All along the line, oldest and others who had decided to stay were saying their good-byes to the travelers and bringing them extra waterbags and clothes. Irin had waited a short while, but he knew they needed every bit of the dark hours to get through the mountains and then scout for a safe, suitable encampment. Climbing down from the rock, he made his way to the gate. He felt it deeply, in his throat and head, when nearly every person he passed thanked him or uttered words of confidence or support.
He had assigned three scouts and put them near the front of the line, behind those he called fighters. Not all the male old had k’yots, so those without were in the middle of the procession with the women and new. All men were given cutters, and many women carried them as well. At the front, nearly a full batch of fighters matched roughly the same number at the rear. Some had longer cutters, the length of a man’s arm from fingertip to elbow, curving slightly, with the sharp edge on the inside for harvesting k’yon stalks. Wil had thought they might prove useful should things turn bad.
Near the middle, where the women and new walked, Irin stopped with Orin, and they wrapped their arms around each other’s heads. She pulled his forehead to hers and looked deep in his eyes.
“I have no more doubts, Irin,” she whispered. “You’re doing this. And you’re my man.”
He felt the intensity from her for a moment, and then she turned his head, pulled his ear to her lips, and whispered, “You are everyone’s man now.”
She smiled at him, and he continued toward the gate while she remained at the front of the women and new. As he reached the front, the fighters all saw him, and some touched his head. He climbed atop the gatepost, where the screamers had come over two nights ago, and tried to think of something to make the people believe. All those in sight had hushed and looked up at him. He inhaled deeply and tried to imagine what they would want to hear. Another proclamation that they would be safe? A reminder that everyone must help one another or that they all must move quickly? A final good-bye to Pwin-T?
He reached to his waist and pulled out his two cutters, one long and one short, and raised them high over his head. The people stared at him in silence, each interpreting the gesture as they wished. He put the cutters away and climbed down, picking up the lightstick he had placed there.
He turned to find Wil, his cheeks—except for the spots—aglow from the lightstick.
“I must tell you something,” Wil said in a concerned voice.
“Of course,” Irin replied. “Let’s just get everyone moving. We’ll have plenty of time to speak on this journey.” He touched Wil’s head and nudged him to the gate handle.
Wil slid the gate all the way open, and the line began to move forward and stretch out. No one spoke, and he could hear only the tramp of shuffling feet and the scuff of n’wips dragging on the path stones. The n’wips quieted to a smooth swish once their skids reached the dirt beyond the gate. Irin watched his own foot coverings as he marched up the first hill, and realized he was stepping in screamer tracks. A deep breath and a long blink pushed the images from his head once more.
After a short while, the front of the line had reached the first peak, and it continued ahead while Irin trotted off to the side and climbed up a small outcropping of rocks. He peered down the hill and saw that the last of the convoy was just now passing the gate. It was an awe-inspiring sight: the plain of domes that he had seen but a few times from this vantage point. He watched the shifting, bouncing blue stream of lightsticks curving below him as if the Center House’s giant light tube had cracked and this were the leakage. The journey had truly begun.
Irin rejoined the line and walked quickly to the front. He could identify Wil’s back from the way he walked. Other than their gait, all the men at the front looked the same: all k’yot-clad and holding lightsticks.
As they approached the second peak, Irin felt the heat of the Melting Place. Few had ever seen it, and seeing the steam rising over the heads of the people beside him, he cut through the line to have a look. The crack in the ground extended to a narrow fissure in the mountain, and there the mist rose up as well. Both sides of the inner wall were soaked and gradually crumbling away, with little cobbles of smooth rock tumbling down into the boiling water. Irin imagined that the mountain grew bit by bit with everything that fell into its boiling center. His people had been feeding their dead to the mountain for generations, as long as they had lived in the valley.
He recalled, just a half batch of nights before, when they rolled Inni into this very crack. Inni would have been a good fighter to have along now; his strength and courage would be welcome. Irin had to wonder: if Inni still lived, would he not be leading this trek instead of Irin? Inni had always been the leader until he fell ill. It had only been a couple of weeks before the bloodless death took him. Aside from Inni, Irin hadn’t known of any other old, men or women, who had died in the manner of the oldest. No one had understood it. As he peered down into the crack where Inni’s body had fallen, he wished that his friend would rise from the steam and take this burden away from him.
He turned to see the women and new watching the steam rise behind him as they passed. Some had placed their newest on the n’wips. A good idea, he thought, for their arms were surely tiring by now. He looked at the passing faces, trying to measure their fatigue. Though he was not yet breathing heavily, he reminded himself that others would likely need to rest before he and the fighters might think to pause. For the moment, though, all seemed to be doing well. He would check again soon.
The front of the line had moved around the Last Turn. Irin had never seen beyond the Last Turn, and he knew only a few oldest who had. He trotted ahead, squeezing between the people on the left and the cliffs beside them, but finding more room on the right side of the trail, he cut back across the k’yotless men and women and hurried to the front.
He finally found Wil and Pwig in the lead and joined them there, walking along the narrow defile until the trail dipped and widened into a broad, diamond-shaped opening. Pwig glanced at Irin; all three were keen to see what lay ahead.
Irin inhaled a strange, bitter scent and looked all around. The sides of the gorge rose so high around them that the moon was no longer visible and only a thin strip of stars lit the blackness above them. This must be the Last Canyon that the oldest spoke of. But they had never mentioned the immense pile of rocks that now blocked the way forward. Irin looked up and saw where the rocks had come from. Far above the great blocks of talus, an overhanging buttress of stone suddenly ended—an arch that, before giving way, had once connected the two sides of the gorge.
“How do we get everyone past this?” Wil asked. “The n’wips and the new?”
Behind them the convoy slowed and stopped, and a murmur of voices wondered why.
Irin gestured for Wil, Pwig, and some of the fighters to come with them down the short hill to the rock pile. As they approached, a fighter named Nitt said from behind them, “Screamer tracks.”
They stopped and looked where he held his lightstick to the dirt.
“I know,” Irin replied. “And their scat—don’t you smell it?”
The men all shot looks where Irin had pointed. The big, globular droppings lay all about them. The men all peered into the darkness, trying to see everywhere at once. Would the creatures leap from above? This would be a good spot for an ambush, coming from both sides. Irin moved toward the rocks to have a closer look. With every step, the smell grew more acrid—it must be their urine, too.
Approaching the largest rock he could find, Irin kicked the sticky droppings off it, then worked his fingers under one side of it. He looked back at the other men for help.
Nitt noticed first and jogged to him, grabbing hold of the other side of the rock. They lifted it and shuffled up the hill sideways, heaving it away from the path. Wil and Pwig followed their lead and rolled another block, too heavy to lift, off to the side. Others joined in, and soon they had cleared away the stones down to a layer of mud that reeked of screamer
scat and urine. After moving the stones, the men had to take great care not to wipe the sweat from their brow with an unclean hand, for as Nitt discovered, the rank liquid burned the eyes like fire.
Wil thought of using dirtpulls to bring down fresh soil and gravel from the sides of the bowl so that the others would not have to track through the foul mud or soil the n’wips. Soon they had a dry, firm trail.
Irin gazed back at the waiting throng and then ahead just as the scouts reappeared. This territory was unknown to all, he realized. Even the oldest knew of nothing that lay beyond the Last Turn or even the whereabouts of the old city. Some called it Pwin; others called it Kytin Gyor. It was where their people had lived thousands of moon cycles before the trees ceased to grow there.
“The trail continues the distance of three k’yon furrows,” the scout known as Woggir panted, “and then dips down before another steep rise.” Both men wheezed and sipped water from their bags.
“Will the women and n’wips make it up this rise?” Wil asked.
“It is no steeper than the rise to the first peak from Pwin-T,” Woggir replied, still breathing heavily.
Irin let the two scouts return to the front and waved for the march to begin again. The first rise had not been too arduous, but everyone was much more fatigued now. He posted fighters at both sides of the diamond-shaped opening as a precaution. Screamers clearly frequented this spot, and no one could climb the steep, scree-covered walls to see what lay beyond. He waited until perhaps a hundred people had crossed the cleared and filled area safely, then returned to the front.
Trudging along, the fighters in front found themselves walking into a dark and progressively narrower canyon, whose walls closed in until finally joining overhead, so that the taller men had to duck to get through. Irin wondered, could a screamer fit through an opening this size? It would have to crouch down low, and even then it would not be easy. He stepped through the narrows, and a while later the canyon walls opened wide once again. The trail was not as clearly defined by the surrounding terrain, but the stars shone in a clear sky, and the light of the rising moon glowed above the far ridgeline.
Irin turned and let the men by as he waited to see the first n’wip clear the opening. Below him, the men at the bottom of the ravine were pulling off their foot coverings and shaking out the gravel after sliding down another long, scree slope.
After telling those behind him to wait, Irin began to work his way carefully down the slide. Despite his caution, he lost his footing twice, sliding and nearly sprawling headlong before he reached the bottom. The scouts had failed to mention this part—he would have to send the others the longer but gentler way around the side.
“Irin,” Wil called out, pointing to a fighter who waved from the path above.
Irin raised his arms in response.
The man kept his arms up but spread his fingers and made clawing motions. Screamer? Irin and the others at the bottom reached for their cutters, but the man waved no, then pointed at his own backside. Irin understood at once: he meant they had encountered more droppings.
Irin gestured for those above to hurry up. He understood why everyone was so uneasy, but it was well known that the creatures had never once shown themselves at this time of night. Still, they must move along—no one wanted to discover just how early the killers rose from their slumbers.
The line continued, wrapping around the safer slope to reach the bottom. It was good that they had had a short rest, Irin thought, because the hill ahead would be a bit of a push.
Wil fell into step beside him. “I still have something to tell you, Irin. I had a new dream last sleep.”
“Yes, I had forgotten… hold a moment.”
23
MATT PRESSED THE STOP BUTTON, ENDING the buzzing of his armband. His hearing cleared, and he noticed a new ordering of sounds: activity outside—a backhoe, most likely—and people shouting back and forth across some distance. His eyes adjusted to the light as he fumbled for his gloves.
“Matthew,” Tuni said softly, “Peter and Dr. Rheese are outside, but I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me everything quickly—right now.” She spoke bluntly but with a playful note in her voice. “Peter said you could write everything down on the jet and e-mail it to him, but the helicopter will be here any minute, and it will be far too loud in there for you to tell me anything—and I simply will not wait.”
“Yeah… ,” Matt said groggily. “I gotta go.”
“Damn! Well, hurry it up, sir.”
Matt slid out and walked unsteadily to the loo, closing the door behind him. When he returned a few moments later, he said matter-of-factly, “They’re already on their way over the mountains. Lots of monster poo everywhere, and Wil had another vision.”
When he said no more, Tuni said impatiently, “Well, go on—what’s it about?”
“Don’t know. The timer buzzed before he could tell me.”
“Well, um… crap!” she muttered. “Can you jump back in real quick and just get that part?”
“Hmm… it’s a good idea,” he said. “I’m a little shaky, though. Well, actually, no—it’ll take too long.”
“Why? Can’t you just set your timer for a minute, hear what he’s got to say, and buzz right out?”
“No. I have to fast-forward through everything I’ve seen. It’s quick, sort of like jumping through chapters in a DVD, but it still takes a couple minutes just to get back to the last part. Reads always start with the strongest imprint.”
“What if we take the artifact with us?” she said half jokingly.
“Right. Then we get put in some scary Kenyan prison basement to eat rats for the rest of our lives and pass each other notes through a little crack in the wall between our cells. Not for me.”
“You’re no fun.”
They heard the approaching helicopter, and Matt and Tuni hurried outside. The new team was bustling about all over the site, and a backhoe had taken off most of the topsoil over the corner of the pit where the artifact was found. Several team members were clustered in the corner, carefully picking away at the rocks with small hand tools.
As the helicopter came to a hover overhead, Enzi came trotting up to move the RV so the bird could land. Matt and Tuni were walking toward the pit to allow the helicopter a wide berth, when Peter came up behind them and clapped his hands onto their shoulders, making them both jump.
“So this is it, huh?” he said with a hangdog look.
Matt nodded gravely.
“’Fraid so, Peter,” Tuni replied for them. “Time for me to get the lad home.”
“Nothing I can do to convince you to stay another night, right?” They looked at each other and shook their heads as the helicopter began to descend into the clearing. “I’ve got all sorts of tents and sleeping bags—all new stuff, Matt, so you’ll be comfy…”
Tuni watched Matt carefully.
“Just one more night?” Peter shouted over the deafening whop of the helicopter rotors.
Dr. Rheese came toward them and reached out to shake Matt’s hand. Matt shook, then leaned forward to yell near Peter’s ear, “I’m really sorry, Pete!”
“It’s okay,” he shouted back. “I didn’t really think you’d change your mind, but I had to try. Hopefully we can get you and the piece back together again soon so we can find out what happens. And please don’t wait to jot down everything from this last session, okay? I need notes for all of it.”
“Mr. Turner, Miss St. James, it was lovely having you out here,” Dr. Rheese shouted without a hint of sincerity.
Matt nodded dismissively and leaned forward to Pete again. “Don’t forget, it doesn’t have to be the whole artifact. To keep reading, all I need is a tiny piece of it, okay?”
“Understood,” Pete replied. “We’ll see if we can get clearance from Nairobi. It would still be considered destruction of historical materials, though. And who knows when—or if—we can ever get it out of country.”
Peter turned and looked back toward the pit, w
here some sort of commotion was going on. Colette and Graham were waving their arms and shouting, “Pete! Pete!”
They were pointing excitedly at the corner as the others hurried toward the pit from all over the site. Rheese turned and hurried away to join them. Dust and particles filled the air as the helicopter descended nearby.
“Did they find something new?” Matt shouted, his head cocked away from the onslaught of debris.
“Looks like it,” said Peter. “Well, I’ve got to go—you guys have a safe trip, okay?” And off he loped down the slope to see what the stir was about.
“Sir, miss, we must be going,” the Kenyan pilot shouted from behind them.
“Matthew?” Tuni said in a mother’s admonishing singsong.
“Yeah… let’s go. Damn.” He shook his head. As Tuni jogged to her tent to get her suitcase, Enzi appeared with Matt’s duffel bag in hand. Handing it off, he shouted in Matt’s ear, “It was crazy have you here, Mr. Matthew. I hope you come back, meet people. You nice man for a wizard!”
Matt smiled and patted Enzi’s shoulder, then handed his duffel to the pilot, who stowed it behind the seats. Tuni handed her bag to the pilot and pulled herself up, and they buckled into their harnesses. Hands over his ears, Matt leaned in front of Tuni and tried to peer down into the pit.
“What do you think it is?” she asked. “Another piece from the k’yot?” She, too, was trying to catch a glimpse of whatever had the camp in such an uproar. As the pilot slid their door shut and stepped up into his seat, all they could see was Peter, holding his hands to his head, crouched down and leaning into the corner.
The Dig Page 17
