The Yanti

by Christopher Pike

  “Silence!” Tashi screamed. “Geea has no right to judge us!”

  “I’ve every right to judge!” Geea said. “You and your dust have cost millions of elemental lives. Doren came nowhere near to fulfilling her end of the bargain, and still you fall for her lies—even to this day. So you ride a kloudar beyond Anglar? So what? You’re locked inside. With drug-saturated dust that sprays from the ceiling. You’re dragons. You’re the most powerful of all elementals. But you traded it all for what? On Earth they have a term for it—addicts. You’ve become addicts, which are seen as the lowest of the low. Because every one of them is a coward. When Doren came here, you tried to get something for nothing. You wanted the blue light beyond Anglar, and all you got in return was a drug that’s slowly killing you. Now wait until she takes it away. Make no mistake, that will be her next step. Then we’ll see how slowly you die, and how painfully.” Geea paused. “Is this what you want, Tashi? Chashar?”

  Tashi went to snap at Geea but her king bade her to remain silent. For the first time Ra noted the yellow around Chashar’s eyes, the cracks in his wings. Also, for once, he appeared to be listening. Geea had said something that had hit home.

  “Some of what you say is true,” Chashar said. “The dust does exact a toll. Some dragons can take it, others cannot. But for those of us who have the strength to absorb it, we no longer care about the blue light beyond Anglar. If given a choice, dragons would not even try to carve a window in this place, and look out on the stars. Geea knows it all comes down to choice. Geea knows that the Shaktra gave us that choice. The dragons like the dust. They like it more than they like the rest of the elementals, who never cared much for us anyway. To the fairies and elves and dwarves, we were just powerful brutes that had to be controlled. But now we have taken control of our own destiny, and we are content.”

  “Have you not listened to me?” Geea asked. “Doren answers to a force above her. That force wants the green world for its own. I admit, I don’t know what it plans to do with it. But I do know that when all the others have been forced from this world, the dragons will be expendable. The dust will stop flowing from your ceiling, and the pain of its stopping will kill you all.”

  Tashi snorted. “You bluff!”

  Chashar was curious. “How do you know Doren will take away the dust?”

  “She was once my sister. I know her better than anyone. She never cared for dragons, even before she was transformed into the Shaktra. Once you’re no longer of service to her, she’ll only be too happy to see you die.”

  Chashar considered. “Speculation on Geea’s part.”

  “Lies!” Tashi spat.

  Geea gestured to the rest of the cavern. “The deaths of thousands of dragons is not speculation! If two thousand have already died from this dust, then isn’t it easy to envision that ten times that number will perish when she cuts off your supply?”

  “Get her out of here!” Tashi snapped at her husband.

  Yet Chashar continued to show interest. “What is your offer, Geea?”

  “Have the dragons join my side in the war that is about to erupt in this world, not in the yellow world. Help me protect Lord Vak and his army, along with Uleestar. In return I promise to seize control of this kloudar and the mechanism it uses to dispense the dust. You think I’ve been sleeping for the last thirteen years, but my mind has traveled far beyond my body. I’ve discovered the secret of the dust. When the war is finished, I’ll continue to supply you with it—but in smaller and smaller amounts, until you no longer need it.”

  Chashar growled. “Dragons don’t want that! Dragons want more each week. Geea can’t give dragons less.”

  “Take less each week, and you won’t need it at all. That I promise.”

  Chashar spoke to Tashi, who shook her head vehemently. He turned toward the assemblage. By this time there was not a dragon in the cavern who was not listening. He addressed them in a thundering voice.

  “Chashar is your new king, but Chashar has always been one to listen to fellow dragons. All have heard what Queen Geea has come to offer. How do the dragons respond to her? Yea or nay?”

  The chorus of “nays” was loud, some might have said overwhelming. Yet Ra did hear many “yeas” as well, and apparently, so did Chashar, for he did not immediately pass judgment. For a long time he sat in thought. Then he shook his head.

  “Geea can see the dragons have made their choice. As their king, Chashar can only support their wish. So be it. But out of respect to our old alliance, Chashar will allow . . .”

  A loud pounding echo filled the chamber.

  Ra suspected what it meant. The outer doors had closed!

  Chashar confirmed his fear. “Chashar was about to set Geea and her companions free. Now it is too late. The kloudar moves into space, where Anglar shines bright. Soon the dust will begin to fall from above. With our flames, it will be transformed into smoke, and it will be your choice to join us in this secret sacrament. If Geea so wishes.”

  Geea gave Ra and Drash a quick glance. She gestured.

  “Come close to me, immediately,” she said, as her green field expanded.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Nancy Pillar, of 1246 Fairview Avenue, Costa Mesa, California. White house at the end of a cul-de-sac in a boring section of town. Ali landed on its front lawn. It was now nighttime. None of the streetlights were on. But she saw a bright lamp on inside the house, and sensed a single person in the living room.

  However, she did not sense a high fairy—they shimmered brightly in her subtle vision. She wondered if Nemi had gotten his facts mixed up. One way to find out. Ali walked up to the door and knocked.

  The woman who answered had gray-streaked red hair and lovely green eyes. Thirty pounds overweight, and at least sixty years of age, she wore a simple green dress but had an expensive emerald ring on her right hand—on the long finger. She did not wear a wedding band, though; and Ali recalled that Lucy Pillar’s father had died in the blast that had rocked Toule thirteen years ago—the same year Ali had been born.

  The color of the ring matched the woman’s eyes. Both were of rare quality, and hinted, to Ali, of a fairy bloodline. Yet the woman’s eyes were powerless, and Ali could not imagine any high fairy being born on Earth and not possessing at least a token of her magical ancestry inside her.

  Through the screen, Ali peered at the woman’s face, searching for a sign of the Shaktra’s mark. In her subtle vision, she felt a darkness present, but could not be sure. The truth be known, not many human beings looked very bright on the subtle. Sadly, Nemi—and the Entity for that matter—were right. Love was not a dominant human quality, although love was the one thing that made a person glow the most.

  “Hello. May I help you?” the woman asked in a pleasant voice. In her own dull way, she appeared to be studying Ali—particularly by staring at the burnt half of her face. Ali realized it was something she was going to have to get used to.

  “My name is Ali Warner and I’m from up north, from a town called Breakwater. It’s not far from Toule, and I have a friend there, Hector Wells. Do you know him?”

  The woman strained a moment, then brightened. “Why yes, Hector! He used . . . I used to know him.”

  “So you’re Nancy Pillar?”

  “Yes. What did you say your name was?”

  “Ali Warner.”

  The woman glowed at the memory of Hector—yet, that was all. She did not invite Ali in nor ask other questions. To Ali, she seemed slow. But she wondered if that was all there was to it.

  “May I come in?” Ali asked. “I’ve come a long way and I’m tired.”

  “But of course, please,” the woman said, holding the door open. “May I get you a glass of water? Or would you like milk? Something to eat?”

  “Do you have a Coke?”

  “Yes. I try not to drink it too much because my doctor says it makes me fat. But I’m already fat, so I don’t know if it matters. What do you think? Ah, excuse me, I’ve forgotten your n
ame already.”

  “Ali. I think it depends on how many bottles you drink a day. I love Coke, but I try to have just one bottle a day.”

  “Gosh darn! That might be my problem. I drink three a day.”

  “Three’s not so bad.”

  The woman looked guilty. “I drink three of the large ones. The liter bottles.”

  Ali smiled. “That’s probably not such a great idea.”

  The woman headed for the kitchen. “Would you like ice with your Coke? A sandwich?”

  “Sure.” Ali scanned the living room. There was a couch, a chair, a TV, a coffee table, a single lamp. That was it—talk about plain living. However, on the walls were two paintings of mountains, both exquisite. Ali recognized Mt. Blanc in France. The other was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  The woman called from the kitchen. “What kind of sandwiches do you like?”

  Ali yelled back. “What do you have?”

  “I don’t know!” the woman shouted. “They sell them at the store! I don’t know what’s in them!”

  “Just bring me whatever you have!” Ali said, studying the paintings closer. They had been done in oil, and they did not feel old, less than five years. Neither was signed, which struck her as odd, but both were nicely framed. Indeed, whoever had framed them had spent considerable money. They were covered with nonreflective glass. Plus the wooden borders were finely carved, gold-leafed, worthy of masterpieces. The artistic quality was indeed very high.

  Ali lifted the one of Mt. Blanc off the wall, held it to her chest.

  She almost dropped the blasted thing!

  “Yuck!” she muttered. The painting was gorgeous but carried with it a montage of foul feelings. Ali knew in an instant why. Sheri had painted it. And her mood, her bitterness, whatever, had been imprinted on the work. Even though it was beautiful to the eye, it was a pain to the heart.

  So Sheri Smith had been in the house.

  How old were the paintings? Why had she painted these particular scenes?

  The woman returned with a liter bottle of Coke, two glasses, containing ice, and a basketful of plastic-wrapped store-made sandwiches. Acting like a nervous hostess, she set them on the lone coffee table. All the furniture was appallingly cheap. It must have come from a Goodwill store. Not that Ali was judgmental about such places. Since her mother had died, and money was tight, she had bought clothes at the Goodwill in Breakwater.

  “Look through the sandwiches. If you find one you like, just eat it,” the woman said, unscrewing the cap off the Coke bottle. “I’m so glad you wanted Coke instead of milk. I don’t actually have any milk. My doctor says dairy can make you fat.”

  Ali sat across from the woman and studied the food, found a turkey sandwich with cheese, lettuce, and tomato on it. She was no fan of mayonnaise. Ali let her hostess pour her a drink. The woman filled the large glass to the rim. It seemed to make her happy.

  “You must be hungry and tired after coming such a long way,” the woman said, sort of repeating Ali’s earlier remark.

  Ali nodded, took a sip of her drink, opened her sandwich and dug in. When had she eaten last? She was getting as bad as the woman, she could not remember . . .

  “How is it?” Nancy Pillar asked anxiously.

  “Great.” Ali casually nodded to the paintings. “Did Lucy paint those?”

  “Why, yes. How did you know? Oh do you know my Lucy? I thought maybe you just knew Hector. They used to date, you know, before . . .” The woman didn’t finish.

  “Before what?” Ali asked.

  The woman’s fingers shook as she tried to open her own sandwich. The question had disturbed her. Lines wrinkled her face.

  “Before they stopped dating,” she said.

  Ali acted nonchalant. “I know Lucy. Saw her just the other day.”

  The woman suddenly smiled. “How nice for you! How is she doing?”

  “Fine. Hector’s fine, too. I saw him today.”

  “Lucky you. Such a lovely boy.”

  Boy, Ali thought. The woman had not seen him in ages.

  Then Nancy Pillar got distressed or confused—it was no doubt a combination of the two. Much of her emotional states seemed to swing between the two moods. Ali was not sure what she had done wrong, but the woman’s next remark was revealing.

  “She did not hurt you with her secret?” the woman asked softly.

  Ali knew she had to move carefully. “No. She let me know her secret. The secret that she was still alive. You and I—we share that same secret.” Ali added in a soothing tone, allowing her internal power to strengthen the effect of her tone, “It’s all right.”

  The woman relaxed, nodded to herself. “It’s all right.”

  Ali tried to move gently forward. “When was the last time you saw Lucy?”

  Unfortunately, the woman stopped again and frowned.

  “It’s been some time,” she said.

  Ali smiled. “But she must stop by at holidays?”

  The woman mimicked her smile. “Lucy loves Christmas! Sometimes she stops by then!”

  “Did she stop by last Christmas?” Ali asked.

  Nancy nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t remember. Last year, I didn’t buy a tree, so I wasn’t sure when Christmas was. Without a tree and presents, it’s hard to tell.”

  “I know what you mean,” Ali said, her mouth full of food. Boy, was she hungry! It would be interesting to compute how many calories flying burned per minute. She pointed to Nancy Pillar’s ring, added, “Did Lucy give you that emerald?”

  “Yes!” Setting down her sandwich, she held it out for Ali to admire. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful,” Ali said, although it had an awful vibe. “May I see it, please?”

  The woman drew back her hand, frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Can I hold it?”

  Nancy Pillar suddenly stood, angry. “You may certainly not! What are you trying to do, steal my ring? Is that why you came here?”

  Ali looked up in surprise. The transformation in the woman was shocking. Yet Ali tried to keep her voice and expression friendly. “I’m sorry, it was wrong of me to ask that. I just liked it so much. It’s so pretty. But of course you should be careful with it.”

  The woman continued warily, “Why did you come here?”

  “I told you. I know Lucy and Hector, and I was in the area. I just wanted to meet you.”

  Slowly, the woman sat down, nodding to herself. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no reason to be sorry,” Ali said.

  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You’re a nice person, I can tell. Your ugly scars are not your fault.”

  Ali had never before been called ugly.

  She nodded. “I got them not too long ago.”

  Nancy Pillar put a hand to her mouth. “Poor dear. What happened?”

  “Oh, it was my fault. I was making some tea, and I tripped and pulled the boiling pot down, and it spilled on my face.”

  “I’m so sorry. That must have been terrible for you. Did it happen at Christmas?”

  “Closer to Easter.” Ali nodded to the paintings. “Did Lucy just paint those? Or was it a long time ago?”

  “It was some time ago. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “I love them. Are there any other paintings of hers in the house?”

  “Yes. There are other mountains. Do you like mountains . . . Alice?”

  “Yes. Very much. May I see them, please?”

  “Of course.” The woman stood, but not before she took several swallows of her glass of Coke. “The others are in her bedroom.”

  Ali followed her down the hall. “You keep a room for Lucy here?”

  “You know Lucy. Never know when she’s going to stop by.”

  “Does she call much?”

  “She calls.”

  “Does Hector ever call?”

  “No! I wish he would. Such a lovely boy.”

  Nancy Pillar turned on the light in the last
room on the right. Again, the furniture was sparse, cheap. A bed, carefully made up, and a desk with a chair that looked as if it might have been used by a teenager, not a grown woman.

  However, there were five paintings on the walls. Each of a different mountain. Ali recognized Pete’s Peak, along with Mt. Fuji, from Japan; Mt. Kilimanjaro, from Tanzania; and Mt. Shasta, from California.

  The fifth and last painting—like the one in the living room—she did not know, but she made a point to commit both to memory. Later she would find them on the Internet. The mountains might be significant.

  Besides the seven doors inside Pete’s Peak, there were six tunnels. Ali had only explored one, which had led to Kilimanjaro and Ra, in Africa. She would have laid odds that these other mountains were where the other five tunnels led. If she had time, Ali told herself, she would try to confirm her theory. The mountains might be the spots through which the elementals planned to invade the Earth.

  Lucy had painted each mountain with extraordinary care and detail.

  Mt. Shasta, which in Ali’s humble opinion was one of the most beautiful mountains on Earth, was directly above the bed. The other four hung opposite the bed. Each had been handsomely framed, and left unsigned.

  Were these places Lucy still regularly visited? Or had she lost her attachment to them long ago? The latter was probably the case, for why had she left them here, with a woman who hardly knew her own name?

  Standing in the center of Lucy’s bedroom, Ali turned and stared deeply at the mother. Catching the woman’s eye, she let her field expand and placed the woman in a deep hypnotic trance. Ordinarily she did not like to use such power on people. It felt like an infringement of free will, something the Entity might do. Yet Ali was certain a spell had been placed on the woman and hated to leave her in her present condition.

  Nancy Pillar stared at her without blinking.