Orphan Tribe, Orphan Planet

by Jonathan Vick

Thurl turned his back to the shards of ice that jetted across the bristlewind fields. He curled into as small a target as he could make himself, and pressed his shield against his back.

  Already, he could feel his breath freeze in his mouth; the perspiration on his skin turn to frost, then ice. Even his chunacat pelt was stiff and cold.

  He slowed his breath and tried to calm his thoughts. If he died in this moment, he wondered how he would be remembered: the chantimer; the runt. It was heartbreaking to know he had accomplished so little. He was young, but if his life was over, there was so much more he could have already done.

  He could hear the pounding of the vortexes; thick spires of tornado ripping bristlewind into the air, spiraling from the clouds above and thrashing the ground until the roots were severed and the bedrock split. It seemed like they were all around; hundreds of spires striking the field. If one of them struck where Thurl or Meisx lay, or even nearby, it would thrash them into the sky and heave them miles across the terrain.

  Thurl wondered if they rest of the warriors made it safely to the caves. He wondered if his father would notice he was missing.

  The snow shifted beneath him and sifted away. Somewhere below, the earth had split and the cushion of snow was being pulled underground. Thurl grasped the strap of the shield more tightly, hoping it might somehow hold him above the gash should the ground open up and attempt to swallow him whole.

  Behind him, muffled by the shield and the trench, he could hear Meisx screaming for help. Meisx, the great warrior who bragged about defeating a fegion on his first hunt, and spent nearly every festival hurling warming rocks at the warrior trainees and creating unflattering nicknames for them; the great Meisx was screaming.

  Thurl wanted to laugh; wanted to stomp around on top of Meisx’s shield and shout insults; wanted to throw rocks and strut around and pound his chest and howl. But first, he wanted to survive.

  If Meisx lived, it would be because Thurl saved his life. But if Thurl didn’t survive, nobody would ever know.

  Thurl tried to remain calm. He kept his breathing slow, his heartrate even. He refused to die before Meisx.

  Ice hail was thrashing down, adding a new layer of thick sleet to the bristlewind fields. It pounded Thurl’s shield, beating it shapeless. Where it missed the shield, it thumped into Thurl, leaving deep tissue bruises.

  Then, the direction of the air shifted. A low layer of slightly warmer air; warmer than the hail and ice, rushed across the bristlewind fields. It cleared the ground chill and forced the frequency of the vortexes to ebb and ease.

  Higher in the sky, the wind was still powerful. Thurl could hear it shrieking over the plains, whipping unearthed bristlewind through the sky and hurtling shards of ice like deadly spears. But near the ground where Thurl and Meisx lay, the breath of warmer air was melting the fresh snow, creating a sheen of liquid sleet over the fields. When the breeze passed, the sleet would re-freeze, entombing everything beneath in an eternal tableau.

  Carefully, cautiously, Thurl lifted his head. He needed to move; to shake the sleet from his flesh and chunacat pelt before they froze solid and left him paralyzed. He needed to make sure Meisx moved, as well, or else the trench that was saving his life would be his grave.

  Thurl grunted and listened for echoes. The landscape had dramatically changed, but the storm was passing. Somehow, he had survived. If he ever found the village again, he would have plenty of bruises and lacerations to show off; battle scars to prove his story.

  Muffled cries were coming from Meisx as Thurl stood up and shook the hoarfrost from his follicles. The chunacat pelt was stiff and sharp. The wind was still bitter. Daggers of ice still ripped through the wind and split his skin. Occasionally, Thurl would hear a vortex thunder into the field and rip a patch of bristlewind by the roots, each time a little further in the distance.

  Thurl could feel the temperature difference closer to the ground. The air currents near his head were markedly colder than the ones nearer his feet. He would need to move quickly to get Meisx up and get them both moving before the slush on their bodies turned into a solid block.

  Grunting for location, Thurl pushed his fingers under the shield he had placed on top of Meisx. He tossed it aside, and pulled the chunacat pelt off the warrior.

  Meisx was huffing and panting beneath. His sounds had been muffled in the trench and he had been frantically trying to get any kind of information signal.

  When Thurl pulled up the chunacat pelt, Meisx sat bolt upright and gasped for breath, clicking and grunting with manic ferocity.

  “It’s okay,” Thurl said, close to his ear so he could hear over the wind. “You’re alive. The storm is passing.”

  Meisx growled and shoved Thurl back. He climbed out of the trench without saying a word to Thurl. He sniffed the air, held his arms out for currents and clicked.

  The storm was already racing away from them. All that remained was a soft pelting sleet.

  Thurl tried to hand Meisx his shield, but Meisx was busy grunting and clicking, trying to get his bearings in the changed landscape of the bristlewind fields. Finally, he pounded his fist in the snow and snatch the shield from Thurl.

  He leaned in close to Thurl’s ear and growled: “Nobody knows about this. Ever. Do you understand? Nobody knows this happened!”

  Thurl didn’t answer. He wanted to laugh in Meisx’s face; wanted to snort and tell the world how Meisx had panicked and screamed and would have died out there alone without Thurl. Instead, he simply didn’t answer.

  Meisx huffed in Thurl’s face, grabbed his arm and pulled him in the right direction.

  Together, they began running for the caves where the rest of the hunt team was sheltered.

  Thurl collapsed just inside the cave.

  They had run well past the setting of the sea. The smell of the rising tide was distorted by the wind and the storm, so they had to change direction several times before they found their way.

  When they finally reached the cave in the foothills, Thurl’s legs were so weak he could barely feel them beneath himself. He could smell the heat coming off the warming rocks; could taste the airborne dust from the hardtack and salted meat the warriors had been eating; could hear the murmur and mumble of the hunt team talking. Just before his mind went blank, Thurl could hear his father grunt, then click in a rapid chatter; could hear the mighty Sohjos bumbling across the cave to embrace his fallen son.

  CHAPTER eight

  “If I hadn’t dug that trench and covered him with my shield, the little runt would have died out there.”

  Meisx was sitting near the warming rock, telling the tale of their ordeal in the storm. He was lying, of course. But only Thurl knew it was a lie. And Thurl was not awake.

  He could hear Meisx, but he was still too exhausted to contradict him. Nobody would believe him anyway. Meisx was a decorated warrior. Another tale of glory would only add to his reputation. Thurl was a runt who tried to kill a chantimer hatchling.

  Very slowly, Thurl shook himself awake. He was force fed deilla wine and warmed water at intervals to help him. When he was fully awake, he sat against the back wall of the cave, wrapped in his chunacat pelt, chewing hard tack slowly; seething at Meisx and the chantimer and his father.

  While he had slept, Meisx had told his lies and puffed himself up at the expense of Thurl. The “runt” was made out to be a damsel in distress. Sohjos’s initial elation at finding Thurl alive was replaced by shame as Meisx told his stories. Now, Thurl sat alone. If he had it all to do over again, he wondered if he would have bothered saving Meisx’s life. He wondered if it would have been better to let Meisx fend for himself.

  Sohjos stood up at the other end of the cave.

  “It’s getting late,” Sohjos said. “We need to retrieve the michau meat before it loses the perfume and is found by fegion. We’ll leave our packs here. We don’t all need to go.”

  Sohjos began picking his retrieval team. Thurl already knew he would not be on it. Meisx would be their leader,
of course. Meisx knew the way.

  Before Thurl had finished his block of hard tack, Sohjos and his team were heading out of the cave, following the faint trail toward the meat they had left in the snow.

  Lavis was one of the warriors who had been left behind. After the team was out of sight, he sat next to Thurl.

  “Rough night out there,” Lavis said.

  Thurl grunted.

  “So, what really happened?” He asked.

  “Didn’t Meisx already tell you?” Said Thurl.

  “Of course,” said Lavis. “Does Meisx ever stop telling stories? But, Meisx has a way of embellishing the truth.”

  “He didn’t even come close this time,” snarled Thurl.

  “Which parts did he inflate?” Lavis asked.

  Thurl didn’t know if he should tell Lavis; didn’t know how much he should tell; didn’t know if he would even be believed if he told the truth.

  In the end, he didn’t get the chance to tell him anything.

  Djinzon was running back toward the cave, screaming louder than any of them had screamed in the wild.

  “Narvai-ub!” He was shouting as he stumbled and tripped over the new snow. “Attack by narvai-ub!!”

  The Racroft leaped to their feet. They grabbed their shields and spears and ran into the snow to meet Djinzon.

  Thurl tossed his tack aside and threw the chunacat pelt off his shoulders. He ran out with the others.

  Before they could reach Djinzon more of the hunt team were heard.

  “Narvai-ub!” They were shouting. “It came from below!”

  Thurl had never seen a narvai-ub; he’d only heard stories. There had only been a few Racroft who had ever seen a narvai-ub and lived, and they were all very old now.

  “How many did it get?” Lavis asked, as they ran across the snow to one another.

  “I don’t know,” shouted Djinzon. “It got Romd and Sohjos! After that I ran!”

  Thurl stopped and stood in the snow. His heart sank in his chest; pounded hard and hurt like daggers. He swallowed and grunted and sniffed the air, hunting for any sign of his father. Then his feet were moving below him, racing toward the place the hunt team was fleeing.

  Ciashi, the oldest and slowest member of the hunt team, stopped Thurl, grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing his backwards, away from his father.

  “Thurl, you can’t help him,” Ciashi was saying. “You have to save yourself. You have to stand on bedrock where the narvai-ub can’t reach you.”

  Thurl wouldn’t listen; refused to heed; didn’t want to hear what Ciashi was saying. He wrestled himself out of Ciashi’s grip, and staggered and stumbled in the snow. Before Ciashi could grab for him again, Thurl was running into the wind, following the scent of the michau meat and the trail of trampled footprints.

  The rest of the warriors retreated inside the cave. They were counting one another, calling out names to find out how many had been lost. Thurl was out of range before they finished their count.

  He could smell something pungent ahead; the smell of sweat and blood and fear, of course, but something else. It smelled like the warmth coming from fresh warming rocks. It smelled like the grit that fell with the waterfall back home in their village cavern. It smelled like deep earth, and forbidden places.

  Thurl ran faster, calling for his father. He was alone along the path, running across the bristlewind fields. He clicked and the sound echoed off two bundles of the michau meat. The others were gone. Not far from the bundles was an enormous hole in the ground, like some huge creature had punched through from below. Around the hole there were craters of blood melting into the snow, or freezing where they sat.

  Thurl ran around the hole, frantic and afraid. He found the arm of a fallen Racroft, left behind for the scavengers. There was no sign of his father or any other warrior. There was just the hole, dropping down into an unexplored terrain beneath the crust of the planet.

  Thurl shouted down into the crevice. He clicked and grunted to get a feel for the depth. The hole was vast – easily fifteen feet wide and deeper than Thurl braved to jump.

  There was no noise coming from below. Thurl called for his father, but heard no reply. Then, somewhere behind him, beyond a snow drift, he heard something; some movement and a groan.

  Thurl clambered over the drift and nearly landed on the torn and lacerated body of Hedule.

  Hedule was face down in the snow; a mass of blood and broken bones. When Thurl rolled next to him, Hedule lifted his head and howled.

  Thurl could smell the warm blood in the snow; could feel the heat coming from Hedule’s dying body. He turned Hedule over. Hedule groaned and shouted in pain.

  “What happened here?” Thurl asked.

  “Narvai-ub,” Hedule whispered. “It came out of the ground, from below. We didn’t hear it until it broke through; nothing but teeth and tusks.”

  He coughed and spluttered blood.

  “Sohjos,” asked Thurl. “What happened to him?”

  “It got Xatencio and Romd first. Swallowed them whole right where they stood. I’ve never seen a creature so large,” Hedule said, choking and spitting as he spoke. “It thrashed after the rest of us. I got caught in its jaws. Sohjos was still fighting when it went back underground. He was impaled on a tusk, but he was still fighting. He pulled me out and threw me here. Then the narvai-ub dragged him under the snow and everyone started running.”

  Thurl promised to get help. He packed Hedule’s wounds with snow. The cold would slow the blood-flow, hopefully long enough for Hedule to live.

  Thurl wanted to run back to the cave and get help, but he was afraid that the time lost heading back would be time for the narvai-ub to get further away. If his father was still alive, Thurl was going after him.

  He grabbed Hedule’s shield and covered his body with it to help protect him from scavengers. Then he grabbed his own shield and spear and ran to the opening of the crater.

  Gulping air, he prepared for a call for help: the Oywai – a quick series of loud, high-pitched screeches that traveled for miles in all directions. He hoped it would bring the hunt team back from the cave to help Hedule.

  There was movement behind him; something large and foreboding quivering behind an unearthed boulder in a patch of this bristlewind.

  Thurl stood still and breathed slowly. He didn’t know much about narvai-ub; didn’t know if they remained on the surface; didn’t even know how big they were.

  As silently as possible, he raised his spear. Then, the wind shifted and he could smell Racroft. There was someone behind the boulder, maybe trapped beneath it; maybe it was his father.

  Thurl ran, clicking and grunting, smelling the air as the wind pulled it from him, trying to identify the exact musk, listening for unique breathing patterns, hoping to find Sohjos alive and unhurt.

  The boulder was still warm and wet; slick with fresh mud and the clay dissolving saliva of the narvai-ub. It radiated the warmth of the underground and smelled of dirt and root and decay.

  Thurl rounded the giant stone and discovered a Racroft cowering behind. He was not injured; not that Thurl could tell. There was no scent of blood. The musk smelled like urine and sweat and something Thurl couldn’t identify; something desperate and broken and terrified.

  “Father?!” Thurl shouted, hoping his father would answer.

  Instead, he was met with the quivering whimper of Meisx, crouched against the rock, hiding behind his shield.

  “Meisx!” Said Thurl. “Are you injured?! Did the narvai-ub get you? Where is Sohjos?”

  Meisx didn’t answer. He was shaking, drooling, gripping his shield with active force. Thurl tugged on the edge of the shield, trying to get Meisx to respond, to stand up, to help.

  “Meisx!” He shouted, again. “Is the narvai-ub still here? Hedule is injured!”

  Thurl kneeled in the snow, running his hands over Meisx’s arms and legs, searching for lacerations. Meisx swatted him away.

  “I’m not injured,” he growled. “Just go
away.”

  “Hedule needs help,” Thurl was panicked; excited.

  “Nobody can help him,” Meisx mumbled.

  Thurl pressed his palms into Meisx head, feeling for cuts or soft spots as he continued: “He’s hurt but still alive. He said Sohjos was alive when the narvai-ub went back underground. If we can get Hedule to safety, maybe we can go after Sohjos!“

  “Nobody can help him!” Meisx shouted. He stood up and pushed Thurl to the ground. “Can’t you understand that?! Nobody can help any of us! If that thing comes back…”

  Meisx stood in the snow, blubbering, slobbering. His heart beat so loudly Thurl could hear it.

  “We have time,” Thurl pleaded. “If it didn’t get too far away…”

  “He’s gone!” Meisx screamed. “They’re all gone!”

  Thurl stood silently, facing Meisx, listening to the rasp of Meisx’s frightened breathing; the beat of his shaken heart.

  “You should go back to the cave,” Thurl commanded. “Get help for Hedule. I’m going after my father.”

  “You can’t help him,” Meisx said.

  “I can’t let him die!” said Thurl. “He’s the Leader of the Hunt! He’s your Leader! He’s my father! And we can’t just sneak back home if there’s a chance!”

  “There’s no chance!” Meisx yelled. “What are you going to do, Runt? Chase the narvai-ub?! That thing is three times your size! It ate Xatencio and Romd whole! Do you really think you’re going to go underground, into its lair, and kill it to save your father?!”

  “It’s what Sohjos would do for me,” said Thurl, quietly. “Or for you.”

  “And that’s why he’s impaled on a narvai-ub tusk, and we’re still alive and going home,” said Meisx.

  “You’re a coward,” Thurl spat at Meisx.

  Meisx rushed toward him, plowing into his chest and throwing him onto the snow.

  “You’re a child,” said Meisx, as he stood over him. “Bravery is knowing when to take the risk, and when to be thankful you survived!”

  “Cowards weigh risks,” Thurl said. “Bravery is doing it anyway. Help Hedule. Get him back to the cave. I’m going after my father.”