I maintained my grin. They would kill me, but I had already won. Margaret was safe by now and Martin’s dangerous thoughts were lost in corners of my mind that could never be freed. Then I said the words I had been waiting to say. “The future of space colonization is hardly dead, my dear man. It is dawning…”
The man bunched his eyebrows together.
“And you see, nothing you do to me matters. I’ve paid my debt. And even if you did recover the imagcam, I erased the parts worth your while and destroyed every digital record of Martin’s ideas that ever existed outside of his mind.”
I pried the man’s hand from my shirt and shuttled across the table to my seat. The man followed, a syringe in his hand.
Momentarily, I paraded my dignity while I waited for the end. Then I said proudly the last words I’d ever speak. “You see, Martin really did perfect cryoterraform and the cryodrive… It is only a matter of time now.”
As the world faded to black, I heard Martin say in the back of my mind, “Instead of looking to go faster, we should have been looking to go slower, the final absolute, where matter is at once infinitely still and infinitely fast. The final absolute where matter becomes something new — something that will change space and become at once, the key and the coffer.”
Magic Lands
Chapter One:
The Quest Begins
Ray jumped from rooftop to rooftop, taking care not to disturb the residences therein. He journeyed to the land beyond the hill this day, a place he had never been. In some ways he was frightened by the prospect of his journey, yet in other ways he was overjoyed. For unlike all the other days he had known before, this day was like no other. This day, he left the village a boy but would return a man. If he could prove himself. If he survived the journey. If he could remember. If he could forget. If, if, if.
So many doubts, he thought to himself, so much to do. He must prove himself a man. He must remember everything the village smoot had told him. He must forget the dream of the wizard.
A baritone moan not far off startled him and he scrambled to regain his footing. He had been thinking too much, and not watchful of placement of foot or of his surroundings. You are beyond the safety of the village, he reminded himself, a mistake, a misstep, and you are done for. Your journey will end before it has even begun.
Again mindful of his step, he twisted the six-foot stretch of arbor in his hands, using it to poke and prod ahead. The answering calls of watchful bulls did not startle him now. He had been waiting for the returning calls, and to hear that of the one closest to him. He knew they hunted him. He did not mind; at times he hunted them. He knew of a place lost and deep where the bulls and the slithers gathered. This was the place he went to now, though it was far from the place he would eventually seek.
Two hours before dawn the village smoot had told him to go, and he had, saying his good-byes to those he held dear and heading out into the darkened land alone, his heart heavy with the thought that he would never see his home, friends or family again. He had never wanted to leave. He had told no one of the dreams. The dreams in which he walked amongst the Out. He did not want to walk amongst the out; he wanted to stay with those of the In, those of his kind, to the ends of his days. Most of all, he didn’t want to meet the wizard, as it seemed fated he must do.
To those who asked, he had not readily admitted that he had dreamt of the Out—the place where the land did not quiver and shake with every footfall, the mourning step on ground that was not his own. He had said simply, “My path is long,” and none had inquired further. Then, he had perceived himself smug for speaking this way. Now was frightened by the sound of his own words in his ears. His path was long, too long the village smoot had said. Too long to be safe. Too long to ensure his return to the village. Too long for the village smoot to see the path’s end.
An enormous bull rushed from the depths of the nearest pool. He saw its movement beneath the water just before it broke the surface and avoided yearning eyes and grasping lunge by switching down a different avenue. A moment later, his eyes were bright and full of fire as he slipped to meet the wet with a splash. As he danced within the folds of the wet, his thoughts spun—the bull was large and swift, and only one house over. This was the mistake the village smoot had warned him of. This was the mistake that would cost him his life.
He scrambled to reach safety, scrambling for his very life. He wondered if the bull would come for him before he had a chance to pull himself out of the wet and return to the dry. He also wondered if the bull did, would his journey end before it had even begun?
He clasped his staff long. It was his truest companion and it had saved his life many, many times. Six feet was an impressive length, and it had been his choosing, for he had impressive yearnings. There were others like Tall who had chosen larger, but he still held that his choice was the best. At the time of selection, he had been a full foot and a half smaller, so it had been a hefty yearn to want such a sizeable staff. And this great staff—the product of his greatest yearning—wouldn’t let him down. He wouldn’t let it let him down.
He swung up, shuffling his feet as he had been taught and had learned was best. He could feel the bull at his feet just then. He poured strength into his arms, shifted the staff, hastened his feet to move as never before, and begged the lord of the heavens to spare him. A sudden explosion of pressure in his legs told him the bull’s great jaws had found him. He planted the staff in the shallows of the muck and tried to hold on.
His heart beat so fast it was the only sound he could hear even as he screamed as he had never screamed before, even as he imagined what the loss of his legs would mean, even as he imagined the bull dragging him to the depths of the pool and his death.
Suddenly the wet was all around him. Just before he was pulled under, he found himself looking up at the heavens and in that brief moment he saw the last thing he imagined he would ever see: the sun breaking the horizon in the east, pink and orange spread across the heavens as if Tall had painted it there just for him, just so it would be the last thing he ever saw.
But it wasn’t to be his final memory. No. The vision of the wizard came to him again. He saw the wizard towering over him as he clung to the barren rock at the top of what the smoot had told him was a mountain. A mountain, just the thought of it had excited him. He had never seen a mountain, no one in his village had ever seen a mountain, yet he had described the mountain and the wizard in enough detail for Tall to draw both. It was the drawings that brought the elders to him, the drawings that convinced the village smoot it was time for him to begin his journey.
As the vision faded, Ray realized he was no longer moving backward through the water. The bull had come to a rest on the bottom of the pool. Isaac’s father had told him the story of a boy who had escaped from a bull. In the story, as the bull came to rest on the bottom, it adjusted its grip and the boy escaped. Sure enough as Ray and the bull started to sink slowly into the muck at the bottom of the pool, the bull relaxed its grip and then opened its jaws. Ray swam free, not realizing that to the bull this was little more than a game it played before stuffing its gutted prey under a log or rock for safe keeping.
One thing the bull didn’t count on was that Ray’s pack was sealed and airtight. The bit of air in the pack gave Ray extra buoyancy as he swam for his life. Soon he was breaking the surface of the pool.
He swam hand over hand, trying frantically to reach the dry shore which was only a few feet away. He found his staff wedged in the muck of the shallows like an out of place tree. He gripped it just as he sensed the bull was upon him again. This time he didn’t hesitate. This time he swung his staff with all the strength he had left and hit the bull smack on the top of its head, right between its eyes. The bull looked up at him as if surprised, then rolled on its side and disappeared beneath the dark waters of the pool.
He shook a fist at the bull as it came to the surface again and stared it in the eye as he backed away warily, calling out, “I am not afraid of
you, Old Bull. I’ve got lots to do this day and I’ll not have you stop me. I’m leaving now, you best not follow, or I’ll give you more of the same.”
He was exhausted, but he couldn’t rest. He wouldn’t let himself rest.
He took quick inventory of his belongings and himself. His pack was intact. His staff, whole. He was wet. His leather skin boots were shredded. He slipped out of them and discarded them without a second thought. It seemed he could feel a few suckers on his skin. No matter, he told himself. He would deal with the suckers later. They wouldn’t drink much of his blood and he could pull them off later—later when the bull was well behind him.
He trudged on. After a time, he came upon a gritty bush and claimed a large portion of its leaves for his own, careful to tender some but not all, thus allowing the cycle of growth to continue. He had seen the outsiders come to gather these and theft the wet. Their hair was fair and straight, straight and long like their faces and their lanky bodies. He thought the outsiders odd. To be quick and nimble, one needed to be thin; to hunt, one needed to be dark of eye and of skin; and as for hair, he saw no use for curl-less spans, his own closely manicured dark locks sufficed.
He used the grit to wash his hands, grinding it between his palms until it foamed, cautiously rinsing his hands in the wet. He allowed the dark images to fall from his eye as he did so. He feared the outsiders, almost as much as he feared and revered the shifting of the earth beneath his feet.
Coming to a house he knew, he slowed his gait to a walk. This was a spot he had marked in his mind. He had wanted to come here.
He navigated the house’s bounds, questing for a small, scented object, which he had been reminded to collect. He dug amongst thick folds now. The plant was not easily had, for it guarded its secrets well, as did those who used it. No one would visibly mark its whereabouts, though most knew where it grew in dotted paths nestled near and far.
He smiled as he found it, touching it gingerly and respectfully. The scent was sweet, the touch stinging, if not handled properly.
The bull cried out again, and Ray knew it was time to move on. “I’m not afraid of you, Old Bull,” he said again to calm himself, not realizing until just then how alone he felt, and was. He switched residences, smiling as he encountered a sudden soft spot midway along his path.
“You never know,” he whispered to the slight breeze, repeating words the old smoot had told to him just before he had gone off. “You never can be sure when you step that the ground will be there. Pay your respects I say. Watch out for Old Bull and his queen and you’ll be okay.”
Seeing the crafty eyes of a waiting slither, Ray skipped one house over. He fancied the way it lashed out its tongue, and the way it could wrap and twine. He prodded with his stick, detouring around a tender spot. He pictured Tall, a friend whom he missed. Tall was back at the village, waiting for his time to go out and make his mark—a time that was yet days off.
Recalling the next item on his list, Ray froze, scratching his chin. He attempted to remember which direction he should turn to find it. He veered right.
Passing a small, wiry bush, he broke off a bit of its slender branches, pocketing a small stash, slipping a small tender section between lip and jaw. The taste was sweet and bitter; this was the bittersweet. Ray puckered his lip; he liked the bittersweet. He took a couple of steps forward, passing to the very edge of the residence before turning back. He went back to the bush, claiming more of its tender leaves and branches for his own, until, finally satisfied, he turned away. Still, this wasn’t the thing he sought and now he turned his attention back to the search for the next item on his list.
He skipped two houses down and one over, maneuvering ever with care on happy feet. He swung his staff from left to right for balance, using it to help him along his way. He tightened the straps on his pack, checking its seals by feel, right thumb and forefinger against the pack’s edge.
The sun was fully over the horizon now, and he paused long enough to admire it while his eyes adjusted to the full light of the new day. Thinking of the slither and the bull, Ray wondered which he would choose when the time came. He knew the tiny creature he would choose would be his only companion on the long road to manhood and perhaps the greatest friend he would ever have, but he still didn’t know in his heart of hearts which was for him.
Movement behind him scattered his thoughts. A fresh bull was on his trail. As he hurried to get out of the way, he heard a challenging call not far off. “This one is mine,” warned Old Bull.
Ray didn’t turn back. He knew it was best to let them play. Regardless which would gain the hunting rights, Ray knew he was both quicker and smarter, and nothing would stand in his way.
As the sun climbed into the sky, Ray’s neighborhood sprang to life. He put urgency into his step now. He searched for a long rooted plant with a plump, leafy-green plume. He almost thought he might never find it. He needed it so. But no sooner had the thought occurred than he realized he was staring straight at a small group of leafy-green plumes. He snatched up his share and moved on.
Off in the distance, Ray saw a small, black speck. He knew this was the arbor tree of Second Village. He would steer wide of it or so he thought for a moment.
He stopped, resisting the urge to trudge on. He thought of comforts and good things—the good things he could find in Second Village. He thought of dry clothes and new boots. He thought of a warm meal and a warm drink. He needed it all; wanted it all.
“No, no. I mustn’t go that way,” he whispered to himself. He couldn’t continue though. Seeing the village reminded him of comforts, of home, of everything he was leaving behind. It also reminded him of what he had almost lost—his life. He started to kneel, then moved to sit, but collapsed to the ground in a ball instead.
Tears flowed down his cheeks. He cried in great sobs. He cried for what he was about to lose, for what he had almost lost, and for reasons he couldn’t explain. Ray, the quest has only begun, he told himself. The voice he heard in his ears was not his own though, it was that of the great elder of his village, the smoot.
Taking a deep breath, Ray forced himself to stand. He turned his back to Second Village and walked away. It was then as he headed away from Second Village that he realized he would miss the hunt as well. The full heat of the day was coming. Old Bull would soon break off the hunt, and then Ray would have nothing to keep his tired feet moving.
Ray pushed down with his staff before he jumped to provide the extra power needed to reach the next house over. Whispered words of the old smoot came to his mind as he landed safely on the other side of the wet. “Put the sun to your back,” the smoot had said, “Keep it there and go until you think you can’t go any more, and then go just a little bit more…” Ray smiled. He liked the smoot.
The day continued as days do and soon Ray was at the end of his list. As he didn’t need to collect anything more, Ray found a safe, hard spot and waited out the hot of the day.
His feet were tired and his back ached, so he slipped the shoes from about his feet, rinsing them in the wet before he put them back on. He rummaged through his pack, double-checking the contents against his list. He searched right down to the gritty weed in the bottom of the pack. Satisfied, he settled in and started to make a bit of stew. He snapped a piece of dark root in two, crumbled the leaves from a small branch of bittersweet, mixed these into a container filled with a bit of the wet. Food for a trek, food to keep one on their feet, he thought to himself as he ate.
Afterward, he bunched up his pack and swung it onto his shoulders. He looked back at the sun for a moment and to a dark speck he imagined somewhere low beneath it that was the great arbor tree of Second Village. He decided then that he would miss Ephramme, Isaac and even Keene. But most of all he would miss Tall, whom he envied.
He had just stepped across the wet to the next patch, when he spotted a group of light root. He thanked his good fortune. He liked the light root, and he would have started to whistle if he had not heard the gentl
e splash beside him. His eyes lit up and a smile touched his lips.
“Still there, Old Bull?” he called out, leaping out of the way, thrusting his staff behind him as he went. A deep warbling groan called back to him. Ray laughed happily now.
“Come on, Old Bull,” he yelled over his shoulder, “Catch me if you can!”
He traveled along imagined avenues through blocks and neighborhoods he did not know. He shifted his pack now and again until the weight settled comfortably on his back. He knew that soon he would find himself on mourning ground. A place where the ground did not tremble and quake beneath his feet. The place that was the land beyond the hill. The place where the wizard of his dreams dwelled. This excited him. This frightened him. And being both excited about a thing and frightened by it confused him greatly. He decided right then that if there was one thing becoming a man meant, he hoped it meant that he would no longer be confused by the things he did not understand and that he would be less confused by the things he thought he understood.
Chapter Two:
The Deep
Keeping the sun at his back had turned him in a relatively wide arch, and by the time it was hugging the horizon low behind him, Ray was exhausted. No one had told him it would be easy, but then again no one had told him it might take more than one day to reach the place lost and deep, and in a way, he was disappointed. He had been looking forward to this day for so long, and now it seemed that he would have to wait another day.
The thought of a night alone in the deep did not frighten him so much as worry him. He would have to find a safe place, and soon.
Thinking deeply and hurrying, he misplaced his step. The wet was quick to gather him in. He crossed out with his staff, bracing his fall so he did not sink too far, and then he carefully lifted his heavy body. He didn’t see the bull until he placed a reassuring hand on the dry, and in fact, he had almost wandered straight into the other’s abode.
The Robert Stanek Short Story & Novella Collection Page 4
