by T. Wyse
Burning Willow Press, LLC (USA):
3724 Cowpens Pacolet Rd., Spartanburg, SC 29307
This edition published in 2017 by Burning Willow Press, LLC (USA)
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
The persons, places, and events of this novel are works of fiction. Any coincidence with individuals past or present, is merely that, coincidence.
© T. Wyse 2017
© Christina Lobianco, editor, 2017
© Loraine Van Tonder, Ryn Katryn Designs, cover design, 2017
© Lori Michelle, The Author’s Alley, interior formatting, 2017
Special Thanks
As ever to Bruce Wyse and Kate Lawson, without whose support I would not still be around.
And to Ryan Ashling for being a reliable voice of reason and interest.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1:
Circadian Rhythm
CHAPTER 2:
Cicadian Rhythm
CHAPTER 3:
Wolf’s Lesson
CHAPTER 4:
Fealty
CHAPTER 5:
The Lost
CHAPTER 6:
Earth’s Cruelty
CHAPTER 7:
The Docile Aspect
CHAPTER 8:
The Hungry
CHAPTER 9:
The Pensive Aspect
CHAPTER 10:
The Thieves
CHAPTER 11:
The Glass Towers
CHAPTER 12:
The Elders
CHAPTER 13:
The Terror of Night
CHAPTER 14:
Fearless
CHAPTER 15:
The Professor’s Revelation
CHAPTER 16:
Musings, Merging Rhythms
CHAPTER 17:
Merging Paths
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
PROLOGUE
The boy skidded to a stumbling kneel, his hand outstretched to the opening of the tent, which disappeared in the inky black. He glanced around furiously, swaying with a seasick confusion. He didn’t know which way was up, but he felt a burning heat on his back.
“Turn,” a dry voice cracked from behind him.
The boy shifted around with a trembling sway to face the fire, though the heat and light only served to further blacken the details of the place.
“Closer,” the voice beyond the fire uttered. The word began and ended with a tight rasp, spoken with deliberation and force.
He squirmed on his knees towards the fire, finding a soft rug of fur against his exposed shins. Trembling overtook him, rising to a bouncing nervousness and driving his head in a growing, swirling motion. The neck of his sweater threatened to slip down his shoulder and the sleeves extended to conceal his hands. He had rolled his pants into shorts, which spat out his two twiggy legs. His leather shoes were sewn with a craftsmanship that shimmered in the crackling red.
“You have not come by choice,” the voice declared, his form a reddish halo in the boy’s eyes.
“How did you know?” the boy chirped, his voice shrill enough to be a girl’s.
“Perhaps I should declare that the spirits saw you coming”—the old man paused—”or that you were clearly thrown in here.” He spared a dry laugh that turned into a dryer cough. “None come to the Black Tent of their own choosing,” the form concluded.
The boy’s dizzied bobbing continued, but he gazed upward as a ring of sparkling red cleared in his burning eyes.
“Your name,” the man croaked, a staff emerging through the fire to firmly force the boy’s gaze back to him.
“K-Kechua,” the boy muttered. He redoubled his nervous bounce, forcing the shaman’s staff to jutter up and down in his dance.
“Hm.” The staff withdrew. After a moment, the man continued, “And why are you here?”
“Mana said I had to come.” The boy winced away from the flame, only to have his head corrected again.
“Why,” the old man stated more than asked.
“To learn; to live. Mana says my parents are gone.”
“Dead?” The man moved but didn’t correct the boy’s drifting gaze.
“Exiled,” the boy muttered. “For—”
“Should be with them, then.” The man dismissed, but the staff appeared again to force the boy’s attention forward. The wood rested in place against Kechua’s head, stilling his wandering eyes.
“Mana says I can’t go. She says I am ‘of Glalih.’” The shrill voice trembled and faltered.
“You disagree?”
“I just . . . I wanted to stop it. I did. I wanted to stop the pull and the swirling and . . . ” The boy’s nervous spin intensified. “But I can’t help it. I always feel it, no matter where I am or how hard I try to not listen. Even at home, when I’m sleeping, it’s like itching; like whispers licking at the back of my neck. Then it pulls me out of the house, into the sand, and then whatever wants me pulls me in tight in that rhythm; that feeling. Sometimes it’s a house, sometimes it’s a rock, or a hideaway, or something else that decides to sing today. It drags me in close, so close it’s like a crushing hug that I can’t get away from. Sometimes, sometimes it feels like I can fight it though, with my hands, with a stick, beat the wall of the house, the side of the rock, try to change it . . . ”
“What is it that you see?” The man’s voice cracked.
“I don’t see it, not really. It’s something I feel. It’s like that big, round instrument my parents have—the drums—but not exactly. It’s living skin stretched onto them, things being remembered, beating against the drumskin. Then there’s a coil in each drum that trembles and twists, it feels different from each person, the way they are now, the ways they’ve changed. The boy choked on his words but continued, “Even places have it—houses; the sands outside.
“It’s like footsteps in a march, woven into the ground, but the ones marching aren’t there anymore. It’s like songs in the dirt, but of normal things, things people do every day without thinking; things they were without thinking. Not just now, either . . . ” The boy trailed off, struggling so much with speaking that his nervousness paused. “I can feel the older things. They’re so quiet, so deep down in the soil. Only the things everyone did sing up from that far down, only the biggest memories. It’s circles laid on circles and they all want me to listen; all want to pull me in.”
“You feel the history of Glalih pulling at you?” the man croaked.
“Yes, but not just history. Mana said . . . it’s more like ‘habit.’ Everyday things,” the boy restated. His nervous bobbing returned. “It’s like bruises; like poking the dark part to itch it but only making it worse. The circles . . . the new circles are like a baby crying alone in the dark. Nobody comes. Nobody hears but me. I always hear it. Always,” he stammered. His eyes grew wide and burned with flickering red. “Drumming helped. It felt like I was answering it. If
I move, if I run, sometimes I can get away from that pull. Sometimes I can even focus into the lower times. Sometimes, that helps. Less of the hurt there.” The boy’s voice grew soft.
“And what do you feel here?” The staff directed the boy’s gaze down, and the bobbing slowed to a stop.
“It’s . . . quiet here,” Kechua whispered, slipping down onto his stomach. “Quieter than even out in the sand and away from everything. It’s like a hole digging into the ground, sucking the feeling in or covering it up. I can feel little feet, and dragging, and shifting.” The boy paused. “Even deep inside, it’s the same. It’s . . . quiet. It’s like the memories are hiding.” The boy returned to his sitting position, but the trembling bob evaporated from him.
“Then that is the answer, I suppose. You need purpose; a regimen of your own.” The shaman’s words stumbled forth. “Living here may be good,” he added. “Maybe she wanted someone else to feed me.” He emitted another dry laugh. “You may live in the house outside that they have prepared for me, but you will live there alone,” the man declared. “Will do what I say.”
Kechua squirmed again, gazing into his knees.
“I will teach you, if you listen,” the man finished. “Will tell you what you are. Why you can feel these things.”
The boy’s face whipped up to focus on the man. He leaned forward, his knees falling to the fur of the mat.
“That’s better.” The old man gave a dry chuckle.
***
In the darkness, Kechua stood. In the darkness, he listened.
Light struck across his face in razor thin lines, cutting against his throbbing eye. The light trembled as he waited and sliced his pulsing retina into a needlepoint, yet he remained a statue, every muscle tense and locked.
Obsidian hair shone in the crisscrossing light, dangling long and sporting lines of blue beads near his ears. A white T-shirt hung loosely about his body, the slack-jawed neckline gaping confusedly out in front of him. A pair of spindly arms jutted out from the cavernous cloth sleeves. The shirt blandly declared “23 Fly” with a stylized logo, the number doubling as a single black wing.
He counted the coiling steps echoing on the ground; folding upon the pattern beaten into it day after day. The oncoming form followed its choreography, blotting out the thin lines of light in turn, each within the predictable dance. Even the smell of the place—the diesel of forgotten engines and the tang of corroded metal—did nothing to break the spell. The waves of mold tickled his palette, mixed with the shivering sweat of hidden bodies, jaws slackened with desperate and sour breathing.
The others shuddered in the corner. The modern chorus of two young girls and two boys sang their whimpering harmony with each practiced footfall outside. Yet this time, the lone boy no longer sat across from them in his quiet corner, his heart slamming against his chest in rage rather than fear.
This time; this time would be different.
His eyes locked on the door, his right eye cast into blinded dark even as the predator’s shadow dabbed it for a moment.
“Stay down,” he hissed at the others, his hands clenched; his feet not slipping in the least. The blotting dark prowled across the outside, casting a dizzying strobing effect against the slowly falling dust in the air.
The door swung open to another round of whimpering from the corner, and the boy met the silhouette of the dark beast.
“Huh.” The figure of the giant strode inwards, bowing his head as he stepped into the rectangle of light with Kechua. The creature craned a meaty neck, having to screw it sideways to meet the defiant gaze of the whelp before him.
The figure shared the same bronzed skin with the boy, the same jet-black hair, and even their eyes reflected each other’s brown hues, yet they shared no brotherhood.
Talah was a full six years Kechua’s senior and a century of pounds beyond the boy, not one of them lazy, but all of them brimming with hot rage. The monster’s hair shook itself out of any braid his grandmother ever tied within half a day and rarely tasted water. The teeth on his upper jaw jutted out in an oblong point, giving him at least the top of what could be seen as some bestial muzzle. If only his lower jaw didn’t hobble sideways instead of following suit. The shape of Talah’s maw muffled his voice, though all listened carefully to what he said, at least those smaller than him.
“Not in your corner,” he growled, glancing to the vacant corner while rolling his jaw. “Move.” Disharmonious teeth clacked amongst one another. “Don’t want you, not today.” His lower canines caught his upper lip, and he lifted them into a deeper snarl.
“No.” The light nipped at Kechua’s eyes, casting Talah into a flat black shadow. “No,” he repeated, attempting a faux guttural twinge against his cracking and unwilling voice.
“You’re boring.” Talah probed the darkness of the shack, craning the asymmetry of his neck to allow for a steady scan of the depths. “Your birthday anyhow,” he muttered into nothing as a whimper from behind the waiting caused a lopsided smile to cross his jagged teeth.
“Stand aside, unless you want to join in.” The beast offered a toothy smile.
“Ah, there we are.” Talah moved towards his target, but Kechua pressed a hand against the intruder’s chest. The giant squinted at the alien hand, raised high and yet not reaching his ribs.
“I’m thirteen today. The Shaman says I don’t have to hide anymore.” Kechua declared, pushing harder against Talah’s chest. “No, you can’t . . . ”
The hand’s strength failed against the oncoming wave of flesh and snapped around. Kechua spun, only to see another head pop up from behind the hiding stack.
Careful now, not quite time; not quite there. Kechua watched the pulsing beats of the spiral pace, feeling the rhythm within, and snatched his waiting weapon: A simple plastic pipe marked “COT.”
The boy closed his eyes, feeling the echo of each step falling into place within the song, sinking into the earth below. The walls trembled with the giant’s heartbeat, anticipating the karmic meal to come. The giant lapped at his lips, its splattering and foaming drool leapt and glinted in the wire-framed light.
“You.” Talah’s mouth slammed shut with a resounding clack.
A shriek rose above the whimpering choir, but none of them moved. None of them dared even scatter. Even without their sense of the dance, they knew any breaking of the ceremony would volunteer them to the random whims of the hunter.
As an open hand reached behind the obscuring pile of scrap to pluck whatever amusement the fruit below could provide, Kechua struck with the pipe as hard as he could.
It landed with a purposed thwack, just behind the blade of Talah’s reaching shoulder, hard enough to hurt but not mark; hard enough to sound out and interrupt the rhythm—a hiccup in the anticipation of the hunt.
Hard enough to make the monster angry. Talah turned slowly, his wet teeth dripping down his open maw. The giant reached with his free hand, swiping at Kechua. He was given another methodical swat, this time aimed at the elbow.
Both hands grasped at him. The bronzed and filthy claws ripped into the light. They swiped air as Kechua retreated wielding the silly pipe, his expression unchanged. His eyes sparkled but narrowed into glinting points.
The pipe rapped the monster’s claws twice more as they reached again in unison. His shadow chomped at the light, his stomping footfalls making the ramshackle walls tremble.
Kechua burst into the daylight, the shack trembling with the rumbling howls just behind. His shoes tore into the sand, kicking up a cloud of stark red behind him, which bit into the clear blue sky above. He found his feet more firmly upon the fragmented road and nimbly incorporated the flat islands into his pace. He pitched himself further; faster, until the desert around smeared into a painted red blur.
He felt the booming pulse of the beast as it chased him, pumping his arms to catch up. In that frenzied moment, Kechua looped the noose of his plan, bringing their trail onto sacred ground.
Kechua stole a glance at the chai
rs outside the trailer house. The area had been decorated with a fine bed of red sand and two figures sitting peacefully outside; an ancient, grey woman and a girl Kechua’s age. Both faces traced his path with muted curiosity and locked onto Talah. They both shot to their feet, screaming at the giant.
Talah stumbled a bit. Kechua stole a glance back to see the preciously dumbfounded and fearful look slapping the hunter’s face, his jaw hung slack as his grandmother stormed towards him with a brandished cane, wielding more fury than her age could possibly allow.
The giant’s pace quickened, and Kechua led him onto the desert sands beyond the houses. The boy savored the pumping heartbeat of the giant intermingled with the muffled screams, already hoarse and ragged.
“Going to kill you this time. Kill you!” Talah screamed in a half snarl and half-rumbling, inhaling snort.
Kechua danced upon the sands as they embraced his soft shoes. They swallowed Talah’s clumsy and heavy feet with a splashing revulsion. The boy found himself having to slow his pace, feigning clumsiness to retain the chase and finish the sequence.
The red cliffs rose full into sight before him. Not long now.
“Think you can outlast me? Never too tired to beat and break you!”
Kechua burst into the barrier, between the narrows of the cliffs, toward the hidden ways beyond. The path became packed soil, laced with worn and flat rocks, and the smell of the sacred mountain served to soothe the fire of his pounding heart.
Talah’s pace quickened and he narrowed the gap between them, though his threats were silenced from the effort. Kechua felt the rhythm of the closing spiral weaken, but he pressed on to complete the sequence.
A canopy of shadowy blue leaves swallowed the sky above, and Kechua ducked immediately from the path into the undergrowth. He crawled on the ground, for a few chords of the song, before crumbling into a prone state when Talah’s thunder pierced into the forest.
The giant stumbled, the moist dirt shifting underneath as he gasped for air, pivoting ferociously while scanning the foliage.
“Wasn’t as clever as you think that was.” He panted. His voice, sonorous with rage, met with the chorus of clicking teeth as he rolled his jaw.
