Afterward Braddick and the others dragged the bull’s carcass up to the dry and they did so with hearty cheers. Ray didn’t watch what they did next, though he heard. In his mind, he pictured them carving the mighty bull and heard their rousing roar of cheers when the head was severed.
Ray opened his eyes for an instant then, and what he saw brought tears to his eyes. The head of Old Bull was propped onto the end of five long poles which were stick into the ground and though the carcass was gone, he could plainly see the blood-loss as it covered the dry. He fixed a defiant stare upon them, watching as they departed just as rapidly as they had arrived, carrying their trophy before them.
Ray’s hatred of the outsiders grew several fold. Now he no longer wished to continue. There was nothing he wanted to see and nothing he hoped to gain. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself rising to his knees and then he stood tall as it defying them to see him. It was his good fortune, however, to be so deep in the weed-grass that he was hidden from their view. Even if he somewhere down deep wanted to be seen and to share Old Bull’s fate, the weed-grass shielded him from the outsiders’ view.
He shouldered his pack, turned his back and walked away. The inner reflections of his heart and mind filled his vision. The Out, the dead land, was truly that: dead. Its people were without heart and feeling. No one of his kind would ever kill a bull for sport and he was sure the killing Old Bull was sport to these outsiders. It was one thing to defend oneself, quite another to seek out bulls and kill them as he imagined these outsiders did.
Chapter Seven:
In and Out / Out and In
Ray did not wander far before the darkness gathered him in. He welcomed the night sounds. The night was a time of solitude, a time to feel and to reflect. In his thoughts he mocked himself, “My path is long”; he no longer felt smug. He couldn’t shake images of Old Bull and the probing eyes that were death, death to his dreams, and much more.
He sat still as a stout tree in a turbulent wind, contemplating images that spilled over into his thoughts. The bull had without a doubt sacrificed itself to save him.
He didn’t know why or how he suddenly came to know this but he was sure it was the truth, and the realization was a powerful stroke of awareness across the plain of his mind’s eye.
The stinging lay around him, though he did not feel its protective circle. In his heart, he mourned much more than loss alone. He had not retreated as far as he would have hoped, but instead, he had paralleled the stone land, following a jagged path between the In and the Out.
He wanted to turn away, but couldn’t. It wasn’t noble thoughts that brought him back or the wish to continue on, but preservation of his land and his home, thoughts of revenge. He wanted to make the outsiders pay for what they had done. In his eyes, he saw the head of the bull over and over, slumped lifeless, pierced through. If Braddick wanted prizes, Ray would give him a prize—one the outsider never bargained for.
Darkness did not mean sleep for Ray this night, not sleep in the true sense. He was idle, his eyes were open, and he could have been asleep by all other appearances, though it was his thoughts that kept him awake. It was an incessant, monotonous thought, from which there was no escape.
Countless hours drained away. He was oblivious to the passing, even oblivious to the minute flashes of heat against his face. True had slipped through the cage’s door and ran back and forth under his chin, trying to gain his attention without luck. Ray was in his own realm though and it would take much more to break him from this state.
True was frightened and trying to warn Ray, and if Ray had been paying attention he would have known this. The man had come some hours after Ray had settled in, and he had not left.
True flashed his tongue again, adding to it a soft hiss. A harsh noise following this drove True back into frenzied prancing. Ray shifted uneasily, though he did not return from his reverie.
Images crossed before his eyes and voices, both familiar and unfamiliar. The visions frightened him while at the same time they attracted and lured him in. It was the same vision he had had back in the safety of Second Village, except now it had changed somehow, twisted, if that were possible. Yet throughout it all, the voice remained, urging him to continue and not to give up.
Morning found Ray as he found it. In the fading shadows of the night, he would venture to touch the land of death, crossing from In to Out with ease, but resisting the first crucial step from the world of the known to the world of the unknown. He walked with bowed legs and heavy feet, stepping harder and harder upon the unyielding surface. The firmer his placement, the firmer the land’s rebuttal, and the pain in his legs grew. He found the lack of play, the lack of movement, uncanny and irritating.
In the stone land, there were no houses to cross, no avenues to come upon, only the bold face of the hill to traverse. Ray, however, was not yet feeling bold. He walked the sulking, mourning walk with fear and dread, staying near the edge. The rough, grinding face against his feet made him cringe with each new touch, and as soon as the shadows dissipated, he submitted to the need for safety—the need for the wet and the In.
He watched from hiding, crouching low in a weed-grass nest, or from a carefully selected thick, tracing the thin line of the border, not really knowing to where he went.
Night came and days passed, he watched and waited, venturing to the Out during times of shadow, returning to the In whenever panic necessitated. Many more times he watched as the outsiders came to the brink of the precious wet, though they were not all as fierce or as fearsome as those he first saw.
It was on the eve of yet another day, after a hasty gathering, a quick adventure, and a light supper, that he first saw her. She was the first of the Out that was not obviously male.
He had wandered long from the place he had begun and so he had no idea where he was in relation to his home, although the gray face of the hill was still before him. He watched with interest; that is, until she too stole from the wet. Curious though, he looked on as she filled only two small containers, pouring back a bit off the top.
This night he did not continue his roaming. He and True set up camp early, remaining where they were. The night lasted an eternity as he waited for day and then for afternoon, hoping she would return and not really knowing why. She was a thief like all the others; she took from his world, giving nothing in return.
He regarded True as he adjourned to the wait. His small friend was growing in surprising spurts. True was now almost a full hand in length, and along with the growth, grew the appetite.
True dined mostly on beetle bugs and other insects that Ray counted as bothersome, gathering them from the surface of the wet and usually swallowing them whole. A bond was forming between the two. Ray could sleep with eyes closed at night—sound, deep, healing sleep—knowing if danger loomed near True would find a way to wake him.
Ray had learned this that very first night. True’s favorite time to nap was in the hot of the day. This suited Ray just fine. The two spent mornings and evenings together.
Ray had finally found a use for the black bark, which was naturally oily. He used it to rub into True’s hide, thus easing the transformation of growth and renewal.
True was already shedding his initial coat and Ray helped to work it off. True’s repayment was at gathering time as the slither instinctively learned to seek out the things Ray wanted. Ray was also acquiring an understanding of things True took an interest in, like fresh buzzers and flyers. And so, their partnership was forming.
As late afternoon arrived, the other returned, two burdensome buckets in hand. Ray crouched low, winding his way as close as he could get without fear of being seen. He studied her from foot to face, contemplating her allure to him.
Pale faces repulsed him, and the long, light hair he saw as useless and troublesome—and the outsider girl had a flow that swept down her back to the verge of her waist. Her eyes were different from the others Ray had seen, though. The eyes were blue, but not a light blu
e, rather a deep, dark cobalt that looked like two clear, clean wadings into which Ray could lose himself and his soul.
Ray watched her face as she filled the buckets, skimming off the excess. She had hollowed ridges, profound lines, stemming from nose to chin on the boundary of both left and right puffy cheeks. Lines that when she worked her face up into a slight scowl, gave her the resemblance of carrying an all-encompassing frown.
Lowered lips added to the excess of the etching, forming the largest pout Ray had ever seen. For an instant though, her downtrodden grimace had blossomed into a full smile, and though it died as quickly as it had been born, upon later recollection Ray would come to call those lines laugh lines.
Sepulchral cast gave way to the premature arrival of night, a night Ray would not soon forget. He held True tight, the wind offered up the heavy scent of humidity to his nostrils and not far off lurked rain.
Ray glared with unwavering determination at the gray face of the stone land before him. He was going to venture out to it one more time; the thought of its touch upon him, however, slowed his sense of purpose.
Ray stood, shouldering his pack, regarding the rain’s approach. It was almost as hesitant as he was to sweep forward, wanting to loom around him, circling right, turning back, but not coming directly at him. The first step was always the hardest and Ray knew this. He surveyed the edge for the shallowest crossing and upon discovery he gradually preceded on his way, though he never made it to the stone land.
Movement caught his eye, not far off a figure eased towards him. Ray had waited as the other had said, where he otherwise might have turned back. His thoughts had been hasty then, but not so now. He stood still, allowing the other to approach.
Ray was also confused—the smoot’s visit was untimely and unprecedented. What was the meaning of it? Was his quest at an end? Had he failed? Worse yet, had he failed and everyone else knew about it? Why had he been told to wait?
The venerable smoot seemed weathered to Ray. His eyes were laden with such a deep sense of pain, born in the wrinkles round eye and forehead. The wrinkles were time-worn centerpieces; Ray had seen several of them grow in his own time, however, the remainder appeared to have been chiseled into a stoic, granite precipice which Ray likened to the gray face of the stone land that he briefly turned back to look at.
The smoot was soft spoken and so Ray had to lend a close ear to the quietly invoked request to sit, reminding himself to remain attentive. He hated the way the other hastily tapped out instructions with the end of his stave: a quick series to listen up, once to the shoulder to sit up straight, once about the feet to watch their placement, a stroke to the left of cheek, to the right to fix eyes center—all things that Ray was currently enduring.
Ray sat up firm, eyes fixed upon a pair of weary obelisks, feet placed naturally yet guardedly, head raised, senses poised. He knew better than to speak first in such honored company, yet anxiety overpowered sense and he began what would become the longest and most remembered words of his entire life. The smoot made no gestures. Nor did he utter a word until Ray finished and even then, his sole response was a solitary nod. An elongated lull, anticipated, followed.
The smoot was not a hasty man and his words were never hastily offered nor hastily spent. During the interim that ensued, Ray cringed, biting upon his own tongue, reverberated words playing upon his ears. Then the smoot said in a time-softened voice, “I needn’t tell you this, but I will.”
Ray paid close attention, knowing the other said nothing without purpose. Ray crouched forward expecting a cataclysmic revelation.
“The answer to your question, your last question, is yes.” The smoot stopped and smiled, a smile Ray had never seen before.
Suddenly Ray understood the jest, the first and only time the other had ever made light of any situation. Ray would quickly come to know the irony of it.
The smoot rapped Ray once in the knuckle for fidgeting and once on the shoulder to be mindful of his awareness. “How long will you linger before you admit the truth of your heart? Is it the stone land you fear or is it what you saw in your vision—the beyond?”
Ray didn’t answer. He didn’t have to, the smoot continued on his own accord electing to stop only to register the expressed response in Ray’s eyes.
“You follow a path not unlike any of those that preceded you. So what is it that you find so difficult that you have not yet gone on your way? The journey awaits. You must take your chance!”
“What about Old Bull and the outsiders?” Ray blurted out, holding back no longer, his face flushed with emotion and anticipation of rebuttal. “How many more of them are out there? And what will happen to me if they catch me? And do I really have to go? … I have completed my path as far as I wish to go.”
The smoot was silent, pausing seemingly until the last of the echoes died, speaking just when Ray set to sulking. “It was past time for my old friend. He was growing long of tooth, and would have gone soon anyway, as will I. We were much alike, he and I, ripened to the verge of spoiling. He always took to gallant performances though, so were different in that respect.”
For a brief moment, the picture in Ray’s mind was of a person, not of a beast.
“Our time is behind us, so we turned to look ahead and that is where you come in, Ray. You are ahead; you are the next link of our great arbor. Tall, Keene, Ephramme and Isaac will find culmination of their paths long before you to be sure…”
“But—”
“Don’t look so surprised. I know the truth of your visions, for there were similar aspirations before me, though I never reached my path’s end.”
Ray seized a breathing pause to interrupt again, “You didn’t? Then I can turn back and everything will be right—”
“Not so readily. First, you must try.” The smoot halted again, his eyes growing different, and Ray aspired to see a fondness growing beneath them though perhaps it could have been a misconception.
“But how will I know when I have done all that I can and it is time to come home?” asked Ray.
“You will know, just as I knew. Tomorrow, she will come early and you will have a choice to make…”
“She?” inquired Ray.
The smoot glared at him and Ray provoked no further inquiry. “And so you will endeavor upon the next step of your journey, if it is your choosing.” He stopped again, slipping something into Ray’s hands, a small circlet of orange flowers carefully preserved—the same orange flowers that stood guard over the deep sinkings. “Add this to your bag, and with it, you will remember your home. Now, it is time I went about my way…”
“But it is dark, you could remain here with me this night,” Ray said. “In the dark you could lose your way.”
“I have walked the ins and outs of this neighborhood many, many times”—a hint of emphasis on ins and outs—“you are remanded to think only of yourself.” The smoot stood, preparing to turn away, gathering up his staff skillfully in hand, adding, just before he turned away, “I wish you luck on the morrow, and hope you do indeed find the end of your path. You will be the better man for it.”
“Man?”
“Yes, man. You are no longer a boy, Ray. It is two turnings of the moon since your thirteenth name day. You have passed the tests, and you are a man even if you cannot see this in your deepest self,” and so saying the smoot turned and walked away.
Ray wanted to scream, “Is that it?” But he didn’t say a word. He remained as was appropriate, watching until the other’s form blended into the shadows.
Suddenly feeling exhausted, he allowed sleep to pull him in, and with True alongside him, he would have a pleasant night’s rest. Somewhere in the hours of darkness he found peace. Peace of mind for himself, peace of mind for Old Bull. Peace that replaced bitterness; peace of mind that healed. Rain never found him that night, though a storm raged not far off.
Chapter Eight:
Return from Adalayia
The return from Adalayia passed without incident and for thi
s Kerry was happy, and to prove this, she even ventured to hum her mother’s favorite song “Calling to the Heavens.” She stared out a window, recalling the city’s sights.
It was not often she made the journey to the wizard’s city—a thing she did more out of necessity than of desire, even though she enjoyed her time spent there. For her, there was no place like her own, simple home and her unworldly concerns. No hurt could find her here.
Life in the cities was rough, the wizard ruled with an iron hand, and being of mild nature, she would not have survived long. She hated drudgery and tedious manual labor. She preferred to fend for herself in the country, for here she was the master of her own fate.
She owned no weapons and for this she was proud. Strife was far removed, her realm was at peace, a peace that had lasted for generations, and would last for generations to come. The barriers were not diffident edifice; they were purposefully withstanding. She knew this, just as she knew Stirling had succumbed one summer ago, which meant she was alone.
She wasn’t frightened by the loneliness. She had made the journey on her own and it had chanced without mishap. She would make it again when the time came. She returned to her vigil upon the window, the day was ending, and as often was the case, this saddened her. After all, why did the night have to come at all, could it not always be day?
As the burning ball of the sun eventually fell from view, she turned away from the window. She checked the line of bolts upon the front door and the security of the windows, settling back in the rocker when all was finished—the rocker her mother had whittled away most nights in as did Kerry now.
For many long hours, she skipped back and forth, eyes upon the ceiling, knitting away time in absence. Sleep arrived somewhere in that time, though she could not be sure when.
Day came as a splash of color to a darkened land, struggling to break the horizon, meandering long, bursting upward. She was up and about by the time the sun was a full globe in the distant sky. Her morning routine was ingrained upon her just about as staunch as the land around her. Her dreams that night she would never recall.
The Robert Stanek Short Story & Novella Collection Page 9
