The Harvest Tide Project

by Oisin McGann

  In a cloud of steam and smoke, with chugging engines and tramping boots, the convoy was making its way along the course of a dried-up river. Above them on both sides, grass hung from the edges of the banks, giving way to clay and gravel where the water had cut a swathe through the landscape. A fisherman’s hut broke the skyline here and there along the ridges, bringing to mind the hospitality of the Moffets and the pleasure of the evening before. Above the front wall of the cage, the arm of a catchwagon could be seen, holding aloft a manhunter who used the position to act as lookout for the convoy. Groach gazed past the elevated soldier to the sky beyond. The sun was high and was burning away the clouds that clogged the blue expanse above. In the distance, the sharp peaks of a mountain range were just visible above the riverbank.

  He remembered his friend Haller’s comment, a few weeks before his death, that they were captives in the project, the walls around the gardens like a prison. Groach had laughed at the idea. Prisoners did not get to spend their days in some of the finest gardens in the world, or work on such important research. They were just being kept safe. That was all. But Haller had been unhappy in his last days, frustrated with the project and its masters. Now, Groach could see why. There was a lot to be experienced in this outside world.

  ‘Where do you think we’re going?’ he asked Hilspeth.

  ‘I heard them say they were taking us to Hortenz,’ she answered.

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘A bit more than a day’s travel, if that’s where we’re going.’

  Groach thought about this for a minute. Then, speaking quietly, asked, ‘Is it a big town? Beside a river that runs through the hills?’

  ‘That sounds like Hortenz. A walled town. With a fortified barracks on the square.’

  ‘That’s the one – do you know it well?’

  ‘Well enough; I do some business there. Is that where you’re from?’

  ‘Let’s just say it is a place I don’t want to return to just yet.’

  ‘All right.’ Hilspeth lowered her voice. ‘Is that why you’re whispering?’ She had a sharp, amused glint in her eye that held his gaze.

  ‘Yes. I would appreciate you not mentioning it to anyone.’

  ‘Done. It’s the least I can do.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘But I would watch out for that soldier you hit with the teapot. She has been walking behind the wagon for the last few minutes … and she hasn’t taken her eyes off us. I don’t think she’s even blinked.’

  As the convoy travelled along the dusty road, a sharp eye would have spotted a pair of young deer that appeared from time to time, keeping pace with the group by travelling cross-country, but none of the guards were on the lookout for deer. Later in the afternoon, they pulled into a village and stopped for a while to rest the infantry who were marching alongside. Left-Speartrooper Grulk came up closer and squinted between the bars of the gaol-wagon. She hissed at Groach: ‘This will be short trip for you, little man. It’ll all be over for you as soon as it gets dark. Bad things happen in the dark. Accidents. People can fall over and get their heads chopped off. You’ll die slow and messy, I promise you that. Slow and messy. Might cook ya and eat ya if I’m hungry enough.’

  ‘Grulk! Stand down!’ Forward-Batterer Wulms shouted. He put up with Grulk because she was stubborn and cruel, good qualities in a Noranian foot soldier, but she tended to take things personally and forget that you were not supposed to act without orders. Wulms never did anything without orders.

  ‘These prisoners are to be taken to the capital. You will not harm them without the proper authority. Is that understood, Left-Speartrooper?’

  ‘He’s only here because he attacked me. Why not just deal with him now?’ Grulk argued. ‘Do we have laws or not? It’s only just that he be put to death. I know my rights.’

  ‘He shall be put to death only after a trial. That is the law, Left-Speartrooper Grulk. Now stand down. I will not say it again.’

  Grulk aimed one last venomous stare at Groach. She had broken the rules enough times before to know she would be punished for killing a prisoner. And she knew it would be worth every moment of it.

  Their destination was the stronghold of Hortenz. It lay on the far side of some treacherous hills and they would not reach it that night, so the Whipholder commanding the convoy decided to camp in a field in the lee of a small forest. The wagons were circled into a protective formation and the first watch posted outside as the cooks set the barbecues inside for the evening meal. The prisoners in each gaol wagon were given a bucket of water and a loaf of bread among them. Fights broke out in some cages over the paltry bit of food.

  In their temporary prison, Hilspeth and Groach sat silently. Hilspeth had commandeered the bread when it had been handed in, and the rest of the prisoners, all men who knew when not to argue with a woman, waited for their portion in civilised silence. From one of the array of pockets in her jacket, she produced a sachet of powder.

  ‘This is a spice. It has a flavour that will take away your hunger. I will add it to the portion of anyone who wants it. This bread will not be enough and we all know it. I can put herbs in the water to help keep up our strength.’

  The fighting in the next wagon nearly drowned out her voice. She looked in the eyes of each man. They all nodded in turn. She was known in their villages as a sage of sorts. Though most of her customers were women from wealthy families, her reputation was that of an honest, if slightly dubious, medicine woman. Her remedies were unlikely to harm them and might even do some good. The men kept this opinion to themselves. She had a large number of other potions that might not be good for their health.

  Groach took his piece of bread and scoffed it down. It tasted hot and he knew he had eaten it too fast. He had a burning sensation in his mouth, but Hilspeth was as good as her word. He was no longer hungry. Now he needed some water to cool his mouth. He crouched by the bucket and scooped water into his mouth with his hand. As he did so, he caught sight of Hilspeth slipping something up her sleeve. She was peering out into the gloom that filled the view beyond the circle of vehicles. Groach followed her line of sight and saw only the sentries, standing like short, stout trees out on the perimeter. He was turning back when he heard a sound that did not fit with the scrapping of the nearby prisoners or the slurping and tearing of the soldiers tucking into their food.

  It was a soft sound, one that did not want to be heard. At first, he could not place where it was coming from. He strained to track it in the surrounding racket. Then he lifted his head to search the darkness above the heavy wooden grid that formed the roof of the cage. Fingernails on wood. Someone was climbing up the side of the driver’s cab onto its roof, still out of sight of the back of the vehicle. Someone who did not wish to be seen.

  He looked down to see Hilspeth’s upturned face following the same scratching, clutching hint of movement. They came to the realisation at the same moment. The soldier woman, the one who had sworn he would not survive the night. She was coming to make good her threat.

  The silhouette of a head popped into view.

  ‘Hey …’ it began.

  Some of the other prisoners in the wagon stood up. But faster than any of them, Hilspeth sprang to her feet, launched herself off the studded front wall of the cage and up towards the shadowy face. With a flick of her wrist, she caught the figure full in the face with a small bag of powder which burst on contact.

  The figure on the roof began sneezing. By the tone of the sneezes, Groach knew this was no soldier. It was a child, probably a young girl. Something was wrong here. Hilspeth, too had realised her mistake. She had her hand to her mouth as she tried to catch sight of her victim. Up there somewhere, a child was having a merciless sneezing attack.

  ‘Oh my gosh, I’m sorry,’ Hilspeth whimpered in genuine concern. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.’

  The camp was starting to turn its attention to the noise. Behind them, another child appeared at the door. He was probing at the padlock with his finger, which looked
vaguely key-shaped. Groach knew this boy.

  ‘Don’t let him near me!’ he shouted. ‘That must be his sister up there. Keep them away – they’re insane … and they change into monsters!’

  ‘Shut up, you idiot!’ Lorkrin hissed, struggling with the bulky lock. ‘We’re rescuing you!’

  For their rescue operation, he and his sister had taken steps to blend in the shadows. His skin was a dull grey-green colour and had a mottled pattern, both of which helped to break up his shape in the darkness.

  ‘Keep them away!’ Groach moaned.

  ‘Oh, that poor little girl.’ Hilspeth was still begging the forgiveness of Lorkrin’s sister.

  ‘They’re coming to get me!’ Groach cried.

  ‘Well, yeah. We are …’ Lorkrin grimaced as he managed to turn his finger in the stiff lock. The padlock clicked open. He let out a grunt of satisfaction and then another, more painful one as he was lifted up by his hair from behind.

  ‘A little pup, trying to break the dogs free,’ said Wulms, raising the boy up to get a look at his face. Lorkrin thrashed and kicked, but was held fast. Other soldiers ran towards the wagon, some of them climbing onto the driver’s cab to get hold of the girl. Seeing the boy held up like a hen for the slaughter, Groach knew that whatever else this young whelp was, he was just a boy. He would be severely punished for defying the soldiers and no child deserved that. From the front of the cage, he charged towards the back, hitting the unlocked door with one foot and slamming it into the shoulder of the Noranian. It struck with enough force to knock the big man over, causing him to let go of the boy.

  Lorkrin was free, but surrounded on all sides by Noranians many times his size. He would not get far by trying to break out of the circle. He dived under the gaol wagon and scampered along its length, bursting out from under the front to go straight under the next one in the circle. Soldiers struggled to reach under and catch hold of him, but he was quick and their bulky armour prevented them from getting too far in.

  Above him, Taya was still sneezing, tears pouring from her eyes. She knew she had to get away. It had all gone wrong. Wiping her eyes, she saw a shape climbing onto the top of the wagon. She turned the other way and ran across the wooden grid, over the heads of the prisoners. She was not going to make the jump to the next vehicle, but a helmet-clad head appeared over the edge at the last second and she stepped onto it and over the gap. She was unaware that beneath the circle of carriages, her brother was going in the opposite direction. This next roof was flat boards. Under these, something loud and savage shrieked up at her, infected by the excitement. Feral voices turned her blood cold. Whatever creatures were in this wagon, she hoped they stayed there. Hate and violence screamed from inside.

  Her sneezing was easing off. The cool night air cleared her eyes, and she was getting her breath back. She ran across the roof and dropped onto the engine cowling of the next vehicle, this one a steam-powered catapult. The bonnet was steel, barrel-shaped with four small chimneys along the top. She felt heat under her feet; the fires were still smouldering in the furnace. Guards had caught up with her on the ground on both sides. She stepped onto the first chimney and out of reach of two who had followed her onto the roof. The girl hopped to the second one, head swivelling from side to side to find an escape route. But she was surrounded. There was only the roof of the driver’s cab ahead of her. She skipped across the last two pipes and climbed up onto the arching roof. The soldiers had anticipated her and were climbing onto the roof ahead of her. Taya was cut off.

  Lorkrin ducked under an axle, pushed past a flailing hand on one side and dodged a spear thrust at him from the other. He could see large booted feet on both sides, but the soldiers were having trouble seeing him. They were holding lanterns under the vehicles to try to light the blackness. With the soldiers getting in each others’ way, he had managed to stay out of their grasp. But as long as he stayed under the wagons, he was going to keep going round in circles. He could not escape the guards for long.

  In the gaol wagon, Groach was trying to get the other prisoners to join him in an escape. The turmoil caused by the two children had resulted in the door being left unlocked. Wulms had run off after the boy he had dropped and everyone seemed to have forgotten their captives. Surprisingly, Groach was having some difficulty in persuading anyone else to come along.

  ‘… but we can escape! The door’s open! Come on – what are you waiting for?’

  ‘You go. I’m staying right here,’ one man replied.

  ‘Me too. I’m fine where I am,’ said another.

  ‘Safer in here than out there,’ muttered a third.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Groach whined, perplexed. ‘You’ve all been taken from your homes against your will. These people mean you nothing but harm. We can break out of here and make a run for it. Why won’t you try?’

  He did not want to admit that he was afraid to try it alone, but he found their attitude bewildering.

  Lorkrin came to a space between two of the vehicles. There were sacks and a couple of metal barrels on the ground in front of him. The guards had lost sight of him for the moment. He crouched in the shadows, glad of the rest. He poked at the sacks by his side, grain or corn or something. The barrels were about half his height, but wider than the wooden ones he was used to. He wondered what was in them. Unscrewing a cap, he put his nose to it and took a sniff. Bule oil – the refined stuff used for fuelling engines. In a moment of mischievous glee, he tipped it over on its side. It gurgled out and under the sacks and around them to the carriage.

  A guard saw it fall and rushed over, holding a lantern. He stuck it in through the gap and Lorkrin shouted and kicked out, knocking the lamp against the metal grill of the wagon, smashing the glass. The burning fuel spewed out and fell upon the oil-soaked grass. Lorkrin yelped. The flames were creeping under him. They reached out for the still gushing barrel. Lorkrin and the soldier bolted in different directions in time to escape the explosion. The boy was thrown to the ground by the force of it. He lifted his head and could hear a fast, popping sound in his ears. At first he thought he had damaged his hearing, but then he saw white fluffy tufts springing from the flames.

  That’s popcorn, he observed, dizzily.

  The soldiers were rushing about, trying to put out the fire. He was lying outside the circle, a short run from the nearby trees. He got up and started running towards them.

  Taya was trapped. There were guards on all sides. While her body froze, her mind raced. She had to think of something, fast. Nothing came to her, so she charged at the three soldiers on the roof, diving between the legs of the first, rolling away from the second and finding her feet in time to leap to the neighbouring wagon before the third could snatch at her. A quick sprint across that roof and she was launching herself over the next gap when it exploded.

  A wave of heat lifted her up and caused her to miss the edge of the wagon’s roof, but dropped her neatly into the arms of a soldier. Though grateful for the soft landing, she poked him in the eye and he let go. She slipped away into the darkness as chaos took hold of the camp.

  ‘Hilspeth? What about you?’ Groach did not know what was going on out there, but it seemed a perfect diversion for an escape.

  ‘I won’t, thanks. You don’t understand, Panch. These men have all been taken from their homes, so the soldiers know just where to find them again if they escape, but it’s not just that …’

  ‘That’s enough games!’ the Convoy Commander bellowed. ‘Release the skacks and be done with it!’

  Hilspeth leaned past Groach, closed the door to the cage and snapped the padlock shut. He gaped at her and tried the door as if he could not believe what she had done. She took his hand in hers:

  ‘Believe me, Panch. It’s for the best.’

  Forward-Batterer Wulms gave the soldiers some time to apply skack-repellent ointment to the bare areas of their skin, before taking a short, stout oak staff in one hand and unlocking the door of their van. The pure hate Taya had sensed, o
nly minutes before, hissed and growled from within. Creatures, the like of which should only appear in nightmares, struggled with each other to get out. Wulms beat them back with the stick, screaming hysterically at them in a beast-like tongue.

  Skacks were predators about the size and weight of an adult man, but there the resemblance ended. Native to Guthoque, an area of Noran infamous for its dry, rocky, almost lifeless landscape, they had evolved to survive by being more savage than any other form of life. The area’s only feature of interest was its range of volcanoes, which regularly wiped out most of the animal life in their vicinity. From this unforgiving environment was born the skack. They were as quick and agile as cats, more intelligent than dogs and hardier than mountain goats. Their skin was purple and grey to camouflage them against the volcanic rock. Instead of eyes, useless in the poisonous gases of Guthoque, they had deeply ridged foreheads that could sense vibrations in the air, enabling them to find and identify their prey in daylight, fog or absolute darkness with equal ease. Short, blunt snouts carried heavy jaws, poisonous fangs and nostrils that could track better than a bloodhound.

  A skack’s legs were short, and had the extended shins of an animal born to run at speed. It had big, ropey arms at the ends of each of which hung a single, serrated claw, nearly the length of its shin. This would be tucked up while running, but could be unfolded for digging, climbing, or tearing its victims limb from limb.

  The Noranian nobles had captured and bred these creatures for hunting, only to find that even the best-trained skacks ate everything they caught, leaving little to hang on a wall as a trophy. The breeding of the animals had been handed onto the army.

  Wulms loved his skacks. He loved their savagery; he loved the way the soldiers were scared of them (and therefore, of him) and he loved their simple language, having only about sixty words, most of which referred to prey, and how to catch and kill it. He batted them back, slamming his staff down on any head that poked though the doorway, and threw in a tuft of hair that he had pulled from the Myunan boy’s head. There was a moment’s silence as the skacks sniffed this. Then Wulms stepped out of their way. The vehicle bounced on its suspension as each creature leapt from it, bounded over the grass and disappeared off into the night towards the forest.