The Prince Who Fell from the Sky

by John Claude Bemis

  The Forest had fewer trees, just spindly pines jabbing up through the scrub and concrete. Pang sniffed noisily as they went. Casseomae had smelled no territory markings, smelled no signs of any vora, which seemed odd.

  “Who rules this domain?” she asked through teeth clenched on the deer.

  “The Auspectres,” the dog said. “Well, they don’t exactly rule it. It’s more that no one else wants to live near them. You’ll see why. And don’t let down your guard. Voras still pass through these hills.”

  Casseomae brushed her side against the cub, reminding him to stay close. He stroked her fur gently.

  The land rose steeply. Dusk became night. Casseomae grew tired of dragging the heavy buck across the rocky terrain. As they reached the crest of a hill, Pang stopped. “There!”

  Silhouetted against the bone-white moon and the misty horizon was what appeared to Casseomae to be an enormous tree rising from the next hill. But it couldn’t be a tree. It was too massive, too angular and evenly shaped.

  “Is that an electricity tower?” Dumpster asked. “I can’t believe it’s still standing.”

  Pang lifted his ear. “What’s a lick-trick city tower?”

  “Electricity,” the rat answered. “Like what’s in lightning. It’s how the Old Devils made their devices work. They built these towers to steal electricity from storms. But I thought for sure these towers all fell.”

  “Is that where we’ll find the Auspectres?” Casseomae asked.

  “Don’t you see them?” asked Pang.

  Casseomae looked again. She realized that what she first took to be foliage covering the tree were in fact vultures, moving and shifting in place. She’d never seen so many in one place.

  Although she hadn’t heard of vultures attacking voras, their sheer number put her on edge. If for some reason they did attack, they would be overwhelmed.

  Casseomae dropped the deer. “Maybe you all should stay here,” she said.

  “Good idea,” Dumpster said before slipping under some brush.

  Pang woofed at the cub, “Stay with me.”

  The child looked questioningly at Casseomae. She nuzzled him with her snout and snorted, “It’s safe, cub.”

  He let out a noise she had never heard before, something between a bark and a whine. It startled her.

  “It almost sounded like Vorago, didn’t it?” Dumpster said. “Almost like ‘don’t go.’ ”

  Pang also had a look of disbelief on his face, his lone ear stuck straight up. Then he shook his coat and butted against the child. “She’ll be back,” Pang assured him with a lick.

  Casseomae carried the deer toward the tower. As she made her way up the slope, she passed carcasses littering the ground. They were mostly bones, occasionally emerging from stiff peeled-back hides. Most were viands—turkeys, squirrels, woodchucks, and deer, although none as large as Casseomae’s buck. But there were voras, too. Curs mainly, but also coyotes, bobcats, and foxes. And one carcass Casseomae felt certain was a wolf. She could hardly imagine what creature other than another wolf would have brought this offering.

  Swarms of flies rose in the air, their droning filling her ears. The sweet odor of rot was overwhelming. Coming from the base of the tower was a stronger smell, something acidic that she knew to be mounds of droppings. The smells stung her senses and made her feel dizzy and vulnerable.

  She glanced up to see, one by one, vultures taking flight. They circled on long black wings and slowly descended. Casseomae let go of the deer and backed away in case a battle broke out over the carcass.

  But as the vultures landed, they kept their distance from Casseomae and her offering. More and more of the birds swept down, until they surrounded her in a flapping mass of oily black. Their heads and necks were featherless, their cinder-colored skin deeply wrinkled. They cast their heads side to side, peering at Casseomae with blood-brown eyes.

  She had always thought vultures had no speech, since she’d never heard them call with the melodic songs that other birds used. But low hisses began, terrible threatening-sounding gasps that rose and fell. Soon words emerged from the hisses, although Casseomae could not tell which of the black witches was speaking.

  “A good offering,” they hissed in Vorago. “A good offering, yes, for our sisters. She has come seeking an answer, hasn’t she? Yes, she has a need. She desires our guidance. We will ask the dead. Yes, they know. They always know.”

  The words swirled around Casseomae, whispers blown past her ears. The vultures were a black fog of feathers and hooked beaks and scarred heads. Casseomae found them gruesome and wanted nothing more than to be away from the filthy carrion eaters.

  “The Forest lives off of death,” they hissed as if sensing her thoughts. “Without death there would be no life. She finds us hideous! Frightening. But the Forest would not survive without us. We draw life from the dead. And for you, yes, for you, bear, we will draw answers from the dead. He will tell us what is to come. So what is it you want to know?”

  Casseomae turned, looking for which vulture to address. “My cub,” she said before circling to the ones behind her. “My cub is being hunted. By the wolves. I fear the Ogeema is coming for him. I need to know where I can take him that will be safe.”

  The vultures grunted and hissed as they looked around at each other. “A bear’s cub? Why would the Ogeema spare a step following a bear’s little cub? It makes no sense, does it, sisters?”

  “You must believe me,” Casseomae said. “I’ve brought you this buck. You’ve said it’s a good offering. Tell me where my cub will be safe.”

  The circle of vultures grew more animated, pecking and beating their wings against one another. “Where is your cub now?”

  “Nearby,” she said. “Hiding.”

  “Bring the cub to us,” they hissed.

  “No! Something else,” Casseomae growled. “I am willing to give you a sacrifice. You can take my ear, but you can’t have the cub.”

  “We don’t want your cub, mother bear. But in order to know where your cub will be safe, we need to see him.”

  Casseomae paced nervously. She had no idea how the vultures felt about the Skinless Ones. Had their kind been subject to cruelties before the Turning?

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll bring him to you. But you promise you won’t harm him?”

  “We bring life, mother bear. We do not take it. Your cub will be safe from us.”

  The vultures parted to allow Casseomae through. She loped down the hill feeling anxious.

  Pang sat up from the grass when she reached them. “What is it?” the dog asked. “Did they tell you?”

  “No. They want to see the cub.”

  Dumpster emerged from the shadows. “You’re not going to show him to those witches?”

  “What else can I do?” she snorted fearfully. “They’ll not answer the question otherwise. What do you think, dog? Can I trust the Auspectres?”

  Pang’s remaining ear flicked several times. “Yes, I believe you can trust them.”

  She grunted at the cub. “Come.”

  He sprang to his feet and ran to her side. As she turned to lumber back up the hill, the cub held a hand to her shoulder. “It will be fine, cub. You’ll be safe with me. Stay close.”

  As they neared the vultures, the huge birds reared their wings, spitting and hissing and sputtering. Casseomae slowed, pacing forward cautiously until she and the child were in the center of them.

  The hisses grew into words, swirling out from their hooked beaks. “You did not tell us. You lied! This is not your cub. This is not yours.”

  “Yes, he is,” Casseomae growled.

  The child shrank down, trembling against Casseomae with his hands over his face.

  “He is my cub,” she said, licking him. “And I will do anything to protect him from the wolves.”

  The hisses quieted until only the buzz of flies filled the night air. It disturbed Casseomae to see so many tall creatures around her and for them to be so silent. They held
their crooked wings aloft and swayed their wrinkled black heads.

  “I know it is different now,” Casseomae said. “Now that you see what my cub is. Now you understand why the wolves want him. If the buck is not enough, if you need something else, some other offering to help find the answer …”

  “No,” a vulture whispered.

  Casseomae snapped her head toward the vulture who had spoken. But it was another who answered. “You need make no other sacrifice, mother bear. This cub, he will pay us—”

  Casseomae lunged with a growl. “You said you would not harm him!”

  The vultures did not flinch. “He will bring death,” one said.

  “Lots of death to the Forest,” added another.

  “From this death will rise new life.”

  “He will make an offering to us in this way.”

  Casseomae looked around. “Then tell me where I must go.”

  The vultures tucked their wings and bobbed their heads and began their chorus of hissing. Three of their flock hopped forward to the buck. Their hooked beaks cut through the hide.

  The child whimpered, and Casseomae grunted gently, “Hush now.”

  The three pulled apart the deer’s belly, dragging out his entrails. But they did not eat them. Once the bloody viscera were scattered before their talons, the three vultures drew back to join their sisters. They whispered to one another.

  “Can you tell?” Casseomae asked.

  “We can tell,” they said. “We see where you must take him. He will be safe. If you can only get him there.”

  “Where is it?” she asked. “Where do I take him?”

  “The Island of the Sun,” they answered. “Where it rises from the Wide Waters.”

  “I’ve never been to the Wide Waters.”

  “He will lead you,” they hissed. “The cub’s companion will show you how to find it. We smell him nearby. He came to us before. Yes, he did, sisters. When he and his pack were being hunted like your cub. He will lead you to the island.”

  “An island?” she asked. “How do we reach it? Do we have to swim?”

  “No. You will walk. To reach the Island of the Sun, you must walk over the water.”

  “A bridge?” Casseomae growled. Most of the bridges they’d encountered had crumbled ages ago.

  “You will know where you must cross when you have reached the place at the shore that is a territory of viands.”

  “A territory of viands …,” she said. “Do you mean … Is it the Havenlands?”

  “We have heard it called that. Yes, we have. And we have seen this place. It is our small cousins who have named it the Havenlands. But you cannot stay there. For the cub to be safe you must pass through the Havenlands and go over the water to the Island of the Sun.

  “The cub’s companion,” they hissed. “He will know how to lead you there. Tell him to ascend a great height. From there you will see the spinning trees that mark the Havenlands. When he sees, he will know where to go.”

  The vultures began closing in around them. The child murmured in fright. Casseomae backed away with the cub close to her side.

  “We have told you,” they hissed. “And you must go. A good offering. A good offering you have given us. And more to come if you are successful.”

  Casseomae backed farther until she was out from the ring of vultures. The vultures spat and pecked at one another as they swarmed over the buck and tore it apart.

  “Come, cub,” she said. But he was already gone, racing back toward Pang.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The child was stumbling with tiredness, but Casseomae would not stop until they were far from the Auspectres’ tower.

  “Me?” Pang said. “They said I would be able to lead you to this island?”

  “They said to tell you to ascend a great height,” Casseomae said grimly, “so you could see the spinning trees that mark the Havenlands.”

  “Spinning trees. Havenlands. Climbing into the sky.” Dumpster slapped his tail scornfully. “Scratchin’ mites! I knew this was a waste of time.”

  Pang tucked his tail with a whine.

  The rat circled around in agitation before saying, “Unless …”

  “Unless what?” Casseomae grunted.

  “If we could get to the top of a skyscraper—assuming there’s one left standing—we could see a far distance from up there. Pang, is there a city nearby?”

  The dog lifted his head. “Yes, several days’ journey toward Sun’s Birth.”

  “Then lead us there,” Casseomae said.

  Pang looked at the cub. “I don’t go into cities if I can help it. And this city … I’ve only skirted its borders. I hear there are strange tribes living there. Creatures seen nowhere else in the Forest. I hardly know if they are vora or viand.”

  “It won’t matter,” Casseomae said. “We’re not letting any of them catch a sniff of the cub. We’ll travel quietly.”

  “Yes, old bear,” Dumpster said. “You and that cub of yours are nothing if not a stink blossom of stealth. Oh, a city!” he squeaked excitedly. “Now we’re scratchin’. I’m so sick of all these trees and endless walking and bear riding. A nice city sounds right up my alley.”

  “What’s an alley?” Pang asked.

  “It’s a … ah, never mind,” the rat sighed, settling happily atop Casseomae’s head.

  The following day brought them into territory rich for foraging. The child discovered a black cherry tree, heavy with small fruits, and filled his mouth and pockets with the juicy cherries. But a faint smell caused Casseomae to growl at the others to be quiet.

  Distant howls echoed through the Forest.

  “Can you tell if they’re after us?” she asked Pang.

  “The wolves in this territory don’t pay tribute to the Ogeema,” the dog said. “Those are hunting cries. They’re chasing something. A deer most likely. Which means they’re not onto us. They wouldn’t be so loud if they were.”

  “Maybe,” Dumpster said. “Do you know these under lickers?”

  “It’s Maul’s pack, I think. A vicious ruler,” Pang said, looking back toward the fading sounds of the hunt. “I wish we’d never let the cub leave that weapon behind.”

  They passed over many stands of fine foraging for the sake of covering ground. The child ate the last of his cherries as the sun was dipping low through the trees.

  They had come upon a wide river with more of the Skinless Ones’ dens lining its banks when the child knelt to the ground with a hand to his stomach. He let out a moan and then a sharp cry as he doubled over.

  Pang ran up to lick his face. “What’s wrong, pup?”

  Casseomae sniffed, trying to tell if something had bitten him.

  All at once, the child vomited and toppled to one side. He continued to retch as he lay shaking on the ground.

  Pang barked, “Get up! Get up! What’s the matter?”

  Casseomae pushed her snout under the cub to roll him over. He was caked in the sick and was limp, his eyes flickering.

  “If he spit up, he ought to feel better,” she growled fearfully. “What’s happened to him?”

  “He was eating Forest food,” Pang said. “I told you he shouldn’t eat Forest food! Maybe he ate a mushroom when we weren’t watching. Some of those are poisonous. Or a toad? I’ve seen pack mates go dizzy for hours after eating a bad toad.”

  Casseomae sniffed the contents of the vomit on the ground. It was no different than anything she’d eaten.

  Dumpster was scampering around, trying to stay clear of the dog’s and bear’s anxious paws. “I think I know,” he said. “It’s part of the Memory.”

  “What?” Casseomae said. “What’s happened?”

  “The pup … it’s like what happened to all the other Old Devils,” Dumpster said. “Back before the Turning. The pup, I think he’s got the sickness. I … I think he’s dying.”

  “What?” Casseomae growled. She sniffed at the cub anxiously. He was no longer vomiting, but his eyes were shut and his
breath sounded raspy.

  “I’m trying to remember,” he said. “There’re so many stories. But have you heard why the Old Devils are no longer here?”

  “A cowardly trick,” Pang said. “The Ogeema’s ancestor Taka-Dirge disguised himself as a dog and snuck into the den of the great Companion chiefs. He let the armies of wolves in and they killed the Companion chiefs in their sleep—”

  “Cur nonsense,” Dumpster said, sitting back on his haunches. “Nobody really knows for sure how the Old Devils vanished. You ask the birds and they’ll tell you they were burned up in the sun because they flew too high in their passerings. I’ve heard the pusses say their old masters ran out of food and all starved or killed one another fighting over scraps. But that isn’t what my da told me. That’s not what the Memory holds. No, the Memory for our mischief tells that the Old Devils got sick. Suddenly. All of them at once.”

  “Couldn’t they just eat mallow or grass or something?” Pang asked. “That’s what helps when we get sick.”

  “The Old Devils had food like that,” Dumpster replied. “They called them medicines. But this sickness killed them all before they could figure out which medicines to eat.”

  “But if that’s what happened, then what about the pup and the others of his kind who came down from the sky?” Casseomae asked.

  “I don’t know.” Dumpster flattened his whiskers. “I’m just telling you the Memory.”

  “Maybe some of the Companions flew off in a passering before they got sick,” Pang suggested. “They could have done that.”

  “And what?” Dumpster scoffed. “They’ve been living up in that passering for all this time? What would they eat?”

  The child groaned and Casseomae nudged him soothingly with her nose. “Is there nothing we can do? I can’t just let him die.”

  “Maybe the rat’s wrong,” Pang said, trying to reassure her.

  Dumpster clicked his teeth. “Not scratchin’ likely!”

  Pang snarled. “Shut up, you idiot. Can’t you see she’s upset?” He eyed the growing purple and pink twilight sky. “It will be dark soon.”

  “The pup can’t stay out here,” Dumpster said. “That spew smell on him will draw night voras. We need to get him underground … or at least somewhere you can defend him better.”