The Land's Whisper (26 page)

~

The sun stole away even though it was only
just passing midday. The air began to cool, and a light rain
sprinkled down. Fog settled upon the ground, robbing their vision
of the earth as if they walked upon cloud itself. They did not have
rain gear and, without shelter, soon found themselves sodden and
irritable. The scents of the moist, earthy peat and their grimy
bodies mingled together into a fragrance highly reminiscent of wet
dog.

They trudged without talking, for speech
would only draw out complaints. Their skin grew white with chill,
and their feet squished with every stride. After a time, the two
found a path, narrow but walkable, and began to follow it in single
file. Darse consulted the map frequently, for they were now wary of
the land and of falling far from course in the foggy wood. He
meticulously wrapped the paper each time before stowing, determined
to keep it safe and dry.

Brenol trailed Darse’s steps in a blurred
state. He had long ago discovered misery’s monotony, and all he
could do was continue, longing for something more. Whether it was
the flooding rain or the stink of his drenched clothing, his memory
flickered awake and drew him back to a time in Alatrice when he was
about ten orbits old.

“
Tell me a story about Darse,” his mother
said.

This was not an unusual question, but her
timing surprised him. He stood gaping at her, puddles forming at
his feet. It had been a long day at the school house, and the
torrents pouring from the sky had soured him during the matroles
home.

She handed him a towel. He was surprised at
her thoughtfulness. He wrapped himself and inhaled lavender and
soap.

“
A story…” he began, but stopped. He
looked up at her and tilted his head sideways. “Why do you always
ask that?” It was true, she continually pestered him with requests
for stories, and most especially of Darse.

Her cool eyes stared at him with an unusual
twinkle. “If I tell you my reason, don’t you think the point will
be lost?”

He shrugged but settled into a seat
contentedly. She was rarely this playful. It awakened something
like joy within his heart. He allowed it to flicker but did not
kindle it further. He knew she would snuff it out soon enough.

And she did. His mother gazed back, her face
suddenly turning severe. “To know you. And that traitor.”

He had fumed for a time, but eventually had
picked up the habit of asking for stories himself. His impulse
issued largely from the drive for entertainment, although he could
not help but wonder, at times, if it had been a desire for
something more, something that he refused to uncover in the raw
light of day.

Brenol pushed aside his musings. He did not
know when he would see her again, but he hoped to always remember
her with the clean towel outstretched. The rest was not worth
preserving.

“What are you thinking about?” Darse asked.
Brenol realized his friend had been looking back at him for some
time.

“Oh.” He let out a surprised laugh. “Will
you tell me a story?”

Darse’s shoulders slouched in weariness, and
he began moving again. “How about you tell me one of yours?”

Brenol pressed his blue lips together,
thinking. “About what?”

Darse did not answer for some time. Brenol
began to think Darse had not heard him. Finally, the man replied,
“When you realized you wanted to work wood.”

Despite his misery, Brenol laughed again.
“There’s no story to that,” he said, but continued, “We both know I
am no farmer, except maybe in Coltair. I could homestead and trap
like you, as long as it didn’t involve growing things, but it
doesn’t seem very interesting. And I’d hate making clothing like
Ma. No. No hemming and sewing for the rich.” He frowned at the idea
and the memories it conjured.

“But I like building. I like the feel of
wood. I like to think about how I would shape it in my mind, and
then try to do it… That’s it. No story.” Brenol did not care to
voice what they both knew; it was unlikely he could afford such
luxury. He would undoubtedly work the land as Darse had taught him.
Life on Alatrice was not one of dreams but of practicalities.
Apprenticeships and conscription passes were not cheap, and eating
was a higher priority than fulfillment. They walked on in
silence.

The fog grew denser and denser, and their
eyes squinted forward painfully. Soon they could not see their own
feet through the thick cloud upon the soil. Brenol had stopped
momentarily, checking the map’s place in the pack, when a strong
thud
startled him from the stupor of misery.

“Darse?” Brenol’s asked. His voice sounded
thin and tremulous. He squinted about, but the gray mist made it
impossible to see more than a stride in any direction.

Brenol stretched out his arms in a blind
grope forward, and suddenly his straining ears picked up a quiet
moan. Brenol checked his movements to listen attentively.
“Darse?”

“Y-yes. I’m here,” said a feeble voice from
the ground.

Brenol leaped forward impetuously to help
his friend but was halted mid-movement by a barking order. “Wait!
Bren, freeze!”

The boy jerked to a still, terrified to even
move his fingers.

“I’m in a pit,” he said. “You might want to
avoid joining me.”

“How…”

“I imagine that it’s a trap of sorts. It
looks man-made. It isn’t a natural ditch at least… Move your feet
slowly to find its edge. It’s a nasty little fall.”

Brenol knelt down and wormed in the
direction of Darse’s voice. His fingers groped through the sludge,
maneuvering the tiny distnace that felt like matroles. Eventually
his hand met emptiness. He strained his eyes through the fog and
gloom, and the nearest side of the pit became clear.

Brenol swore.

“You didn’t mention the barbs.”

Brenol could not see Darse, but his
imagination jumped to life. It would take little to be torn apart
by the various protruding spikes that lined—at least the top of—the
pit. He did not want to guess as to the base.

“You ok?” Brenol spoke into the gray.

“Pretty wet,” Darse retorted dryly.

Brenol grimaced.
It must be bad.

“Any idea how far you fell?”

“Hang on.” Rustling ensued, trailed by
strained grunting. A hand raised up before Brenol’s vision. It was
just a touch below the edge, shaky and white.

“An arm’s length more than me,” Darse
said.

“I’ll try and find a way to help you climb
out. Stay back from the needles.”

Darse grunted. He did not require that
instruction.

Brenol scrambled from the ledge and fumbled
to his feet. His legs were cold, heavy, and awkward to move, yet he
forced them forward stiffly. As he plunged from the path into the
dense growth of green, he took in a sharp breath. Strangely, the
fog was not as deep amongst the trees. It was merely a thin mist
here. Whatever the reason, the wash of color was a relief from the
dismal gray monochrome.

He threw his pack to the damp ground and
clumsily sought for rope with frozen fingers. They closed numbly
upon the coils, and he set to work finding a sturdy trunk, then
looping and knotting the line around it. He tested its fastness by
leaning back upon it with his own weight and returned in a stumble
to the blinding mist. His eyes and body strained forward for both
sound and sight.

Where is he?

Groping with trembling hands, Brenol checked
his bearings, but did not have much to direct him. The sea of gray
was everywhere. The lush forest could not even be seen from where
he stood.

“Darse?” he called, hoping the fear was
hidden from his voice.

“Just drying my things down here,” Darse
replied dryly. His voice sounded strangely slurred, but Brenol let
out a sigh of relief and moved cautiously toward him.

“This fog is making me stupid. I nearly lost
you, Darsey.”

“Glad you didn’t. What have you worked up?”
Darse asked.

Brenol bent down, feeling for the hole. The
movement of Darse’s hands waving caught his eye before his fingers
could trace down the side.

Is it clearing up? At least a bit,
Brenol thought gratefully.

He threw the line down into the gray
underworld. Darse wordlessly tossed his own pack up and began to
labor his way out. It was a formidable task. While it was not a
great distance to ascend, the needles lining the walls—extending
the full length—required meticulous attention if they were to be
avoided. The varying lengths—half a digit to a sinister three—were
impossible for him to extract, even when he tugged until his limbs
quivered and vision blurred, and Darse whimpered at the few that
grazed his already torn flesh. Eventually, Brenol hefted Darse’s
pack upon a section of barbs to protect his friend’s final ascent
and helped the bedraggled man up to lay weary and bleeding upon the
muddy path.

While Darse caught his breath, Brenol bent
carefully over the hole to examine the needles again. Sharp, metal,
thin. Just slivers of shine. He shuddered.

“It’s time to get out of here, Darsey.”

“I think that’s a fine idea,” he replied.
Darse’s face was grim and tight. The fear housed in those eyes
would not be patched as easily as his cuts and bruises. He picked
up the damaged pack gingerly, reserving his movements to what was
necessary, while Brenol darted back to the thick to loose and stow
the rope.

The boy stood gaping, again perplexed by the
lack of fog just steps from the path. “Hey, Darse, come in here,”
Brenol called.

Darse shuffled his way off the thoroughfare,
breathing heavily and fighting dizziness. The green world enveloped
the two, and the brume behind appeared as a bleak and impenetrable
wall.

The sudden change only confirmed a fear that
had been resonating in Darse’s mind as he lay like prey in the pit.
But suddenly his thoughts swirled into pudding, and his lungs felt
heavy and exhausted in their movements. He sagged as his vision
spun from hazy to black. His ears registered a thud of flesh upon
soft ground as his crumpled body met the bister earth. For a
moment, he marveled at the lack of sensation, the easing of
pain.

Brenol’s eyes widened in disbelief. He
dropped down at once and grasped the lifeless hand. A whisper rose
from the sodden body.

“…anything stupid. Think. Poison. Being
hunted.” And his blue lips went still.

The words made Brenol’s bones shrink inside
him.

Hunted.

~

Footsteps approached, still a distance off,
but clamorous enough to reverberate in the isolated wood. They
sloshed sloppily upon the sodden path: slow, and without any trace
of caution in the fog. They neared, and brought with them a
humming. It was a mindless tune that betrayed a fatuity, or perhaps
an insanity, behind it.

The sickening sounds choked Brenol’s breath.
His heart pounded,
hunter, hunter, hunter,
and blood pumped
in a rush to his temples. He was paralyzed, but suddenly the terror
reached an apex, and his body revolted in a spasm. Adrenaline
flowed fast through him, acting as a slap, and his mind jolted into
clarity as he perceived the whole of the moment. His jaw clenched,
but yes, he could move his muscles again.

Move, Bren! Move,
his mind shouted.
Move!
it roared to his body.

He scrambled about in the underbrush,
fumbling for a few loose branches to conceal Darse. It was not
pristine work, but the footfalls were nearing, and his fingers
trembled without mercy.

Hunter, hunter, hunter.

The balls of Brenol’s feet sped him to a
tree, where he crouched and entered into the cover of some
underbrush. He was not more than ten strides from the limp body, a
few more to the path. Now that he was still, he had a view of the
lane, entirely free of fog.

Clear?

“Hmmmmm. Bom, de de dooo. De dummmm, do do
dooo.” The steps halted. A gargantuan figure bent down to examine
something at his feet. He chuckled grotesquely, smacking his lips
with gusto. “A pet has been here today. A pet! He cannot be far… Oh
pe-et!” The latter he yelled out histrionically into the woods.

“Have you tasted my sleepy time drink? Are
you sleepy? So, so, so sleepy?” he mocked into the trees. His deep
voice was terrifyingly childish.

He blundered his way through, awkwardly
maneuvering his hefty torso past bough and bush. “How’d you make it
out?” he called. He wrinkled his face in consternation but soon the
frown was replaced with an uncanny smear of a smile. “You’re my new
pet! Come pet! Where are yooooou?”

Brenol fought against the impulse to wretch.
Now that the man was close, he could see—and smell—the slovenly
brown suit, the doughy potbelly, the pug-like physiognomy, the
infant-soft cheeks and chin. His jowls swayed as he scooted about,
his fingers hungry and moving as though playing a silent piano
always a step in front of him.

“Pet. Pet. Pet,” he smacked, turning around
and around, relishing the moment.

Brenol’s mind continued to echo:
hunter,
hunter, hunter.

The man then chuckled in glee and Brenol’s
hope ruptured. “Oh, my pet. You did try. Oh, you did.” He lifted
Darse’s pack from the bushes and shook it happily until the
contents spilled out to the soil.

Darse stirred, rustling the branch atop him
just enough to be heard.

The man smiled, licking lips again as he
formed the detestable words in the soft of his mouth, “Pet, pet,
pet.”

He heaved back up to the path, returning
with a wooden cart that rose to the height of Brenol’s shoulders on
all sides. The stranger set to dismantling the contraption, until
the base was flat and flush with the ground below. He wheezed in
effort as he rolled Darse upon it, and smiled as the sides flashed
violently back into place. There was a harrowing sound of bone
cracking; any piece of flesh that had not been moved securely into
the center of the base was at the mercy of the snapping sides.