A Billion Days of Earth

by Piserchia, Doris

  “What happened to him?” cried Elu when Chik was placed on his feet and the blanket was removed. The old man began to bawl and the two brothers joined him.

  “Cut it out,” said Redo.

  Elu shrieked, “This is my boy!”

  “At least you have something for his mother. It’s better than a corpse laid out for burial.”

  “He’s breathing,” said one of the brothers. “We better get some clothes on him and take him home.”

  “I want the best doctor in the world!” howled Elu.

  Redo called the Filly’s physician.

  Flur was never servile or even civil to ordinary people. “How the hell do I know what’s wrong with him?” he snarled, after examining Chik. “I’m no damned witch doctor. Maybe somebody put a hex on him. All I know is he’s coated with that silver stuff, internally and externally. It’s up his ass, down his throat, in his ears, and if you want my professional opinion, it’s also in his brain. If you make me give you a flat statement concerning his condition, here it is—this boy is dead.”

  “But he’s breathing!” yelled Elu.

  “Okay, he’s alive! What the hell do you expect me to do? You can take him over to the clinic for another examination, but they won’t tell you anything I haven’t told you.”

  Redo knew that between Flur’s dirty ears was the best medical mind in the hemisphere. “Take an educated guess. What do you think it is?”

  Flur scowled and spat on the rug. “Some goddamn alien life-form got hold of him. They’re existing symbiotically. He could stay like this for ten days or a hundred years. The stuff might eat him up or never take a hair of him. His bodily processes are functioning normally and the thing is not only feeding him—and don’t ask me how—it’s also getting rid of his waste products. You can’t get it out of him. It has him. My advice is to hire a plane or a boat and drop him in the ocean. Since he has a mother, you probably won’t do that. You’ll take him home, stand him in a corner and cry over him. You won’t cry long. His mother won’t either. He isn’t going anywhere, and after a while she’ll stop grieving when she realizes he’s causing her less trouble than these other two.”

  “Hail!” cried Brog from his nest in a high tree. He was naked and drunk.

  “What do you think you are, a tare?” said Rik.

  Brog picked his teeth with a straw and belched comfortably. In a loud but slurred voice, he said, “Today I am a man but after dark comes and hides all mortal scenery I will become a God. Or perhaps God. There’s a difference, you know.”

  “What’s that under your arm?”

  “A bottle of spirits. Takes the place of a coat.”

  Said Rik, “I’ll trade you my coat for it.”

  Brog came down the tree like a tare. “You have need? Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I didn’t want to sound greedy.”

  The prophet thumped his hairy chest. “It’s a greedy world and we must do as the natives do.”

  Rik took a drink from the bottle and stifled his urge to gag. It was homemade booze and he preferred better. There wasn’t anything better, though, so he had another drink and then watched in admiration as Brog grabbed the bottle and swallowed a third of its contents.

  “Phew!”

  “You spoke?” roared the prophet.

  “Only a sigh. I’m low tonight. Don’t let it worry you.”

  “Nothing worries me. At birth I gave a single cry of outrage, and it took care of everything. I can face the world’s crap with the aplomb of a saint, which is what I am through no fault of my own. The Lord aimed his intent at me and it went home like a shaft to the hilt. Never had a chance. Like it, though. Like putting the fear of Luvon into people.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Rik said drily.

  They sat on the ground, shoulder to shoulder, and got drunk. Brog became sloppy while Rik ascended to musical levels.

  Sang he, “One day on old Earth, a long, long time ago, a cat and a bird and a bee fell in love and got married and that’s why nothing makes sense any more.”

  “What kind of song is that?” said Brog, rising from the ground to a sitting position.

  “Silence, he-who-is-touched. Allow me to educate you.”

  “Just so you don’t try to entertain me.”

  Rik sang. “A rabbit and a sloth made a tare, a cow and a sheep made a kare, a turtle and a frog made a jare, what made me, what made me?”

  “Depends on who you were with last night,” said Brog, and guffawed.

  Sang Rik, “A man looked in the mirror one day. ‘I’ve changed,’ said he, ‘and I’ll never again be what it was that I was. I’ll be what I like, and what I like is God, so that’s what I’m going to be. You rats can be the men. Take my word for it, you’ve got what it takes.’ ” A tear slid down Rik’s cheek, “Oh, I’m a lonesome cowboy,” he sang.

  “Dear God, the Lord calls!” Brog groaned.

  Rik looked at the foolish face beside him. “You’re stupid. Do you really want to know who God is? He’s the man who owns everything.”

  “It takes more than wealth to make a God.”

  “Prove it.”

  Brog nodded wisely. “You seek a sign, like all who’re weak in the faith.”

  “Nuts.”

  “Which reminds me, what time is it?”

  “What do you care?”

  “There’s something I have to do,” said Brog. “Very important. Very top secret.”

  “What?”

  “Church business. You wouldn’t be interested.”

  “But I am,” said Rik. “It took me a long time to realize it isn’t wise to take you for granted.”

  Brog tried to show pleasure but his smile slid into a grimace. He tried to get his feet under him. “Help me up,” he said. “It’s essential that I appear at the appointed place. It’s the greatest damned drama since the birth of Luvon.”

  Rik took the bottle. “Are you sure it’s important?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What happens if you don’t show up?”

  “Complete and total disruption.”

  Rik pushed the prophet to the ground and grasped his hair. “I hope this gets you in a hell of a hot pot with your friends.” He forced Brog’s mouth open and nursed the rest of the liquor down the lusting throat.

  Eventually he stood. “I’m still not even with you.” he said to the sleeping man. “I never will be. I’ll have to learn to live with it.”

  He had difficulty walking straight and it was coincidence that led him toward the grove. Stumbling along a path he thought would take him to the road, he suddenly realized he couldn’t see a thing. The moon was behind a cloud and he had to feel his way through the brush.

  Cursing, he was about to turn and go back when he saw something that made his hair stand on end. Not 20 feet ahead of him was a ghost. The ethereal figure seemed to be floating in the air. Behind it shone a faint light, while around it fog swirled and billowed. He was preparing to let out a yell when the ghost spoke.

  “You have come, Lord, and I am here.”

  “What?”

  “I am ready for thy divine fertilizing.”

  Unbelieving, Rik took a step forward. Now he could see the ghost’s face. It was Aril, the virgin.

  Astonished and enraged, he took another step forward. She looked so beautiful. And so nutty. He knew she smelled sweet because she had her arms about his neck. He decided he was going out of his mind.

  “Luvon is slender and muscular,” she said. “Luvon has grown young and handsome. The spirit of desire creates a miracle.”

  “Tonight Luvon is old and ugly and lonely. Let him go.”

  “His arms hold me fast.”

  “Careful, he has sharp teeth.”

  “With which he nibbles my earlobe.”

  “Because he has poor self-control.”

  “He is virile.”

  “Get your hands off me.”

  “I kiss your mouth,” said the virgin.

  “Don’t do that.�
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  “I do this.”

  “Don’t.”

  “And this.”

  “Please.”

  “And again.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “You are the Lord.”

  “I’m anything you say.”

  King Bebe was a handsome zizzy. His slanted green eyes seemed to miss nothing. His whiskers spanned two feet of space, his stinger was awesome, the bone structure of his wings resembled a large and intricate spider web.

  Bebe preferred the air to the ground and had mastered aeronautics; he was an accomplished stunt flyer. At the moment he was preparing to feast on a zomba, the fastest land animal in the world. Before Bebe ate, he planned to have some sport.

  The zomba had a thick, silky, tan-colored coat, four long legs, a sharp-toothed snout and a brain the size of a coconut. He didn’t look like a pony or a cheetah. He looked like a zomba.

  Like most of his kind, this specimen behaved intelligently except when he was startled. As Bebe dived through the sky, the zomba screeched and acted on impulse. He should have run toward a mound of rocks to his right where he could have hidden until hunger sent Bebe away. Instead, he headed across a barren patch of ground toward another rocky area too far away. He was stabbed in the side. He did a little dance to the left, screeching all the while, and as he whirled to rake at the enemy, Bebe shot skyward.

  The zomba tried to maintain a straight path toward the rocks. He knew his pursuer was deadly. A zizzy tortured its victims to death, ate a small bit of the carcass and left the rest for scavengers. The zomba’s lifespan was 80 years, but few of his kind lived to senility because they shunned the safety of companionship. With the desperation of the cornered, this zomba strove for the rocks, which he knew were beyond reach. Bebe stabbed him in the shoulder and released enough venom to numb the muscle. The zomba swerved to the right. Not daring to expose his belly, he made a blind leap and snapped his jaws on empty air. A stinging pain flashed through his tail as he was attacked from the rear.

  Sitting on his haunches, the zomba watched the zizzy zoom at him. Bebe’s wings were together over his back, his arms and legs were flat against his belly, his stinger pointed like a wicked dagger.

  Knowing the zizzy wouldn’t try to sting him in the face, the zomba waited to see which way Bebe would turn, which part of him would be the target. As the stinger descended, brilliant as a jewel, the zomba swiped at it with a paw. He felt a breeze at his back as the zizzy somersaulted over him and escaped.

  At 30 miles an hour the zomba ran, then at 50, then 60 and faster. His long legs ate up ground. Crippled though he was, he was still the fastest thing running. But the zizzy had a strong pair of wings. Bebe calmly sat on the sand ahead and preened his whiskers. He took flight just as the zomba sprang. The stinger pierced the tawny throat, and the zizzy ascended with lightning speed. The zomba rolled in a headlong rush. Bebe stung him four times along the spine. His head whipped up, his jaws snapped and the zizzy was driven away. Dazedly shaking his head, the zomba drew ragged breaths and repeated the snapping motions. He couldn’t see or hear the enemy, didn’t know it was parked three feet away, that it lay supine and inched close with a sliding movement. Only when the stinger entered his haunch did he know. Bebe gave him a strong dose of poison.

  The zomba tried to run. His leg wouldn’t function, so he dragged it. Even on three legs he made some headway. Exhausted and suffering, he couldn’t find an enemy who changed position so often. His mind cringed. He tried to ignore pain, tried to ignore the fact that it was almost impossible to breathe. While he ran he looked for the glint of sunrays on wings, attempted to sense it when the zizzy swept near, snapped with his teeth and hoped they closed on something solid.

  His right front leg went out, shot full of poison. He kept going on two. “I die,” he thought coldly. He snapped at the air over his head. Bebe tried to get him onto his back by jamming the stinger into the top of his skull.

  “No scavenger will take my soft parts first,” the zomba told himself. No matter what the zizzy did, he wouldn’t roll over. The friends of the desert would have to work to get at his vitals.

  Liver was a food Bebe liked, and he became annoyed when the zomba refused to lay over. But then the sport was better than the eating. Bebe stopped playing, sat on the sand, watched and waited and made no sound.

  The zomba crawled. Through red eyes he saw the monster ahead. Slowly he turned and crawled the other way. No matter which way he went, the zizzy was waiting for him.

  He lay still and rested. When he opened his eyes the monster wasn’t in sight. Crawling was agony, but he crawled. Amused laughter sounded over his head. Feet played with the fur on his neck, a wing spanked his side, claws raked his nose bloody, the tip of his tail was severed by the stinger. He couldn’t open his jaws.

  Bebe crouched behind the zomba and held him fast. Once in a while the wounded creature got away, and then the claws were on him again. The stinger, empty of poison, used the area under the tail as a dart board. Later, the enemy began in earnest to cut off the tail at the base. The bone proved too tough and the sport was abandoned.

  For a while the zizzy entertained himself by straddling the sleek back and digging with his claws. Then he hovered overhead with the point of his stinger imbedded in the downy skull. Around and around he whirled, and the stinger drilled in. After a hole had been made, Bebe dipped in his tongue and sucked.

  Pain caused the zomba to stir. Somewhere in the maelstrom of his torment he recognized a whisper of warning. The zizzy would kill him instantly if he exposed his belly. His body would lie open on the desert. The thoughts made the zomba give a loud cry.

  The sound of the cry carried to a culvert beyond a ridge where Rik hunted. He found the tracks where Bebe had first attacked. He was surprised at how far the zomba had managed to run.

  The two creatures were unaware of the man’s approach. One was preoccupied with thoughts of death, the other was absorbed in his play.

  Concealing himself within the thick arms of a cactus, Rik fired his rifle in the air.

  Bebe went skyward in a hurry, reached a safe height, circled and searched for the hunter. There was nothing on the ground that he could see except the blasted zomba who was reluctant to give up his liver. On Bebe went with his search. Nothing moved below except tumbleweeds, scrub grass and the zomba who was trying to hide in the rocks. The shot had sounded quite close, but there was no hunter so the sound must have been a loud echo. It wasn’t important. The ground and the sky were clear. Bebe was safe.

  The dratted zomba had his paws between two large rocks. A few more feet and he would be under an overhanging slab. Bebe screamed with anger. He knew his victim couldn’t be killed from the back. Its carcass could soak up any amount of venom without lasting harm. The stinger wouldn’t go through the skull bone. It might take a day of stabbing the throat before he found the right spot. Of course he could kill it via the rectum, but he was too fastidious for that. No, the thing must roll over. Back to the game.

  Bebe had to place his feet on two rocks to get at the zomba. By holding himself steady with wing motion he could stab the body or pick at it with his claws. By and by, a scowl grew on his face. He was soiling himself with the beast’s blood. His claws and stinger were a mess.

  Leaving his prey, he flew about until he spied a sandy rock. It was only a few feet away. Bebe hurriedly cleaned his stinger by moving it up and down against the rock in a sawing motion and whirling in a circle at the same time. His claws came next. Too lazy to descend to the ground, he sat on the rock and leaned forward to wipe his claws on the grass. He was in an awkward squatting position when the rifle went off again. Startled into leaping backward, he fell before he remembered his wings. But he descended too far into a narrow crevice and there was no room to spread them. He lay on his side with his rump shoved against dirt and rock, and with his head jammed against his chest. He tried scratching with his foreclaws. The rock was granite, and all he did was give himself hangnails.

>   To his horror he heard the zomba approaching. By straining his neck cruelly, he could see the edge of the crevice. When a bloody head came into view, he let out a shriek, shrank down and braced himself for the grinding teeth. Nothing happened. Frantically, he tried to turn his head, failed, tried again, and was reduced to choking sobs. The zomba was too exhausted to grope for him.

  Drops of blood rained on him, and he wept in disgust and terror. He hadn’t meant any harm. It wasn’t fair that he should be brought down at his early stage of life. He was too young. His wives would mourn him.

  The zomba regarded the situation with a cold eye. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. His would-be executioner was trapped in the hole, and lay helpless. One good bite would transport the zizzy to kingdom come. The zomba could return to his mate without regrets. But could he? Wasn’t he now on his last leg, so to speak? If he went down into the hole and finished the zizzy, would his strength permit him to get out again? He had lost so much blood.

  Faced with a dilemma, the zomba had to make a decision. He was intelligent, but his emotions made him overlook one thing. He had forgotten the sound of the rifle. Such a sound usually meant instant death for some living creature, but the zomba was consumed by his hate and desire. He wanted to kill the zizzy who had put him through racking hell. Did he want it more than he wanted to live?

  “No,” he said aloud. “But I will kill the monster anyhow.” Using the last of his strength, he rose on his front legs with the intention of pitching over into the hole. As momentum carried him forward, a boot appeared beneath his jaw.

  Rik shoved and the zomba went rolling away; he stood looking down at Bebe.

  “Kill it!” howled the zomba, but Rik heard only guttural noises.

  “I never thought you were so stupid,” he said to Bebe. “You’re such a hog, you did it almost by yourself.”

  “Kill it!” screamed the zomba. Beside himself with rage, he nibbled at the man’s boot.

  Rik looked down. “God, what a mess you are. Go home. If you were fit to eat, I’d shoot you. I doubt if you’re going to make it.”

  “Kill it! Kill the enemy!”