by Clayton, Jo;
Aleytys came over to the fire, rubbing her arms. “And I have to walk after all that.” She accepted a cup and gulped gratefully at the hot liquid.
“Why do it, then?” As she drank more cha he unfolded waxed cloth from around some loaves of waybread. “Why tire yourself out before a long day even begins?”
She rubbed a finger beside her nose. “Have to get my body back in shape. A couple of times on the cliff I didn’t think I’d make bottom.”
A large insect with greenish-gray wings flapped unconcernedly past her shoulder and landed on a waxy knob surrounded by a star-shaped complex of leaves. It settled close to her shoulder, head-high. She tore off a chunk of bread and chewed at the resilient mouthful while she watched the insect poise on black-thread legs and nuzzle at the bud.
Its wings had a dark green base with a gray flaky powder spread in concentric whorls over the top surface. On the side of the bulbous head she saw two deep pits that at first she mistook for eyes. But they were sensory patches filled with thousands of fine, fine hairs. As she watched, the side-moving jaws pierced the bud, letting loose a flood of spicy scent. She bent closer. “Gwynnor?”
He dumped water on the coals, then scraped dirt over the fire, meticulously returning the forest floor to its natural state. When he was quite ready, he walked across to her where she fidgeted, bending over the opening-closing wings as the bug sucked greedily at the strong-smelling fluid oozing from the pierced bud. “We should be starting on,” he said, voice low and unhappy.
“Look. It doesn’t have eyes.”
He looked instead at the solid canopy of leaves that kept the forest floor in a constant state of greenish twilight, keeping out the clean, honest light of the sun. “What’s to look at in hare?”
“This.” She curved her hand over the bug. “What is it?” As she asked the question she turned her head, wondering what had brought on his fit of sullens. She saw him staring upward hungrily. Maes, she thought, that means plains. I suppose this place gives him claustrophobia.
He bent closer, finally looking down at the insect. Then he straightened and shrugged. “I live on the plains,” he said, unconsciously echoing her thought. He broke the branch free from the bush and flipped it and the bug into the gloom under the trees. “It’s just a bug. What does it matter what it is?”
Aleytys pulled back the hand that had gone out to stop him. Anger flared in her at the thoughtless destruction, and blasted out from her like flame.
Gwynnor saw the starwoman’s face redden then turn pale, eyes blue-green ice glittering, then flames red and blue licked out from her, leaped at him, seared his body. He shrieked, batting at his face and body with frantic hands.
Hastily, Aleytys wheeled, turning her back on him until she could control herself. When she turned around again, his face still twitched with the memory of pain. “You’re all right,” she said coldly. “I suppose I should be sorry.”
“It was only a bug.”
She sighed. “Never mind. Just don’t do that again.”
They followed the stream. Over the water, the leaves were a little thinner, so the walking was easier because it was easier to see where to put their feet.
Aleytys stooped down and put her hands flat on the earth in front of her toes, then she straightened and flung out her arms, then swung her body vigorously, first to the right then to the left. Meeting Gwynnor’s startled gaze, she smiled. “I’m not crazy. Just stiff with walking.”
He shrugged and was silent, waiting for her.
“You’re quiet today.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
She dropped on a tree root. “So you say nothing. How wise. Let’s stop awhile.” She leaned back against the tree. “Your days are too long for me.”
“You said that before. Several times.” Gwynnor sat some distance from her, staring into the hurrying water, cool green tumbling down small steps with a muted musical murmur. “Why did you have to come here?”
She scratched her wrist while she watched her toes wiggle. “Haven’t you ever stopped in a place where you didn’t mean to stay, a halt, say, where you change from kaffa to boat?”
“Yes.”
“The smuggler captain brought me as far as he could on my way. Now he goes back and I go on.” She moved lazily, her shoulders grating against the grainy bark. “I told you that.”
“I know.”
“I appear to be fascinating you with my conversation.”
His head turned quickly toward her, then away. “So you go to that place.”
“Huh?”
“Caer Seramdun. That city.”
“I don’t know how else I’d get offworld.”
“You told Dylaw you wanted to go to the sea.”
She sighed. “Gwynnor, it just seemed simpler. You wouldn’t go to the city anyway. So why ask?” She stood up and was beside him before he could move. “Take my hand.”
He shied away from her, shaking his head in quick denial.
“Take my hand!”
Aleytys sighed at the queasy mixture of terror and repulsion that flooded from him. “I don’t bite. And my flesh won’t leave a stain on you.”
Gwynnor trembled, frightened and angry at himself for wanting to touch her. Her scent billowed around him until he felt close to drowning in it. He saw her again naked, kneeling in the mud, her hair loose like a flow of silk. And he saw her slack-faced, talking to her demons, and he saw the demon taking her body. Hand shaking, despising himself for being afraid to touch her, he reached out. Her fingers were warm and vital, smooth and strong, closing around his with a firm grip.
Aleytys almost dropped the hand, but hung on and felt the painful confusion finally diminish. Felt something else. “You’re a sensitive?”
“What?”
“You see?”
“I did. Once.”
“It’s not something you lose, like your baby teeth.”
He moved his hand but didn’t quite jerk loose. “I lost it,” he said tensely.
“Hai Madar.” With a sigh she gathered the remnants of her patience. “It doesn’t work.”
“I told you.”
“No, no. What I meant was you can’t deny what you are. I tried it and I know. Never mind. Gwynnor, I swear to you I will say nothing of you or your people or the smuggler or the weapons or anything at all that could bring harm to you.” She concentrated on projecting her intense belief in that.
This time he did snatch his hand away. He jumped to his feet. “Don’t.” After putting a couple meters between them, he said hoarsely, “You rested enough?”
“Just enough to get stiff again. I’ll be all right once we start moving.”
“It’s another two hours till noon.” He walked nervously on without waiting for her answer.
Aleytys rubbed her stomach. “Damn. I could eat now.” She followed Gwynnor along the stream, keeping as close as she could to the water’s edge. The going was difficult, tree roots bursting from the soil at irregular intervals, the awkward spaces between the rocks threatening to trap a foot or break an ankle. When the banks were wider, there was grass and the walking was easier. By the time the position of the sun announced the noon hour, Aleytys was too exhausted to bother about Gwynnor’s puzzling reactions. She dropped onto a patch of grass and pulled her boots off. As she sat rubbing her numb toes, he stopped and came back. “Can you go farther?”
She stretched her feet out in front of her, wiggling her toes as she frowned at the constricting boots. “Give me awhile. I have to think.”
He scowled, then sat down some way off, turning his back to her as if he was unwilling to look at her.
Aleytys closed her eyes. “Harskari?”
The narrow, pale face with the big amber eyes developed from the darkness. “What is it, Aleytys?”
“I just wanted to see a friendly face.”
A thin eyebrow flicked up toward the tumbling silver curls. “So your little friend doesn’t appreciate you.”
Aleytys frowned
. “I pushed a wrong button somewhere. I wish I knew what I said. Or did.”
“Give him time. He’s in a strange place and uneasy about it.”
Aleytys rubbed her nose thoughtfully. “And he doesn’t like any of us starfolk.” She chuckled. “My god, Harskari, did you hear what I just said?”
“A truth you’ve taken a long time to acknowledge.” Harskari hesitated, her amber eyes narrowing. “You’re still dreaming of going back to Vajd.”
Aleytys fidgeted. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Obviously. However, you’d better think about it.” The face faded and she was alone again.
Stretching her aching limbs, Aleytys leaned back against the tree, letting the black waters of her symbolic river run in healing waves over her, working out the poisons of fatigue, washing away the muscle aches. The soothing water ebbed and she jumped to her feet, yawned, grinned at Gwynnor’s stubborn back. “I’m starved.”
He rose and walked silently into the forest, leaving Aleytys staring in surprise. As she was making up her mind whether to follow him or wait by the water, he came back to her holding out a large green fruit with a thick, pithy rind. Tentatively, he smiled, a mere twitching of his lips. “A few minutes ago you couldn’t move.”
After tearing the rind off the fruit, she sank her teeth into the juicy pink-crimson flesh. She smiled with delight at the taste. “This is good, Gwynnor.”
“We call it chwech.”
“So, you’re talking to me again.” She wiped away the juice that trickled down her chin, then rubbed her hand clean on a thick patch of grass by her feet. She sat. “Come here and tell me about your maes.”
After a half-hour’s rest they went on. Sluggishly, the sun crept down toward the western horizon, its descent marked by a dimming of the greenish glow and the gradually decreasing brightness in the bits of sky visible over the center of the stream. They seldom spoke but shared a kind of tentative friendliness that made the going easier. Aleytys burned with curiosity to know why he’d changed so oddly, but she liked the results too much to wish to initiate another alteration in his behavior.
She looked around curiously and found what seemed a safe subject. “Does anyone live here or are the trees left to themselves?”
“The forest people. Call themselves cludair. We trade with them a little. Cloth and metal goods for spices, perfumes, scented woods, beads and carvings.”
“What do they look like? Like you?”
“No!”
Before she could pursue the cause of his indignation, a crackling, crashing sound brought her head around. She heard a scream and caught hold of Gwynnor’s shoulder. “What was that?”
She felt his muscles shrink from her rough touch. “It’s none of our business. All we’re here for is to get to the river.”
“Sounds like someone’s hurt.” Ahead and to the right she heard a frightened wailing. “A child!” She ran toward the raw blat of pain.
Gwynnor heard the scream and the whimpering but shrugged it off. In the forest, bad things were always happening. Too many secret things here. But, at least, no cerdd was hurting. This wasn’t like the maes where men saw each other’s faces open under an honest sun. Reluctantly he went into the forest, following the crashing of the starwoman’s reckless plunge. She gets involved with anyone, he thought. No discrimination. Whore! No. That’s not right. I don’t know. A low limb smashed into his head, knocking him out of his abstraction. Moving more warily, he followed the sound of the moaning.
When he came up with her, she was bending over the tumbled stick figure of a cludair child whose greenish-brown fur was matted and bloody, its big red-brown eyes glazed and lifeless. The starwoman had one hand pressed against a deep wound in the child’s lower abdomen and the other hand curved around its head where blood was gushing out, staining her fingers. Her face was black with the intensity of her concentration. The air steamed around her, shivering at the power pouring through her. Gwynnor felt it tremble along his nerves, opening doors in his mind he wanted closed. He looked away from her.
The corpse of a greenish furred cat lay sprawled beside the intent pair, the rosettes of darker green spots making it still hard to see. He caught hold of the beast’s hind leg and dragged it deeper into the darkness under the trees. There was no blood, just a small scorched puncture wound drilling through the round, blunt head. Once again, he felt a frustration close to anger at not having access to those powerful energy weapons.
Then he came back to the small open space. Under the starwoman’s bloody hands the grisly wounds were healing, the new flesh growing visibly to fill the torn places. The small contorted body was slowly straightening, the taut knotted muscles relaxing as the pain went away and strength flowed back.
Aleytys looked up as she pulled her hands away. Gwynnor stood beside her, dart gun out, eyes warily searching the shadows under the trees. “Thanks, friend.”
At the sound of her voice he started and turned to face her. “If you’re finished, we’d better get moving.” Without looking at the child, he said, “It’s healed. It’ll be all right now.”
“He,” she corrected quietly. “I still have to fix his leg. It’s broken. Help me hold it straight while I heal the break.”
Reluctantly, Gwynnor thrust the gun behind his belt and knelt beside the child who was awake, staring at them out of frightened, unblinking eyes. Aleytys frowned at the top of Gwynnor’s curly head, worried now about his instinctive repulsion when he touched the cludair child.
He swallowed his disgust and did what she asked, quietly and competently, straightening the leg carefully, gently, firmly, holding it still when pain made the child cry out and try to twist away from him.
Aleytys set her hands on the break and called down the healing power.
When she raised her head again, she looked into a ring of stern faces covered with the fine mottled greenish-brown hair. The tallest male wore a leather loincloth and held a short bow with arrow nocked and ready to shoot. He advanced to stand in front of her.
“Ineknikt nex-ni-ghenusoukseht ghalaghayi.”
Aleytys heard the sounds as a string of nonsense syllables, then a knife pain stabbed through her head and the meaning slid like white beads on a string against the blackness in her mind. The people do not know your smell, younger sister of fire. She nodded quietly. “I pass through your world, father of men.”
“The child.” He pointed a long, thin forefinger at the small version of himself now crouched on the earth. “It is son to me.”
“I heard a cry and came to see if help was needed. A woodcat had attacked the child. I am healer. I must heal.” She flipped a hand at the big-eyed child. “Ask.”
He dropped with easy grace beside his son. “Little brother, what happened?”
“Father of men, the gasgas sang to me of strangers in the forest. I came to see.” Sheepishly, he dug at the gritty soil with long, double-jointed thumbs, eyes avoiding his father’s stern face. “In coming …” He hesitated, fingers twisting in the sparse grass. “In coming I was careless and let the cat get above me. Sister of fire was bending over me when I woke. I was hurting.” He touched his stomach where the fur was gone, showing the pinkish silver of the bare flesh. “I was torn here, my entrails coming out through the hole. And here,” he touched his head, “there was much pain. At times, I saw two of everything. And my leg was broken below the knee, the bone a white stub sticking through the flesh. Sister of fire put her hands on me. Fire came and burned me but it burned the pain out of me and drove the death snake back. Then the plainsman came and took hold of my leg. Sister of fire put her hands on me again. And see, my leg is whole. It is a great mystery, father of men.”
The male’s round dark eyes lifted to Aleytys. “I am healer,” she repeated quietly. “Where there is need, I must heal.”
He stared at her a moment, the nostrils of his long nose moving rapidly in and out, measuring her odors, testing for truth in the scents her body released into the air. After a mi
nute, he dropped his eyes and inspected the boy’s stomach and head where the hair was gone, then felt along the leg, grunting as the strong slender bone slid under his fingers without a sign of a break knot. He stood. “Get you home, fingerling, and take more care this time.”
In seconds, the boy had vanished onto the woven way high in the upper sections of the trees. Aleytys watched with astonishment. She had noted the presence of the vine complex but thought it a natural formation. Now, as the boy darted silently and invisibly away, she realized that the vine trail was part of a complex of ways that webbed the upper levels of the forest. She turned back to face the cludair.
Eyes gleaming a dark red-brown snouted, nearly chinless, face intently serious, he stared gravely at her. “Sister of fire, my gratitude you have earned. What I have is yours without measure.”
She shook her head. “You owe roe nothing.”
He looked down at his hands clutched tightly about the limbs of his short bow, showing a hesitancy clearly foreign to him. After a short, tense silence, he said slowly, “Will you come with me, sister of fire? Only the great need of my people can justify my breaking of courtesy to one of great power and great heart. The house of cludair is being destroyed and we are powerless to stop it. As father of men, I must seize on whatever might be able to help us.”
Chapter VI
The noise was deafening. Trees crashing, saws whining, wood screaming under lathes—slaughtered trees evaluated as worthless, chewed into chips and spat out behind. The squat, ugly machine ate at the forest like a monstrous locust.
A skimmer hovered over the anal orifice of the metal locust, scooping up the end products of the machine’s digestion, hanging the processed lumber in a bulbous cluster beneath its flat bottom. As they watched, it reached its lifting limit, rose, and darted off to the south. The machine inched along without taking the slightest notice of this visitation.
Tipylexne touched her on the shoulder. When she turned, he bent down so that his mouth was close to her ear. “You see, fire sister?” She could barely hear the words over the raucous din from the machine. “That thing,” he went on, “has been eating at the forest for the past year.” His face pinched with pain as if the devastation before them was perpetrated on his own body. “This is the second time it has passed, leaving dead land from sea to stone.”
