Plain of the Fourteen Pillars - Book 1

by T K Foster

Briar closed his eyes and yawned at the sky.

  It just so happened that, quite by coincidence, a tiny swarm of insects, having been blown up by the wind, came to a sudden and surprising halt at the back of Briar’s throat. His immediate reaction was to gag and cough, then convulsively lurch forward in his saddle, the reflex helping to hock the gritty mass back up and onto his tongue.

  It tasted good.

  “Hmm,” Briar hummed to himself and swallowed back again, satisfied with the final product.

  When his (less than) trusty ride, Baby, had rounded the top of this last dune, Briar recalled something of the past. It was about the time that Baby had thrown him to the ground last and the ensuing moments thereafter. There had been a nasty fight break out, a war of words, a beating of breasts. Briar considered how a burro would look trying to beat its own breast and laughed. Then there was the mutiny, the lower dog breaking through superior ranks and seizing control, the dog’s very silence demanding respect, leaving no room but for his comrades to forfeit their pleas and follow. He led them boldly into the unknown, where no burro had gone before; no one questioned his leadership for he had shown strength where all others had not.

  Briar was pleased.

  At the front of the party Shovel questioned Cetra.

  “Do you think I was wrong? Do you think I should have listened to them? I mean, they are my brothers, and they’re smarter than me.”

  “I think, Shovel, that sometimes the smartest one in the room is he who does not say anything at all.”

  “And,” Rod added, “you are testing yourself when you follow your own instincts.”

  “I guess,” Shovel said dully, “But we aren’t in a room and I don’t really know what either of you are talking about; but I guess so.”

  “Anyway, Shovel,” Cetra continued, “we are almost there and it has not been so bad. Maybe a little hard on your feet, or soft, but we are all safe.”

  Both Shovel and Rod nodded their heads in agreement.

  It was about that same time that a swift whooshing sound immediately followed by an odd gurgle presented itself from behind, as if someone had pulled the plug on this enormous ocean of sand. Cetra stopped and turned when she heard Billy’s familiar scream.

  Billy was in the air, almost suspended for the briefest of moments. Beneath him the sand swirled and dipped, almost whirlpool like, and hot air wiggled upwards. Present was a smell around them that could only be described as that of bad breath.

  The gurgle sounded again, then a crunch, and from that a short ripple of sand erupted from the underground, splashing as far as Briar and nearly knocking him off his burro.

  Billy came to land inside the depression that was left behind, and for a moment all was still. He checked for bits missing to find all was intact; his pants, his boots, shirt and jacket, the box with his trusty iron inside, and all his limbs were still securely attached. He looked up from his hole to see that his friends were now looking down upon him.

  “Stop playing around Billy,” Barret called out from atop Stern. “Hey, where’d you put your burro?”

  From beneath Billy’s bottom there erupted a loud, gritty burp which affected the sand around him in such a way as to make it shake and dance upwards into the air for a duration of no less than one and a half hands. Being in the midst of such a vile tremor Billy suddenly felt dirty and wanted so desperately to bathe the rancid smell from his body. Also, having felt the moment had gone on for far too long now, he stood up and decided to say something, more out of shock than fear.

  “What was that?”

  The question wasn’t really put out there to retrieve an answer, in fact, the less known about such a creature that can dwell under the sand and emerge to just beneath the surface for a quick snack of burro meat the better.

  “What I’d like to know is,” Barret said, “why did it spit Billy out? I mean, I’m glad it did, but why?”

  “It could probably smell him,” Briar said, “You people stink.”

  Though through these recent events the ones who had lost their brother suddenly felt very pressed to move on toward the base of the cliff where they could retreat to the safety of a rocky ledge. So without any prompting this time they turned and did just that, but without a word, they travelled in silent remorse.

  “Hey, wait for me,” Billy shouted from behind and started to run as best he could in the soft sand to catch up.

  Cetra stayed her burro with a pat on the ear and a kind word. She glanced backwards over her shoulder and over Rod’s head to see Billy stumbling. “You will ride with us, Billy,” she called out.

  “Yes, come on lad, jump on now. Quick,” Rod added.

  With several laboured strides across the sand dune Billy reached out to rest his hand on Shovel’s backside and quickly catch a breath. He shifted his box from one side to the other so that it was out of the way when he hoisted himself onto the burro’s back just behind Cetra. That very action having been achieved with a grunt and the slightly intrusive addition of a spine in a most awkward position, they continued forward, moving up and down with the line of sand dunes, ever attempting to catch up to the others.

  Before long they were indeed stepping up from sand onto the hard stone at the base of the cliff.

  “So what now, pig-face?” Barret said.

  Briar pointed a stubby finger into the air.

  Barret grimaced.

  Billy said, “That’s all good and well, Briar, but how?”

  Briar dropped himself from the back of his ride and landed on the stone in a squatting position, which really wasn’t that much different to when he was standing. From there he launched himself erect, slipped, stumbled, and found himself once again sprawled over the sand.

  “Do we all have to do that to get up the cliff?” Cetra quipped.

  Briar didn’t see the funny side, which was contrary to everybody else. “Ha ha, you funny pack of topey dung drops,” he spat while moving quickly back to the ledge and dusting himself off.

  After the final gasp of laughter had echoed and died across the vast sandy plain, Briar answered Billy’s question. “There’s steps in the cliff just up there,” he said and pointed his stubby finger again.

  The three remaining burros stirred uneasily.

  “Well what are we waiting for?” Barret said impatiently and easily jumped off Stern in one fluid movement. “Let’s go.”

  Billy was also quick off the mark, gladly hopping down from the tongue and groove hold of Shovel’s back bone and grabbing onto Cetra’s hand while she too took to the ground.

  “So what do we do?” Stern said, his voice considerably more high pitched than anticipated.

  Barret turned to Briar who turned to Barret and shrugged.

  “There’s a town closer up there than coming back down again,” Briar spoke quietly.

  Stern had already wagered that he would have more chance of being swallowed up by some weird thing in the desert than being capable of climbing a staircase in the side of a cliff; and having determined this so earnestly, figured only too well the dastardly fate which was about to befall him and his brothers.

  “Go home,” Barret said after clearing his throat.

  “You what?” Baby shrieked and nipped the air. “I’m not going back across that.”

  Stern reflected on his thoughts for a moment, and having calmed his demeanour in advance, was already prepared to reassure his two younger brothers.

  “We’ll walk this ledge until we get out of the sand,” he said.

  “But that’s heaps long. Look,” Baby protested, gesturing his nose along the line of the cliff face.

  “Only as far as our eyes can see, and you’re shorter than us so you can’t see as far.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  Now....

  Not only does a burro possess the ability to find its way home from any point on the plain, it is also capable of sustaining itself during longer treks by feeding on the ear cartilage of its companions. In fact, a burro’s travel history can b
e relatively measured by the line of scar tissue on its ear, for shortly after an ear has been chewed off it begins to grow back again, so an entire earflap can actually return, quite magically, overnight.

  This rather embarrassing survival option, stumbled upon accidentally very many days previous when a prominent historical burret – or female burro – happened to find herself engaged in a disagreeable position with her mate and in anger subsequently chewed his ear off, led to the simple but survival orientated saying, never travel alone. For when you take all of this into account it would be difficult to see how a burro could possibly be capable of eating its own ears.

  “Typical,” Baby yelled back as the three of them turned into their long journey home. “Used and abused, treated like animals and dumped like topey turds....”

  In fact, Baby could be heard mumbling his disgust well into the distance, until eventually, and gratefully, it ceased.

  On the other hand, Shovel departed with a hop in his hoof, for the farewell grace he received from Cetra and Rod was thick and rich, dipped in honey and topped off with a warm candied radish. Oh Shovel and his happy thoughts.

  Shortly after all this and that, the five companions took it in turn to step up and over the threshold of a naturally cut staircase zigzagging its way up to the top of the cliff face. Assuredly Briar did appear to know where he was going, which by all accounts had been doubtful at times.

  The stairs were easily ascended, being wide underfoot, flat and only slightly raised one above the other. Each landing opened up a new zig in the zag with each line gradually overhanging the previous in keeping with the sheerness of the cliff face; it robbed them of the visual perspective their climb had taken and showed them nothing of what was to come.

  None but one was tempted to brave the edge, most opting for the view from the wall. Beyond their safe surrounding structure of stone was nothing but air, an untouchable void feared by all, except for Rod who, in only one instance asked to be let down so he could quickly run to the edge where he gasped in astonishment and then quickly retreated back to the safety of Cetra’s shoulder.

  As they continued on now weary from the climb, a fluttering shadow appeared across the sun. It moved slowly and changed shape regularly, tossing and turning in the air and doubling back upon itself, but all the while still maintaining its course toward the cliff.

  “What sort of birds are they?” Billy asked.

  “Black birds,” Barret answered.

  “They look red to me,” Billy corrected.

  Barret looked again and shrugged.

  Indeed, the noisy flock of black birds, which were red in colour and only distinguishable to their name by the small dot of black feathers hidden under their right wing, was headed directly for them and was now actually almost upon them already.

  “Press yourselves against the wall,” Briar yelled over the noise.

  “Let’s throw pig-boy over to them as a sacrifice,” Barret screamed, “They could pick him up and carry him away.”

  “Hide under my shirt,” Cetra squealed at Rod.

  The noise grew to an almost deafening roar, but just as it looked like the birds were about to smash their heads into the cliff face the entire gathering quickly arced upwards like a stream of wind moving in accordance with the terrain; and for an odd moment, as their wings ceased to flap and they glided effortlessly into their ascent, it was almost silent.

  Although the moment was only a small fraction of time, it certainly was a memorable one; to Billy it was a vision and sensation that would remain with him forever.

  When the final stragglers approached clumsily in a bid to catch up to the flock, Billy stepped forward and pointed at them, but before he could utter the words he meant to speak, Briar screamed at him.

  “Don’t point.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll punch a hole in the air and the birds will fly in and get lost.”

  “Huh?”

  In fact, at the precise moment that Billy did point his finger, the same bird he had intended to comment on just happened to fly by much closer than anticipated; it flapped its wings casually, gave a sudden startled look, and fell into nothing, the nothing being the very hole that Billy had inadvertently created by pointing his finger in the air. There was an old saying on Bradley, which was often misused, misinterpreted, or just missed entirely altogether, if you don’t like a bird, point at it and tell it to get lost. The whole phenomenon was simply strange, and one which went on record as never having been figured out as yet.

  Pressing on, they each realised that there was little of the stairs left above them, for they could now actually make out the top of the cliff. So without incident or any more conversation, they zigzagged upwards, step by step, breath by breath, counting it all joy these final moments before conquering the mountain.

  When they had trodden the top step and surveyed the flat ground before them they rested, if only for a moment, before Briar stepped forward, stretched out his arms toward a shrub and proclaimed, “Here we are. There’s your old sage.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN