Kiteman of Karanga (3 page)

As the sun began to set Karl dismantled his wing. When wrapped in its own leather, the wing made a long bundle that he could carry on one shoulder. He rested, sipped some water, and chewed a piece of dried antelope meat. As he ate he sensed that something was lurking in the gathering darkness, but he decided it must be his imagination. As long as he kept moving, no harm would come to him. His plan was to hike west all night and sleep during the hot day. When dawn came, he would have to find shelter. If he had to, he could set up his kitewing and use it to shade himself from the fierce sun.

Karl hoisted the water sack onto his back and put his arms through the straps. Then he shouldered his other two sacks. Finally, he lifted his wing to the other shoulder. It was a heavy burden. He wondered how long he would be able to carry it and what he would be forced to leave behind first. But as he considered this, he resolved that he would never abandon his wing. His water bag would go first.

It was difficult walking on the sandy surface with such a load, but the effort warmed him despite the desert night chill. He continued west, following the beak of the plunging constellation Terry, remembering grimly that it was the beak of a real terry that had caused him to panic and had cost the life of his teacher. But Bron had been more than a teacher and a friend. Bron had taken over Karl's training and had guided him after Karl's own father had declared him a failure and refused to teach him those things that a Karangan father normally taught his son. Though Karl's father was famous for his daring and had once saved the chief's life, he was also known for his lack of patience.

"Hopeless, you are completely hopeless," Karl's father shouted at him in front of the entire village when Karl was afraid to take his first step off in a kitewing. His father walked away, but a few minutes later Bron, the great hunter, went over to him. Karl remembered being too embarrassed to look up.

"Wrap up your wing and come with me," was all Bron said.

Terrified, Karl did as he was told—a boy did not disobey a great hunter. Karl was convinced that Bron was going to stake him out for terry bait as they hiked several miles up the valley, away from the village. Then Bron sat him down.

"With your slight build, you could be one of the best flyers in Karanga," Bron said with a friendly smile. "Go ahead and set up your wing."

All afternoon Bron worked with him, and finally he was gliding down the slope. Every day after that, when Bron had time, they went up the valley and Bron gave him more lessons in flying. Soon Bron brought his own kitewing, and Karl learned to soar from thermal to thermal. After nearly a year of training, they flew to the village together.

Karl's father, jealous of Bron's attention to Karl and angry because he failed to teach his own son to fly, said nothing, but Bron told Karl that he was a good flyer now. And, more importantly, Karl knew he was good.

Karl's training did not stop there. Bron required better performance from him—tighter, snappier maneuvers, more and more thermaling, and more cross-country flights. When he was able to keep up with Bron at all times, Bron began to demand more still.

"You can do everything I can," he said. "So you must start teaching yourself. From now on, you should try to do better than me. You can, and I know you will."

So Karl pushed himself harder and harder. After a third year of constant practice under Bron's direction, they both knew he was ready to prove himself to the tribe.

The opportunity came during the summer festival when all the tribes of Karanga met in the central valley for a week of trading, ceremonies, and contests. Hunters swapped furs, spear points, and stories. Women traded sheets of terry leather, for though the women of Karanga did not fly, they tanned all the terry skins and sewed them into the shapes of kitewings. The children, free from their normal chores of berrying and gathering firewood, ran wild through the encampment towing tiny kitewings on strings. At night there were drums and dances, and skits about the great happenings of the past. And during the days the contests were held—spear throwing, running, wrestling, and most important, flying.

The main flying contest was a cross-country course of three hundred miles over mountain ranges and dry valleys to a lonely peak, where one of the judges sat, and then back again. The years of hard training with Bron paid off. Karl discovered that not only could he keep up with the best, he could outfly them. He rose faster in thermals because he could turn tighter and he weighed less. And on the straight runs he gained again because he applied Bron's rule faithfully—better to run fast and straight all the way to the ground than to waste time in a small thermal. His luck held, and he encountered big thermals every step of the way. Everyone else was surprised, but Bron and Karl were both proud when Karl came in first by a wide margin.

The ceremony honoring the winners of the contests was held before the assembled tribes. When Karl's name was called, his father did not move to accompany him. Karl waited, looking at his father, not knowing what to do. His hesitation was becoming awkward and people were beginning to mumble. Suddenly, with a glare toward Karl's father that would have shriveled a dread lizard, Bron strode forward, clapped his arm around Karl's shoulders, and went with him to claim his prize.

Karl had won a superb kitewing made by one of the famed craftsmen of the Asti tribe. At first, Karl had only stared at its graceful lines. He had hardly dared to touch such a masterpiece, much less accept it. But Bron had told him he must, he had earned it. So he had flown the beautiful wing home, marveling at how well it performed.

When he had asked Bron why the Asti didn't win the contest every year, his teacher had grinned broadly. "They are craftsmen, Karl, not flyers."

Shortly after Karl's victory at the games, Bron had started teaching him the skills that he would need for hunting the terry. And then, much sooner than Karl had expected or wanted, Bron had asked Karl to go on the terry hunt with him....

Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Karl kept moving along the desert surface, which was now a hard layer of coarse sand. All night he hiked westward by the stars, never stopping. The desert wasn't so bad, he thought. If he could hike this far every night, he would cross it. He had a fifteen-day supply of water. Surely he would reach the other side or find a water hole in that time.

Karl stopped his march as the dawn turned the sky pink behind him, and looked around at the place where he would be spending the day. It was completely flat; there was no shade anywhere. He set up his kitewing and buried one wingtip in the sand to secure it. He took several gulps of water and ate some more of his dried meat. After that, he crawled under his wing and fell asleep.

When Karl awoke, the sun was low in the west. The optimism he had felt in the morning was gone now. He was lonely and close to despair, but he was determined to go on—he would not fail Bron again. He began taking down his kitewing. The desert hadn't changed—the flatness ... the rocks.... Karl jumped. The rocks! They hadn't been there in the morning. He wanted to run, but caught hold of himself. The rocks, or whatever they were, weren't moving now, so he kept on with his preparations.

After hiking a few minutes, he stopped. Maybe he ought to take another look at those rocks. He thought he remembered rocks like them from the evening before, when he had first landed in the desert. If they were dangerous, it would be wiser to find out now while there was still light. "No, no, keep going. Don't be a fool; don't go near them," a voice deep within him called. But he was curious; he had to see what they were. Setting all his other belongings on the sand, he picked up his spear.

As Karl turned to go back, he received a second shock. The rocks were only a short distance behind. They had followed him! That meant they must have been following him all the previous night too. Gripping his spear with both hands, Karl slowly advanced toward them. There were dozens of these rocks, the largest the size of crouched men, while the smallest were no bigger than his hand. They looked pinkish tan in the setting sunlight, exactly like scattered sandstone rocks. But as Karl drew closer yet, he saw what they really were. Large land crabs!

"Carrion crabs," Karl muttered, as the proper name for them came to mind. He had seen small specimens brought back from the edge of Karanga, but he had no idea that they grew so large. He prodded one with the blunt end of his spear, but it only hunkered a little deeper into the sand and tucked its ugly claws in front of its mouth. Karl poked another of the giant crabs and got the same reaction. They certainly weren't going to attack him, that much was clear. What they were going to do was follow him until he died and then.... Karl shivered. He did not want to become food for these scavengers.

Karl headed back toward his kitewing and sacks. The crabs, he noticed, waited several minutes before they started following his trail. That accounted for his feeling that something had been lurking in the dark. If he listened carefully, he could just hear them skittering over the sand.

He loaded up and started walking again, taking his direction from the constellation Terry that pointed to the west. His sacks and kitewing felt heavier than they had the night before, and he wondered, as he worked the stiffness out of his muscles, how many days he would be able to keep it up. All at once, he stopped short. The carrion crabs! Since they were following him anyway, they could carry his load!

Karl returned to the crabs and looked at the broad back of the largest one. Perhaps it could carry his kitewing. He placed the long bundle squarely on the crabs back. The wing balanced there. He could tie it on by using the protrusions from the crab's shell, but it might drag as the crab moved over the little dunes. Well, he would still carry his wing himself, he decided.

Karl tied his heavy water sack to the largest crab by weaving a string of terry leather all the way around its shell and then lacing it across the top several times. He pulled and pushed the water bag, but it wouldn't move. It was secure on the crab's back. On two of the other large crabs he tied his hunting kit and his sack of dried meat.

When the crabs were loaded, Karl was ready to try them out. Knowing that they wouldn't move until he was a distance away, he picked up his kitewing and sprinted ahead. How light he felt with only his wing to carry! He decided to give the crabs a short trial. He would continue hiking westward awhile and then go back to see how they were coming.

As the star in the Terry's beak touched the horizon, Karl eagerly retraced his steps. He found the crabs not more than three hundred yards behind. And though they had stopped and hunkered into the sand by the time he reached them, it was clear that the loaded ones were having no difficulty keeping up. The largest one, with the water on its back, was in the lead.

Karl felt triumphant as he turned west again. Not only were they not dangerous, but they could carry his burdens! He was sure that with the help of the crabs he would be able to travel farther in the fifteen days his water would last than he could alone.

All night, Karl forged ahead. With only the light weight of his kitewing he was able to better the previous night's pace. When the light had returned to the eastern sky, Karl stopped. He seemed to be in the same spot as the evening before, the desert was so totally barren. He rested for a few minutes, waiting for the crabs, but when they did not appear, he walked back slowly to meet them.

After he had gone a quarter of a mile and seen no sign of them, he grew concerned. Where were they? Perhaps they hadn't been able to keep up with him. Karl began to run, following his footsteps in the sand.

He ran on and on. The sun had come up, and the air was growing hotter by the minute. Sweat streamed from his body, and the dry air seared his lungs. After a short rest, he continued on. He must find them! He ran through the morning. At last he saw them far ahead and sighed with relief as he slowed to a walk. They hadn't been able to keep up. He would have to sleep where they were and go slower the next night.

But as Karl drew nearer the crabs he gasped with disbelief. His gear was strewn over the sand, and the crabs were busy eating everything. His water bag had been torn, and the water had long since disappeared into the sand. His meat sack had been pulled apart. The meat was gone, and several of the crabs were busy eating the sack itself. Only his hunting kit was not ruined, though the fur top had been stripped off and the contents scattered.

"No! No!" Karl shouted at the crabs. He grabbed his spear and attacked them with the blunt end, but the crabs only hunkered into the sand and pulled their claws in front of their faces. Karl snatched his half-eaten things away from the crabs, gathered them into a pile, and then fell upon it. "Why didn't I watch them more closely?" he moaned. "Why was I so stupid?"

Then Karl lowered his head into his arms. The crabs had succeeded in following him to his end.

For a long time Karl lay as if he were already dead, but at last the hot sun forced him to rise and set up his kitewing. As he slid into its welcome shade, he tried to ignore his unsatisfied hunger and thirst. He could survive for a while without food, but without water he had only a few days at best. He shuddered anew each time he glanced at the carrion crabs that were busy burrowing underground for the day. I will act more bravely when I die than when I hunted the terry, he promised himself. But this did not relieve his feeling of horror when he imagined the crabs picking the flesh from his bones.

When Karl awoke, the sun was low and the air had cooled. He rose slowly, already feeling a desperate need for water. As he folded his kitewing a motion in the sand drew his attention, and he watched as one of the smaller crabs clawed its way to the surface. He wanted to kick it, but instead he turned and took an inventory of his belongings. His water bag was torn, but he could mend it. His hunting kit was intact, so he had his knife, an extra spear point, rope, sheets of terry leather, needles, and fire-making tools. At least he still had the tools to survive, though he could not imagine what good they would do him now.