The Winds of Gath

Chapter Three

The boat was crude, rough planks lashed with scraps of wire, plastic, plaited vines. It had no sail, no keel, only thwarts for the rowers, a rudder, a pointed prow. An outrigger had been added as an afterthought but even so the vessel was as seaworthy as a coracle.

"Row!"

The skipper, bare feet hard on the bottom, bare chest reflecting the sun, yelled the order. His voice was bigger than it should be… too big when compared with the stark cage of his ribs, the skeletal planes of his face.

"Row, damn you!" he yelled. "Row!"

Dumarest grunted as he threw his weight on his oar. Like the boat itself it was crudely fashioned by men who had scant knowledge and less skill. A boat, to them, was something which floated. They knew nothing of balance, correct ratios, the art which turned dead wood into a thing alive. They had simply built a platform from which to raid the sea.

He grunted again as he tugged at the stubborn pole with the flattened end. Water oozed from between the planks and wet his bare feet. The sun was hot on his naked back. He had won his place because he was big, because he seemed fit, because he could swim. Megan was guarding his clothes.

"There!" The skipper pointed and leaned his weight against the rudder. Something had broken the surface and he headed toward it. "Faster!" he yelled. "Faster!"

They did their best. None of them were strong; strength needs food. None of them were fat; travelers could never be. All were desperate-starvation was too real a threat. So they flung their weight at the oars, gasping in the heat, fevered in their hunting frenzy.

The skipper tensed as they drew close to the spot he had marked. He would get two shares of whatever they caught. Three would go to the owner of the boat safe on shore. The rest would get one share each.

"Steady!" He eased the rudder and dashed sweat from his eyes. He was over-anxious and knew it but it had been too long since he'd made a catch. Small fish, sure, with half of them going back for bait. Skinny, fleshless things of little nutritional value, costing more strength to get than they gave. But whatever had broken the surface had been big. "Carl!" he ordered. "Get set!"

A tall, thin, caricature of a man nodded, dropped his oar, took up his place in the prow. He hefted a harpoon attached to a coil of rope. He looked over his shoulder at the skipper.

"All set, Abe."

"Watch it!" Abe squinted against the sun. The leaden surface of the sea broke, roiled, something hard and gray flashing in the ruby light. "There, Carl! There!"

The harpoon darted forward, the barbs biting deep. Immediately Carl dived for his oar. Dumarest knocked him aside.

"The rope, man! Watch the rope!"

"Get out of my way!" Carl clawed for his oar as the rope ran out. The boat jerked, began to move. Desperately the skipper yelled orders.

"Back! Back for your lives!"

The water threshed as the crude oars lashed the swell. It was like trying to halt the movement of a glacier. The rope thrummed as the prow began to tilt forward. Water streamed over the gunwale.

"The rope!" Dumarest reached out, snatched a knife from the belt of the harpooner, and dragged the edge across the fiber. It parted, the short end lashing back, the prow rising. Beneath them something moved and broke the surface beyond the stern.

"You fool!" Carl snatched back the knife. "You've lost us the rope."

"Better that than our lives." Dumarest looked at the skipper. "Is this how you go fishing?"

"Do you know of a better way?" He was on safe ground. He had fished this sea before, Dumarest hadn't. "Without nets how else do you think we can catch the big ones? We stick them, tire them, drag them to shore. Without a rope how can we do that?"

His anger was justified. The fish had been big, perhaps three days eating for them all and with some left over. He opened his mouth to vent more of his rage then closed it as a man yelled.

"Look, Abe. Blood!"

A thin red film darkened the surface. A thin something trailed across it and Carl shouted his recognition.

"The rope!"

He dived before anyone could stop him. He plunged smoothly beneath the waves and rose swimming, heading toward the thin strand of the rope. He grabbed it, turned, began to swim back to the boat. He reached it, clawed at the gunwale, and began to heave himself aboard. He couldn't make it and clung gasping to the rough wood.

"Help him." Abe searched the sea with anxious eyes. "Hurry!"

Dumarest reached the clinging man, clamped his hands around Carl's upper arms, adjusted his weight for the upward pull.

"Thanks," said Carl. "I guess-" He broke off, a peculiar expression on his face. It lasted for about three seconds; then he began to scream.

Dumarest realized why when he dragged the man into the boat. Both his legs had been severed above the knees.

The wakening was strange. There was a booming rhythm with a repetitive beat and a liquid, sucking gurgle that he had never heard before. The eddy currents seemed to be working for he could feel heat on his body but his mouth was filled with an alien taste and the gritty sensation beneath his body was something outside of his experience. But the light was the same-too bright. The light was always too bright.

He rolled and was immediately awake. He wasn't in a box. He wasn't in a ship which had just ended its passage. He lay on a beach of gritty sand with the sun a ruby glare over the water which rolled and thundered on the sloping shore.

He rolled again so that he was face downward and rose to all fours. Immediately he was violently sick. He backed like a dog from a suspicious odor and felt wetness beneath his hand. It was a pool of water left by the receding tide and he washed his face and mouth in the saline liquid. Only when he had swallowed a little did he realize that he burned with thirst.

The booming of the surf did nothing to relieve his craving for water.

He rose to his knees and fought a wave of giddiness. His weakness was terrifying. He sat down, staring out to sea, waiting for the giddiness to pass. He was naked but for his shorts-somehow he had lost his trousers and belt. His skin was caked with salt and something had removed a strip of skin down the side of one thigh. He pressed the wound. Blood oozed from the place which looked as if it had been flayed.

After a long while he rose to his feet and turned to stare at the shore.

The beach was narrow, a strip of sand caught in the arc of a bay ending at high walls of eroded stone. Boulders lay at the foot, a green slime reaching to well above his head, while trapped pools of water reflected the red sunlight like pools of blood. To either side the surf pounded against the jutting sides of the bay.

He was sick again before he reached the cliff, his stomach emptying itself of swallowed salt. He paused to rinse his mouth at one of the pools, resisted the temptation to slake his thirst with the saline poison, then stared at what he must climb.

For a fit man it would have been difficult; for a traveler it would always have been hard; in his present condition it was almost impossible. Yet he had no choice. He had to climb or drown. He looked at the sea. He had lain longer than he suspected; already the waves were lapping higher. Stepping back he surveyed the cliff, chose his route and began to climb.

He reached a height of twelve feet before his hand slipped on green slime and he fell. He tried again, this time further along the cliff, but fell almost at once. The third time he was almost stunned, lying and wondering if he had broken a bone. He hadn't. The next time he tried he knew it was his last attempt.

He was sweating as he passed the level of the slime, his heart pounding as if it would burst from his chest. He clung to the rock, wishing that he had his boots, driving the tender flesh of his toes against the unyielding stone. He crawled higher and found a long, slanting crack that had been invisible from below. It carried him to within ten feet of the edge before it petered out. He craned his head, trying to see beyond the overhang, trying to ignore the cramped agony in his hands and feet. Vegetation had overgrown the edge; tendrils of it hung low but too thin to offer assistance. A gnarled root caught his eye.

It was too far to reach, a foot beyond the tips of his fingers and awkwardly placed. He gauged the distance and jumped without hesitation. His right hand missed, his left caught and he hung suspended by one hand. The root gave beneath the strain. He twisted, clawing upward with his right hand and felt it hit a snag of hidden rock. He heaved, scrabbling with his feet. He grabbed upward with his left hand, rested a foot against the root, thrust himself desperately upward. A trail of dirt fell to the beach as he rested his elbows on the edge. One final effort and he was out of danger.

He walked twenty feet before he realized it and then his legs simply collapsed. He fell to the ground, sobbing for breath, his body a mass of pain.

And, after a long while, Megan found him.

"I saw what happened," he said. He sat beside a small fire, a can over the flames, an appetizing smell coming from the can. "At least I saw the boat capsize and all of you flung into the sea. I don't know the details."

Dumarest told him. Megan nodded, busy over his fire. Carefully he fed a handful of dried grass into the flames. Smoke rose about the can and plumed into the sky.

"The blood would have attracted the big ones," he said. "Maybe the one you'd harpooned. They come in close to shore quite a bit, especially before a storm." He dipped a spoon into the can, tasted it, added more fuel to the fire. "From what I could see it was a real mess. You were lucky to escape."

The luck had been incredible. Dumarest remembered a time of confusion with the skipper yelling orders. There had been a scrabble of men trying to reach oars. Carl's screams had faded as the carmine fountain carried away his life. Then something had risen from beneath, smashing the boat, overturning it as the outrigger collapsed.

Then had come the water, the struggle and stomach-knotting fear, the final state of near unconsciousness when he had lain on his back and floated and concentrated on the single necessity of breath.

"I thought you might be washed ashore," said Megan. He didn't look at the big man. "I bought a few things and came looking. I used your money."

He could have stolen it with far less effort.

"Here." Megan lifted the can from the fire. "Get this down while it's still hot."

It was good food, expensive, probably bought from the Resident's store. Dumarest spooned it down, savoring every drop. When the can was two-thirds empty he handed it to Megan.

"Finish it."

"No, Earl. You need it more than I do."

"Finish it and don't be a fool. I'm not strong enough to carry you back to camp. Now eat up and let's get moving."

Megan had brought more than food. He knew what could happen to men tossed into the sea. Dumarest dressed while the other ate, packed the things and stamped out the fire. Together they set off across a rolling field covered with stunted vegetation.

"We're about halfway between the camp and the mountains," said Megan. They walked slowly, taking care where they set their feet. "We'll hit the path soon and then the going will be easier."

Dumarest nodded, making no comment. Megan must have followed the coast every foot of the way from the camp. It was a long, hard trip. Dumarest slowed his pace a little. He froze as something rustled to one side. A small animal, lithe, sleek, darted across his path and away from his feet. Another, larger, followed it, catching it as it reached cover. There was a brief flurry, white teeth flashed in the shadows, red stained the ground.

Neither creature had made a sound.

Dumarest walked past the spot, wondering why those in the camp had neglected this source of food. Megan shrugged when he asked the question.

"We can't catch them. You set a snare and go away. You come back to find the snare tripped but the body stolen. You set up nets and wait and never see a thing, some of us made crossbows and tried to shoot them on sight. We wasted our time."

"Guns?"

"If we had them, which we haven't, they wouldn't do any good. Some of the tourists have tried. All have failed." He saw Dumarest's expression. "Sure, they can be caught," he admitted. "You could set up a line of nets and use sonic guns to drive them into the traps, but who the hell is going to all that trouble for a handful of rats?"

"Has anyone?"

"It was tried a couple of storms ago. Some professional hunters set up a camp and managed to collect a few. They did it the way I said." Megan stumbled and almost fell. "Damn it," he swore. "Where the hell's that path?"

They reached it a short while later. It was broad, well-traveled, lined with boulders which had apparently been rolled aside to permit an easy passage. The ground was springy underfoot, the grass showing signs of recent growth. Megan halted and pointed toward the north.

"The mountains are up there," he said. "You might just be able to see them."

Dumarest climbed a boulder, narrowed his eyes and saw a distant hump against the purple sky. He looked higher and saw the pale crescent of a moon. A second showed against the pale stars far to the east. He turned and the sun, low on the horizon, burned into his eyes. Sun, moons and stars mingled in this strange region of the twilight zone. He stood for a long while studying the scene. A painter would have envied him. Gath was a strange planet. He said so and Megan shrugged.

"It's a ghost world," he said as Dumarest rejoined him. "There's a place up near those mountains where the dead rise to walk again."

Dumarest looked at him. The man was serious.

"I'd heard about it," said Megan. "When I landed I wanted to investigate. I did. Now I wish to hell that I hadn't."

"Sounds," said Dumarest. "Noises. A trick of acoustics. Since when have you been scared of an echo?"

"It's more than that." Megan was no longer dirty but even the chemical concentrates Dumarest had bought required time to build tissue. His eyes were brooding shadows in the hollows of his face. "Maybe you'll find out for yourself."

"Now?"

"Not until the storm. The conditions aren't right until then. When they are-you hear things."

"Celestial music?" Dumarest smiled. "That's what the admen say."

"For once they tell the truth," said Megan shortly. He started down the path away from the mountains.