creature to return.

  He abided at the fringe of the wet fearing to breach its limits, wasting the day until it spilled over into late afternoon. The dead land was beyond and he saw it dark and hard before him. Curious, he had ventured to touch its face once, and only once, and now he vividly recollected its unyielding hand upon him as he urged the last of his shivers away.

  Thinking he heard something, he slunk down to his knees, blending into the greenery. He never took his eyes off the stoic, gray face of the upgrade, the brink of the land beyond the hill.

  His quick-witted response was not without reward as heavy footfalls against the hardened stone grew audibly closer. He sank to his haunches, exhaling in guarded breaths, carefully removing his pack and slipping it beside him. A tremor erupted across his face as a pale, thick legged figure approached. He twisted his cheek between his uppers and lowers and bit down hard. The outsider had come to the edge of the wet and touched his hand to it, drinking of it.

  Another shiver passed as he perceived the ill probe of the other’s eyes. Ray saw the face clear now as the other stood there at the edge. The face was long and pulled taunt. The eyes were brown—weren’t they? “No, that’s not right,” he told himself.

  The sun caught the other’s eyes now as the man turned to look over his shoulder momentarily. The eyes were blue—light blue—and the hair fair and long. The man was outfitted in a dark tanned suit, obviously thick and cumbersome, as lavish beads of perspiration dripped down his face. On the man’s feet and hands were similar coverings, more things that made Ray uneasy. But the thing that made him the most easy was the sign stitched onto the breast of the suit. It was unmistakably the staff of the wizard with a lightning bolt shooting out of the glowing crest.

  A wave of the arm brought others to the brink of the wet. They toted large canisters that they began to fill quickly. Ray gasped. The outsiders were stealing from his home.

  His first urge was to jump from his concealment and chase them away. Then he saw more come and these men bore things that flashed in the light and in their hands, long and sharp. They stood with wary, angry eyes.

  A third group came and now the outsiders did not stop at the edge. They pushed into Ray’s precious wet, beating at the undergrowth and plowing through it like unthinking beasts.

  Ray curled up into a close ball, pulling his pack closer, shifting into fuller cover, his eyes never wavering far from those that approached. He gulped for air as they passed precariously close. He wanted to scream at them, “What do you want? Go away! Leave my home!”

  A smile, sly and swift, passed his lips as he saw a dark shape in the water easing closer. He saw the eyes and tail, but he was sure the others did not. He was praying for them to come closer and receive a bit of repayment, not realizing that what he wished for was wrong.

  He heard a cry and saw the lash of tail and teeth, and he screamed a voiceless “YES!” But the hope died quickly. Those of the Out descended upon the large bull with quick precision. The outsiders hacked and th
rashed at the wet, running after the bull as if it was a game and all the while, ignoring the pleas of their wounded compatriots as one by one the bull sank its teeth into their flesh.

  After dispatching the last of the group, the bull sank deep, dragging the last of the outsiders to fall with him. The bull would have its feast. Ray invoked a second voiceless cry of elation. He chose that moment to slip away, moving farther away from the outsiders, deep into a thick stand of weed grass where he would never be found.

  His heart still pounding in his ears, he breathed a sigh of relief. He chastised himself for his foolishness. He never should have stayed so close. He should have slipped away as soon as he heard the outsiders approaching. The Out was a dangerous place; it was the wizard’s domain. He knew this. Why had he stayed? Did he really believe the stories that outsiders drank dirt? Did he really believe the lord of the heavens made the wet for his people alone?

  His thoughts scattered as the large outsider, the one that had arrived first, charged the bull as it re-surfaced, diving recklessly into the wet, directly on top of the bull. The waters churned suddenly and violently as the bull and outsider struggled. The other outsiders began chanting, “Braddick, Braddick,” and Ray could only surmise that this was the outsiders name.

  Ray saw a tangle of tail, teeth and legs, and then all became red. The struggle subsided. Braddick’s body floated to the surface and then the yellow underside of the bull floated to the surface. Ray recoiled as he realized the bull wasn’t just any bull—it was Old Bull.

  The outsiders were quick to pull Braddick out. As Ray watched, they pressed upon Braddick again and again until he coughed and choked and spat water. Then Braddick did the strangest thing Ray had ever seen, he raised the stump of his right arm and cried out. Yes, the roaring voice was touched with pain. But more jarringly it was touched with glee as well, almost as if the missing hand was a sacrifice and the stump of the arm was a prize.