by James Bow
Twigs scratched at my back as I skimmed the tops of trees. Then a more substantial branch, poking out of the fog, caught me across the legs. It bent back, slowing me down. The cable slipped from my grasp.
I grabbed the branch as the tree flung me back. Somehow I hung on. Somehow I righted myself. I stared.
From my small island in the shrouded sea, I watched Iapyx sail away from me, carrying everything — my friends, my home — with it, until it crashed into the opposite cliff face. It crumpled like a broken string bag, unleashing a roaring black cloud that cascaded at me. The blast shook my branch again, but I held on. Then all I heard was the wind.
I lay limp in the tree’s branches, staring at nothing. In front of me, as the dust cleared, the ruins of Iapyx lay scattered around the base of the cliff like a rockfall.
It was a while before thoughts came back. They came back slowly. They came back black.
I had jumped. I had jumped to my death and I hadn’t died. Why not? The Fates had played another cruel joke. I was alive, with no reason to live. I had no home. Iapyx was gone. Rachel was gone. Everything in my life. Gone. What stupid second chance was this? I should just lie in these branches, waiting for death to take me.
I waited.
The wind rustled the branches.
I waited.
Fog shrouded my view of the cliff face.
I waited.
Death didn’t come.
I grabbed the branch and hauled myself upright. My mind was too numb to think of anything beyond watching where I put my feet, and maybe not even that.
A branch beneath me snapped.
My hands slipped, and I fell. Again. Twigs and branches broke beneath me. I remember thinking that it wasn’t so much that I minded dying, but that it was bizarre that I should do it falling out of a tree. An ornithopter, a city, sure, but a tree? It was my one garbled thought before something smacked me in the head.
What I hoped was death took me at last.
THE GIRL OF THE FOG FOREST
CHAPTER TWELVE
NINE DOZEN SLEEPS BEFORE THE FALL
EK-TAAK-TOCK-TAAK:
My story begins far away, nine dozen days before the fall.
It was in the days before I got my current name. Then, I was only known by what my birth mother had named me to the Elder Mother: Small, Fierce-Hearted One — or, as it was pronounced in the Elder’s speech, Ek-Taak-Tock-Taak. People find it strange that I have two names. I find it strange, too, though I am proud to have earned the second one.
The idea of days is also strange.
I have been told “days” existed in the world of my birth mother’s people. There, a yellow sun would shine and then go away, and once it came back, that would be a day. And it happened often enough that people ordered their lives by it.
But as I grew up, I knew only of sleeps. I ordered my life by those messages my body sent me, telling me to find someplace safe from predators where I could lower my head and close my eyes. And when I woke, I would be ready to work again, until my next sleep.
So I still feel that my story begins nine dozen sleeps before the fall. My story is longer than that, but let me start with when I left home for what I thought would be the last time.
I had gathered my supplies from the huts of my village. The Elder had not said that I could do this, but she had not told me not to do this, either. I also knew that those whose huts I had raided would not complain.
I tied back my hair. I hung my travel pouches over my shoulders, and tied more around my hips. Special leaves to heal cuts, bark to clean water, poison thorns for my blowpipe. Some food for the journey — not much. I would have to get more from the forest itself, but it was enough to start. My best bone knives for … later.
Finally, I took the spear I had carved from a branch two sleeps before and tested it against the ground. It would serve as a good walking stick.
I was ready. I left the hut. I stood a while, surrounded by fog, but she did not come to say goodbye. I had not expected it, but it hurt a little. When I saw there was no use waiting, I walked away, on the path leading out of the village.
The Elder’s voice stopped me, from out of the fog. « Go then, » she said. « See for yourself. »
I waited, but the Elder said nothing more. I took a step forward.
She called to me. « Safe journey. »
For the first time that day, I smiled. I walked out of my village.
You may wonder how I could fend for myself in a world where I could not see more than ten paces ahead, especially among predators that hunt by smell. But though you cannot see, you can still hear. You can smell, if you practise long enough. I have had a lifetime to practise. I did well enough. I was surprised once by a slink, but I had my hand on my spear. The fight was short, and I ate well afterward.
After many sleeps, I came to a place where the ground rose out of the fog. The plants became few, then none. I walked on rough stone that bit the soles of my feet. The walls of the chasm drew together, and seemed to end here, the cliffs coming together in a tight notch, but I pushed on, and the chasm turned, and continued, though here it was so narrow that I had to walk sideways. I walked several steps more, and came out into a new chasm. Fog stretched before and below me and, in the distance, I caught my first glimpse of one of the invaders’ metal hives.
It was so far away that I could cover it with my hand. But even in shadow, it shone so bright I had to shield my eyes. It stretched the width of the canyon, tendrils clinging to the cliff face, sitting above the clouds on top of a thin stem. With the stem and the tendrils, it looked like a giant insect sucking the lifeblood out of the land.
A strange buzzing made me turn, and I saw another of the hives, far away in the other direction. There was a shape flickering from it. What insect was this? But as I watched it come closer, I could see it was no insect.
I ducked behind the fold in the cliff face. From there, I peered out.
The thing was white. Its wings flapped so fast, they blurred. It droned as it approached. It was nothing natural. So, the stories were true: The invaders knew how to fly.
The white insect passed close by, the drone pitching lower as it headed away to the metal hive at the other end of the chasm. I waited until I could see it no more. Then I crept out from my hiding place and walked quickly down into the chasm, into the trees and the fog.
This forest was different from my own. It had the same plants, the same animals; there was the same roar of the slinks, and the hoot and cry of the howler-climbers, but it felt … cooler. It was darker, too. Which was strange. The burning time was near. But I had walked so far north, the sun was lower in the sky. Just like the invaders to take the best lands.
But though I was farther north, it was still almost the burning time. I knew the sun could still shine through the glittering cap. I knew what would happen then.
From up ahead came a gust of wind and the shaking of leaves. The breeze that touched my cheeks was hot. I tasted water in the air. A stray reflection of sunlight must have shone through the translucent cap at the top of the cliffs and hit the top of the fog, turning part of it to a whirling column of steam. A boiling wind was coming.
The gust became a bellow, then a roar. I found a bulbtree just off the path and, as the rush of wind rose to a scream, I curled up into as small a ball as possible, and waited.
The air grew dark as leaves were ripped into the whirlwind. A blast of wind, hot as a fire, struck me across the back and got hotter and hotter until I could hardly bear it. I kept my breathing shallow, and willed the whirlwind to pass.
And it did. The wind’s screams ebbed. So did the hot blast against my back. When I stood up, my body dripping water, only a tiny breeze pulled at my hair. The scalding pain on my back eased. I gathered my things, and made my way back to the path.
Following the chasm, I went north. Three sleeps later, I came upon one of the metal hives.
I could not see it through the mist, but I could tell by the way the sky da
rkened that it was above me. I remembered what I had seen above the fog, and pictured it looming above the forest.
Then, beyond the fern fronds, I saw it.
A barrier stretched before me, three steps away, made of metal. Beyond it, on the edge of fog-sight, was the hive’s stinger, rising from the ground and widening as it rose before it vanished in the clouds. From a distance, it looked thin enough to snap like a twig. Up close, it was a massive column of stone that seemed to push into the ground, sucking the forest in around it. There was a door in that column, made of wood, but looking no less solid. And I could not get to that door without crossing the web barrier in front of me.
The Elder had told me that touching the web meant death. I was not sure I believed this, but looking at the barrier, it looked so easy to climb. Too easy?
I snapped a thin branch from a bulbtree and reached out with the leafy end. When I was a footfall away, I threw the branch into the barrier. It tangled in the woven links with a rustle of leaves and a snap of wood. Nothing else happened.
I clicked my tongue, satisfied, and reached for the dangling branch.
Before I could touch it, its dangling end touched the ground. There was a flash, snap, sizzle. I sprang back as flames leapt up. Streaks of blue-white light, not like real fire, lanced up and down the branch before the flames consumed the wood and it fell to the ground in a pile of ash.
I looked from the ashes to the barrier to the stinger beyond.
My will faltered. I had come so far to confront the invaders in their metal hives, but how could I get their attention when I was so small, and the hives were so big? If I touched the barrier, I would die, and they would not even notice me. I had not expected to live, but I had expected to get inside.
And the anger that had been building in me all my life boiled over. After all the invaders had done to my people, they should listen to me! I would make them hear! I howled. I reared back and flung my spear. It sailed over the barrier and struck the stone column, snapping in two. The pieces rattled as they fell to the ground.
A crack appeared in the stone.
I stared at it, open-mouthed. Then I laughed. I shouted. I’d hurt them!
But then more cracks appeared, spidered out. There came a distant noise, like a wounded animal bellowing, but an animal huge beyond all reason. Other noises joined it, getting louder, coming closer. The hive’s stinger shook. A groan filled the air. Dust billowed out from the cracks. Then the stinger shattered. Stones spewed everywhere.
I threw myself to the ground as rocks sprayed around me. I rolled away, and a great slab of the stinger crashed into the mud where I had just been lying. More and larger pieces fell. I scrambled to my feet and ran for my life. The remains of the stinger plowed into the ground. The barrier leapt up, flashing like lightning. Then a great darkness fell from above.
Wind blew past me as the air itself rushed to get out of the way. Behind me, the body of the hive swooped down like a monster. It swept overhead, the wind in its wake knocking me off my feet. Its tendrils lashed the air. I covered my head. A great mass, glowing white hot, smashed into the ground. The mud exploded into steam. I gasped for air and choked on mud and dust. I stumbled on the shaking ground. Stone and metal kept raining down.
At last I spotted a hollow beneath a fat bulbtree. I dove inside, curled up into a ball, and waited for the hive to crush me.
It did not. Slowly, the rumble died away.
I stayed in the hollow long after the patter of falling things stopped and thought about running home. I did not know what I had expected after travelling nine dozen sleeps to one of the invaders’ giant metal hives, but surely not to have it fall and almost crush me. None of my dreams of revenge were so large.
But as the while grew longer and the sounds of the forest returned, so did my courage. I was still alive. The mountain had fallen, but I had not. I would see what had happened.
It was harder to get out of the hole than it had been to get in. I had to let my travel pouches slip off behind me. Pulling loose, I stood up, brushed myself off, and looked around.
And all was changed.
The metal hive was gone, but so was the forest in that place. All that remained was a mud flat with sharp-edged boulders sticking up. The glowing mass lay half-buried, steam rising from the ground around it. With no hive and no forest, everything was open to the sky. I blinked at the brightness. I could feel it warming already. The fog was thinning. I did not like this new feeling of openness. It was like the rocky land above cloud: nothing would grow here again.
I covered myself in handfuls of mud to protect my skin, then pulled on my travel pouches, wrapping them around me like a blanket. That was when I realized I had dropped my blowpipe.
I checked the pouches. Not there. I looked at the mud and the broken stone, and knew there was no hope of getting it back. I thumped the tree with my palm. I would make another, of course, but this one had been a favourite.
Staying in the cover of the forest, I followed the edge of the mud flat, in the direction the hive had fallen, slipping among the ferns, creeping around the bulbtrees, listening to the undergrowth as it rustled, and wondering what could make a hive fall.
Then my foot fell on something that was not dirt or plant. I jerked back and brought up my hands to fight off whatever animal might leap. But I had not been careless. The reason I had not heard this animal in the undergrowth was because it was not moving.
And it was not an animal. It was an invader.
It was a boy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AFTER THE FALL
EK-TAAK-TOCK-TAAK:
Though he was an invader, I was surprised at how much he was shaped like me, and how much his skin was like mine.
He wore that strange woven covering I had heard from the Elder’s stories, but had not really believed in. I could not see the sense in it even now. You could carry hardly anything in those coverings, and they were surely too hot to wear.
But … I fingered a strand of his hair, and then a strand of mine. I had imagined, through the Elder’s stories, that the invaders were hairy all over. He had hair, but mine was longer.
Blood ran down his face from a cut on his forehead. I wondered if he was dead, but then I saw his chest rise and fall.
He is an invader, I thought. He is one of them. I should leave him here. Maybe I should kill him. Yes …
I pulled my favourite bone knife from its pouch and raised it, ready to slice across his throat, when something stopped me. What was that smell? I knelt close to the invader and sniffed deep. He smelled … strangely sweet. Not like sweat, or mud, though those scents were there. He smelled like … flowers. I sniffed again, but that was all I could smell. Curse this inadequate nose!
Still, I had not expected the invaders to smell like flowers.
Parts of his face were very pale, as though he was splashed with colour. I recognized those splashes. He had been burned.
My fingers traced over the lines on his face. He looked a bit like …
My brother. Ek-Tek.
He shifted and murmured. I jerked my fingers away. He groaned, then fell still again. The cut by his hairline looked deep. It needed attention.
If I wanted him to live, that is.
After a breath, I put my knife away. I sorted through my travel pouches until I found the leaves I was looking for. Pointed top to clot blood, fern to bind it. I wadded both leaves up and chewed them carefully, testing the mix on my tongue. When it was ready, I rolled the wad in my fingers with a small amount of mud. Then I lifted up his hair and placed the ball over the wound, pressing it down and spreading it out. The blood caught in it immediately and stopped flowing.
Just then came a buzzing above the clouds. One of the invaders’ strange insect-like fliers, come to see what had happened to their fallen hive, no doubt.
The invader boy groaned and shifted again. His eyelids fluttered. I gathered my things and slid under the cover of the ferns to watch as he recovered.
&n
bsp; * * *
SIMON:
I woke to the sound of ornithopters buzzing overhead.
For a moment I lay where I was, staring up at the glowing whiteness. Was I back in the infirmary, under the influence of morphium again? Why else had the ceiling gone fluffy? There was something weird about this, but the mattress hugged me down, and I didn’t want to move. If only the ornithopter pilots wouldn’t practise their moves outside my window.
Then I thought, The Iapyx infirmary doesn’t have a window anymore. It couldn’t have. Not after …
Wait.
I blinked. My eyes opened wider. I shut them as my head began pounding. Every part of my body was in pain. Again. I writhed and groaned and curled up among the plants, retching.
When I opened my eyes again, I stared a long moment at the curling patterns of the fern leaves, wondering what I was staring at and why I was staring at it.
Then it all came back to me in a rush. I stood up, gasping, and immediately staggered and fell back. I jumped up again as if burnt. I staggered around, staring, my breathing ragged, taking in the plants and the fog, feeling the hot moisture bead on my skin.
I’m alive, I thought. After all that, how could I be alive?
It was better than being dead, a part of me said, but the rest of my mind screamed. I was worse than dead. I was in the fog forest.
Around me, vegetation rustled. I heard hoots and cries and snarls in the underbrush. Every foggy shadow hid a monster. I thought I could hear ticking in the foliage.
The Grounders had wanted to colonize this? What were they thinking? A fern frond brushed my shoulder and I whirled around, yelling, my fists up.
The voice of my flight instructor echoed in my head: Get hold of yourself! Here and now, you are alive. The only thing that can really kill you is panic, so that’s what you need to get control of.
I took deep breaths, holding each one for several seconds before letting it go.
Then I thought, ornithopters.
