Terraless

by Thorby Rudbek

  Picking up the barrel by the sides, she lifted it out but found it was completely empty. How do I fill it? Unbidden, a vision of a walled cylinder, an opening into the ground itself, hidden in the tall grasses, popped into her mind. She put the barrel down and rested one hand briefly against the wall to steady herself. Somehow, she knew that there was water in the depths of the rounded hole in the ground that this structure surrounded. She thought of the tub upstairs, but knew that she could not risk drinking that milky-colour liquid – whatever milk is! The cat looked up at her and mewed plaintively. I’ll have to go outside!

  She walked back up the stairs and checked the view out of the comparatively large windows in each room. Finally, she went back into the room where her life had ‘begun’ and opened the curtains there. She studied the view intently. As far as she could tell, there was nothing outside but grass. There’s no sign of it, no indication where it is… I could look for quite a while. She thought of her bare feet and the endless grassy surface on which she would be walking.

  I’m not going out there wearing this! She gestured at the nightgown disdainfully. I’d be worse off than little red riding… But she could not complete the thought. Instead, she looked around the room and noted that the seemingly plain walls were ornately patterned with small protrusions, too – like the ones downstairs – and that the first one that she reached out towards pulled what seemed like a section of the wall open with almost magical ease, to reveal a narrow passageway into a room lined with racks of clothes. She stepped in, looked back, and recognised that the entrance was centrally hinged, and that she could have entered on either side of that central pivot.

  Finding some thick material hanging nearest to her, she pulled the first one down. It was a tunic of leather-like strength, flexibility and weave, double-layered at the shoulders, though the concept of leather was only a shadowy fragment in her mind. It was dark brown – of course! – and seemed about her size. Beneath it, on the same bronzy rack, was a set of softer leggings in the same shade, which would come up, she quickly estimated, almost to the tops of her thighs. She walked back to the bed and placed the clothes there. Then she walked over to the window and looked out. Grass. Grass. More grass.

  Still, she closed the curtains before she stripped off the nightgown and reached for the leggings. Sitting naked on the bed, she pulled on the supple material and looked with satisfaction at the close fit. Clearly these are made for me… or perhaps all humans are exactly the same size? She shook her head, convinced that this idea was even more far-fetched than the first one. Was I far-fetched, too?

  Another shake of her head put this idea aside and she wriggled into the tunic, remembering to pass her braided hair through the neck hole first. Again, the upper portion of the outfit fitted – perfectly, even down to some darts and tucks across the upper chest that allowed for her feminine form. The bottom edge of the tunic flared, coming down to mid-thigh, allowing for easy movement but feeling secure as well as comfortable. She parted the curtains again and went to stand by the window. Somehow the light had changed – it was not darker, just from a different angle, perhaps – the change was very subtle, but because of it she could see her reflection in the surface. I’m like someone ‘Hood’! Or was there a female companion in that tale?

  Again, the concepts from her lost memory were but fleeting images or ideas, and, once gone, little remained of them except the distilled essence, tantalising and but barely, vaguely, informing. I still need something for my feet! On the floor of the walk-in closet, almost hidden below the clothes racks, was a pair of – dark brown – boots. She pulled them out of semi-obscurity and took them back to the bed. Sliding them on, she was completely unsurprised to find that they fitted more like gloves than boots, and that the bottom of the leggings could be laced into the tops of the boots. Immediately, she did this. Now I’m ready for anything!

  She ran lightly down the stairs and up to the front door. The cat sat down below the row of five bolts on the right-hand side and looked up at her with his big, pale eyes. Oh, I see, this is not the side where the water hole-thing is… She turned to go to the much smaller back door, but the furry creature ran between her feet, threatening to trip her up. She stopped instantly, staggering a little, and saw a sort of image in her mind’s eye, of the area behind the hatch of the storeroom. Or armoury.

  So, she walked there, instead. Sure enough, there, behind that hatch, there was a small pile in the deep gloom. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness again and found three things: a long rope, a short sword – or long knife, snug in a leather-like scabbard, and a curved piece of wood about as tall as she, leaning against the wall. She reached for the scabbard and attached it to her tunic via some interwoven bands of thicker material at hip height. Then she draped the rope over her left shoulder and grabbed the long stick. Turning around, she found a quiver of arrows hung on the back of the hatch with a length of twine looped around the shafts of a few of the projectiles. Picking up the quiver and stepping back into the corridor or entrance hall near the front door, she removed the twine and slipped the quiver over her right shoulder. She looped the end of the twine around the groove at the top of the curved pole and flipped it end-on-end, so that the other end was now at her eye level. Leaning on the wood, she bowed it enough to loop the other end of the twine into place. Smoothly she brought the arm holding the weapon to the horizontal, slipped an arrow into place, and pulled back. Wow! She carefully removed the arrow from the twine and let the taut line slip through her fingers. The ‘twang’ was strangely like music to her ears. This, I know I have done before!

  Now, to venture forth. She put the arrow back in the quiver and stepped towards the front door once more. Again, the cat stepped in her way. This time she side-stepped the furry guardian and checked the view out of the nearest ‘porthole’. Nothing. She stepped back to the huge door and found herself staring into those pale green eyes again. “Sorry, little boy. I must get some water for us.” And she pulled the top bolt back. The kitty growled – a sound quite incongruous with his previously sweet disposition. “We need water. I’ll be careful, but I must see the outside, and I can figure it all by walking around. Besides, there’s no one out there! There’s only you and me!” She pulled the next bolt back, and heard it whack against its stops with a satisfying thud. She reached for the next bolt, and heard the scream.

  Her heart thudded rapidly, the bow fell to the floor and she quickly put the two bolts back into locked position. Mother of all frights! Kitty, what do you know? The cat stared back at her. She moved to the little round window and checked again. Nothing. Suddenly certain, she ran up the stairs, two at a time and into her bedroom. This is almost above the front door and I’m certain that the sound came from out front. I think.

  Looking out, she tried to find a hint of movement in the waving grasses that was not in sync with the wind-blown undulations. Again, she could see nothing. She ran to the big room at the back and checked there. Also… nothing.

  Could be hiding around the sides. Why aren’t there windows there?!

  She ran down the stairs, picked up the bow again, crossed the great room and went to the smaller back door, noting how the cat watched her intently as she passed. Sliding the bolts back – one, two and then, opposite: three – she pulled in the armoured door, noticing how well-balanced it somehow was, how easily it moved, rotated, and she rolled out under the now angled surface, coming up to her full height and notching an arrow into place in one fluid movement. Look left. Look right. Look centre. There was nothing in view, just endless stalks of grass. Wow! How can I do that? And with the bow as I rolled, too! She felt behind her – the opening was still unblocked.

  Now, how do I lock the door so that no one gets in while I go searching for the water? She reached back and closed the small door, the arrow held by the other hand against the bow. The hatch swung down into place as if buffered by pneumatics. Looking at it, she thought wistfully about sliding the bolts into place. As she so thought, the
sounds of the bolts, moving slowly into place, filtered through the thick wood and metal plating. She glanced left and right, checked behind towards the vastness of the grass and then tried the door with her foot. It was indeed bolted. Did I?... She decided to rethink, and heard the bolts moving again. A quick push-check showed that the door was now free to open. A moment more was all that she needed to pull it back fully closed and bolt it shut again. Once this was accomplished, she ran forwards, to the edge of the longer grasses, the bow pulled back and the arrow ready to be unleashed again.

  There she stood, turning from left to right and right to left, listening, waiting. Somehow, just as she now knew she could bolt a door from the outside merely – weirdly – by willing it, she also knew that the water was only a few paces into the long grass. She also knew that someone – or something – was watching her. “Come on! Come out where I can see you!” Looking left and right, checking the ends of the back wall of the house – grey, solid, comforting, behind her – and again out into the vastness of the grass-covered lands, she willed the being to show itself.

  A sound from up ahead, like something being dragged, coincided with some abrupt movements of the grass tips overhead. Her hand slipped, the string ‘twanged’ mildly and the arrow shot forth with a faint ‘swooosh’, though she had not fully prepared to unleash it. It flew at barely quarter speed, disappeared into the grasses, and the slight hiss of its passing ended abruptly. What if I hit it?

  She grimaced at the thought of an injured creature, the result of her unintentional release, but walked ahead, slipping another arrow into place and holding it even more securely than before. There was nothing, only grass, and grass… and more grass. Then there was a gap, a darker-shading seen through the stalks, and at last the circular wall she had anticipated. Darn. Forgot the barrel!

  She contemplated going back, realised she had no choice but to do so, then stopped to look down the central cavity. There, some twenty or thirty feet down, a bucket floated on the surface of a shimmering liquid. Thinking of the bolts, she put the arrow away, balanced the bow against the wall, pulled the rope off her shoulder and lowered one end down. It dangled near the handle of the wooden bucket and she stared at it and thought of knots. Looking below, concentrating harder, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, she could see that the rope continued to just hang there. Just like a rope!

  She sighed, turned away, and thought for a moment that she saw a movement in the grasses. “Who are you?” Hope it is a ‘who’, and not an ‘it’. “Come out, I didn’t mean to shoot the arrow. It slipped.” Nothing happened. Another thought came to mind, and she pictured the rope again, but this time without looking. Like with the bolts – I couldn’t see them, either. She pulled on the rope, and the rope resisted. She looked down the shaft, and there it was, taut between her and the bucket. Bracing her feet against the wall, she pulled hard, and the rope made a satisfying ‘vrrrr’ sound as it slid over the time-worn edge. Another pull – ‘vrrrr’ - and another. She gasped for breath, thinking that the bucket must be larger than she thought, and continued. Pull, pull, pull. Pause. Pull, pull, pull. Pause. Repeated again. And again. Finally, she could pull no more. Wrapping the rope around her shoulder, behind her back and again in front of her to her other hand, she leaned over the edge and saw the bucket, hanging, a few feet down. Reaching with her free hand, she leaned into the well and managed to grab the handle of the bucket. Using strength she had no idea she possessed, she swung the bucket up and rested it on the top of the wall.

  All that water! It looked crystal clear and sparkled in the bright sunshine. Somehow, she knew that now she would have to go and fetch her own container, as this one, she knew – oh how fully and incomprehensibly she knew! – must never leave the well. She picked up her bow and sighed. The upper parts of the fortress were very visible above the grasses, the strong grey stonework reassuring in its permanence, and it was only thirty-seven paces – she counted it – back to the smaller door. The bolts slid back as she imagined they would, the door swung inwards and upwards at her touch, making her think of counterbalances – though of course such precise terminology did not come to mind – and she ducked and stepped inside, used her free hand to slide just one bolt into place, leaned the bow against the wall by the door and walked across the kitchen to fetch the barrel.

  Walk back with the barrel against my hip, pick up the bow, step under the low arch of the doorway. Listen as the three bolts do their ‘thing’. Walk thirty-seven paces. There is the bucket. And there, resting across the curved edge of the brickwork, was her lost arrow.

  Arrow! She dropped the barrel, fetched forth a further fletched flier and pulled back on the bow until her arm quivered. Nothing happened. She forced herself to slacken off the tension as she turned and checked in all directions, insofar as that was possible in the tall, thick grass. “Come on out. Don’t hide.”

  Nothing.

  “Please!”

  Still nothing. She re-quivered the second arrow, balanced the bow against the well-wall again, tipped the bucket into the barrel and watched as the precious sparkling water flowed from one container to the other. Then she stood and looked at the empty bucket. I know what to do.

  She lowered the bucket again, though the barrel was already full. Somehow this time the raising of the heavy, water-laden vessel was more certain, less effort – perhaps her technique had improved with practice – and soon the bucket was on the edge once again.

  I can’t leave the rope. But I can leave the bucket. Perhaps, if the creature, or person – surely? – who returned my arrow sees the full bucket, left for them…

  Replacing the mysteriously-returned arrow in her quiver, she cradled the barrel against her hip, picked up her bow with the other hand, walked back her thirty-seven paces again, invoked the sliding of the bolts and returned to the interior of her fortress, her tension level dropping as she did so. Once inside, with the bolts securely in place once more and the bow balanced against the wall, she lugged the heavy barrel back into the kitchen. She found a stack of bowls behind the empty barrel storage area and helped herself to a bowl of water. The water was cool and tasted smooth, wonderfully refreshing, and seemed to have a slight fizz to it. She put another bowl down for her friend and watched while he lapped away industriously.

  After a while, resting from her exertions and talking to the cat, who looked wisely back but said nothing, she decided to go upstairs and look around again. There was the same old grassy view out front, and the same at the back, except that … a patch of grass seemed to have been trampled down, or torn up. What was left made her catch her breath. The missing grasses revealed a track, or a line, in the otherwise featureless field, with two angled mini-tracks which met at the far end. The line led off a little to the left of perpendicular to the back of the house, and the other two, shorter lines looked familiar, as if intended to imitate an object recently seen at close quarters. An arrow! A signal… directions! But to where… to what? And dare I follow?

  Somehow, she knew she would.

  Chapter Two

  Beyond the fortress

  “All-right! I’m coming!” The girl knew what the feline cries were about and she walked back down to the single, huge room below to find the comforting creature sitting fairly patiently by the smaller but reassuringly solid back door. “I guess you do your thing out there, do you?” She reached down and he stretched up, standing easily on his hind legs to rub along the side of her hand.

  She pulled back the bolts and watched as the only friend she knew ran out at top speed. Crouching down, she watched as he disappeared into the tall grasses. The breeze was still gently causing the sea of stalks to waver in unison, and the clouds above scudded by. Must be much windier up there…

  A couple of minutes passed uneventfully and then the nearer grasses seemed to shiver, and the cat walked sedately out. Once near the door, he sat down and washed his face and soon was rolling over, stretching one leg up like a flagpole to complete his ‘toilet’. The girl smiled a
nd sat down in the open entrance, watching this evidence that perhaps the world was not as hazardous as she had assumed from the armoured construction of her habitation. The air was warm, but not too warm, the breeze – at ground level – was faint, but carried with it the freshness of living things – ‘the great outdoors’ – without the faintest hint of the impact of man. I wonder if there are any other people out there at all? Apart from the one that’s been hanging around here, of course! Such a peaceful place… She jumped as the cat ran in and that abrupt scream simultaneously issued forth from nearby in the tall grasses. She scrambled back in, slammed shut the door and bolted it, forcing herself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Why scream? She pondered on this, irritated by this propensity, and decided to take another look from the upper windows. Perhaps I’ll finally be able to catch a glimpse of this scare-merchant!

  Again, there was nothing visible, from the front or back, except the newly trampled or hacked directional pointer. After an extended period of futile staring, the girl’s attention was drawn to the sky; there, in a gap in the clouds, the source of the illumination that seemed so constant could be glimpsed briefly. The girl found that she could look at it, though a deeper idea echoed in the hidden part of her mind, the idea that such staring would have been a blinding event, in the… What is it? She shook her head, frustrated by the apparent closeness of the memory, but unable to capture it. The glowing thing, apparently many-tentacled, seemed to be only just beyond the clouds. That seems… Again, she shook her head.