Winter in Eden

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

For the moment the sammadar was happy to see the two halves of sammad Kerrick staying well apart from each other. They were too distant, too alien, separated by more than language. He had freed the mastodon from the travois and hobbled it under the trees where it grazed the young leaves happily. The creature was going to be a problem — since it was so large it was sure to be seen from the air. The answer was obvious; kill it and smoke the meat. They would have to do that, but not right now. There had been so much killing.

Armun had lit a small and smokeless fire under a spreading, wide-branched tree; the children played close by. Ortnar was sleeping, while Harl had gone off to hunt — carefully slipping into the forest far away from the other half of the encampment. There was peace for the moment, time to think. Time for him to talk to the males. Keeping to the shadows he walked over to their encampment close to the lake shore. He admired the thick, leafy covering overhead.

“You did this?” he asked. “Grew this cover so you could not be seen from the air?”

“Brute force is a female trait, intelligence male,” Nadaske said smugly, leaning back on his tail.

“Endless labor cutting fresh boughs,” Imehei added. “They dried and changed colors most quickly. So we cut poles and trained the ivy along them.”

“Work of intelligence, admiration-unbounded.”

Kerrick reinforced it with strong modifiers. The two males had worked in this unknown environment, facing difficulties they had never imagined in the security of the hanalè, They had secure cover now, and certainly had been eating well. “The hunting is good?”

“We are expert,” Imehei said. “In the art of fishing also.” He waddled over to a pit in the ground filled with wet leaves, rooted through the leaves until he found what he wanted, returned with two large freshwater Crustacea. “We catch these. Desire-to-eat?”

“Later. Hunger-dispersed-presently.”

“Better than meat,” Imehei said, putting one in his mouth and passing the second over to Nadaske. He chewed happily, his sharp, conical teeth making quick work of the creature, bits of shell pushing out between his lips as he ground away. Nadaske finished his quickly as well, spitting the bits of shell into the bushes. “Without these the food would not be as good. We do not know the secret of meat preparation — do you?”

Kerrick signed negative. “I have seen them do it in the city. The fresh-killed meat is put into tubs with a liquid, that is what changes it. I have no idea of what the liquid is.”

“Joyful-jellied-flesh,” Imehei said; Nadaske added qualifiers of agreement. “But perhaps that is all we miss of the city. Freedom of spirit and body makes all work worthwhile.”

“Have you seen other Yilanè — do you know anything of the city?” Kerrick asked.

“Nothing!” Imehei said with some vehemence. “That is the way we wish it. Free, strong — and forgetful of the birth-beaches.” His words were muffled as he used clamped thumbs to remove a large fragment of shell from his teeth. “We take pride in what we have done — but we have also talked of it often. Death and hatred to ustuzou for killing the city. Gratitude to Kerrick-ustuzou for saving of lives, freeing of bodies.”

“Reinforcement many times over,” Nadaske said. Both Yilanè were silent then, their bodies still formed into the shapes of gratitude. After the winter among the Paramutan the males looked squat and ugly, with their clawed feet and great teeth, eyes that very often looked in two directions at once. That was as a Tanu would see them. He saw them as steadfast friends, intelligent and grateful.

“Efenselè,” Kerrick said, unthinking, with overtones of gratitude and acceptance. Their agreement was automatic in return. When he returned to the Tanu encampment he walked slowly, bearing with him a strong feeling of accomplishment.

The feeling did not last. Once they were settled in he found that his thoughts returned always to the city and his concern over its fate. He had to see for himself what was happening there. He controlled his impatience, knowing that he dare not leave the two different groups alone until they had lost their fear of each other. Darras would not come near the two males, burst into tears when she saw them, for she knew that others of their kind had slaughtered her sammad. Harl was like Ortnar, wary and troubled when near the males. Only Arnwheet had no fear of the Yilanè, nor they of him, calling him small-harmless and fresh-from-sea. They knew that his connection with Kerrick was something close and of great importance, but could not understand how a parent could be related to a child. Yilanè were born from the fertile eggs carried by the males and entered the sea soon after they were hatched. The only relationships they knew were those of their efenburu, those they had grown up with in the ocean. Even the males’ memories of this were dim since they had been separated from the females as soon as possible. Arnwheet went with Kerrick whenever he spoke to the males, sat wide-eyed in appreciation of their twitching forms and grating voices. It was all great fun.

Days passed without the two groups growing any closer, and Kerrick despaired of any real progress. When the others were asleep he tried to talk to Armun about it.

“How can I like the murgu?” she said, and he felt her body grow rigid beneath his hand. “After the things they have done, all they have killed.”

“These males did not do that — they were in the city, imprisoned…”

“Good. Put them back in prison. Or kill them. I will do that if you do not want to. Why must you talk to them, be with them? Make those awful noises and shake your body? You don’t have to.”

“I do. They are my friends.”

He despaired of any explanation; he had said it all too many times before. He stroked her hair in the darkness, then touched her lovely forked lip with his tongue and made her giggle. That was better, this was better. But good as it was, he wished that the rest of his life could be as satisfying, that the two halves to his nature could be one.

“I must go to Deifoben,” he told Armun the next day. “I must find out what has happened.”

“I will go with you.”

“No, your place is here. I will be away just for a few days, just time enough to walk there and back.”

“It is dangerous. You could wait…”

“Nothing will change. I won t be long, I promise that. I will go there — carefully — and come back as soon as I can. You will be all right here; there is plenty of meat.” He caught her gaze moving across the camp. “And those two won’t hurt you, that I promise. The males are not like that. They are more afraid of you than you are of them.”

He went to tell the two Yilanè that he was leaving — and it had the expected reaction. “Instant death — end of life!” Imehei wailed. “Without your presence ustuzou will kill, they always kill.”

“They will die with us, this I promise,” Nadaske signed with grim confidence. “We are not strong-feminile, but although only mere males we have learned to defend ourselves.”

“Enough!” Kerrick ordered with exasperation, using the form of female-above to male-below forms, the only imperative he could think of in this strange situation. “There will be no killing. I have ordered it.”

“How can you order it — mere male — to a female ustuzou?” Imehei said, with slight overtones of revenge. Kerrick’s anger faded and he began to laugh. The males would never understand that Armun, being female, was not in command of everything, that he was not just her spokesman.

“Respectful-imploring,” he signed. “Simply stay away from them — and I promise they will stay away from you. Will you at least do that for me?”

They both reluctantly weight-shifted in agreement. “Good. Now I go to tell the ustuzou the same thing. But in leaving I ask you a favor. Let me take one of your hèsotsan. The other two we took with us died in the cold.”

“Death-from-darts!”

“Starvation — lack of meat!”

“You forget who gave you the weapons, trained you to use them, gave you your freedom, saved your worthless lives. Disgusting display of typical male lack of gratitude.”

There was more wailing and complaints of female brutality on his part, but in the end they reluctantly handed over one of their weapons.

“It looks well fed?” he asked, stroking the creature’s lips to see its teeth.

“Care has been lavished, they eat before we do,” Nadaske said with slight exaggeration.

“Gratitude. It will be returned when I return. A few days, no more.”

He left at dawn the next day, taking a small supply of smoked meat. This, and the hèsotsan, were his only burdens so he traveled fast and easily. The track was clear; he made good time. Only when he came to the outermost fields of the city did he slow and proceed with utmost caution. These had been the limits of Alpèasak, the creatures penned here long dead, the barriers long gone. Ahead he could see the fresh green of one of the outer thorn barriers.

Greener than he had remembered it — and when he came closer he could see why. It was covered now with great, flat wet leaves. And long thorns with the corpses of birds and small animals rotting on them.

Yilanè.

But had the barrier been grown here to keep the enemy in — or out? Who was occupying the city now? Was it still Deifoben — or had Alpèasak been reborn? There was no point in going inland; the new barrier would surely encircle the city. He might take days to work his way slowly all the way around it — and he would still be no wiser. The sea, it had to be the sea. He forgot all attempt at keeping cover and began to run. Only when he was panting, dripping with sweat, did he slow and stop in the shade of a tree. This would not do. It was just suicide to go on like this. He must proceed slowly and carefully, watching all about him. And it was almost dark. He would find water and rest for the night. At first light he would go on to the shore.

He chewed some of the meat and thought he would not be able to sleep. But it had been a long and trying day and the next thing he knew the sky was gray and a chill fog had left him beaded with dew. It was not far from this place to the shore. But the fog was thicker now, obscuring everything. Close by he could hear waves running up on an invisible beach. Carefully, he pushed through the last undergrowth until he reached the familiar dunes. He would stay here until the fog lifted.

It would be another warm day and the sun quickly burned through. As the fog thinned he could see a dark form in the water, moving offshore. Concealed by the undergrowth he watched as it emerged from the haze. Black hide, tall fin. An uruketo.

It swam slowly south toward the harbor. It could mean anything; it could be a patrol, watching for activity on the shore. Or it could be based there.

Any faint hopes that he might still have had vanished when the two small boats appeared, the rising sun glinting off the shells of their bows. Fargi in each, going out to fish for the day.

Deifoben had become Alpèasak once again. There had been a battle, an invasion, destruction. It had all happened while he had been away.

But where were the Tanu and the Sasku who had been living there when he left? What had happened to them? The barrier of deadly thorns stretched off into the distance. He could see nothing on the other side of it, but the activity at sea was positive proof that this city was Yilanè once again. The evidence overwhelmed him, drove him to the ground with the black fist of despair. Were they all dead? His cheek lay on the sand; a spider ran quickly by. He reached out to crush it, then stayed his hand and watched it hurry out of sight. Were they dead, all of them, dead?

He would never discover what had happened just lying there. He knew that, but his feeling of loss was so great that he felt disarmed and helpless. Only when distant shouts penetrated his daylight darkness did he stir and raise his head. More fishing boats were going by and a Yilanè was standing in one, calling out to the others. It was too distant to make out her meaning.

But were they just fishing boats? Or were they part of another raiding party going north? He had to know; there might be Tanu out there. He dropped behind the dunes and hurried north as well. He ran until he was tired, then crawled up the dunes again to look at the ocean, to check the progress of the boats.

The wind was freshening from the east, sending thick rain clouds hurtling before it. Soon the first drops splattered down, grew heavier and heavier. He no longer ran, but head lowered against the storm, trudged slowly through the sand. The boats were still there, just outside the surf, he checked often. It was midday when he stopped to rest and eat some of the meat. The feelings of despair seeped back when he stopped moving. What was the point of it — what was he accomplishing? The boats were there, in the sea, and nothing he might do could effect them in any way. Was there any point to this futile pursuit?

This time when he raised his head carefully over the crest of the dune he saw that the boats had stopped, were being joined by others who had been fishing on the far side of the narrow channel that separated the beach from the sandy islets beyond. He could see the nets being hauled in, the catch being shared out to the new arrivals. So it was not an attacking force — they were just fishing boats after all. The sea was far rougher now as the wind gathered force; a tropical storm was building. The Yilanè in the boats must have been aware of this as well because on some unheard command they all turned and moved back toward the harbor and the city.

Kerrick climbed to his feet and watched them leave, slowly vanishing from sight in the driving sheets of rain. He was soaked through himself, his hair and beard plastered across his face, but it was a warm rain and he scarcely noticed it. The hèsotsan he was holding stirred feebly as it felt the water, opening its tiny mouth to suck at a rivulet. Kerrick turned his face to the rain too, drinking it in. Enough. He would leave now. Was there anything else he could do? He could think of nothing.

There were dark forms in the water where the boats had been, leaping high and splashing back into the sea. The waves were much higher now, breaking across the islets on the other side of the channel. These were really just large sand bars, the waves now washing right over them and surging far up on the beach. These were enteesenat; he recognized them, he had watched them playing about the uruketo often enough. They never ventured out alone — there must be an uruketo near by — yes there it was. Moving solidly along in their wake, waves breaking across its back, surging about its fin. It was going slowly, having trouble in fighting the growing seas. There was no room for the creature to turn, the waves were hitting it broadside, and there was no escape to the open ocean.

The boats were now out of sight, Kerrick and the enteesenat the only witnesses of the disaster. The uruketo was thrashing its mighty tail — but it was not moving. It was aground. The waves were still higher, breaking over the creature, rolling it up onto the sand. Their force sent it over on its side, dipping the high dorsal fin into the water. There were Yilanè there, holding on, being washed away: a flood of dark water entered the opening on the top. Then the backsurge of the waves straightened it up again and he saw the round, empty eye of the creature well above the water.

It was beached, injured, half out of the water. The enteesenat were hurrying back and forth just outside the breaking waves, still leaping high in their consternation. They were strong swimmers, they were safe; it was their charge the uruketo that was lost.

The next time a large wave hit the great dumb beast it was rolled still further over on its side, its fin flat in the water. Nor could it recover. One great flipper stuck straight up, beating feebly, sporadically. Kerrick could see the water surging in and out of the open dorsal fin. When the water drained back down the beach the crew began to emerge. They were battered, dragging themselves out desperately before the next wave washed over them. One of them was just emerging, dragging one of her companions, when the wave hit. They both disappeared in the breaking wall of water. When it rushed on, far up the beach, they had vanished.

Though the uruketo was doomed, the flailing fin now motionless, the crewmembers were still struggling. The waves were not breaking with the same terrible strength, the tide was on the way out and the wind was dying. Kerrick could see one of them, probably the commander, standing waist-deep in the streaming water, directing the survivors. They emerged from the gaping fin with bundles, dragged them up onto the beach, then went back for more. They did not salvage very much for the opening in the top of the fin was collapsing; they had to drag the last crewmember free.

There were only five survivors who dropped down wearily next to the little that had been salvaged. Four of them had collapsed onto the sand, but the other one stood stiffly, staring as they all were at the dying creature in the waves.

Hèsotsan held ready Kerrick walked slowly toward them. Why not? None of them were armed, they were battered by the sea, would offer no resistance. But they were still able to talk. They would have to speak to him, tell him what had happened in the city. He could hear the blood pounding loudly in his ears as he approached them. Now he would know.

He could see them clearly as he came close, noted the way the one who was standing was bent forward. A familiar stance. Of course!

“Erafnais, he called out, and when the commander turned to stare at him in undisguised astonishment he smiled wryly. “You must remember me, commander. How many other ustuzou have you ever talked to?”