by Inmon, Shawn
Everything went according to plan. They gathered enough pitch to shoot three arrows, covered the shafts, then lit them on fire. From fifty paces away, they lit the arrows with a torch from their fire. Senta-eh fired them in rapid succession.
All three thunked home in the trunk of the tree. The arrows burned nicely, then went out.
They tried again, this time wrapping balls of the pitch in cloth and attaching to the arrowhead before lighting it on fire and shooting it at the tree. Again, the arrow plunked into the tree, the pitch and cloth burned nicely, then fizzled out.
“The upside to this plan,” Senta-eh said, “is that we are not running and screaming right now. Unfortunately, the wasta-ta didn’t even notice our efforts.”
Alex took a deep breath, held it, then let it whistle between his teeth.
“I don’t think there’s anything else to do. One of us is going to have to start set the tree on fire.”
Harta-ak’s fingers involuntarily touched his still-swollen eye. “Really?”
“If you have any other ideas, I’m glad to hear them,” Alex said.
Harta-ak was silent.
“It’s going to be dangerous,” Alex said, “but I have an idea of what we can do.”
Senta-eh closed her eyes and quietly said, “Of course you do.”
“What do we need to do?” Versa-eh asked.
“We need a bigger rope.”
To his own ears, Alex sounded like Sheriff Brody in Jaws, saying “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.” The connection made him smile, but as always, he knew he couldn’t begin to explain.
They trekked back to their camp, Senta-eh went hunting, Versa-eh led the horses to the creek two at a time, and Alex and Harta-ak gathered vines they could twist into more rope.
“How much do we need to make?” Harta-ak asked.
“I don’t really know,” Alex answered, then explained his idea for getting close enough to burn the wasta-ta out.
Harta-ak shook his head. “You know that’s crazy, right?”
“All my ideas are crazy,” Alex said. “Until they work.”
Senta-eh returned with the Kragdon-ah version of a porcupine. It weighed more than fifty pounds and she had bound its feet so it dangled off a short limb she carried over her shoulder. All the better to avoid the sharp quills.
She stripped the fur and quills off and butchered the animal while Versa-eh pulled the best quills off for later use.
While Senta-eh divided the meat up, Harta-ak told her what Alex’s plan was to burn the tree.
She kept her face neutral, but said, “I will go gather more of the medicinal leaves and turn them into a paste. We will need it.”
The five of them ate porcupine meat—there was plenty to share with Monda-ak—until they were stuffed. As soon as supper was done, they sat around the fire twisting more and more rope together.
While they worked, Versa-eh and Harta-ak sang a wordless song with a haunting melody. Harta-ak said it was a sailing song his father had taught him many seasons earlier.
By the next morning, they finally had enough rope.
They put Alex’s crazy idea—to essentially build a bee suit out of rope—into action.
Alex stood with his legs apart and his arms out while the three of them wound rope around every part of his body, doing their best to not leave a single inch of his flesh exposed.
“Is this rope thick enough to stop their stingers?” Senta-eh asked.
Alex grinned. It was a sick, nervous little smile. He could still remember the impact of the stings he had absorbed. “There’s only one way to find out.”
When they had him wrapped, he found his mobility was extremely limited. Also, he looked a bit like the Michelin Man, using ropes made out of vines instead of tires.
Harta-ak watched him take several stiff steps and held his head in his hand. “This is not going to work. We have to think of something else.”
“Hand me the bag of pitch and the torch,” was Alex’s only answer. “For all we know, I might be able to just walk up and drop the burning bag with no problems.”
Senta-eh stared at him. She closed her eyes. She did not think that was among the likely outcomes.
Versa-eh picked up the water bag that they had converted into a fire bag. They had split it partway open and dropped as much pine pitch inside as they could. Once Alex touched it to the torch, it should burn hot and fast. If he could make it to the base of the tree without being attacked, and set the torch to the bag, the tree should go up like a matchstick.
Senta-eh hooked the strap of the bag over his left hand and Harta-ak tried to hand him the torch. The rope bindings made it so he couldn’t grip the torch, though.
“Unwrap my hand,” Alex’s muffled voice said through the wrapping around his mouth.
Reluctantly, Harta-ak partially unwrapped his right hand and gave him the torch.
“Monda-ak. Stay with Senta-eh. Stay!” He looked at his friends and mumbled, “Wish me luck.”
Monda-ak whined, but stayed behind, his eyes never leaving Alex.
Alex waddled awkwardly into the bowl, squinting through the narrow slit in the ropes they had left him.
Harta-ak, as a former sailor, was excellent with knots, so he had been responsible for tying off each end of rope. As Alex walked across the field, the knots stayed tied, but they did start to loosen a bit. These were ropes that had actually been vines just a few days before, after all.
As Alex drew closer to the home of the wasta-ta, they sensed him coming and flew toward him. They did not act as though he was a threat, but an advance patrol definitely showed interest in him, buzzing loudly over his head. A few even landed on the ropes, their abdomen throbbing as though they were about to plunge their stinger into him.
Alex did not panic and kept his eyes on the prize. Every step drew him closer to the tree. Every step also attracted more and more attention from the wasta-ta.
Finally, he was at the base of the hollowed-out tree. The buzzing of the wasta-ta was so loud that it blocked out all other sound. He was now nearly covered in two layers: rope and wasta-ta.
He felt a tickle in his lower calf. The ropes had separated and the wasta-ta had found his skin. For the moment, they were simply crawling along it, but their legs and wings beat against his bare flesh, thoroughly creeping him out.
Alex turned his left side toward the tree and attempted to drop the bag inside the hollow. It fell outside. He kicked the bag inside the tree and as he did, two of the wasta-ta on his leg stabbed him with their stingers.
Alex screamed, his vision blurred, and he nearly dropped his torch.
He managed to focus for another moment and dipped the torch deep into the pitch bag. It went up in an instant blaze, just like it was supposed to.
In the same instant, Alex turned and tried to sprint away. It felt like the fire from the tree had managed to get inside his leg and was spreading up toward his knee.
He could not run effectively with the ropes restricting him, but he focused on simply putting one foot in front of the other. As he did, the ropes separated in more and more spots. Every time a new gap appeared, the wasta-ta zeroed in with ruthless efficiency.
Now, the threat was real, and the giant bees flew at Alex with unmatched ferocity.
The bag blazed, the fire spread, and wasta-ta boiled from the tree by the thousands.
Alex felt new stings, new explosions, in his neck, his lower back, even his ear. He had no idea he had so many pain receptacles in his neck.
He looked ahead to see how far it was to the entrance to the bowl.
His three friends stood there with thin branches, ready to fend off the wasta-ta if possible.
Alex made it three more steps.
He was stung half a dozen more times.
His body was filled with enough poison that as his heart pumped, it spread throughout his system.
His legs grew heavy, then were completely paralyzed.
Alex Hawk pitched face first onto the gr
ound.
The wasta-ta continued to land and sting him.
Chapter Nine
Here But Gone
Alex was unable to move his limbs, but he did not immediately lose consciousness.
It felt to him as though he laid there a very long time, an experimental pin cushion for a demented torture master. Explosions of pain continued to wrack his body, but with each one, Alex grew a little more distant from the source. Soon enough, it felt like they were happening to someone else altogether.
Harta-ak watched Alex fall. He sprinted toward him. There was still a small cloud of wasta-ta hovering over Alex.
Harta-ak carried his branch with him. He had hoped to use it to fend off the wasta-ta, but realized how hopeless that idea was. There were too many of them.
Instead, he cast his switch aside and grabbed Alex’s outstretched hand. He braced himself and pulled. He scooted Alex along the ground roughly, heedless of the small rocks and limbs he pulled him over.
He had only moved him a few feet when the first wasta-ta landed on the back of his hand and buried its stinger deep into the fleshy spot between thumb and forefingers. Harta-ah screamed in pain, but did not let go of Alex.
Another wasta-ta landed on his wrist and did the same. Then another, and another.
Still, he did not let go.
Until, that is, Harta-ak’s eyes rolled up into his head and as Alex had done before him, fell to the ground, conscious but paralyzed.
When Alex had first fallen, Senta-eh had shouted, “Stay!” at Monda-ak, then sprinted away, back to their camp. As she ran, she snapped off several more leafy branches and held them together in a bundle. At the camp, she stuck the branches deep into their campfire, thankful it was still burning. The leaves were green and the branches springy and full of life. They did not catch easily.
Patiently, feeling the seconds tick relentlessly away, knowing the damage Alex was absorbing, Senta-eh held the branches in the fire until they finally caught.
She pulled them out and held her breath, hoping they would continue to burn. They did.
She walked back to the entrance as fast as she dared, wanting to make sure the wind did not put the burning branches out.
When she reached the entrance, she said, “Come on!” to Versa-eh and Monda-ak.
That was the command the dog had been waiting for. It rushed to Alex’s side, snapping at the wasta-ta that still circled over him. One by one, he grabbed them in his mouth, crunched them, then reached for another and another. The wasta-ta landed on him but had a hard time penetrating his thick coat. When one landed on his black nose and stung him, the dog whined pitifully, but continued to battle on.
Senta-eh hurried toward the two fallen men. She held the burning, smoking branch in front of her like a shield. Slowly, she stepped forward over Harta-ak’s body. She waved the smoking branches back and forth, pushing the wasta-ta away.
A few of the bees circled around the smoke and one landed on her bicep, stabbing its stinger down. Senta-eh grunted, gritted her teeth, and continued her slow progress. Soon she was standing over Harta-ak’s feet and shouted, “Versa-eh, carry him away! Monda-ak, stay with me.”
She twirled the branches in front of her, creating as much smoke as possible. She stepped forward to Alex’s prone body, where bees continued to swarm him. When she was astride his torso, most of the wasta-ta flew up and away.
“Monda-ak! Take Manta-ak away!”
The dog leaped into action, grabbing Alex by the rope that was still coiled around the scruff of his neck, and pulling him toward the opening.
Step by step, Senta-eh retreated, holding the smoking branches between her and the bees.
Finally, the wasta-ta’s fury was vented and en masse, they turned and flew back toward their burning home.
As the flames grew higher and higher, the buzzing of the bees combined into a single death shriek. It sounded like an eerie siren that raised in pitch and volume until it hurt Monda-ak’s ears and he whined again.
Finally, the tree could not stand and it toppled forward, spilling huge honeycombs, and burning liquid in a spreading pool.
One after another, the wasta-ta flew into the flames and died.
That crisis was over, but another was immediately evident. Senta-eh, Monda-ak, and Versa-eh had all been stung repeatedly and were feeling woozy and unsure on their feet. The three of them were in much better shape than Harta-ak, and he was far better off than Alex.
Senta-eh took command. She pointed at Alex. “You carry him back to the camp. He is smaller and lighter. I will carry Harta-ak.”
“Back to the camp?” Versa-eh asked. “Or on to the stream? Will the cool water help them?”
Senta-eh considered. “I can care better for them at the camp. But for now, yes, the stream will comfort them. Maybe it will wash away some of the poison.”
Versa-eh picked Alex gently up and laid him over her right shoulder. Senta-eh did the same with Harta-ak.
“We can go slowly,” Senta-eh said. “I don’t think a few minutes will make any difference for them. Dropping them could injure them worse.”
Steady and sure, the two women carried their loads to the babbling creek, stopping occasionally to get their breath. At one point, Versa-eh leaned over and vomited, made ill from her own stings, but didn’t even put Alex down.
For their part, the men were as silent as rocks. Their eyes were open, but their muscles were paralyzed.
At the creek, Monda-ak rushed in and put his injured snout under the cold water again and again.
Senta-eh laid Harta-ak crossways so that the water poured over him, then propped his head and neck against a flat rock.
“Make sure we keep their heads above water, even though they have many stings there. If they slip beneath the water, they will drown.”
Versa-eh said, “Aye,” and laid Alex the same way. “What now?”
“The water isn’t deep enough,” Senta-eh said. “Let’s move some rocks to create a pool.”
The women spent the better part of an hour doing just that, damming up the creek and making a pool of water.
Monda-ak finally emerged from the pool and plopped on the side of the bank, scratching at his nose. Senta-eh hurried over and saw that the poisonous barb was still there. She stroked Monda-ak’s head and, as gently as possible, pulled the stinger out.
Monda-ak sighed in relief, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
“Let’s do the same for them—make sure the stingers are out.”
Senta-eh kneeled in the pool beside Alex and unwound the bits of vine that still clung to him. Every inch of skin she exposed was swollen and red. When she had thrown the last vestiges of rope away, she removed his clothes and winced when she saw the true damage that had been done to him.
His hands and fingers were so swollen that they didn’t even resemble their original form. That swelling extended virtually everywhere.
She glanced at Versa-eh. “They have absorbed so much poison, I don’t know if they will recover.”
“Of course they will. They have to. I won’t be alone here,” Versa-eh said with determination. She positioned herself between the two men so she could reach them both, then said, “You should go and pick the leaves and roots and berries and whatever we need to be able to treat them. I will watch them until you get back.”
Her words were firm, but her chin wavered uncertainly.
Senta-eh was gone for several hours, and Versa-eh had begun to wonder if she had met with some bad end. When she finally returned, she was empty-handed.
“I gathered what I think we need and took it back to the camp. I have prepared a bed for them. I think the water has done what healing it can. Let’s carry them back.”
It was dark by the time Senta-eh had mixed enough of the paste to cover all the stings and both Harta-ak and Alex looked like mud mummies, covered in the cure from head to toe.
Versa-eh held Harta-ak’s unmoving hand and said, “They will be all right now.”
&
nbsp; Senta-eh reached out and touched her shoulder. “I am not so sure they will. This remedy is meant to treat a single sting, or perhaps two or three. They were each stung dozens and dozens of times. I don’t know if this will draw out enough of the poison. There is a root that will bring poison to the surface, but I cannot find it.”
Versa-eh, who normally seemed so confident in so many situations, looked scared. “What can we do?”
“I need to go to Rinta-ah. It is not far. They will have a real healer there. She might have the root we need. But I will be gone for some time. I will have to build a fire to signal them, cross the river, find the healer, and bring her here.”
“Yes,” Versa-eh said, glad to see a viable path of action open in front of her. “You go. Monda-ak and I will stay here and guard them.” She laid a long stabbing knife across her lap. “I will not let any harm come to them.”
Without another word, Senta-eh jumped on her horse and kicked her heels.
Camp was eerily silent—Monda-ak’s panting was the only sound.
From time to time, either Harta-ak or Alex seized up and had trouble breathing. When that happened, Versa-eh would lift them into a sitting position, make sure their airways were clear, and massage their chest. Each time, it was enough that they would once again breathe on their own.
It was a long night. Versa-eh did not dare sleep, but kept the fire built up and scanned the perimeter for the reflective glow from staring eyes.
A few hours after dawn, Senta-eh returned with four Rinta-ah warriors and a middle-aged woman. The warriors and woman were on foot, as it was impossible to get horses across the river.
The woman was the Rinta-ah healer and she had brought her healing bag with her. When she kneeled between the two men and moved the blanket away from them, she gasped.
“You said they were bad, but I did not imagine this. I have never seen so many wasta-ta stings.” She sat on her heels, lost in thought. “I will treat them as best I can here, but we will want to take them back to Rinta-ah, where I can care for them properly.” She turned to the four warriors. “Make me a litter for each of them. We can use the horses to bring us to the river.”
