Stress Pattern

by Barrett, Jr. , Neal

  "It's not much," I said, "but it's paid for." She didn't understand that, but I laughed at it, so she did too.

  And in a moment, "Andrew?"

  "Yes."

  "What's going to happen to us?"

  "Nothing, now. We'll be OK as long as we stay out of the sun. It was hotter than I thought. If we walk at night—after you're better I mean. . . ."

  "No." She touched my cheek. "I don't mean that. I— You know. . . ."

  I sat up. "What you mean," I said flatly, "is when will we get to where we're going and where might that be."

  She pulled away from me. "Well, I'm sorry. I just don't understand, that's all."

  "You don't have. to understand everything."

  "Well, that's good, because I sure as hell don't!"

  I looked at her. "I don't think you ever said that before."

  "What? Hell?" She bit her lip into a pout. "Why shouldn't I. You say it. I say a lot of things you say whether I know what they mean or not. What is it?"

  "Hell?"

  "Yes."

  "Kind of like yesterday," I told her, and put my arm around her again. "Only hotter. But not much."

  Melisa felt better by nightfall. But I decided to give her another day in the burrow. It was cool enough there, and plenty of bulbs on hand. She could move around at night if she wanted.

  Right after sundown I heard thunder in the earth again, and knew the Ghroals were rumbling across the flatlands. Where had they gone, then, while the waters covered the valley?

  During the night Melisa seemed restless, disturbed. Once, I woke to find her tending the new person. Again, she was standing well away from the burrow, slim arms holding my tattered shirt about her. Simply standing, looking out at something, or nothing at all.

  Wide awake.

  Jerked up out of sleep catching a breath. Afraid it wouldn't he there. Lean back a moment. Let the heart stop pounding to get out.

  Whatever had me was a big one. Nasty. Couldn't remember what it looked like and didn't want to.

  Look around for Melisa. Huddled against the far wall of the burrow. Still gray, indistinct in the false dawn.

  "Melisa?"

  No answer.

  "Hey. You all right?"

  The face still in shadow. Just two eyes. A star in each corner.

  "Melisa? What's wrong?" Move toward her easily. The slim form shrinks back. Scuttles away like a cornered animal.

  What the hell, then? Closer, a small bundle in her arms. Knows I've seen it and jerks it to her breasts.

  "Go away, Andrew. . . ."

  Stop. A warning chill in the voice.

  "Melisa, it's the child, isn't it?"

  Nothing.

  "Something's wrong. What's wrong with the child, Melisa?"

  "Go, Andrew. Just go!"

  "Melisa, be reasonable. Let me see it. I'm sure—"

  "No!"

  The eyes so wide they fill her face. No gentle curves there now. Harsh planes and angles. No gentleness in the voice, either.

  "You are what is wrong, Andrew. . . . Don't you know that? You don't belong here—this is my world, not yours! Oh, God, Andrew!"

  The voice shatters in tears. She doesn't resist when I take the bundle from her, and hold our child, and pull the thin matting away and look at it as the sun blazes over the flat rim of the valley.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Living in a logical, well-ordered world has its advantages. If I walked toward the rising sun, for instance, I would eventually reach it. It might take time. But I would get there. And I could step into its warmth and that would be that.

  Something was wrong.

  I was moving in the proper direction, doing what I was supposed to do. I have always done what I was supposed to do, and listened to what they said. So why was the sun going away, up into the sky? I didn't do anything wrong! I didn't mean to. Don't go away and leave me.

  You're a bastard, sun!

  I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to use words like that. I didn't mean to use a bad word, but you shouldn't leave me! You're a big bastard, sun. . . !

  . . . the little bastard's no son o' mine. . . .

  hush, Charlie, he'll hear you. . . .

  well, goddamn, Ellen, look at him. that all he knows how to do, cram his nose in a book? a kid needs to get out and mix it up, take some knocks. . . .

  just because Andrew's not athletically inclined. . . .

  athletically inclined my butt. and his name's Andy, for God's sake. Andrew. Jesus! no wonder he's a skinny-assed little fag. . . .

  Charlie. . . !

  OK. but if he's not he will be, if you don't straighten him out and quit babyin' him. . . .

  he makes good grades. . . .

  he makes good graaaaaades. Christ. grades don't mean shit. no girl wants to go out . . .

  . . . for the team, Andy. you give any more thought to that. . . ?

  not a lot, Dad. anyway, I'm not the right size for it. a lot of the guys. . . .

  hell with the other guys, Andy. you've got a good build. remember? you used to lay some damn good blocks on me, son. knocked the wind out of my sails a couple of times. right. . . ?

  Dad, that was playing around in the back yard. it's not like. . . .

  it's the same damn thing! it's conditioning—getting in shape for what's out there in the world. Andy, what was it all for? I tried to . . .

  . . . teach? what kind of job is that. . . ?

  it's what I want to do, Dad. . . .

  well, where's it going to get you? you know what teaching's for. . . ?

  all right, what's it for. . . ?

  for do-nothings who can't do anything else! what happened, Andy? what was it all for? Christ, Charlie Gavin's. . . .

  . . . sun a white blaze high in the sky, too high. how am I ever going to reach you, Dad, if you keep getting higher and higher and. . . .

  "Here. You drink, Andrew."

  "Don't call me Andrew. It's Andy. I don't like to be called Andrew because—"

  "Yes, Andy. Drink. You have much sickness from the sun."

  "Am I your son? I want to be, but you go so high, so—"

  "Drink, Andy."

  "Dad?"

  "It is Rhamik, Andrew."

  "Andy!"

  "Yes. Andy."

  "Rhamik?"

  "Yes."

  "You don't look like Rhamik. You look like him."

  "I am not the same as I was. But I am Rhamik."

  "Rhamik doesn't come to see me anymore. I guess I didn't do things like he wanted me to. I tried to, but— Dad? It's dark out. Where's my sun? I want my son! Melisa!"

  "She is here. Rest, Andrew."

  Oh God, my son! Melisa, I didn't mean to do that—you can't make anyone be something they don't want. to be. You can't—you can't just—"

  "Can't you do something, Rhamik?"

  "He will be all right. He needs rest. And water."

  "He looks—awful!"

  "Another night. Here in the burrow, out of the sun."

  "Rhamik?"

  "Yes."

  "Andrew—changed you."

  "Yes."

  "You let him do that."

  "Andrew did not know this. It was a need in him. As you were a need. And the new person."

  "Oh, Rhamik, please! Will you take the child?"

  "It is his patterning. Andrew's."

  "But he doesn't want it, Rhamik."

  "No. But I think he will."

  "After what he's—"

  "Understanding will come of what he has done. This world of his—I do not think it is like our world. I think it is a strange and frightening place."

  "The child looks like him."

  "Yes. I think the child is Andrew. And Andrew is the child. Melisa, you want the new person, do you not?"

  "Yes. Oh, yes! It's his, Rhamik. I have to want it."

  "Strange indeed. Small new persons. And females who would remain with their offspring."

  "Rhamik, what's to become of us? I'm frightened, I— Andrew w
ants to be somewhere, and I don't understand this. A place is a place, but Andrew. . . ."

  "This is not in my understanding, either. But it is the way of his world, I think."

  "But all the world is just—the world. It's not right, Rhamik. We can't just keep—going!"

  "Andrew will know, I think."

  "Know what?"

  "When he finds what he is looking for."

  "But what is there to find!"

  The rim of the valley is four nights' walk from the burrow I dug in the wastelands. It is a half night's climb up the long, gentle slope. Two nights farther beyond, an arm of the Great Groove slashes across the arid plain and drives a shallow arrow into the east. Following this arrow brings you to the edge of a high escarpment—high, by this world's standards.

  Below is a cluster of mud huts packed against the base of the escarpment like careless dauber-wasps. And beyond that, a dun-colored stretch of sand that meets a brown and tideless sea.

  "This must be where we are going, Andrew," Melisa said listlessly, "because it is the edge of the world. You can see there is nothing more."

  "Maybe," I said. "Maybe it is."

  I think that was the most we had spoken to each other in the time we had been traveling. What was there to say? What could we tell one another?

  We stood there, and the sun rose over the brown sea.

  "We'll stay here," I told her. "I'll make a burrow for shade, and we can rest until it's dark."

  "Until it's dark," Melisa said woodenly. "Then what, Andrew?"

  "There are boats down there of some kind. Pulled up on the beach. Maybe they fish or something, though I doubt it. We'll take one of the boats when it's dark."

  She sat up and stared at me. "Why Andrew? Where will we go in the boat—off the edge of the world?"

  "No. North." Though I had no idea why I chose that particular direction.

  "North?"

  "To the right. Up the coast."

  "What's up there, Andrew?"

  "I don't know," I told her. "I haven't the slightest idea, Melisa."

  While the sun blazed overhead and Melisa slept I held my son and washed him and gave him water, and let him suck green bulb petals.

  I think I love him and I think I hate him. But I will not cast him aside, dear old Dad, just because he did not turn out exactly as I had in mind. I will not castigate him, or berate him, if he decides he does not want to be just like me. Though I know this flaunts a fine family tradition. It may be that I have not entirely fulfilled my own goals, but through the courtesy of the fears and failings you so generously planted in my mind, I have bloody well fulfilled yours.

  Here at last, you miserable bastard, is the son you wanted. He smiles up at me with my own childish face. A fine lock of golden hair curls over his brow. And above the brow, extending from just over his eyes to the back of his neck—covering his ears and curving back to the brow again—is a thick, bony structure colored Homecoming-red. A billion tiny capillaries have joined forces to create this fine illusion.

  There's more. The bright yellow jersey—or the fine pelt of short fur, rather, that serves as one. And emblazoned on the small chest is a vivid red "22," which, of course, is your number.

  Fortunately, my unconscious did not do its work below the belt. Or perhaps it did. He is normal, and exceedingly well hung, which is necessary, of course, for balling coeds after, the big game.

  Still, he smiles at me. Why shouldn't he? He has no idea he is our monster—yours and mine—a Cy Hzerkowitz, Herb what's-his-name, or good old Charlie "Chuck" Gavin.

  I would strangle him quickly, now, and bury him in the sand. For his sake, not mine. But that would be your way. And whatever I am, I am my own brand of son-of-a-bitch. Not yours.

  It was absurdly easy to steal a boat.

  Not because I have any talents as a master thief—though there is a great deal in the science of economics that deals with this sort of thing—but because it had never been done before on this world. There are two prerequisites for crime, as I see it. One, the energy and initiative to steal, and two, the presence of something worth stealing. Both of these requirements are rarities on this planet.

  I was more excited about stealing the boat than being in it. It resembled a canoe, made of bamboo, of course—but to call it a canoe is unfair to all canoe builders.

  Melisa was terrified. Though not too frightened to tell me what she thought of this business.

  "I can't stand it, Andrew. I really can't."

  "It won't be for long, Melisa." I didn't know, however, whether this was true or not.

  The stars were bright, and appeared on the water as curly patterns of silver. If I hadn't seen this drab ocean by day, I might have taken it for a calm night on an Earthly sea. Though no sea there was ever as calm as this. It was like rowing on a still pond, and I kept us moving easily up the coast with no real effort.

  "Andrew?"

  "Yes, Melisa." She was huddled in the far end of the boat, the child bundled close to her breasts. I could just make out her golden head and a hint of legs against the beginnings of dawn. I felt a sudden longing for her. Could I ever hold her again, hear her cry out in joy against me? So much had passed between us. Things neither of us clearly understood.

  "I shouldn't ask again."

  "It's all right if you do. I only wish I could give you an answer. You deserve that, Melisa."

  "Andrew, it's not your fault."

  "Some of it is. Some of it isn't, and a great deal of it is being a man on a world where a man doesn't belong."

  "I'm sorry, Andrew."

  "About what?"

  "That I said that. That I screamed at you and told you that you didn't belong here."

  "You were right, though."

  "But you belong with me. You don't belong on my world, but—half of me doesn't belong on it, either. I want you to belong with me, Andrew."

  "Do you, Melisa? Do you really? After everything?"

  "Yes, Andrew. Oh, yes!"

  I would have answered, but over Melisa's shoulder by first light I saw the sea dotted with boats moving for us from the shore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  "I knew it," Melisa moaned. "We shouldn't have taken the boat, Andrew!"

  "Just take it easy," I told her. "Nothing's going to happen."

  "Something always happens," she said.

  Watching them, I decided we were probably in no danger. The sun was brightening the brown water and the boats weren't coming after us. There were six of them, in canoes like our own. They had stopped in a ragged line fifty meters away, back-paddling, and making no attempt to overtake us.

  "What are they doing now?" Melisa asked. She could have seen for herself, but she didn't want to know if something bad was about to happen.

  "They're not doing anything."

  "They're not coming after us?"

  "I don't think so."

  "They want their boat back," Melisa decided. "They'll come after us."

  I didn't bother to tell her these beings weren't from the same settlement, that we hadn't taken their boat at all. I could see their mud-hut cluster on the shore. Exactly like the other one. They didn't want us, though, I was sure. They simply wanted to let us know it would be well to move on. That there were no picnic or docking facilities available.

  I put a good ten minutes behind us before pulling in for the day. The sun was fierce enough, and we kept to our shallow burrow. I was becoming rather adept at burrow building.

  By noon the sun passed over the rim of the escarpment and put us in shade, and it was not unpleasant at all. We bathed in the brown sea, and washed our piece of matting, and her shirt and my shorts. My son liked the water, and laughed at the feel of it.

  "Are we there now, Andrew?" Melisa wanted to know.

  I told her that we were somewhere, all right, but that I didn't think this was where we were going.

  I honestly believed I had a goal.

  That I was not just "going somewhere" as Melisa put it. I
had firmly believed this, even before we left the grove. But of course it was what I wanted to think, and I examined the feeling as objectively as possible. It did not go away. I did not feel I was merely running from one place toward another. There was a place to go. A right place. And I would go there.

  It may be that the dream strengthened my belief. Not that there was anything there to give me hope. God, just the opposite! The darkness, the cold stars, the terrible loneliness. Maybe it frightened me so that I would not let myself believe that was the only answer.

  The land to shore was subtly changing. The escarpment faded, until it was no more than a low dune—and then, finally, it met the brown sea and disappeared altogether.

  We were at land's end. Beyond, tiny sandspits reached out from the headland toward the sea. I guided the boat around the narrow peninsula and followed the coast until the shore lifted above the beach again, and we could find good shelter from the sun.

  Since we had stolen the boat I had been following the coast in a general southeasterly direction. After we swung around the headland we were facing due west. The shoreline curved into a wide bay, and beyond that arced out again toward the southeast. I pulled ashore just as the first trace of dawn brightened the sky over our shoulders, and made an easy burrow out of beach sand. It was by no means as hot here as it had been on the flatlands, or in the valley, but both Melisa and I were still sensitive to the heat. And there was the child to consider, too.

  Once, during the heat of the day, I left Melisa and climbed the low escarpment and let my eyes roam about the horizon. Far inland, nearly out of sight, a dark smudge moved slowly across the flatlands. I watched it for a long time until it disappeared. All was still well with the world, then. The Dhoolhs were in their places, and the Alimentary Express still carried its dun cargo from "here" to "there."

  Each time we made camp I waded into the shallows to look for sea life. We had both kept an eye out for signs of fish beneath the boat. No such luck. There wasn't a fish, shelled creature, or any other form of life to be seen. It was another strange phenomena of this world. None of the smaller life-forms existed. In or out of the water. If they ever had, they were gone, now. And since they were not here, it seemed unlikely to me they had ever been here at all.