The Golden Enemy

by Alexander Key

  “Boy Jaim!” she gasped. “What—what in the world …” Then in quick anxiety, “Where’s Doubtful?”

  He opened his mouth to tell her, and could not. They had never looked upon the dog as a pet. Doubtful had been part of the family, the youngest member, the bright child that everyone loved.

  L’Mara sobbed, “The—the bear killed him.”

  “Oh, no!…”

  Boy Jaim ground his teeth together and strode grimly through the house to find dry clothing. When he returned he was fully dressed again and ready to leave.

  “Where’s my bow?” he asked.

  “Wait,” said Tira. “You can’t go right back—”

  “I’m going,” he ground out. “My bow …”

  There was no room in him at the moment for anything but hate. It was a black force that drove all else from his mind. He wanted only to rush out into the rain, find the treacherous monster, and destroy him.

  Tira placed firm hands on his shoulders and pressed him into a seat by the fire. “Listen to me, Boy Jaim,” she began. “I know how you feel. But don’t forget that L’Mara and I have a stake in this too. We loved Doubtful. As for you—you are important to both of us, especially to L’Mara.” She paused, and her voice shook a little as she continued, “We both want to see that creature dead—but not at the expense of losing you. If you go out the way you are now, all wrought up, you won’t have a chance with him. Surely you realize that.”

  He glanced up at her grimly, his jaws knotting, then looked down at the floor, which was still covered with drying grain. Outside, above the steady drum of rain on the roof, he was aware of the rushing of many air sleds going past. Dozens, from the sound of them. And there would be dozens and dozens more, combing every foot of land around the Five Communities. It seemed impossible that the scheming beast could escape so many hunters. But of course he would. What chance had the hunters against such intelligence?

  L’Mara obviously reading his thoughts, said, “They—they’ve nothing to worry about, but you have. You know now he’ll try to kill you if he has the chance. Why has he picked on you? Is it because he knows you’re the only person who can hurt him?”

  He shook his head. That might be one of the reasons, yet there was another reason, more important, that eluded him. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t sit here all afternoon, doing nothing.

  Suddenly he lurched to his feet. “I’m wasting time,” he muttered. “I’ve got to find him …”

  “No!” L’Mara cried fiercely, clenching her small hands. “No, no, no! You don’t even know where you’re going, and if you start out now—”

  “I’ll find him somehow! Where’s my bow?”

  “No!” she cried again and all at once flew at him and began beating him back with her little fists. “Please—please! If you go out without some kind of a plan, he’ll just trick you again. You’ve got to be smarter than he is! You’ve got to! Can’t you understand?”

  He’d never seen L’Mara so intense and determined. Slowly he sat down again. There was, in fact, no resisting her. Their minds were so close that, in moments like this, it was almost like having one mind. Unspoken between them, but suddenly realized and felt more strongly than ever, was the fact that in the future neither could live with anyone but the other. To attempt anything else was simply unthinkable. It would always be the two of them, and if something happened to one, it would be like the end of both.

  “And nothing must happen,” she told him silently. “That’s why we must plan this—oh, so carefully—before you go out again.”

  “All right, little squirrel.”

  There was no lessening of the hate in him. But now he felt able to step aside from it and think coldly how to do what had to be done.

  Aloud, L’Mara said, “Do you believe he’ll stay anywhere near the river?”

  He shook his head. “I—I doubt it. He might return there at night, but he’s much too smart to ever let himself be seen in the same place twice.”

  “Then where would he go?”

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering. I’ve almost got it—it’s something to do with food.”

  “You mean he wants something besides fish to eat?”

  “Yes. If I can think what it is, I’ll have him beat.”

  Tira said, “Don’t bears like berries?”

  “We’ll have to rule them out in his case. I mean, he’s so big. If I could remember a plum thicket somewhere that had a lot of plums …”

  They were silent for a while, thinking. Tira picked up a tray of grain and began picking debris from it. “This is still wet,” she murmured absently. “It might be better if we took it all down to the lower level. It’s surprising how dry and warm it is down there, especially in that back area cut into the rock. If it stays up here, and the rain keeps on much longer—”

  “It won’t,” Boy Jaim mumbled. “It’ll stop tonight.”

  Tira looked at him sharply. “What makes you say that?”

  He shrugged. “It just came to me.”

  “I hope you’re right. Only, what’s going to happen when the rain stops?”

  “It’ll turn hot.”

  “Really?” Again her eyes sharpened on him. “How can you be so sure, Boy Jaim?”

  “I—I don’t know. But I’m sure.”

  She sighed. “It’s strange, but I do believe you. What’s going to follow the heat? Terrible cold? Or would it be something to change the land, like a tremendous earthquake? That’s what Emmon seems to think.”

  He shook his head. “Emmon thinks I ought to know, but I—I can’t tell.”

  She sighed again. “It’s curious how some answers come to you, and not others. Maybe, in time … Anyway, I’ve been wondering what to do about the food supplies. Most families have enough dried and canned things to last them a few months—if they are very careful. But where is the safest place for storage? Did you know that your mother put up lots of fruit, and gallons and gallons of honey in glass jars? It’s safe enough down in the lower level—unless there’s an earthquake. Then all of it would be lost. So I almost believe it would be wiser—”

  “Honey? That’s what I was trying to think of!”

  L’Mara looked at him in quick comprehension. Her startled thought was so strong it was almost as if she had spoken aloud. “Of course! When he’s tired of fish he’ll rob some of the hives. But which ones?”

  He jerked to his feet again and began stalking around the room past the little piles of grain. Suddenly he paused. “Most of the hives are near West Com. But I remember flying over some this morning that were closer to the river.”

  Where had he seen them? There’d been over a hundred of them, it seemed, all grouped under the trees on one side of an overgrown field. A golden field that was a mass of wild flowers in full bloom …

  Then it came to him. “I know—it’s that old pasture with the broken-down walls, straight across the hills from here. It gives the best honey anywhere.”

  He saw L’Mara staring at him, her face suddenly pinched and white, her eyes enormous. “Yes,” he ground out, answering her unspoken question. “That’s where he’ll go. Tonight. And when he comes, I’ll be there waiting for him.”

  It was still raining early in the evening when he left. He used the old work sled he’d dragged into the courtyard to recharge—how many days ago? It was hard to remember, so much had happened. The sled was sluggish and awkward to handle, but it didn’t greatly matter. He wouldn’t need it for long.

  The light was beginning to fail a little as he neared the pasture, but the hunt that had been going on most of the day had not yet stopped. In nearly every direction he could make out the vague shapes of other sleds. The hunters were flying low now, and very slowly, in a final futile effort to examine every likely hiding place before dark caught them.

  He carefully avoided them and took pains to conceal his direction by flying between the trees whenever possible. Near the lower end of the pasture, on the opposite side from the hives, he
came down in a small opening in the woods well away from the crumbling stone wall that surrounded the area. For minutes afterward he sat motionless, listening and watching, trying to estimate the wind and the rain while he went over his plan.

  The beast could come at any time from now on, in spite of the hunters. It would have been hard for them to see him, even in bright daylight. Didn’t they know that a bear—any bear—could move through the brush within a few yards of a person, and they’d never even guess it? But of course not. People like Bors and Andru, who never ventured far into the forest, had no idea how stealthy some of the creatures there could be.

  Quietly, watchfully, Boy Jaim took out his bow, strung it, and placed it beside him. It was a beautiful thing of laminated wood that he and old Zimah had spent long weeks making, and he disliked the idea of getting it wet. But it was waterproof, even to the string. From the quiver he removed three arrows, which he’d decided were all that he could skillfully handle at one time. While one arrow was on the string, the other two would be clasped against the bow with his left hand, ready for instant use. One arrow ought to be enough, but he would use them all …

  He hardly glanced at the metal points, blackened with poison. When he had asked Tira about it earlier, she’d said, “The rain won’t wash it off. It’s a sort of gum that’s dried on the metal. Andru tells me it’ll melt very quickly at blood temperature.”

  “How—how long does it take to kill?”

  “Well, I understand the goats they tried it on died in just a few seconds—as soon as the poison began to melt. It—it has a violent reaction.”

  “That’s good,” he’d muttered savagely. “I hope he dies slowly, with the poison burning him up inside.”

  Then, seeing the look on L’Mara’s face, he’d asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Your hate,” she’d whispered. “It—it just pours from you! You’ve got to hide it somehow when you go out, or it will give you away. That beast will know you’re there.”

  She was right, of course. He had to keep his mind almost a blank and even shut L’Mara out of it. Doing all that took effort, but he managed it now by concentrating on his surroundings and the steps he had to take next.

  He slid out of the raincoat he had worn, and rolled it up and thrust it and the quiver with the remaining arrows under one of the safety straps on the sled. The cold rain immediately soaked through the heavy jacket he was wearing, but he grimly ignored it. Better the cold and wet than a rustling coat that could catch on things and bind his movements.

  He picked up the bow, nocked an arrow, then clutched the remaining two arrows against the bow handle and moved cautiously to the stone wall. Here he paused and peered over the top to study the meadow and the distant hives. Finally he crouched, turned to the right, and began moving silently along the wall to a place where there had once been a gate.

  At the break in the wall he got down on his knees and peered around the edge of the stones. The rows of hives, dim under the trees, were still more than sixty yards away. He debated going closer, but decided against it. What if the poison didn’t work fast enough? Everything considered, this was about right. Unless, of course, he couldn’t make out the hives when dark came. But he believed he could. It depended on the rain.

  In his jacket pocket was a small light for use in an emergency, but he prayed it wouldn’t come to that. How can you hold a light on your target and shoot at the same time? The target—he was very careful to think of it simply as a target and not as a living creature—was almost sure to approach from the woods around the upper end of the meadow. The river was in that direction.

  The target just might come from the rear—but the sled was hidden beyond any chance discovery, and the hunter was hidden and protected by the wall. The only thing that worried Boy Jaim was his own scent—the man-scent that, according to Doubtful, was so strong that a little of it clung to everything that was touched, and so unusual that it stood out above all other scents. But perhaps the rain would wash it away. The wind, at least for the moment, was in his favor.

  The night was coming swiftly now. With the bow ready for instant use, he tried to make himself comfortable while he watched the edges of the meadow. Gradually the hives faded into the deepening shadow. There was an uneasy minute when he was afraid the dark would swallow them and he would be forced to move closer. But after night had settled around him he could still make out their vague shapes. Surely the target would be much easier to see.

  Suddenly, without any warning, the rain stopped. In the following stillness, broken only by the steady drip of moisture from the trees, he peered about apprehensively. The rain, he realized, had been a protection. Now he hardly dared change position for fear his movements would be heard.

  His apprehension grew as the night brightened. What was happening? He glanced up quickly and saw that the sky was clearing. Stars were beginning to gleam above him, and—Was that the moon coming up over the trees to the east? It was. Almost a full moon!

  In shock he pressed closer to the crumbling wall and hunched nearer to the ground, unconsciously trying to make his body smaller. It had been so long since he’d seen the night sky that he’d forgotten about the moon. It was getting brighter by the second, and the moment it rose high enough above the trees it would be shining directly on him.

  What should he do?

  He could see the hives as clearly now as he could earlier in the evening. It would be foolish as well as dangerous to remain here when he could easily hit the target at twice the distance.

  Cautiously he started to ease backward. His foot scraped with a rasping sound over a pile of unnoticed rubble that had fallen from the wall, and he froze. In the stillness the noise seemed loud enough to be heard all over the meadow. While he waited, listening, he was surprised to hear a frog begin peeping somewhere in a puddle of rainwater far behind him. Another frog joined it, and presently the voices of hundreds of frogs were raised in a chorus that rang from both sides of the meadow.

  At any other time but now the frog chorus would have come pleasantly to his ears. It was a sound of life in a world that almost seemed dead. But frogs are sensitive, and he knew that the moment he started moving again their loud peeping would stop. The target, if near enough, would know instantly that something was wrong.

  Creatures like the target, Boy Jaim remembered, couldn’t see as well as they could hear. So perhaps it would be wiser to remain where he was. But he’d have to keep absolutely still.

  For a long while time seemed to slow down for Boy Jaim. Gradually the moisture ceased to drip from the trees. The air, so cold during the rain, began to turn warm. The moon—no longer gold, but an odd reddish color—climbed higher until it shone directly upon him. Only the streamers of mist that were beginning to rise above the meadow kept him from feeling completely exposed. Even so, he wished now that he had a more powerful weapon than the primitive bow. A weapon made for killing, like one of those deadly and destructive guns used during the day of the wheel, something that blasted flesh and bone and brought screaming agony to its victim …

  For a brief moment he forgot to guard his thoughts. Black rage shot through him as he remembered the treachery that had killed poor Doubtful. His hands shook. Oh, if he could only smash the beast and bring endless pain upon it …

  “Careful!” L’Mara pleaded, instantly aware of his rise of feeling.

  With an effort he put the hate aside and tried to think only of the target. A large, pale, formless target that would appear presently among the hives. He had only to hit it with an arrow, hit it anywhere, and the deadliness of the poison would mean swift destruction.

  Why didn’t the target come? Had he made a mistake and chosen the wrong place to wait?

  His legs were becoming numb from crouching motionless for so long. In a few minutes he would be forced to stand and rub circulation into them.

  At that moment, abruptly, the frog chorus stopped.

  From the shadows across the meadow something called to him.r />
  “Boy Jaim?”

  Shock went through him. The great beast had come, and it knew he was here, waiting for it. But he could not shoot, for it was hidden in the shadows beyond the streamers of mist.

  “Boy Jaim,” the creature called again. “Listen to me. There is something you should know.”

  The star was very bright when it finally appeared, and the youngest herder found it vastly comforting. His thoughts went to the planet that surely revolved around it. Could that planet be man’s old home?

  When he’d asked about it earlier, the oldest herder had said, “It could be, though we may never know for sure. I understand we lost contact with the old planet after we left.”

  “What happened?”

  “No one knows. Those who came here were colonists, trying to escape something they didn’t like. No ships followed us, and no message ever came. But man could never get along with his brother. Maybe, if he’d ever learned to consider other creatures …”

  9

  CONTEST

  For long seconds after the beast had spoken, Boy Jaim managed to stay motionless, hardly daring to breathe. Why had the creature called to him? Did it really have something to tell—or was this just another trick? He felt an almost overpowering desire to answer, as if an iron intelligence had gripped his mind, willing him to break the silence. Only the knowledge of the great bear’s treachery made it possible for him to hold his tongue.

  “Boy Jaim,” the beast called for the third time. “Answer me. You must hear what I have to say.”

  Again he felt that compelling urge to speak. But the thing knows I’m here, he thought. If he has something to tell me, why doesn’t he say it?

  Then all at once he realized the reason. In spite of the bright moonlight, the Golden One couldn’t see him.

  That had to be it. Bears depended upon smell and hearing far more than sight. The monster knew he was somewhere close, armed to kill, but his exact location was still unknown. If he could be made to speak, or even to move a little bit, he would be pinpointed and the bear would have the advantage.