Whispers on the Wind

by Judy Griffith Gill

  “Shall we go?” he asked blandly while she blinked—and blinked again. “Let me help you load your pack.”

  Before her eyes, the sleeping bag case stood itself upright, the bag crumpled itself and slid into it the way a baby kangaroo dove into its mother’s pouch, just the way she’d seen on Edu-Holos. She took two stumbling steps back as her pots stacked themselves, their handles unclipping in mid-air and clattering into the pocket of her pack where she habitually carried them. It was like watching an old rerun of Bewitched on the Classics channel.

  Then, her pack, plump and readied, its straps adjusted to fit his stature, was on Jon’s back, the lightcell snapped neatly into its customary position to recharge from the sky. “Shall we go?” he asked again, just as politely.

  Lenore found her voice somewhere. She wasn’t certain where. “I thought you didn’t want to put your full weight on that leg for a while.”

  “I won’t be doing so,” he said, and outside the cleft-entrance, Lenore heard Mystery whuff and give a plaintive whinny.

  She gasped and whirled, distinctly recalling having shut Mystery into his stall for the night to protect him against cougars and other large predators. There was no way he could get out on his own. “You brought my horse here?”

  “My strength is not yet fully replenished, and your talents are not yet developed to the point that we could translate together the distance to your home. And I would also like to see some of your world—the way you see it.”

  Lenore edged toward the slit leading to the outside, never taking her eyes off Jon. “You won’t fit through the gap,” she said in faint tones. “Not with that pack on your back. Even I have to come in sideways.”

  “Of course,” he said and took her hand. Without having traversed the narrow opening, she—and he, complete with her equipment—were outside and suddenly, inside her mind there grew a picture of a black-eyed, snarling man who emanated hatred and evil and intent to kill.

  With a scream, she turned to Jon, saw his face tight with pain, pale with instant anguish. She watched his corporeal form waver as if he were about to disappear again. As she reached out to him, he groaned, “Rankin!” and fell to the ground.

  Then, abruptly, the evil was gone and Lenore was tumbling, falling, being churned in a horrifyingly icy deluge of snow that came from a vast height, an avalanche of immense proportions that left her gasping for breath, fighting for her life...and losing the battle.

  From somewhere, a whisper breathed the name Minton...and she fell deeper into the avalanche that held far greater danger than mere suffocating snow.

  With effort dredged from his depths, Minton shielded from the vicious lash of Rankin’s mind, but shielded in that way, he could no longer translate even in atmosphere. He dropped out of translation abruptly, naked, of course, and fell into deep snow up to his armpits. It frothed around him, filling his nose, his mouth, his eyes, as with a slow rumble, it began to move.

  He tumbled over and over, caught in a whirling whiteness in which there was no up, no down, only motion, dizzying and disorienting, and intense, unbelievable cold. He knew he had to translate out of there or risk death, but if he went incorporeal again while Rankin was still alert to his presence, he would surely be found. He knew that, with the amplifier to add to his own not inconsiderable powers, Rankin had the capacity to drag him from his hiding place. Wherever that might be.

  At length, Minton realized the tumbling motion had ceased to be the major factor in his life. Now, cold became the enemy. Slowly, with great physical difficulty, not fully convinced he was heading upwards, but obeying the urgings of his Kahinya, he began scraping with his hands, creating a small air-pocket before him.

  He struck something solid. Easing his hands along it, he learned it was more-or-less flat and that it rose before him in large, hard, rounded ridges. Digging more frantically now, he saw glimmers of what could only be daylight through the thinning cover of snow.

  Yes! Air and light flooded in with the next scoop of his hands. He gulped in deep breaths, struggled to keep his frozen body moving, and managed to flail his way out of the snow to lie on top of it. Sunshine, blessedly warm, glowed onto his back, heated his Kahinya and gave him energy.

  Standing, he recognized a dwelling of sorts, poor and primitive, built of tree trunks laid on their sides, stacked one on top of the other, but it would provide shelter. It must have been this to which his protective Kahinya had directed him when he was forced to break out of translation. Struggling, often sinking deep into the snow again, he made his halting way around the first corner of the building, seeing no openings as he passed. The next wall afforded him only a narrow slot he knew he’d never fit through in his corporeal state, but the third one, in the lee of the avalanche, was only partially buried. There, a rectangle of different construction from the walls suggested a door. He pressed against it to no avail. Bending, he dug downward, tossing back snow like a welligan seeking the tasty nuts that burrowed under a belgrina tree after they fell.

  Ah...there! A device recognizable as a locking mechanism. He mentally probed its interior electronic components, deactivated them, and the door swung inward. He tumbled through and as he did so, lights came on and heat, and music. Carefully, with great effort, for the snow was heavy and he was weak, he shoved the door shut against the weight of it that had tumbled down to follow him into the dwelling.

  In seconds, the icy white drift in which he stood had melted and been sucked away by some unseen means. Ahh! Perhaps this place was not as primitive as he’d first imagined.

  Grateful for the warmth, he stroked his Kahinya, searching for the true memories it contained, hoping to ascertain if he had really heard Jon’s call, or only wished it.

  All it offered him was a strident warning of Rankin and his depraved, artificially enhanced power...

  Did Rankin now have Jon as well as Zenna? Was that the reason for Jon’s cry having been choked off so abruptly?

  Despite the warning from his Kahinya, he sent out a deliberately wide, sweeping probe, keeping its volume low, hoping Rankin, if he was still seeking, would be doing so on a higher plane.

  He had sensed...something...for scarcely a heartbeat during his flight from the law in that place called northern Minnesota. What had it been? A projection of pain? Of hunger? Of thirst? Of need? Or merely an echo of those, bounced back to him from some unknown place and time?

  There was no way to tell, for it had been transitory and weak. But he was still convinced it had been Jon. As had his Kahinya, which had most assuredly sent him in the direction of the Octad leader. Rankin’s interference, had, unfortunately, snatched him out of his solo translation short of his objective.

  The best he could do now, he reasoned, was search this dwelling for clothing to provide warmth until he was strong enough to collect it for himself from the atmosphere; for food, to give him that strength, and for something that would tell him where on Earth he might be. Snow, and the avalanche he’d experienced, in addition to the steepness of the terrain, suggested mountains. But...which mountains? Which continent? He suspected it was the same one Jon had ended up on, and would prefer to find him without having to translate again. These solo translations in a culture where nudity was frowned upon were to be avoided. He began opening cupboards and drawers in search of food, eating whatever he found that appeared edible and felt himself growing stronger, feeling more certain of his ability to survive.

  Presently, he began a search for warm garments, since it also appeared the outdoor climate control employed here did not lend itself to nudity, either. He wished for Zareth’s talent with the art of illusion—or even the much lesser knack Jon could employ when necessary.

  Zareth, Ree, Wend, oh, Wend—his own birth-mate. Wouldn’t he sense her total absence if she had failed to survive? Would he not have felt her death-resonation, however distant she might have been swept from him? Even here, in this alien place, wouldn’t he know? He longed for her soothing mental touch. Wend, their healer...would she
have enough strength left to heal herself if she were injured? He longed for her, for Jon, his bond-mate’s brother. In despair, he longed for all the others, too, but dared not send out probes to seek them.

  Rankin’s proximity created such danger! Did Rankin truly sense his own presence, or had he simply been striking out at what he perceived as a threat, some unknown entity that might possibly interfere with his nefarious activities? How was he to know if Rankin sent out such killing bursts periodically as a routine precaution?

  Minton found many different garments, but selected one of a fabric which, while thin, was insulated enough to keep him warm in the snowy environment he’d discovered. Luckily, it had some stretch to it and it covered most of him. Atop that, he drew on a jacket of the same fabric, fumbled for a moment with the unfamiliar closing, then mastered it. Stockings, pulled high, covered the gap between the bottoms of the trouser part of the garment and the only foot-covering he could find that appeared stout enough to take outdoors. They were extraordinarily hard, open at the back, but they fit—barely.

  He slid his feet into the boots and as he stepped down, felt them close around his ankles somehow, tightly, firmly. They allowed his ankles no movement at all, he discovered, clumping awkwardly around the room. What manner of shoes were these? What use were they? He tried to remove them, but they appeared to be stuck fast to him.

  He would have to make the best of it. Heading for the door, he spotted a flat image on a wall, and suddenly understood. A man in such footwear appeared to be flying through the air over a wide expanse of white. Snow! Exactly like the snow he had dug himself out of, had struggled through to gain entry to this place. And affixed to the man’s feet—to the hard, uncompromising footwear—were narrow slats of some description, composition unknown. He accessed what he could recall of his rushed studies of Earth and finally found it.

  The footwear he wore was designed to be attached to those slats. Once they were connected, the wearer could then fly across the snow. He smiled and stomped around the small dwelling until he found a tall cabinet in which were stored several sets of those slats, pointed at one end, and curved up. Yes! There was some manner of fastening for the shoes near the center of each slat.

  For a moment, he studied the image on the wall, then laid the slats flat on the floor, stepped onto one and felt the footwear attach itself...magnetically, he thought. He lifted his free foot and nearly tilted sideways. Luckily, his Kahinya caught him, steadied him. He saw poles in the closet and another glance at the image on the wall indicated that these must be used as stabilizers. With one clasped in each hand, their points planted solidly against the floor, he managed to attach his other booted foot to the narrow slat on the left, fully expecting to be lifted from the surface upon which he stood and carried through the air.

  It did not happen.

  Frowning, he studied the picture further, wishing for a nearby mind to access for current, local knowledge. It seemed he must be the only person within many westals—either that or he had been misinformed, and there were no receptive minds other than Aazoni anywhere on Earth, and none of those was near—or safe to reach out to.

  Again, loneliness threatened to overcome him. The rest of the Octad...Where were they? Since he had come through the disastrous translation to Earth’s time and space relatively unscathed, and since he was certain Jon still lived—if precariously—he must find the others. Then, and only then, would he have any hope of locating Zenna.

  He would not do it huddled here in this small dwelling.

  He slid one slat forward. It was not easy. He followed it with the other. Maybe the slats required snow under them before they would permit him to fly. It went against all scientific knowledge he had, but could cold possibly provide lift? He opened the door, burned away the snow that tumbled in, and put the upward-tilting points of the slats against that which remained outside. With difficulty, he turned, closed the door, and conscientiously caused the locks to return to their previous position.

  Still, the slats did not lift him. Using the stabilizers to assist him, he shuffled forward, up a small hill, and poised on the brink, waiting for the flight he fully expected. Again, the slats remained firmly attached to the snow.

  He gave an experimental push with the poles and was suddenly in motion. Not flying above the surface of the snow, but gliding upon it, going faster and faster. The wind whistled in his ears and chilled his teeth, bared in a grimace. It blew his hair back from his brow. It caught his breath and stole it away. If his Kahinya had not controlled his balance, many times he would have fallen and then—oh, then, he did fly!

  The small hill he had just ascended, aided by his downward speed, fell out from under his slats and he was finally airborne. But not for long. As his slats struck the snow again, his Kahinya loosened his knees to adjust for the impact, and aimed him straight down the hill again. He searched ahead for yet another hillock that would let him fly, and found one, then another, another, a larger one, taking bigger bites of air with each.

  It was wonderful! He laughed aloud with the joy if it, locking the experience into his Kahinya so he could share it with his bond-mate when he found her.

  Zenna, letise, he projected without caution, so caught up was he in this new experience. I am coming. I will find you!

  Chapter Eight

  LENORE SHOOK HER HEAD hard as she realized the avalanche had not happened—at least not to her. She fixed her eyes on Jon’s face and saw him blinking as they both regained their feet. He wiped the back of a hand across his forehead and swayed for a moment, clasping his fist into Mystery’s mane for support.

  “Where?” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Where...what?” she asked, but she knew. She knew what he needed to know.

  “Where would snow tumble from above, sweeping a man off his feet, burying him?” His eyes all but burned into her with urgency. “Where, Lenore? You saw it. I know you did. I was unable to keep from sharing your vision, his vision. You projected it strongly out of your mind. I did not enter. It was just...there.”

  Lenore locked her trembling knees. “Whose vision?”

  “Minton’s. I know it was he. I know his signature almost as well as I know Zenna’s. They are bond-mated, and for this reason, his Kahinya and mine, along with Zenna’s, are closely linked.”

  “Minton is your sister’s husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “He...he fed us that avalanche experience?”

  “Not us. You. You received it when he projected it. He could not help himself any more than you could help yourself projecting it to me. It was the threat of our...enemy that tore Minton from his translation. I sensed him, too. He flung out a strong intent to kill. It forced me to shut down any probes I might have sent to locate Minton. But you remained open to him.”

  Lenore glanced uneasily at the dimness in the trees surrounding them. “I was...my mind was...open to your enemy?”

  “No, no. To Minton. He was searching blindly and found you. You experienced what he did and you projected it so strongly I entered into it as well. But only because I am near to you. Even standing five feet away, it’s unlikely Rankin would have felt your experience. He has not the talent.”

  “Rankin being the enemy.” Heaven help her, she was all too easily accepting this madness. Even being out here with the familiar scent of her horse in her nostrils, the sight of the trees, the sound of the wind in their boughs, the solidity of the rocks and soil underfoot, the familiarity of the visible patches of sky above, as blue and unsullied by flying saucers as always, she couldn’t discount what she’d experienced.

  “Yes.” Jon looked and sounded distracted. “I must learn where Minton is so I can reach him before Rankin does.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” she said. “It could be anywhere there are mountains, and on Earth, there are many, many mountain ranges. He could be relatively close by, or in Europe, in New Zealand, in South America, Asia. For all I know, he could be in Antarctica!”
<
br />   “No, no. He is near,” Jon said, which she took to be an indication of his knowledge of Earth’s geography. “Minton’s projection is not as powerful as that of some—Zenna’s, or mine, for instance. For me to discern him for that instant when he was in your mind, before Rankin gouged him out of translation and I had to remove myself, for me to sense his pain and fear in that instant, he must be within...within a hundred westals, at the very most.”

  “Westals?”

  His eyes went blank for a second. “A westal is approximately half of one of your kilometers.”

  “So, he’s not far away.” She set her mind to recalling what ski resorts with cabins were in the vicinity. There were several.

  “What happens when you find him?”

  “With two Aazoni minds, we will be better able to find the others.”

  “Then, with your stronger...powers, why don’t you seek him out?”

  “Because to do so would be to give away my presence, possibly even my position, to Rankin. And I am not yet hale enough. There is, too, one other problem.”

  Lenore was quite sure of that. She was certain there was plenty more than just ‘one’ other problem and she was afraid she’d have to face each one soon. But not yet. She wasn’t ready to fully accept even half of what she suspected simply had to be fact.

  “What has this Rankin done?” she asked. “What makes him so dangerous?”

  Jon closed his eyes for a moment, an expression of ineffable sadness crossing his face. “He deals in illegal substances, importing them from other worlds. He sells them to weak people who have become addicted.”

  Lenore felt her jaw drop and caught it halfway before snapping it shut so quickly her teeth clacked together. “An...inter-galactic drug smuggler?” Jon nodded and she asked, “Where does he get these drugs?”