by Vicky L Holt
“Out came the sun and dried up all the rain.” I hitched out with tears streaming down my face.
The spider bent its legs.
“Increased activity in your amygdala,” VELMA said in my ear.
Not now, VELMA.
“So the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout aga—?” I screamed when it jumped toward me. I held my tool straight out with a rigid arm. The tool glanced across its body, then the creature grasped my arm with several legs, and I thanked God and the rocket scientists again and again for my magical suit, and especially for my helmet, because even though I could see every single gooey eyeball smashed against the glass, it wasn’t touching me. It was trying every angle it could to snap its teeth into my neck, my shoulder, my arm, and it wasn’t happening. Its mandibles slipped against the material; it couldn’t manage a grip. My heartbeat spiked. I didn’t need VELMA to tell me that.
As much as I recoiled at the idea, I used my free hand and arm to try and wrestle it off. Shudders of revulsion coursed through me when I grabbed at legs and tried to pry them off. I could hear the crunching and squelching noises. Just like the bugs I was used to, its limbs snapped with pressure, and soon I could also hear its cries of pain. I adjusted my grip on my tool, and squeezing my eyes shut, I jammed it up. I felt its legs release, and I opened my eyes to see it scrabbling away from me. Panting, I jumped after it and, with a primal yell, stabbed it in the head.
It curled up on its back and died.
“Sensors indicate a life-form nearby.”
The tears continued to pour down my face. I hated everything about this place.
I stood over the thing and involuntarily shook, imagining its creepy legs crawling all over me again. I did a herky-jerky dance, waving my arms like a maniac and shivering, reliving the horror.
I kicked the corpse against the wall. I needed to set it on fire because my imagination was, without question, going to resurrect it a million times if I tried to rest in this cave.
I retrieved matches from one of my pockets. It took several tries for my shaking hands to cooperate, but the corpse eventually went up like a Molotov cocktail, and I backed away from the flames.
I felt a shudder beneath my feet as I stared at the fire. I cocked my head. Was that a scrape of something against the cave wall?
Still panting, I turned. Emerging from a huge opening I hadn’t shone my light on yet, was the granddaddy of my little campfire. It was as big as a horse if it was an inch. Just like the small one I killed, it was covered in hairy fibers. It had a dozen legs; its head was made up of eyes. I could see my headlamp reflecting back at me from a hundred of them. We paused, measuring our lives against the background of a flickering flaming bug.
I froze.
The thing about these spiders was they didn’t have webs in this cave. They had their mandibles. The ends of their legs had sticky pads instead of claws. I still hadn’t seen waste, so while they roamed these caves, it wasn’t where they digested their meals. All of these thoughts ran through my mind while I tried to make my body move. Outrunning it wasn’t an option.
Gripping my bloody tool tighter, I bent my knees in a crouch. The big daddy mimicked me. Oh yeah, he was going to pounce.
“Risk of malignant hypertension present. Tachycardia 180 BPM. Please remain calm.”
“Spider,” I croaked out.
The big leggy creature cocked its head at me. I forgot my mic was still on.
“The itsy-bitsy spider went up the waterspout,” I started again and then jumped. Too late, I saw the big spider had an appendage the little one lacked.
A huge curving spike rose out from the back of its head and rushed at me before I could dodge out of the way.
I was a dead miner.
14
Nightfall on Ikthe heightened my hunting instincts. While my ship would be waiting for me with the Tech-Slave, several animals stalked the lands between here and my ship.
I felt the rush of my holy calling, and unsheathed my raxtheza.
I smelled the night-time cousin of talathel, agothe talaza, nearby. I crouched amidst the grasses and waited for her to show her black tongue. She slithered into a coil, hissing and readying to make me her meal. The agothe talazal were crafty serpents. I heard her sister behind me. They thought to corner the Iktheka? I pulled a deep breath into my lungs and knew the moment they struck.
I rolled, slicing the raxtheza upward, disemboweling one, and then I jumped to my feet, bringing my blade down in full circle. I beheaded the first one.
The blood would bring numerous animals to this site. I ran through the field, using my nose to alert me to the dangers. Every creature, every glade, every creation on Ikthe released a unique smell. Theraxl could detect changes in a creature’s body—such as the moment a snake would strike. I could smell the crushed grasses beneath my boots, their spicy tang reminding me of a special soup my mother used to cook. The smells were a tapestry for my mind, teaching me, reminding me, warning me.
That’s why it was so odd to track the female enemy without her scent. It shamed me to admit that without a smell, I could not hunt as effectively.
I recalled the sight of her eyes through the strange helmet. It was not a warrior’s helmet like my own.
It held in the sound of her scream when she fell.
It held in the sound of her scream.
It … held … in … her scent!
If the helmet and clothing she wore were so effective as to conceal her scent from my nose, what could it keep out? Could it protect her from the poisons of the mud-beast’s home?
Fury flooded my heart-home, and I exulted in it.
She yet lived! The clever traveler outwitted the Mighty Hunter by obscuring herself in the pit with the mud-beast.
I turned around, running back to the ikfal and back to the pit. I felt flush with hot blood in my face and chest, and for the third time in many cycles, I laughed.
I found the path down to the pit and slid, letting my weight speed me along. With the diurnal setting in my helmet, I saw her muddy prints tracking all around the pit. She hadn’t bothered to hide her tracks at all, so confident was she I would never return.
The corner of my mouth turned up. She was worthy prey, indeed.
What had she been doing? At first, I thought she had been collecting fuel for a fire, or perhaps brush to form a shelter. The shrubberies and foliage surrounding the pit were hacked to bits. Her tracks and muddy handprints littered the entire area, surrounded slender trunks and smeared across rocks. I found a lump of blue clay almost obscured from her muddy hands. Why would she hold the clay in her hands and then drop it?
The odor of the mud was thick in the air. Pleasure tightened the skin of my face. Now I could track her by scent.
I found it concentrated by a thick overgrowth of bushes and small trees. I found the hole she entered.
Heart picking up pace and breaths escalating, I ignored the size of the hole. I would cut my way through if need be.
The sounds from within the cave reached my ears. I heard the crackling of a fire and a female voice—singing? I smelled the stench of the night-walkers, and a fire, and the mud.
The stupidity of the female spy knew no bounds. Entering the cave of a night-walker, at night. With no vial of the Waters of Shegoshel.
I felt less ashamed of losing her in the pit. It had been dumb luck. Now she was mine, provided I could capture her before she died from the night-walker’s strike. If she did, I supposed I could revive her with my vial. If I wished.
The walls of the tunnel pressed around my girth. I inched my way forward until it widened and the light from the fire and her helmet lit the entire room. I broke free of the tight tunnel just as the night-walker struck.
I had no time.
It struck her chest and she collapsed. The agothe-fax turned to face me, and I threw my raxtheza at its head. It cleaved in two, and its striker fell limp beside its body. I noted the fire was the younger sister agothe-fax.
At least the s
py had drawn out the last occupant of this cave. The night-walkers lived two-by-two, elder sister and younger sister, much like the serpents that had attacked me a rotik before.
I stood over the female’s body. There was an absence of blood, which surprised me. Perhaps her suit contained that, as well. If I were to resurrect her with the vial, then I had to remove her helmet. I knelt and lifted her head, using my other hand to trace around the neck. There was some sort of seal connecting the helmet to the suit, confirming my suspicions about its ability to protect its wearer from the poisons in the mud pit.
I checked the place the striker hit. There was no hole in the suit. I nodded with approval. Whatever the female’s race, her people had designed a powerful armor. The venom didn’t penetrate the suit. If the powerful strike didn’t kill her, then she would survive.
I observed the female’s chest, to see if her heart and heart-home worked together, to see if she still lived. There was no movement of breathing. I frowned. I had seen her small vehicle and the tracks leading away from it. Her short expedition had ended in her death. I didn’t know if the air of Ikthe was compatible with her race. Perhaps that is why she kept her helmet on. There was not time to determine. I frowned. Removing her helmet could kill her. My gaze strayed to her chest again. Still nothing. Perhaps she was already dead. I growled in frustration.
I rolled her small body to the side, facing away from me. I spied a small latch. I filled my lungs. I tried to detect a heartbeat from her back by pressing my hand to her spine. Nothing. I let out a somber breath.
Using a claw, I pulled it out and heard a hissing noise. If her race’s technology was similar to mine, then that was the air pressure releasing.
The first thing I noticed when I removed the helmet from her head was the scent rising from her hair. It washed over me in layers. First, the sweat, then the musk of female exertion, and last, the faintest aroma of the cool season when Ikshe burst with flowers and the jodaxl laid eggs. My heart-home released my heart for two tiks before resuming its natural order. My lungs gasped for air, my nose sank into her hair to repeat the joyful experience. My throat dried up. What sorcery was this? My heart-home would never release my heart. I jerked away from the scent of her hair.
A noise chimed in my ear.
The Royal Court summoned my comm.
I retreated from the body. Confusion replaced the momentary joy. My heart and heart-home should remain as they were, separate. They parted briefly for all adolescents, then joined once more, never to be parted. The myths of the heart escaping its confines were silly fables. Nothing more.
“Iktheka, we received your sight-capture,” Younger Sister Kama spoke. “You are still alive!”
“Yes.”
“The drawing for the Lottery is tomorrow night. The Royal Court extends an invitation to you to sit on the dais when the names are drawn.”
“I am honored, Younger Sister,” I said, hoping she couldn’t detect my reluctance. “Please give my regards to the Ikma, Elder Sister.”
“We look forward to the many meals provided by your hunt,” BoKama said. “May the life of Shegoshel shine upon you and your offspring.”
I closed with the traditional ending. “May the death of your enemies bring peaceful slumber.”
The younger sister and ambassador of the Royal Court ended the communication. I turned back to the body.
Cleansing the memory of her hair’s scent from my mind, I resumed my work.
I found fastenings and puzzled over them until I had opened the suit at her chest. I was not surprised to see a massive purple bruise blooming from under a cloth breast covering. The covering obscured half of the bruise, but what crossed the pale skin was enough to see the damage inflicted by the agothe-fax’s strike. A slender scar ran from above her sternum to her navel. It gave me pause, but it was an old wound. Still the female did not breathe. My eyes lingered on the curves of her chest a tik too long.
The creature’s strike had the force of five Theraxl hunters. If Theraxl survived the venom after taking the vial of Shegoshel Waters, he had chest pain for many moon cycles thereafter. I had little hope for the fragile body that lay before me.
Ignoring the temptation to devour the fragrance of her hair, I instead removed my clawed glove and placed my hand upon the bruise and the old scar. Her smooth skin was cool to the touch. Scowling, I pondered how to revive her. My race had a bone cage surrounding the heart-home and lungs, as well as other vital tender organs. Her skin, stature, and teeth were like that of prey: weak and fragile. Had her body no bone-cage to protect her heart?
I removed my own helmet, placing it beside hers on the cave floor, and bent to listen to her chest. At first, I heard nothing, but her chest formed a soft pillow for my head. I rested it there, to see if her heart-home sang the song of echoing death. Still nothing. That meant she lay in the valley between the land of the Shegoshel and the mountain of eternal death. The smooth texture of her skin sent my heart into a gallop. I pulled my hand away.
How odd the Goddesses of Shegoshel placed this enemy in my hands. Not fifty iktiks ago my plans were to remove her spirit from her frail body. And now I contemplated calling it back.
I was no maikshe. I didn’t carry the healing oils or mystical recipes that manipulated the spirits of Theraxl to both enter and leave their bodies. But I had the vial. Perhaps it would work, even though her body did not absorb any venom. At times, the Waters of Shegoshel were called upon in other healings.
I lifted her head with one clawed hand; I cradled it as if it were a large tree-fruit. I used the claw on my other hand to open her mouth. The softness of her lips jolted my concentration. Shaking my head, I retrieved my vial and flicked the lid off with my thumb-claw.
My brows clashed together. I shook my head. Risk after risk.
Perhaps our air poisoned her lungs. Perhaps this vial, intended to preserve her life, would kill her. But she already lay dying. That was only permitted if it had been by my hand. I held the vial in preparation to administer the healing drops. I stared at her lips, dry and pale. I hoped the vial could revive her. Yet …
I pocketed it instead. She was not Theraxl. Generations of my people would spin in their celestial orbits were I to dose this stranger with our sacred Waters. Maybe the Waters would have revived her heart and heart-home. Maybe they would have sent her spirit to the afterlife.
If I was not going to gift her with the Waters, I must do something else to help.
She had little breath. I had breath aplenty. Perhaps I could give her mine.
I leaned down, letting her unique aroma flood my senses. I filled my lungs and pressed my lips against hers. I blew a measured breath for the count of several tiks, then removed my mouth from hers. I placed my hand on her chest, but felt no motion. I would try once more. I made certain to create a seal with my mouth, that no breath would escape. With my hand on her scar, I blew until her chest rose under my hand. Once more. And once more. And once more. I breathed for her, willing her to breathe on her own with my every attempt.
For several tiks, my breathing filtered through the cave air, mocking me when it echoed. Then her chest rose under my hand. I pulled it away and watched, fearing it was my imagination. It rose again, high and full. I rested on my haunches and let my arms and shoulders relax. Moisture gathered at the corners of my eyes, but it was a dry cave. I wiped them without further thought. Never had I studied someone’s sleeping form with such care. Her chest rose. Again. And again. I believed she would live. But I wouldn’t know until I returned from Ikshe.
Time would reveal the answer. Goddesses willing, perhaps they would answer my next question: why did this frail creature cause my heart to try to leave its secure chamber? It was an abomination.
15
I dreamed I was running across the picnic meadow with my hair flowing behind me. Ahead, I saw a huge mountain and just as dreams go, I was suddenly at its base.
I looked up, but the top was obscured by clouds. I climbed and noticed I was weari
ng a flowing white dress and no shoes. My fingers and toes grasped the ridges in the rock. I climbed and climbed, and when boulders rained down upon me, I dodged them effortlessly.
Fresh mist hit my hot face, and then I was sitting in a lotus pose at the top of the mountain. Two beautiful women—no, not women—females, mimicked my pose.
I felt as if they were observing me.
“H-hello.”
“Hello, little sister.”
I looked around, but they were addressing me. The larger of the two had hair as bright as the sun. Her facial bones were angular; her eyes slanted. She had a slender nose and thin lips. Her skin was luminous, but also had an unusual texture and greenish tint. The smaller of the two had identical but smaller features.
“What am I doing here?” I said. “I mean, up here. With you.”
“You came to us. But now we know you are here, we are judging your worthiness.”
I cocked my head at them. Worthiness for what? “I didn’t know you were here when I climbed the mountain,” I told them, “and as to my worthiness, I don’t understand why it’s necessary?”
My life flashed before my eyes. Oh Mica. Was I dying? Dead? I couldn’t remember what I had been doing before. Something like a safari. A hippo. I couldn’t remember.
“She’ll do,” the younger one said.
I spared her a grateful glance, but again, I didn’t know what they were judging me on. Then one of many scenes I worked so hard to forget played across my mind’s eye. I knew they could see it as well.
My heart raced. I panted in shallow breaths. I felt the impact again, like fire, like knives, and the shame was as fresh as the day it happened. I flung my arms in front of my face, as if it were happening again. I looked between my arms at them. They both shed tears for me. I lowered my arms, looking around as if Chris would be there.
“Yes,” the larger one nodded. “She is the one.” Then she smiled, and flanking somewhat human-looking teeth, were two very long fangs. Fangs?
