Tonespace: The Space of Energy (The Metaspace Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Kennedy

  Neither would those men.

  She wandered about, but her mind wandered more than her body. As her body drifted though the trees and bushes, her spirit was navigating through another forest, in which the rocks and trees were facts and ideas. Just as the rocks that had been mountains broke down to sand and dirt that held and fed the roots of the trees and bushes, facts were breaking down into simpler ones, until like sand and dirt they were small enough to feed the trees of new ideas.

  Fact: the Grandmother has said we do not need to move the Shrine. That was true without being a Truth. That is, it was true that she had said that. She'd said it because it seemed true to her. But the fact that the Grandmother had said it was not the same thing as saying it was right.

  Feather had the feeling there were facts she could not see that might change Grandmother's truth. Like the wind, these facts were out of sight. Like the wind, they could not be grasped. But the wind we cannot see can blow over a mighty tree. A fact not known might undermine Grandmother's idea of safety, if the facts that held her roots were less strong, or less true.

  If the presumed safety of the Shrine was assured by the rings of sentries, the presence of lookouts that would spot the approach of white men, could an unknown fact pierce that protection and overpower the truth of the sentries? Feather had gathered herbs since she was a girl. She knew from experience that in cooking, flavors must be in balance. Too much of one herb could speak too loudly to the tongue, and drown out subtler flavors in a stew. All flavors were true, but too much of one truth could overpower another. Could there be a truth that would overpower the protective truth of the lookouts?

  Climb! For no good reason she found herself climbing a black oak. It was not a conscious process, and without her conscious worrying mind in the way her body moved with unconscious grace and speed, the bag dangling from its strap around her neck as her hands seemed to reach out for branches she didn't remember seeing until her fingers closed on them. Only seconds later she was two dozen feet up, lying on top of a massive branch, her arms and legs wrapped around it trying to still the trembling she felt inside her. What was she worried about? What had caused her to flee upward?

  And then she began to hear sounds.

  There are always sounds in a forest. No place so full of life can ever be completely silent. There is the wind tickling the leaves, a gradual quiet roar that slowly builds and dies away again. There are the furtive seemingly-random scratchings of the claws of squirrels as they run up trees and out across branches. The bright clear notes of birdsong as males called out for females. There is the occasional random thump as a pine cone or a dead branch falls to the forest floor.

  But this was none of those. It was the sound of Man, and the birds and insects paused when it came near, as a deer freezes, hoping the mountain lion won't see it. Thus it was both sound and silence: a sound that did not belong, and the silencing of the sounds that did belong, in response to it.

  It came nearer. Feather held her breath and willed her trembling to stop. The Man-sound was wrong, in a way she could not describe, in a way she could not put a name to, but it was definitely wrong here.

  A twig snapped beneath her tree. She froze and peered around the branch to see who it was. But she saw nothing. A second later she saw the water splash out of a puddle, leaving the imprint of a boot in the mud. The sounds moved away.

  Feather let out her breath. Was it a spirit? What else could it be? But what kind of spirit needed boots?

  As soon as she dared she slipped down from the oak and went to the puddle. Yes, the boot print was still there, not just in her head. But how could a spirit leave a footprint in the real world? No time to think about that now. She jumped to her feet and began jogging back to the village. Whatever was coming, she had to warn the others.

  Her feet pounded the earth and her lungs began to burn. Already? What would the hunters say about that? No time for that either. She shook her head angrily. Concentrate on running!

  She burst into the clearing, out of breath and nearly falling down. It was a good thing she was out of breath – she had no idea what she was going to say when she could speak.

  Hidden Flower looked up from a root she'd been chopping. “What are you doing back here? Did you get my horehound already?”

  Feather gasped, trying to catch her breath. “No. I. Saw. Something.”

  Something in the way she spoke alarmed Hidden Flower. “What was it, a bear? A wolf?”

  “A footprint.”

  “A what? You ran back here to tell me you saw a footprint? What kind of lazy child are you?”

  Feather shook her head and dashed on, up the secret path to the Shrine. Her left foot tripped over a root and she nearly fell but she forced herself to go on, around a boulder with moss, through the cluster of bushes that only appeared impenetrable, and up the path again.

  Then there it was in front of her: the boulder that hid the mouth of the cave from distant eyes. She had seen it herself, looking up at the slope of the mountain. From a distance, the boulder, cut from the side of the mountain, blended in perfectly, as if it was still joined to the rest. Only up close could you see, if you looked carefully, that it was in fact in front of the slope, not part of it.

  She darted around the boulder

  No torches burned today. The interior of the Shrine was quiet and dim, lit only by the meager intrusion of light from the cave mouth. She hurried down the corridor-tunnel anyway and stumbled into the main room, nearly falling, when she tripped over an unseen pebble.

  The Grandmother lay curled up on the furs, sleeping. Behind her in its hollow the Healstone lay softly glowing its plant-green light.

  Feather hesitated a moment as she tried to think of a way to convince the Grandmother in time, before the outsiders came.

  But she could think of nothing. It's up to me, she decided, and stopped to scoop up the Healstone and stuff it into her herb bag, then turned to dash out of the cave.

  Tall Oak and Wind Through Grass were approaching the boulder when she emerged. “Why are you up here?” demanded Wind.

  “I came to speak with the Grandmother,” she told him. “but she's sleeping. Why are you here?”

  “Hidden Flower told us you came back from herb-gathering early with wild stories,” he said. “She said you ran this way, and asked us to find you. “Why aren't you out gathering herbs?”

  “Men from the coast are coming! I came back to warn everyone.”

  “Have you seen these men?” he asked. “Because there has been no alarm from the lookouts.”

  “No one can see them. That's why they got past your sentries. But I heard them, and then I saw a boot print in a puddle. That's why I came back.” But she could already see he didn't believe her.

  “So you came back to warn us of invisible intruders.” He smiled at Tall Oak and shook his head. “Feather, a good imagination is a fine thing to have, but it is no good making up stories to avoid work.”

  The air behind Tall Oak and Wind Through Grass gave a sort of ripple and a group of men appeared behind them. They were the men she had seen setting up camp, plus one man she hadn't seen before.

  His beard was trimmed shorter than theirs and his clothing was a little finer. He stood in front of the other men as they raised their crossbows. “Some stories are true,” he said.

  Tall Oak and Wind through Grass whirled and reached for their knives, but it was already too late. Crossbow bolts zipped into them, making them jerk and fall. The three men behind the leader who had not fired swiveled their crossbows toward her.

  An agonizing indecision gripped Feather. She had the Healstone! She might be able to save them. Or better still, the Grandmother might be able to heal them before they died. But if she pulled it out of the herb bag and these men saw it...

  The man with the trimmed beard stepped around her and the boulder and looked at the cave mouth. “So this is the famous Shrine,” he mused. He turned back to face her. “Where is the artifact?”

  The s
trange word would have puzzled her in other circumstances, but here it was clear what he meant. “Who are you, and why do you want it? You're not injured.”

  “You can call me Ludlow,” he said. “The Duke wants it, not me, but I work for him at the moment. So here we are.”

  He looked past her to the men behind her. “There's no need to shoot her, corporal. She's only a girl.”

  “I am not! I have moon blood now, so I'm a woman.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Is that so? Oh dear. Maybe you shouldn't have said that. The soldiers like women.” He raised his voice. “Cover her. I'll be right back.” Then he ducked into the cave.

  What should she do? For the first time in her life Feather found herself at a major cusp. She knew she couldn't fight armed soldiers. Even if she had a warrior's training, she was outnumbered and their weapons could kill at a distance. She stood at a branching of the path, a forking with three branches. One branch, that of fighting, led to almost certain death, which would help no one. One branch, that of surrender, could lead to death or capture, and these men would take the Healstone.

  She looked at Tall oak and Wind Through Grass. Both of them were no longer moving. She blinked tears out of her eyes. Too late to save them. Maybe too late to save the Grandmother.

  But not too late to save the Healstone. Third branch led to death or the unknown. Not much, but still better than the first two. So be it. She dropped to the ground and rolled as two crossbow bolts hissed over her, then sprang to her feet and sprinted down the path.

  Chapter 24

  Lobsang: Leading is Following

  “Humans follow the laws of Earth

  Earth follows the laws of Heaven ”

  – The Tao Te Ching by Lao Tse

  As the 'scrapers of Denver shrank behind him, he alternated between regret and anticipation. Part of him would have liked to remain at the Xander School and see how much more he could learn, but it was drowned out by thoughts of his family, and the hope of seeing them again.

  It was eerie, the way the ancient vehicle's rear wheels turned on and on spooling him and the metal wagon forward without a sound. It was good that no one else seemed to be up this early, because while the forward motion was effortless, steering the wagon required constant attention. Unlike a horse which would have followed the road, this was more like a wagon whose owner had unhitched the horses and let it roll down a hill.

  He was still learning to control its direction. At first he kept making the mistake of over-correcting, yanking the wheel hard left when the wagon began to veer toward the right side of the road. But this only made it veer toward the left side of the road. After doing this for awhile he realized he was making the vehicle zig-zag, and began to learn to make gentler corrections.

  He lifted a hand and rubbed his eyes. He'd not slept well, his last night in the 'scraper. He'd wrestled with dual feelings of guilt. If his family were still alive, every second he delayed returning to face the Queen reduced their chances of survival. On the other hand, he knew now how important the School was, for everyone, not just Rado. They could literally change the world! When he imagined a future without famine, a future without war, it shamed him to think of leaving to help one family.

  Unable to resolve his dilemma, he had trudged down the stairs to beg Xander for advice. “What should I do?”

  Xander looked at him with those clear gray eyes, but before he could answer he had been seized by another fit of coughing. That seemed to be happening more and more these days.

  “You have to go back,” said Xander. “For two reasons. You will never forgive yourself for not trying to save them. It will haunt you the rest of your life.”

  Reluctantly, he nodded. “What's the other reason?”

  “We are wizards. That's a privilege and a burden, son. Ordinary people, the mundanes, they will always see us as different. And we are different, and will be for the foreseeable future, unless a time comes when everybody can weave metaspace.

  “But if we let go of our humanity, if we allow ourselves to think of ourselves as different, as superior, we will fail. If we allow ourselves to become arrogant because of our abilities, we will never be accepted as valued members of society. And without that, we'll be outcasts, shunned and feared. We might even be hunted down, the way the Church has done in the past.”

  Xander coughed again. “If we let that happen, the Plan is doomed. Our knowledge will die with us, and Earth will stay mired in a dark age that will last a long, long time. I can't let that happen. I won't! Lobsang, if you didn't worry about your family, if you felt no need to return and fight for them, you wouldn't be the kind of wizard Earth needs. So I'm glad you need to go. You must go. So that you can return and help us change the world.”

  Lobsang reached out with his mind and tightened the spinspace weave on the rear axle, pushing for more speed. And what will I do if she's already killed them? Do I kill her, if I can? And then what? Anger might be a fine emotion to give a man purpose, but draining to sustain...and he felt as if he was ready to drop from exhaustion already. After all that had happened, it was hard to trust himself enough to let himself fall asleep, even though Xander had the ring.

  One of the wheels bumped over a rock and yanked his attention back to the road. He was reversing the route Trent's caravan had taken, going East out of the mile-high city, and now it was time turn North to begin the curve around to the west toward Deseret.

  He wondered whether he shouldn't just go off the road and head straight through the desert, bypassing Deseret. He had one of the new thermodynes to cool the wagon's interior, and to warm it during the surprisingly cold nights in the desert. Remembering it, he reached out to stroke the pipe where it lay nestled in a hole in the dashboard. The end of the pipe grew frosty and cold air blew into the cabin.

  But the people of Deseret had seemed so polite, so benevolent. He couldn't imagine them doing him any harm. No, maybe he should stick to the road. Dashing across the desert was a tempting idea, to get to Angeles as soon as possible, but for all he knew the wheels might get mired in quicksand or some other hazard. He'd be no good to his family if he got stuck out in the middle of nowhere, with no one to help him get the wagon going again.

  Chapter 25

  Kareef: Learning Without Studying

  “And He taught you that which ye knew not.”

  – Quran 96:05

  A hand shook his shoulder. “Wake up sleepyhead. We have to leave in ten minutes. Get ready.”

  He opened his eyes. He found himself in a circular room on a circular platform that must be a bed because he was lying on it. It was soft to the touch and covered with fabric more richly woven, textured, and colored than anything he had seen. Where am I? But the words that came out of his mouth were “But I haven't had breakfast yet.”

  “Never mind that. You can eat on the shuttle.”

  He rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Shuttle? What shuttle?”

  “You'll see. Get a move on!”

  Groaning, he stood up. Something was wrong with his body. It felt odd, as if he were wearing someone else's clothes. He raised a hand and froze. Is that my hand? What happened to my skin?

  Something pulled him to stand up and go touch a spot on the wall, which opened in a closet. Without understanding why he was doing this, he found himself pulling on a set of blue coveralls and zipping up the front. He looked down and stepped into shoes that sealed themselves over his feet in a slithery way that was quite unsettling. The last thing I remember is lying back on my bed at the School. This must be a dream. But what a strange dream I'm having.

  He turned around and a taller person – who he somehow knew was his father although his father was definitely not pale-skinned with blue eyes – looked him up and down. “Ready at last? Come on, then. It's almost time.”

  Something in him wanted to protest, to say that he didn't belong here. Yet somehow he never did. Instead what he did was allow himself to be passively led up a spiral ramp that served as a staircase. “Where are we
going, father?” he heard himself say.

  “I told you,” the dream-father answered, “it's a surprise.”

  They emerged onto a roof where something waited for them. If pressed, he would have said that it resembled a kind of metal wagon, except the wheels were on top, not on the bottom, and they stuck out flat to the sides, without spokes. And how had it gotten on the roof of this cylindrical 'scraper?

  As they walked toward it, he heard a hissing hum like one of Xander's swizzle staffs. He wanted to back up, but the dream would not permit it. He allowed himself to be led toward it and to climb in when the side of it slid open for him.

  Inside, he sat on a sort of soft bench and his “father” sat down next to him. The humming increased in volume, then was cut off abruptly when the door slid shut again. A wall in front of them seemed to go transparent and Kareef felt a moment of shocked queasiness as the circular roof of the 'scraper fell away from them. This thing can fly!

  He got a glimpse of a cityscape, a forest of 'scrapers he didn't recognize from any of the old books at the madrassah, and then the strange vehicle tilted up and sailed into the sky.

  “Where did you get this ship, father?”

  “This? It's not a ship. It's just a shuttle, one of theirs. But being on the trade mission does come with perks.”

  His “father” turned to him. “I wanted you to see it, before they leave. All the incredible things they been giving us, they are nothing compared to the ship itself. Someday we'll build one like it and then things will get really exciting.”

  What is he talking about? Kareef had the uneasy feeling that he was about to find out.