I walk for several minutes until I find fresh boart droppings. My father once told me that long ago, before the war, boarts were called boars. But like every other animal on the planet, the boars changed. They mutated into a different species. I quickly look all around, scanning the low growth for the pot-bellied beast responsible for the droppings. I do not see one, but know it is near so I decide to seek higher ground. The massive oak beside me is the perfect lookout point.
With my knife sheathed at my thigh and my spear and sword in a scabbard at my back, I grab hold of the lowest branch and hoist myself up. I climb from one to the next, scaling the tree cautiously, gently. I do not want to disturb anything or make a sound. I do not want to scare the beast and send it running. I continue, gingerly navigating the dovetailed branches and only stop when the limbs above me become thin and fragile looking. I do not want to risk resting on one that cannot bear my weight and settle into a squatting position where I am. I crouch low, balancing. I unsheathe my spear, clutching it securely in sweat-slickened hands and watch as nearby growth stirs and a boart comes into view.
Minutes tick by and the boart does not move. The sun beats down through limbs and leaves. Sweat stipples my brow and trails between my shoulder blades, but I do not dare brush it away or shift. I must remain still, poised to strike when the moment presents itself. The snorts and chuffs of the beast grow closer. I do not move. I barely breathe. Each of my muscles ache and tremble, and my knees protest holding the same position for so long. My pulse hammers against my temples. The beast continues to inch forward, creeping at a leisurely pace. Hunger gnaws ceaselessly. My belly rumbles, a sound so loud I worry it will frighten the boart and ruin any chance of eating for myself and June. But it does not. I have it in my sight, my gaze zeroed in on it. It disappears for a moment behind a dense thicket, close, so close to me I can smell its pungent stink.
It reappears after several painstaking seconds. Up close, I can see that it is enormous. It must be nearly three hundred pounds. Not that I would know that for sure. The last scale I’d seen had been when my father was alive and we’d stayed at a camp with other humans. Then, I’d been weighed and told I was a hundred and five pounds and five feet one inches tall. Years have passed and I’ve grown since then. But the beast easily triples my girth. Massive shoulders and hind quarters are connected by a generous belly. I watch it as it sniffs a tuft of blossoms near the trunk of the tree I am perched in. It continues to snuffle and grunt and I grip the handle of my weapon so tightly my palm aches.
When it is just below me, I jump.
The ground is hurtling toward me. All breath leaves my body and needle-sharp stabs of pain claw my legs as branches lash my thighs. Bruises and cuts will result, but I do not care. All I can think of is feeding my sister, and me. My spear drives into the base of the beast’s neck first before I land atop it. I hold my spear steady with one hand while I unsheathe my blade and slice its throat. It squeals, a tortured, awful sound, and thrashes. Warmth gushes over my hand, covering my blade, but I do not let go of it. And I do not let go of my spear either. I hold fast and plunge it further, in fact, until the entire middle section of the spear is no longer visible.
My chest is heaving and every part of me is quivering. The world around me has gone quiet. All I hear are my own ragged breaths and the fading shrieks of the stuck animal.
Before long, the boart stops flailing. Blood is everywhere. It is on my hands, on my arms, my legs, and my face. I feel as if it is coating my tongue, but I know it is not. It is just the heavy, coppery smell, so thick and overpowering, that is tricking my mind into believing blood has entered my mouth. The boart’s weight begins to shift as it topples to one side. I know I must keep my dagger from becoming trapped beneath its massive body. I must keep from getting trapped beneath its massive body.
I flick my knife to the side and hear it land with a soft thud in the grass then yank as hard as I can and as quickly as I can to pull the spear from the boart’s body. I dive to the ground, reaching and stretching with every ounce of strength I have to throw myself clear of the beast’s fall. I land hard just in time to avoid being a squashed blob underneath it then whistle loudly for June.
The faint swish of wet grass and leaves sounds and before long, my sister appears. At first she sees only the blood covering my hands and splattered across my face. She gasps and her hands fly to her mouth. She cries out, words that are unintelligible.
“Oh no, no, no,” she sobs.
“June, no, I’m okay,” I assure her and point with a trembling hand to the boart carcass.
Her eyes round immediately. “You got one!” she squeals excitedly. “Oh wow!” She bounces on the balls of her feet, clapping her hands in front of her face, and I am reminded of her youth, of her innocence. I suddenly wish she did not have to see the scene before her eyes. Rationally, I know she must, that one day she will have to gut a boart on her own.
“Come on, let’s prepare this boart quickly before the scavengers come out to play,” I say, referring to the buzzards and other winged predators that could announce our position.
June assists while I carve enough meat to stuff ourselves for the day, as well as the next morning. The boart is robust, its flesh plentiful, but we cannot take all of it. It would spoil by midday the next day, a point that sickens me. Wastefulness of any kind pains me, particularly when it concerns food. If it were winter, every bit of its meat would be taken and packed in snow, then eaten for weeks. Today’s kill is just for the day.
We return to the cave with our haul and cook it immediately. Cooking after the sun sets is off-limits. The smell of roasting flesh would frenzy the creatures of the night and all but guarantee our deaths. The thought makes me shudder.
As soon as the meat is fully cooked, I offer the first piece to June. She devours it immediately. I begin to nibble a chunk and watch as she reaches for a second then third serving.
“Be careful not to stuff yourself,” I warn her. But it is hard not to. The salty taste and the tender texture of the meat are irresistible. Before long, I find myself ignoring my own advice and helping myself to more.
“I have to stop,” I moan, but a full belly is blissful. “We have to train still,” I say more for my own benefit than June’s benefit.
“Aw, do we have to?” she asks and frowns.
I level my gaze at her and do not say a word. I do not need to. She knows better, knows that it is imperative for us to train each and every day, to keep our senses sharp and our reflexes swift. I never allow a day to pass when we do not train. That is what our father taught us. And June needs to become as good with a sword and spear as I am. Her life depends on it, and so does mine. Room for improvement always exists.
“Can’t we just relax for a little while?” June begs.
I look to the sun, my mind warring with my heart, and realize there is plenty of daylight hours left. June deserves a reprieve. I owe her that, at least.
“Okay,” I surprise her by saying.
Her head whipsaws from me to her food then back to me. “Are you kidding?” she asked suspiciously. “‘Cause if you are, it’s not funny.”
“Nope, I’m serious,” I say. “Let’s go now.”
June does not need to hear me say it twice. She is on her feet before I am. We make our way to the meadow quickly. The clearing is overflowing with wildflowers that perfume the area. I would love to run through the field and pick as many as my arms could carry but know that I am not permitted such an indulgence. Instead, I settle for taking several steps and sitting on the outskirts of the meadow.
June plops down immediately then flops backward. I sit for a while then lean back on my elbows.
Warm, buttery sunlight heats us from overhead. A tangy, earthy scent infuses the air as we lay in the tall grass gazing at the sky, a vast blue canvas scrubbed clean by the early morning storms. A butterfly flits past June before landing on her nose. She giggles as the floppy-winged insect stops for a second then immediately flaps and fli
es away. The sound is sweeter than anything I’ve heard in a long time. I turn to face her. Light washes across the top of her head, highlighting the natural gold of her hair. It makes her appear almost angelic. She closes her eyes and dozes while I fight the exhaustion that follows the adrenaline rush I had plummeting from the tree and killing the boart. A full belly assists the physical fatigue I feel.
Before long, my eyes grow heavy and my body feels as if it is being rocked, cradled in warm arms, a sensation I barely remember but yearn for, nevertheless. I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Arianna Rose:
The Awakening
(Part 2)
A novel
By Jennifer and Christopher Martucci
ARIANNA ROSE: THE AWAKENING (Part 2)
Published by Jennifer and Christopher Martucci at Smashwords
Copyright © 2012
All rights reserved.
First edition: November 2012
Cover design by Indie Designz http://www.indiedesignz.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Arianna found herself standing on unsure legs, surrounded by lush fields of green speckled with blossoms in vibrant shades of pink and purple. The dimness and haze of the nightclub she’d stood in seconds earlier had disappeared, replaced instead with golden light that kissed and caressed the vivid landscape. The incessant rumble and thump of bass in music that had blared had been silenced, swapped with a faint whisper of a breeze stirring tall grass and the distant sound of birds chirping. The entire world she’d existed in moments ago had vanished, she had vanished. Stephanie, Luke, and the group they’d been with, along with the rest of the club-goers, had gone, faded into an oblivion beyond her reach. She was no longer with them. She had been transported, impossibly, to a picturesque meadow. And she wasn’t alone. A substantial hand gripped hers, a hand attached to an equally substantial arm and body.
The man that held her hand, the same one she’d seen watching her on the side of the road on two occasions, the one she’d noticed in the nightclub, remained with her, and towered over her, as glorious and golden as the sunshine touching the earth they stood upon. She looked up at him and he smiled a kind, almost affectionate smile, and she noticed that her hand, the one he held, tingled. The slight tingle moved up her arm to her shoulder, warm and pleasant, and spread. It thrummed through her in time with her heartbeat for several seconds, a calming sensation that radiated from him in waves of energy so strong she swore they were tangible.
She released his hand and felt the calm come to an abrupt end. Everything that had happened rushed at her. Suddenly, the sun felt strong overhead. Her body heated and flushed with warmth.
“What the hell?” she shrieked. “What the hell? What just happened? Where am I? Where are my friends?”
Panic began to sweep through her like fire through dried brush, racing and torching everything in its wake. She wondered whether she were dead, and the field she stood Elysium, the fabled home of the blessed after death. After all, the man before her could easily have been an angel. Then she remembered what she’d done in the alleyway before staggering back into the club and realized no paradise would await her after death; she was very much alive. Anxiety filled her, burning and corroding any sense of reason she’d ever possessed.
“Shh, calm down, Arianna,” the man said and searched her eyes with his. The brilliant blue of his irises was a shade she’d never seen and matched the hue of the sky above, only more crystalline in their clarity.
“Calm down? Are you kidding me? What the hell is happening? Am I dead, or drugged? What is going on?” she shouted.
“You’re not dead, Arianna,” he said calmly. “And you haven’t been drugged, though drugs were offered to you before you went into the Blue Ivy tonight, were they not?”
“Well, yeah,” she fumbled before realizing there was no possible way he could have known about Stephanie’s offer unless he had been standing right beside her when it had happened. She and Stephanie had been alone. “How do you know about that? And how do you know my name?” she asked and felt another flash of fright blaze within her.
“I was with you.”
She stared at him incredulously, becoming more and more convinced by the moment that a hallucinogenic drug had been slipped into one of her beers, that levitating and thrashing one man into a building and setting ablaze another would all be part of a horrific, drug-addled memory in the near future. And this beautiful man who spouted utter nonsense was a figment of her imagination, little more than brain garbage tangled in the effects of the drugs.
“Yeah, right,” she said laughing in a crazed way that was foreign to her own ears.
“I was. I’m always with you, in a sense.”
“Okay, whatever you say,” she pacified going along with what she supposed was a delusion.
“I hear your mocking tone,” he said levelly. “And whatever you think this is, a dream or hallucination, you’re wrong. This is happening.”
Arianna did not know what to say or how to react. If she were experiencing drug related delirium, nothing she said or did would matter. She remained silent.
“Are you telling me I don’t look familiar to you?” he persisted in his serene tone.
“Of course you look familiar to me,” she replied. I saw you just the other day when I crashed my bike, and the day before that.”
“And you saw me in the club,” he added.
“I thought I saw you in the club. But that could have been the onset of whatever drug some asshole popped in my beer, the beginning of the freaking delusion I’m having right now.”
“You did see me in the club. I was there, and you were not drugged. No drug would affect you, not that I would have allowed anyone to drug you in the first place.”
“No drugs affect me?” she asked indignantly. “I’ve smoke pot before and,” she said and her voice trailed off. She did not complete her sentence, could not.
“And what, Arianna?” he probed.
She searched her memory for one time, any time, she had become high from marijuana she’d smoked, but came up empty. She could not recall a single instance when she had succumbed to the influence of marijuana or any other substance she’d abused. She couldn’t recall ever being drunk and had long since assumed her father, whoever he was, had an unusually high tolerance for alcohol he’d imparted to her.
“Nothing,” she lied.
“You’ve never gotten high from the pot you’ve smoked, have you?”
His words were more of a statement than a question.
“And you’ve never been drunk either, though you’ve tried.”
“No,” she answered begrudgingly.
“Did you ever think that was strange?”
She had thought it strange. Many things in her life had been strange.
“I’ve been with you your whole life, watching you, waiting,” he said not pausing for her answer. “I know your life has been far from ordinary.”
The way he looked at her, his tone of voice combined with how he’d practically read her mind and anticipated what she’d say next, all of it was as compelling as it was disturbing. Still, all of it had to be a dream of some sort. He spoke so sincerely, so openly, it would have been easy for her to give in to his words, to believe them. Of course, if he’d shown the slightest
shred of sanity, he would have furthered his cause. What he was saying was completely preposterous.
“Been with me my whole life?” she echoed his absurd claim.
“Yes. It is my mission to ensure your safety and guide you as you mature, as your powers strengthen.”
“All right, enough! This crap has to stop. Even if this is some kind of hallucination, it’s got to stop. I can’t listen to this crazy shit anymore!”
“You’re saying all of this is crazy, but deep down, you know it’s true. The moment you saw me on the side of the road, you knew. You recognized me.”
She wanted to deny it, wanted to tell him he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but he was right. Something had clicked when she’d seen him, something hidden deep within her had sprung forth like a sudden recollection from a vague dream or a missing puzzle piece appearing unexpectedly after days of looking for it. He had appeared like the missing puzzle piece or muddled face from a long-forgotten dream.
“I don’t even know your name,” she said and decided not to refute his claim.
“My name is Desmond.”
“Desmond what?” she asked and expected a last name.
“Desmond, and nothing more,” he replied cryptically.
“What, so you’re like Cher or Madonna? No last name?” she joked.
He did not laugh or smile, just stared at her with his crystal-blue eyes.
“Okay, this is awkward. Don’t you know who those women are?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It was a joke. I was joking. You know, trying to be funny.”
Planet Urth Boxed Set Page 28
