The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God

by T C Southwell

  Plants like massive teardrops towered over neighbouring trees, their smooth skins mottled with patches of vivid azure bordered by lines of the purest ochre. A forest crept across the land in the distance, its dark crimson trees swimming through the soil as if it was a brown sea. Pale quasi-mushrooms gave respite to this riot of rich colour, their simple grey hoods, standing shoulder height, filled with canary-yellow frills. A fierce white sun glowed rich pink behind streaks of baby-blue cloud. Chanter looked away with watering eyes and shook his head, smiling. This was one of the weirder Lakes. Although he had not been in one before, he could not imagine anything stranger.

  A native of his world stood not far away, its stilt-like legs pushed deep into the moist earth, drawing on its goodness. The rainbow beast turned its long, tubular head and regarded Chanter with facetted eyes. Its delicate wings were spread to catch the young sun’s rays, and its multi-hued skin shimmered like a butterfly’s wing. It hooted a greeting through its snout, which lacked teeth and was used to suck up water and mud.

  This was one of the lowest forms of beast on Chanter’s world, which gleaned its nutrition from soil, water and sun, just like a true plant. It was not all that intelligent, yet it regarded him with calm curiosity. Along its back, a dense mat of fronds overlapped like feathers. As the Mujar approached, it raised them, inviting him to pluck one and eat. Chanter was not really hungry, but did not wish to be impolite, and picked one. The creature’s delicious scent made his mouth water, and it cooed as he munched the frond.

  The creature was in bud. A youngster hung beneath its belly, soon to drop. The baby curled within a transparent bag of fluid, its long, delicate legs still rubbery. When it was time, the bag would split, dumping the youngster and severing its umbilical. Then it would take several hours for it to dry and its legs to harden. It was easy to understand why the creatures of Shamarese chose to give birth in the Lakes. He could not imagine such a fragile youngster surviving in the harsh winter he had left behind.

  The Mujar wandered on, nibbling the frond. He passed a group of flat, saucer-like lime-green plants covered with crimson cups, and paused to glance in one. Most contained only sticky yellow nectar, but a few had trapped some crab-like animals with delicate wings made from strips of thin horn. The tiny beasts struggled, but were doomed, and Chanter shuddered a little as he walked by.

  Here, it seemed, plants ate animals. He wondered if the animals ate plants, or something else, but intuition told him that on this world plants were dominant. He reminded himself that his own world’s laws did not apply here, and he might be on the menu, so it was prudent to be wary.

  After a while, he realised that he was on path, the grass worn away to reveal pale soil of a peculiar dun hue. The Dolana seemed weaker on the path than at its edges, perhaps depleted by the constant traffic. Then again, what manner of creatures used it? He squatted to try to discern tracks, but the scratches only looked like tiny claw marks. Unconcerned, he wandered on, admiring the bizarre and ever-changing landscape. On this world, the terrain changed quite literally, for plants altered their colour periodically. The teardrop plants were now crimson and indigo; the spindly streamer trees had changed to puce, olive green and sienna. The sky had darkened to a shade of violet, and the sun was going into eclipse with an irregularly-shaped moon. The pale blue clouds, oddly, glowed with soft light, akin to a sunset.

  A scratching behind him made him whip around just as strong hands grabbed him and dragged him off the path. He swung to face his attacker and found himself nose to snout with a Shamarese predator. The beast released him and stepped back, its sinuous torso curving as it dropped to all fours. Its large grey eyes slid away from his, and it spoke in its fluting language.

  “No harm, Mujar. Bad things come along path.”

  Its speech was rudimentary, or perhaps the translation mangled it. In his present form, Chanter knew he lacked a full understanding of his fellow creature’s speech. The rainbow-hued predator waited for his response. A long, graceful neck, whose mane of delicate transparent fronds drifted when it moved, supported its triangular head, and sharp white teeth filled its rather inflexible mouth. Its hands, now in service as forefeet, had long fingers tipped with sharp white claws. The last two digits were elongated to support the leading edge of a filmy wing membrane that joined its abdomen halfway along its length. The wings looked inefficient, and were. The predator could fly, but only by commanding Ashmar.

  Chanter raised his hand, palm up, and replied in the predator’s language, “No harm. What things use the path?”

  The predator glanced past him. “Creatures of this world. Small, but annoying.”

  Chanter followed the predator’s gaze. Thousands of the crab-like animals scuttled along the path in single file, moving at a remarkable speed, their bony wings rustling. Their bright, orange and burnt umber shells glistened in the fading light, and bubbles frothed from their jaws.

  “Where are they going?” Chanter asked.

  “To the plasma sea.”

  “Why?”

  “To feed. First time in this Lake, Mujar?”

  Chanter nodded. “Have you been in many?”

  “Lots.”

  “I’d like to see this plasma sea. Is it dangerous?”

  The predator snorted musically and shook its head. “This is the Lake of Renewal. Nothing is dangerous to us here. The plants feed on the animals, which eat the plasma sea, but they don’t like the taste of us.”

  The predator’s speech was improving, either with practice, or because Chanter was becoming used to it.

  “I’d like to see it,” he said.

  The predator walked away with a graceful, sinuous motion, rather like a four-legged snake. This was because its torso was longer than its legs, and it used that to lengthen its strides. The beast would not have a name, so Chanter decided to call it Nog, for his own reference. He also had no idea of the predator’s sex, since Shamarese creatures showed no outward signs of gender.

  Chanter opted to think of Nog as male. Nog wound his way between the strange plants, giving some a wider berth than others, and Chanter followed his lead. The world darkened as the moon swallowed the sun, and stars glimmered in a vast, sprawling nebula of young suns spiralling in an orgy of stellar creation. The stars were so thick that the nebula’s centre was a mass of white light.

  Nog explained, “The little shelled ones only make their journey to feed at eclipse, which happens every day. At this time, the plants are less vigilant, so it’s safer. They feed, then return to their burrows in a rock cliff.”

  “Why don’t they fly?”

  “They can’t. They’ve lost the ability.”

  “Why not travel at night?”

  Nog glanced back. “It’s too dangerous. Many of the deadlier plants become active at night. Eclipse is the safest time.”

  “Are there no intelligent creatures here?”

  “Not animals, no. They’re just mobile plant food, and if any of the plants are intelligent, we have no way of communicating with them.”

  Chanter shook his head. “What manner of god would create such a strange world?”

  “One who likes plants?”

  The Mujar smiled as Nog pushed through a barrier of black and red fronds, leading him onto the beach of a plasma sea. It stretched away to purple mountains on the horizon, an expanse of heaving, glowing, jelly-like liquid that seethed with life. A feeding frenzy was underway, and the amber plasma could hardly be seen for all the creatures that consumed it. The tiny crabs were piled three deep along the shore, shovelling the plasma into their mouths with their pincers.

  Delicate, bird-like creatures strolled across the quivering surface on enormous feet, pecking at the plasma. Several bloated, seal-like animals swam in it, kept afloat by air bags along their flanks and using flippers to paddle through the slime. Many other animals joined the feast, some of which defied description. Flying creatures swooped to skim the surface and scoop up mouthfuls of plasma, others hung under balloons and droppe
d long tubes down to suck it up. All concentrated on eating as quickly as they could.

  Chanter was fascinated. Perhaps strangest of all were the plants that grew along the edge of the plasma sea, fishing for their food with long whip-like appendages or sucker-covered tentacles. Some swiped at the flying beasts with almost invisible nets; others used suction to ensnare their prey. There was little noise other than the occasional squeak of a trapped creature and the slaps and pops of the feeding plants. The sight was bizarre and slightly macabre, but Chanter absorbed this new experience in all its weird detail. Clearly none of these creatures had any control over the elements.

  The animals were much like Lowman beasts, driven to eat and reproduce to feed the carnivorous plants. They displayed a remarkable lack of intelligence in their inept attempts to avoid the plants’ traps. The plants were far too alien for him to judge their intelligence, if any. From the poor air, he deduced that the carnivorous plants relied on meat for energy. What little air there was seemed to be the product of the aquamarine grass, which appeared to be a true plant. The whole system was rather chaotic and pointless, as if a bungling child god had started to create an impossible world, then left it half finished. The plants were, in his opinion, monstrosities, and the animals ill-designed.

  Nog yawned and scratched. He was clearly growing bored, since he did not share the Mujar’s fascination. A tentacle brushed him, and he bit it, causing it to writhe away.

  “Tell me what you know,” Chanter said.

  “We could live on this world all our lives and not know everything about it. The animals feed on the plasma seas, which seem to ooze from the ground, for it never runs out. The plants eat the animals, except for a few that are true plants, like the crimson forests and the grass. The plants never eat each other, but they do sometimes kill others to thin out the competition. Those further away from the seas use scent to lure their prey, and the animals here seem incredibly stupid. It’s a safe place for the creatures of our world, with good soil and plenty of sun and water. The plants don’t harm us, perhaps because we’re akin to plants as well as animals, and they don’t see us as rivals.” Nog stood on his hind legs, raising himself to Chanter’s eye level. “I haven’t been home for some time. How fares Shamarese?”

  The Mujar shrugged. “Little has changed. To return now would be folly.”

  “I long to return,” Nog said. “We all do.”

  “You will, soon enough.”

  “I’m old, Mujar. I feel certain my next journey will be to the Lake of Dreams.”

  The sun emerged from behind the jagged moon and, as the light increased, the animals feeding on the plasma disappeared with remarkable speed. The little crabs scuttled away, the flying creatures drifted upwards to the safety of the high ethers, and the others crawled, strode or wriggled into the undergrowth. Within minutes, the plasma sea was a calm pool. Chanter scooped up a handful and tasted it. The sickly sweet, bitter flavour made him grimace and spit it out. Nog’s skin mottled and his neck fronds waved with amusement.

  “It’s poison to us, Mujar. Lucky you’re undying.”

  Chanter wiped his mouth, wishing there was water to rinse it with, since the plasma left a nasty aftertaste he sensed would linger for some time. “Where did they all go?” He nodded to the plasma, indicating the vanished beasts.

  “Underground. It’s the only place that’s safe from the plants, unless they use their roots to hunt as well. Apart from the flyers, they all have warrens of burrows not far from the beach, and live in communities. The little shelled ones live further away, but I’m not sure why.”

  “Are there many of our people here?”

  “Lots, but they stay away from the plasma seas. It’s more peaceful on the plains.”

  “Show me.”

  Nog spread his wings. “Quicker if we fly.”

  The predator ran along the beach and leapt high, invoking Ashmar. Chanter followed, changing into an eagle with a rush of wind and the faint sound of beating wings, his invocation of the Power stronger than Nog’s. Again, he experienced the split second of stretching and shrinking, along with a flood of information to guide him in the use of his new shape. The plants shrank away from his power, showing an alien dislike for it.

  Nog led Chanter across the plasma sea, floating higher and using his wings to drive himself forward. The thin, calm air lacked winds and thermals on which to soar, so the Mujar had to beat his wings to keep himself aloft. Passing over the jungle at the sea’s edge, they soared above sparsely wooded land covered with aquamarine grass. A craggy cliff that spewed a crystal waterfall into a black pool passed below, and they climbed higher to glide above a velvet blue-green plateau.

  Chanter swooped to land close to a scattered host of rainbow-hued beasts. He changed back into a man and regarded the gentle animals with deep fondness and kinship. It pleased him to see so many creatures from his world feeding in the sun, even in this alien land. Those closest hooted greetings, and several came closer and raised their fronds, offering food.

  Their delicious scent made Chanter’s mouth water, and his stomach growled. Nog plucked fronds and munched them, and the Mujar followed suit. Some of the beasts had young at foot, spindly babies with overlong legs and necks that spread immature wings to catch the sun. The youngsters stayed close to their parents, learning from them. Shamarese beasts cared for their offspring for many years, and stayed together as a family group until the parents died, then the youngsters would seek mates.

  Chanter folded his legs and sat down to watch the mating dance of a pair of rainbow beasts. They gambolled around each other, their stilt-like legs looking too delicate and ungainly to perform such athletic antics. They had invoked Ashmar, and used it to leap and float in lazy arcs, fanning the air with their wings to propel themselves in a stately display of elegance. Their rainbow skins glowed with excitement and ardour, to impress their mate with their beauty and allure. Chanter surmised, from the duration and complexity of their courtship, that this was their first attempt. Their chests glowed deep crimson, indicating that they were in blossom.

  Their dance slowed until they stood with twined necks, then they broke apart and reared. In unison, their chests swelled and burst open, blossoming into flowers of pale, iridescent delicacy filled with a soft, pulsing glow. The flowers puffed out glittering filaments, merging in a golden cloud of pollen as the beasts pressed together in a quick movement, then dropped to all fours.

  The flowers, open only for the moment of pollination, wilted and shrivelled, the petals dropped off and the skin sealed once more. The flowers’ exotic scent drifted to Chanter, a strangely familiar fragrance, even though he had not smelt it before. The pair walked away together, then stopped to push their pointed legs into the soil and spread their wings, settling down to feed.

  A pair would breed twice, maybe three times, in their lives. No more offspring were needed in a world where creatures only died of old age or the occasional accident. Chanter compared them to Truemen’s savage predators, whose swift, graceful forms were good to wear, but their cruel ways repulsed him. Trueman animals had to breed at an extraordinary rate to keep their races from extinction, since they were hunted or died from starvation and disease. It seemed an unfortunate life path; an endless cycle of mating, feeding, birthing and dying, all to feed others, or to keep others from overpopulating the world. Truemen had, for the most part, opted out of this cycle, but although they were rarely preyed upon, they still bred at a remarkable rate.

  Shamarese animals bred late in life and died after their final offspring was fully grown. They enjoyed their lives, explored and learnt, sang under the moon and played in the sun, never knowing a prey’s terror or a hunter’s hunger. They possessed profound knowledge and were at one with their world, with no need to reshape or ravage it. Sadly, they were now forced to live in the Lakes to escape Trueman savagery. Most of the beasts here were not breeding, just living in safety.

  Nog wandered off to play with another of his kind. The Mujar sig
hed, saddened that here, amongst his kind, he was almost an outcast, welcomed, yet wearing an enemy’s form. The stifling calm engendered a creeping lethargy that made him want to stretch out in the sun and close his eyes, but Dolana prevented him. He frowned at the rainbow beasts. There was something odd about them, but he was unable to fathom it. He watched Nog play with his friend for a while, then studied the basking beasts again.

  Some wandered about, hooting to neighbours, others played with their young or indulged in mutual grooming with their mates. Then it struck him. Only three kinds of rainbow beasts were here, all of whom drew nourishment through their root legs and occasionally ate mud. Only a few predators like Nog moved amongst them. He sent a ripple through the Dolana to Nog to catch his attention. Nog slouched over, settled on his haunches and tilted his head.

  “Where are the rest of our people?” Chanter asked.

  “Not here,” Nog said. “This Lake is not suitable for plant eaters. There are no edible plants here. Even the grass is poison, and I wouldn’t advise anyone to try to eat one of those animal hunters.”

  Chanter nodded. “I should have guessed.”

  “Most of the plant eaters are in the Lake of Joy, which is filled with food. Great fruits as big as Lowman houses grow there, and there’s only one species of native beast, similar to a clandar, but much bigger.”

  Nog named a Shamarese beast that spent most of its life as a fat, pearly-skinned grub that fed on fruits and tubers. It metamorphosed into a winged creature that looked like a massive transparent flower. When they blossomed, they performed a complicated aerial ballet during which the males released their pollen, then the females laid their eggs and they all died – a little like butterflies.