Stone Spring

by Stephen Baxter

  On she climbed, up through the branches, arms and legs working, her back soon aching, the breath coming short, her palms scraped by the bark. When she glanced down, the tree trunk seemed to narrow to its roots, far below in the litter of the forest floor.

  If her Other had been a squirrel this might have been enjoyable. She took a deep breath and climbed on.

  Something moved, above her.

  She stopped dead, peering up. A shadow shifted in the dense canopy, something massive, silent save for the faintest rustle of the leaves.

  Her spear was useless, for there was no room to wield it here among the branches; she might have been better to leave it on the ground. But she had her blade, which she took from a fold in her tunic and tucked into her mouth, leaving her hands free. If she climbed higher, got a bit closer—she remembered the Root’s instructions about chasing her Leafy Boy to the end of a branch—

  She saw the stone out of the corner of her eye, flying up from the ground, a whirling blade. She flinched back, but it caught her on the back of her shin, just above the ankle. Blood flowed, hot, and she cried out, her voice loud in the stillness of the forest.

  Her injured leg slipped, slick with blood. She lost her grip and fell, landing heavily on her back on a thick branch. She would have fallen further if she hadn’t grabbed onto branchlets with both hands. The branch creaked and swayed, and her leg ached, but she held on.

  It was deliberate! Someone had thrown the blade, and injured her, deliberately. Maybe even tried to kill her.

  She tried to sit up, moving one hand at a time. If she could bandage her shin with a bit of tunic it would hold until she got down to the ground and the priest could treat it properly. Even so climbing would be difficult, with one weakened foot, and she had dropped her blade in the fall. She searched for her spare.

  And it came down on her from above, a heavy, meaty tangle of thrashing limbs and muscles and teeth, a row of white teeth before her face.

  She fell back on her branch, clutching with one hand, and got the other hand around the beast’s throat. She pushed back the face, those teeth. The creature thrashed and twisted and pummeled her with feet and fists and knees. It was so close in the green gloom she could barely make out what it was. A boy! It was a boy, with a scrawny torso and stick-like arms on which muscles bulged, skin stained green with leaf fragments, hair long and filthy, and a bright emptiness in the eyes. He might have been eight, nine, ten years old; he was strong, and wild.

  She lost her grip. She fell backward and crashed through one branch, two, before slamming down on another, winded, still high above the ground.

  She backed up against the trunk of the tree, scrambling to find her blade.

  But she was too slow. The boy swung down, grabbing onto whippy branchlets with a clean instinct, and he was on her again. All she could do was cling to him, trying to push him away, kicking feebly with her one good foot.

  And now there were more of them, a second, a third, a fourth, heavy, lithe shapes crashing down through the foliage and joining the pile on top of her. She couldn’t move, she could barely breathe, as the squirming bodies pinned her and fists and feet slammed into her face, her sides, her belly. She couldn’t even see their faces. She thought of the baby lying helpless inside her.

  Now she felt small hands dragging at her tunic, pawing between her thighs, and something pressed against her bare stomach—a penis, hard. All this was wordless, the boys silent save for grunts and snarls.

  Something heavy slammed into the pile of boys, with a sound like chopping meat. One of them gurgled and fell away, and she felt the weight lift. It had been a spear; she could see the shaft. The other boys screamed and spat. Another spear flew, missing the boys.

  With a final volley of blows and punches they scattered and spread. She could hear them go, crashing through the branches with no regard for the noise they made.

  She was a mass of pain. She tried to hang onto the branch under her, but it was slick with blood.

  She fell again. Another branch slammed into her back, stunning her, and she dropped toward a distant, leaf-strewn ground.

  35

  The priest woke her.

  She had been dreaming of falling. She grabbed at his arm, the pallet under her body.

  “It’s all right.” Jurgi’s face was over her in the gloom of the Pretani house, his hands on her shoulders, reassuring. “You’re safe. You’re down.” His smile was dimly lit by firelight.

  She remembered the tree, the boys. “My leg—”

  “A gash. I cleaned it, stitched it.”

  Her hand flew to her stomach.

  “Your baby’s fine too,” he murmured. “I heard its heartbeat. He, or she, is going to be a tough fighter.”

  “How . . .” Her throat was dry as dust.

  “Drink this.” He lifted a wooden bowl to her lips and let her take swallows of tepid, strongly flavored water. “Willow bark tea. From Alder. Kills the pain.”

  “What pain?” She tried to lift her head off the pallet; a pain like a thunderclap echoed through her skull. “Ow.”

  “The Root was worried about the damage your head might have done to his tree on the way down. Look, another few days and you’ll be fine. But I had to wake you now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Shade asked me to. He wants you to see what’s going to happen tonight.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “He’s challenged his father.”

  “Over me?”

  He smiled, but it was a bleak expression. “Yes, over you. Wherever you go, trouble follows . . . Come on. If you can stand I’ll get you outside.”

  She managed to sit up, and the priest threw a cloak around her shoulders and helped her to her feet. Her leg ached deeply; evidently it had been a bad cut, but with the priest’s help she could hobble. It felt as if her head had been cracked like an egg.

  “So,” she said. “The Leafy Boys. Those things that got me.”

  He pulled open the door flap and helped her through. “They are boys—human, though they don’t look it.”

  Outside the air was fresh, cooler than it had been. Puddles stood on the ground of the clearing, and the sacred posts gleamed, wet. It had been raining, then; the weather had turned while she’d been unconscious. She couldn’t see anybody else.

  Jurgi helped her to a log, and she sat, gratefully. He said, “I believe it was a Leafy Boy that threw down the branch at you, that time. Remember?”

  “When you saved me.”

  “And almost got killed myself.” The priest glanced up at the night-black forest canopy. “They live in the trees. The canopy is so solid, the Pretani believe, that you could climb a tree and cross this country from north to south, east to west, without ever touching the ground. And there’s food up there, the fruit of the trees, the squirrels and the birds to hunt. And to drink, water that pools in the big leaves and hollows in the trunks. It’s a place to live, if a strange one.”

  “How do they get up there? The boys.”

  “Nobody knows how it started. Maybe a bunch of kids got lost somehow, or they were outcasts . . . They go naked. They lost the knowledge of speech. They’re more animal than human, I think. It’s a harsh life up there—one slip and you fall. Shade says they rarely breed.”

  She grunted. “A gang of them tried to breed with me.”

  “Oh, they rape. They rut with each other like dogs. But even if one of them becomes pregnant, how could they handle the birth, look after a baby? It’s thought they keep up their numbers by stealing children from the ground, kids old enough to cling to a branch but too young even to remember their own names—toddlers of two or three.”

  “And the Pretani hunt them. What do they do, eat them?”

  “No, they have taboos about that. They display their skulls in their houses. I’ve seen them. And trade the little finger bones with other folk to make necklaces.”

  “I could have been killed.”

  “You’d have been fine if y
ou hadn’t been hit by that stone. Once you were injured the Leafy Boys were on you in a heartbeat. It was the stone that caused it. Or rather, he who threw the stone. For it was deliberate.”

  She remembered the stone’s flight. “Yes. Yes, it was. Who?”

  “It was their priest. He hasn’t been seen since—I suspect he won’t be back until we’re safely gone. It was a trap, you see—a trap for you. To get you isolated in a tree, in the Leafy Boys’ domain, and then to draw them to you. Ingenious in a way. And, with luck, it could be made to look like an accident. But their priest was seen.”

  “Who by?”

  “Me.” He grinned fiercely. “I did promise your father I wouldn’t let you come to any harm. From the beginning of that hunt, something didn’t feel right. I spoke to Alder. He took my tree and I took his, which was close enough to yours for me to see. And another saw too, another who stayed close to you.”

  “Shade?”

  He nodded.

  She said, “That runt of a priest wouldn’t do anything without the Root’s say-so.”

  “Exactly. Which is what tonight’s drama is all about. Look, it’s starting . . .”

  As they watched from their log the Pretani emerged from their houses, the Root first, then his son Shade, and then the hunters. The Root and Shade were both naked, but each carried a single blade in his right hand. There was still no sign of the priest, Zesi noticed.

  Last of all to emerge was the Root’s wife. Aside from Zesi she was the only woman here. She stood and watched as the men walked through the ring of posts toward the sacred tree. It occurred to Zesi that she didn’t even know the mother’s name. And yet Zesi sensed she was the most important person here.

  Shade and the Root faced each other. The hunters stood around them, reflecting the circle of the silent, watchful posts. Zesi thought it was like the stand-off between Gall and Shade.

  “I speak first,” the Root said. “It is the custom.” He spoke in his coarse Pretani tongue, and Zesi struggled to follow.

  “Then speak,” Shade said, his tone dripping with contempt.

  “Why are we here, son?”

  “Because I challenged you, Father.”

  “Why did you challenge me?”

  “Because you tried to kill Zesi of Etxelur. Tried in a way that lacked honor.”

  “The Leafy Boys attacked her.”

  “They were drawn by her wound. The cast stone caused the wound.”

  “I did not cast the stone.”

  “The priest is your creature. It is as if you cast the stone yourself. You shame yourself if you deny it.”

  The Root shrugged. “I do not deny it. Why do you care if the Etxelur woman lives or dies?”

  “Because I lay with her. Because she carries my baby.”

  The hunters gasped. Zesi saw the mother cast her a look of pure hatred.

  “And why,” Shade asked now, “do you want to see Zesi dead?”

  “The same reason.” It was the mother who answered, her voice shrill. She pointed at Zesi. “Because she carries your baby!”

  The Root rumbled, “Be silent!”

  But she would not. “I regret the day I told you to find brides for the boys in Etxelur! One son dead already. The seed of the other wasted in the belly of an Etxelur woman. Now she has Shade’s baby. She is here, stirring up trouble. Shade will leave me and go to her. It’s as clear as night follows day—”

  “I challenge you,” Shade said to his father, “because you are less than a man. You tried to kill a woman. You tried to kill my child, your own unborn grandchild. Your clumsy meddling in our lives . . . You compound mistake after mistake. You have destroyed your family, and you keep destroying it, even to the next generation. And you did all this because of her,” and he pointed to his mother. “I challenge you because I cannot challenge her.”

  Jurgi murmured to Zesi, “He either loves you as no man loved a woman before. Or he’s gone insane. Or both . . .”

  Alder stepped forward. “The priest is not here. I will say his words. The challenge has been issued. Yet neither need die. Agree a price. A finger from each man, an eye. Make your blows, your cuts. Then turn your backs and walk away.”

  The Root shook his huge head. “It has gone too far. Blood has already been spilled. It must end here.”

  Shade said, “And I—”

  The Root moved with blinding speed. He grabbed his son’s hand, the hand holding the blade—and he drove it deep into his own belly. The Root groaned, and his eyes rolled. Yet he held onto Shade’s shoulder with his other hand, dropping his own knife.

  Shade, his arm already soaked in blood, was shocked. He tried to step back. “Father—”

  The Root wouldn’t let him go. He gasped, “I will not live to see two sons die. Now, son. As it was with your brother. You did it well for him. I saw you. Up and to the heart.” Father and son were locked in a ghastly, struggling embrace. “The heart! The heart!”

  Weeping, Shade braced, obeyed his father, and thrust deep.

  The mother screamed and fell to the ground. The hunters rushed forward toward their leader.

  The priest put his arm around Zesi. “Into the house. Come, quickly.”

  The following morning Alder, grim-faced, summoned Zesi and the priest from their house. They were to watch the last of it.

  Zesi saw that a pit had been dug into the ground, in a gap in the outer circle of young trees. An oak sapling lay on the ground, neatly uprooted; dirt still clung to its roots. Shade stood over the pit, naked, his father’s blood still staining his belly and legs. His men stood behind him.

  Nobody else was here; the women and children and slaves stayed in their houses as the men pursued their drama of blood and death.

  Shade raised a hand to beckon Zesi forward.

  With the priest, she came to the edge of the pit. The Root’s heavy corpse lay in the pit, on his back. He was naked, unadorned, with pink-gray guts spilling from the huge, ragged wound in his belly. He looked as if he had been thrown in there, without ceremony.

  Shade glared at Zesi, his eyes bright, his face unreadable. That new wound over his forehead seemed to be seeping blood—and she wondered if it would soon be joined by a second kill scar. There was little left of the Shade she had known, the boy who had come to Etxelur just months ago.

  “I wanted you to see this,” he said to Zesi. He spoke in the Etxelur tongue, his accent thick. “To see what you have done. Because of you my brother is dead, my father is dead—both dead at my own hand—and my mother is gone, off into the forest, insane with her grief.” He glanced down at the corpse. “We did this to ourselves. But we broke ourselves on you, Zesi, like a dog dashing out its brains against a tree. When this is done, go from here. Go to your home.”

  She said hotly, hand on belly, “I carry your baby.”

  “Pray to your little mothers that you never see my face again.”

  Then he bent, picked up the young tree, and rammed it upside down into his father’s pit, branches in the ground, the roots in the air, a grotesque mockery of life.

  36

  Off the Scandinavian shore, deep under the sea, huge mounds of silt were in motion. The undersea landslip would not be a large event, on a planetary scale. Only a volume the size of a small country, a mass of mud entirely submerged, sliding deeper into the abyss.

  But an equivalent volume of water, pushed aside by the silt, would have to find somewhere to go.

  37

  Ana led the way along the track across the Flint Island marsh, with Novu following, Dreamer with her baby in a sling on her back, and then Arga. Arga, at least, was singing the ancient song of the trail, which she was trying to learn. Nobody else seemed happy.

  The track felt solid underfoot to Ana. But then, earlier in the year, she herself had helped set down a new layer of logs on this very track, cut and shaped, to press down on the old. Sometimes she wondered how long this had been going on, how many generations had worn away while the rows of logs, one on top of another,
had been pushed down ever deeper into the soft mud, the soaked and rotten wood of the lowest at last dissolving away.

  The four of them had crossed the causeway and come to this marsh on the north side of the island to show Novu and Dreamer a new place, a new kind of landscape for them, and maybe to trap some birds or an otter or two. It had been her father’s idea, a way for them all to get to know each other better, his daughter and the two newcomers. So Kirike had pronounced, before he had gotten into his boat and paddled away over the horizon with Heni, once again leaving Ana to work it all out.

  The sourness wasn’t just to do with this pack of strangers and misfits, Ana thought. Everything felt wrong this late-summer afternoon. It was too hot, the air dank and clammy and full of midges, the sun too bright and reflecting off the standing water. There was something odd in the air, a kind of tension. It was a day when she didn’t feel comfortable in her own skin.

  But dragonflies hovered over the water, and on patches of drier land butterflies flickered between purple sedge and pale pink-white cuckoo flowers. The birds were beautiful too. They disturbed a reed bunting, the white collar around its black head bright as it flapped off indignantly. And a flock of lapwings took to the air, flying so tight and close it seemed impossible they didn’t collide with each other.

  Novu was startled by the lapwings. As usual these days he carried a big skin pack on his back; Ana had no idea what he was carrying in it, but its weight made him sweat. “Those things were close.”

  “Lapwings rarely attack people,” Ana said dryly.

  He glanced to either side of the path, which cut across sodden ground. “The water looks deep just here.”

  “So it is. The path is safe.”