West of January

by Dave Duncan

  The newcomer was elderly, red-faced, and portly, with sparse white hair plastered to his scalp with sweat. His fringed leather shirt hung outside his belt and protruded far out in front of him. He was fanning himself with a leather hat. I stared at him in dismay. His trousers were tattered. He had jowls. How could this shabby old man distribute punishment to the lean young herdman towering over him?

  But everyone had always spoken with awe of the angels’ powers—although those had never really been explained to me—and I managed to convince myself that he was no older than Aunt Amby. She was still the boss among the women, although Anubyl thought he had appointed Jalinan the senior. Moreover I could see that Anubyl was being very respectful to the pudgy little visitor. With the wisdom of true age to guide me now, I know that my youthful inexperience had been deceived by his baldness and large belly. He was not old, barely middle-aged.

  The two men settled on the cushions before the center tent, Jalinan’s, and were hidden from my view. Rantarath came forward, kneeling to offer a bowl of water, towels, and the crude soap we made from woollie fat and wood ash. The unoccupied members of the family, the herders and toddlers, formed themselves into a wide half-circle beyond the fire, to sit and stare unblinkingly.

  I crouched behind my cover, my heart thumping furiously. I had to plan my move carefully for I was in clear view of the children. If they gave me away to Anubyl, he would certainly intercept me. What was needed was good stalking technique, but stalking was something I had always been good at and lately had been practicing assiduously. I dropped to my belly and began to wriggle.

  It was not a pleasant journey. The grass was patchy, and any bare rock or even a pebble would blister. There were also cactuses. I did not recall noticing such problems when I was small, and of course I did not understand why things should be different now. By the time I reached the cover of the old wives’ tent at the near end of the line, the angel had almost completed his meal. With few exceptions, the whole family was facing in roughly my direction. I eased across the gap between the first tent and the next as slowly as grass grows. There was no outcry, so no one had seen me. The women were still busy, and probably nervous about the coming moment of decision.

  “I find your advice strange, sir,” Anubyl was saying. “Why not continue westward to this ocean before turning north?”

  “Because there are a thousand herds between you and the ocean.” That had to be the angel’s voice, of course. It was higher-pitched, and it had a curious soft lilt to it. My skin shivered with excitement at being close enough to hear an angel speak.

  “And they are going north?”

  “I hope so.” The angel sounded exaggeratedly patient, as if he was repeating something he had said before. “We have been telling them for long enough. They certainly can’t go west. Any who go south will be trapped. There is no way out to the south.”

  “How far north?” Anubyl was angry.

  “The beaches extend into the fringes of Tuesday—about as far north as woollies like to go. The problem is that you have all these others ahead of you, and they will have cropped the grass. You may have to go very far north to find good grazing. I admit that you will have trouble. The woollies will become very sluggish, but that is better than having them starve.”

  There was silence, and then Anubyl’s harsher voice said petulantly, “I have scouted good water holes to the south—several of them.”

  There was more silence before the angel spoke again, still patient. “You have many fine women, I see. How many are with child?”

  “Two, at least, the old wives say. My first crop!”

  “I congratulate you. But if you go south, Herdmaster, the babes will die before they walk.”

  “You croak a hard call, sir.”

  “And all your woollies, also.”

  Anubyl grunted. He did not want to hear that hard call. “More tripe, sir? Some curd? You will not try the roo-brain mash?”

  “I am so full I could not eat a flea’s earlobe, Herdmaster. Your women are most outstanding cooks, even among the herdfolk, whose food is spoken of with awe throughout all Vernier.”

  “You are kind. They have other abilities, sir, also.” I heard a handclap and guessed that Anubyl was gesturing to his women to line up for inspection. “I offer you rest from your travels and the enjoyment of whichever companion may please you.”

  “Your hospitality has already put me more in your debt…”

  The speeches became formal, the angel complimenting his host and politely declining, the herdman insisting. This must be a ritual, I thought, like the speech Jalinan’s brother had made when he offered her to my father. But the second of the voices had changed, meaning that the two men had moved. Hoping my heart would not jump right out of my throat—where it had no right to be—I rose to my feet. Then I dashed through between tents to deliver my accusation.

  I almost ran into Anubyl, but he had his back to me. I dodged around him and past the angel also, seeking safety on his far side. The two of them were standing, studying the four younger women, who were likewise standing—in a line, blushing, excited, all greatly hoping to be chosen for this honor. The three old wives stood behind them, watching with interest. Nine sets of eyes turned to stare at me in shock or horror.

  “That man killed my father!” I shouted. My voice came out much more shrilly than I had expected. At the same moment I registered with astonishment that this pudgy angel man beside me was barely taller than myself.

  Anubyl roared and began to move.

  The angel stopped him with a gesture, and everyone froze.

  The pink, baggy, sweaty face studied me without expression. “What’s your name, lad?”

  I blurted out my name as Anubyl began to move again.

  “Truce, Herdmaster!” the angel snapped, and Anubyl stopped once more, quivering with fury.

  “And who was your father?”

  “Er…” I did not know my father’s name. I croaked and fell silent, choked by conflicting rage and terror and embarrassment.

  The angel’s white eyebrows dropped in a frown. “Was he herdmaster? Is that who you mean?”

  “Yes, sir.” Certainly! Who else?

  The angel glanced toward Anubyl. “I just had to be sure, you understand? The coloring?”

  “Of course, sir! Now you will permit me to teach a few manners?” The young man’s eyes had blood in them—my blood.

  “Also, he beat my mother to death!” I squealed.

  The angel looked back at me and shrugged. “That is not my business, either, young Knobil. Did you think it would be?”

  “Sir…angels prevent violence—don’t they?”

  “Not that sort of violence. And if Herdmaster Anubyl wants to beat you also—did you think an angel truce would save you from that?”

  I had no words left. My plan had failed, utterly, and I had not considered that possibility. I began to tremble more violently even than Anubyl, although for other reasons.

  The angel turned back to him. “Perhaps it does. I have never heard of the truce being carried that far, I admit, but I suppose violence is violence—”

  “With respect, I disagree! This is a family matter.” Anubyl showed his teeth and began to edge around the angel to get his hands on me. Violence he wanted.

  The little man moved slightly, blocking him. “He expected to be safe while I was here, Herdmaster. It was ignorance, but perhaps we should not disappoint his ideals?” He shrugged, seeing that his audience was not supportive. “Oh, well… These so beautiful damsels? You were about to introduce me to that one.”

  Anubyl shot me a murderous glare and then turned to describe Oapia’s virtues and skills. The angel glanced briefly at me. I was not too stupid to read the message in his eye—I had been given a reprieve, but not for long.

  With a sob, I turned and ran between the tents and began racing up the hill. At the crest I paused for a moment to look back. I was just in time to see the angel following Oapia to her tent. The rest of my
family had not moved—women standing, children sitting, all staring up at me. Anubyl was already running, not toward me, but in the direction of the horses. His bow and his sword were there, also.

  Ahead of me, empty ridges marched outward to reach the sky. On my right was the herd, with very few herders tending it.

  About three woollies out of five owned a dasher, so the odds were against me. I was lucky, else this tale would have ended right here. I would have been ripped to fragments.

  The underside of a woollie, I discovered, was cramped, smelly, and unbearably hot. The great shaggy feet shuffled on either side of me, and I had barely room to move, my back pressed against the monstrous belly, which rumbled and bubbled continuously. A calf-length pagne was not designed for crawling on hands and knees. The heat and the stench made my head spin.

  In theory I could remain there as long as I could stay awake. I had food, for the rear nipple dangled in my face. In practice, of course, the heat was deadly, and I quickly rubbed my knees raw, for I had no way of avoiding rocks and cactuses as the woollie blundered ahead, continuously grinding grass. I had not known that woollies avoided eating cactus, but that one did. It was a humiliating refuge, a mobile torture chamber, and a very fitting prison for a coward.

  What could I hope to accomplish? Anubyl had only to wait until I became exhausted and the woollie crawled away, leaving me lying in full view. He would certainly stay awake long enough for that to happen, and I did not think his murderous rage would cool very much in the meantime. I should have run while I had the chance and died with a little more dignity.

  And eventually I managed to convince my craven body of that, or else the pain in my knees did so. I spread myself flat and let the rear canopy of hard wool scrape over me. Sunlight and blessed fresh air returned. I prepared to breathe my last…

  Somebody sniggered.

  I sat up with a wail.

  It was Rilana, regarding me with much amusement. “What’s it like in there?”

  “Where is he?” I looked around at the humped shapes of woollies.

  She smirked. “He’s gone out to get the women and poles.”

  Of course! I should have thought of that. Work parties could evict dashers, and they would race around until they found unoccupied woollies, or the one with me under it.

  “Here!” Rilana said and held out a canteen. “It’s only half-full, but it’ll have to do. There’s a gully over that way.”

  She shook her head and was suddenly serious. “Good luck, Knobil!”

  I grabbed the water bottle, spotted a quick kiss on her forehead, and ran.

  So my cowardice did save me in the end. Anubyl had first looked for me in the open and then guessed—or been told—that I had hidden in the herd. Later, while he was looking for me under the woollies, I was fleeing away over the grasslands. Obviously Rilana had kept her word and hadn’t told him I had gone. My luck held again. I was able to stay down in gullies for a long way. One small herder does not show up for very far on a landscape so huge. He did not come after me on his horse, or if he did, he did not find me. Probably he preferred to stay close to the camp while the angel was there.

  By chance, or because my luck still held, I was heading south. Anubyl had said that there were water holes that way. Even after the angel left, he would probably want to scout to the north, if he believed what the angel had told him. South was my safest road.

  I settled into a long-distance lope, a loner at last.

  —3—

  THE LOPE FELL TO A WALK, the walk at last to a stagger.

  The sun burned without mercy above my left shoulder. Desiccated ridges and hollows rolled on without end. Boulders and sand, scabby grass between patches of gravel and shattered dry clay—an empty land beneath a vacant sky.

  “You can’t go on forever, you know,” said a whisper in my ear.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Loneliness. I am your companion now.”

  “Go away.”

  “Not until you die. I shall be with you always, until then. It won’t be long.”

  “I have a knife and a bow string and a water bottle.”

  Loneliness laughed at my side. “An empty water bottle and no sling. Even Indarth had a sling.”

  “What need I fear? Thirst? I shall find a pond. Food? I can eat miniroos. Poisonthorn? I am not a child!”

  “Eagles. Rocs. Roo packs. People.”

  “They are rare,” I insisted. “Anubyl survived. I shall find a pond with trees and make a bow.”

  There was no shade, but I sat on some thicker grass to fashion a sling from my pagne. It had been tattered before, and I was now left with little to cover my nakedness. That hardly seemed to matter very much.

  “Or even traders!” I said loudly. “I may meet some traders.”

  Loneliness laughed again. “You have nothing to trade. Traders would not be interested in you.”

  He was wrong, of course. He did not know—because he was me, and I did not know. Traders would have been very glad to see me, but I met no traders, not then. Those canny, nervy folk would have long since fled the grasslands.

  I was surprised at the effort needed to force myself back onto my feet. Loneliness fell into step beside me once more. His voice was the sound of the wind on the hills. It was the crunch of grass below my feet, and sometimes it was my voice.

  “What if you see another herd?” he asked. “People? You will want to go to them, won’t you? You have never been away from people before.”

  “And the man will kill me. No, I must be alone. Until I can go back and kill Anubyl.”

  “He is a man. You are a boy.”

  “I am a man now.”

  “Are you?” Loneliness inquired. “Your body hair is coming in gold, like the stuff on your head. Your eyes are blue like a newborn’s. They never turned brown, as eyes should. There is something wrong with you. You will never be a proper man, freak.”

  The grass was withered to its roots, littered everywhere with dry dung. The hollows held the corpses of ponds, and the only trees I saw had long since been cut down or shriveled to useless brittle tinder.

  My heart burned with contempt for the angel. So my mother’s death was not his business? What use were the angels, then? Nasty little man, I thought—old, fat, and useless.

  “You can’t go on much longer,” Loneliness remarked. “If you lie down, you will never rise. The sun will cook you while you sleep.”

  He was right. Without water I would die soon. Even my eyeballs were dried out—I fancied my eyelids squeaked when I blinked, and I laughed long and loud at the thought. Todish would have found that funny, too, and Rilana…

  I stopped in a hollow and tried digging in the clay with a stick. I found no water and almost fried my feet. I scouted for miniroo pellets, but even miniroos seemed to have vanished from the great lonely world.

  “There is a hill,” my invisible companion remarked helpfully. “It is a little higher than the others. Climb that, and if you do not see water there, then give up.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I was almost ready to drop to hands and knees when I reached the top, and it was so wide and flat that I could not see the land beyond. Behind me, to the north, there was no sign of the family’s woollies; no sign of anything except endless gray rumpled landscape, shimmering and writing in heat haze below a cloudless sky. I must not stray east or west, or I would lose my sense of location. I wanted to keep that, so that I would be able to find Anubyl when I was ready to kill him.

  “His danger does not seem very great,” Loneliness said, but I did not reply.

  If Anubyl had truly found water holes in this direction, then I had missed them. Scouting was much easier on horseback than on foot.

  For a while I sat on a rock and gave way to despair. Never had I been alone like this, out of sight of my family. Even our herder hunting parties had been communal affairs. The thirst and hunger were bad, but the solitude was worse. I was the on
ly boy in the world.

  Finally I managed to overcome my frightening torpor, climb onto my aching feet, and trail wearily over the flat summit. The country to the south came into view. I stood and stared blankly. It seemed just the same as the country to the north…except…

  Fatigue had slowed my thinking, I suppose, and at first I thought it was only a roo. A single, solitary roo would be no great threat—and edible, if I could somehow catch it. Then a terrible recognition began. Roos traveled in packs, and this creature was alone. Roos bounded, and this one was walking. It was very far off to the southeast, two or three ridges over, and a roo would not be visible so far away Therefore it was very big. It had to be a tyrant.

  At the distance it seemed white and the tiny forelimbs were invisible. The massive tail balanced the forward-sloping torso above the enormous hind legs, the gigantic melon-shaped head. The pointed ears stuck up like horns.

  My mind began to race, rummaging through memory for all the stories I had heard. Tyrants were so huge that they could overturn and eat woollies. They were implacable and could outrun a horse. No arrow could penetrate them deep enough to kill. They had one weakness: their eyesight. All they could see was movement, and a man who stayed still was invisible to them. I dropped to a crouch.

  But it saw me. Even at such a distance, even so small a motion, it had seen. The massive head swung around and the monster came to a halt, peering across the landscape, seeking the source of that movement. I stayed as still as a boulder, only my heart moving.

  That may have been the first time in my life that I truly appreciated what time was—it crawled. Then the tyrant’s great jaws opened. And closed. And a faint roar came drifting over the ridges to me. I shivered, feeling a strange prickling down my back.

  At last the tyrant decided that it had been mistaken. It started moving again, resuming its original progress, heading north.

  I was enormously, intoxicatingly, relieved. All I needed to do was stay where I was, and it would go away.

  Go away north. I thought of Anubyl, riding out with bow and sword to defend his ill-gotten riches. The tyrant would swallow him whole, and his horse also, and my soul rejoiced at the vision. Then I thought of the others: my brothers and sisters, my aunts, the woollies. The tyrant would have a great feast. Once it came in sight of the woollies, my family would be lost, for there was no way to make woollies keep still. There would be no way to keep the toddlers still either—not for the length of time it would take a tyrant to eat all that herd.