The Land's Whisper (27 page)

It took all of Brenol’s will not to
scream.

~

Darse awoke but could not raise his eyelids
or push back the grogginess that hung upon his mind.
What was
it? There was something that I was trying to tell Bren.
Something…
The drugs closed back around him and all fell into
darkness.

~

Brenol followed from a distance, but it did
not take much skill to shadow the man; he was both enormous and
deafening, blight to land and creature alike. Brenol was grateful
at least in this regard, for his nerves had turned his limbs to
soft gelatin. He had no stealth in him. Twice already he had
stopped to vomit behind a bush, emerging with wet chin and reeling
head. He longed for dusk and its shadowy, concealing cloak, yet the
afternoon sun still wore on. No fog, no clouds. Just sun. He
trembled thinking about the sausage-like fingers that had caressed
their find with trembling joy.

Yet the stranger never spotted Brenol. He
was either overconfident or simple—or more likely, both. After
about two matroles, the man entered a clearing where he approached
and sauntered into a barn, with cart a-creak before his hands. The
door closed, and Brenol was left alone.

~

“My pet, oh pet! Wake up, little pet!” the
man chimed, lips and saliva smacking together.

His hungry fingers tapped Darse’s skin with
their tips, and the man jolted awake in alarm. The abrupt movement
wracked Darse with violent pain, and lights danced before his eyes,
which then caught a glimpse of bone protruding from his left thigh
in a merciless white on crimson. He had never before known this
much pain. He was bound tightly, but he would not have dared twitch
even a digit anyway lest the lightning blaze up his nerves again.
He could scarcely think, but his utter terror soon pressed his
attention beyond bone and sensation.

“Oh, pet! You’re awake! Don’t you worry my
little pet. You’re home now. Home, home, home.”

The wiggling fingers were no longer upon
him, but they danced unnervingly a hand span in front of Darse’s
bloodied face. Darse cowered instinctively, crying out as the
movement stoked the pain to a blaze in both leg and side. He
steadied himself to a still, and his eyes darted around the room
and the menace before him.

His skull pounded with a jolt of memory:
Bren!

Where was he?
Did he escape? Is he
dead? Captured?

Blood flushed hot in Darse’s veins and fury
focused his mind. “Who are you?” he growled.

“Hua!” the man laughed, face pink in
delight. Both rounded palms rested against his chubby chin, with
fingers waving and gliding together as smoothly as sea life in the
tide. “Hua!” he chuckled again.

“Why am I here? Why?” Darse shouted.

I will not speak of Bren until I know he
has him. I will not,
he ordered himself.

Giggles ensued. “Oh, pet. It’s been so long.
My old pet has been with me for so long, so long.” His face
contorted in disgust and, if possible, grew uglier. “I’m tired of
his memories. He’s got so few left. So few.” His voice rang in a
childlike whine as he trailed into a reverie, but within seconds
his head snapped back up as he remembered the lovely package before
him.

“I promised him he could go once I got a new
pet. And here you are! My own pet! My own! Pet, pet, pet!” Lips
smacked, fingers waved.

Make sense of this. Do it, old man.

Darse sought to control his voice, but he
could not prevent his teeth from grinding as he spoke. “What is it
you want?”

A smile played upon the smooth, baby face.
His features glowed. He chuckled again. “My pet! My own new little
pet.”

He stood up from his crouched position, not
bothering to brush off the straw and dirt that clung to his squalid
clothing. The smile remained a sick curve upon his face as he
retreated out the door. He left humming his inane tune, and, after
a final
thunk
of the door being secured from the outside,
Darse heard it slowly recede.

The rib, the leg, the bindings, the
darkness, the locked door, Brenol’s absence—they all poured
overwhelmingly upon Darse. He was a
pet.

His heart shriveled in hopelessness. And he
wept.

~

Brenol’s imagination ran wild. His short and
shallow breaths were deafening, his heart became an unstoppable
drum. He stood and squatted, sweated, heaved, and paced outside the
little shed.

It was a diminutive building, seemingly
well-crafted but fallen into neglect. It showed signs of once being
a dark shade of green, but after orbits of sun and weather was
mostly now a mixture of olive and citrine. It reminded him of
infection.

What do I do? What? What,
his mind
repeated.

He choked in a sudden gulp of air as his
eyes filled with the bulk of the man exiting the little building.
The humming was the same lip-curling melody from before, but it
thankfully drifted northbound into the trees, opposite of where
Brenol crouched. He assumed the captor’s house must be in the
vicinity, although he had been loath to leave Darse for any length
to explore. He shuddered to think what this creature’s home could
be.

Brenol did not deliberate. His instincts
pushed him forward as he stole across the clearing. The peeling
door was belted with a rudimentary wooden bar, and Brenol slipped
it up soundlessly. He pressed the door open, and his heart gushed
in gratitude over the creak-less entry. He stood blinking for what
felt like hours as his eyes groped for sense in the musty
black.

“Bren?” The word was weak, disbelieving. It
came from the far, right corner.

“Darse?” Brenol swallowed hard.

“Close the door! Don’t let him see you… I
thought you were dead. I thought I…” His voice was broken,
desperate.

“None of that. No time,” Brenol said,
brushing the damp from his cheeks so Darse would not see. He left
the door slightly ajar to provide light and swiftly advanced to
kneel and examine his friend. Even as his eyes were adjusting, the
state of Darse’s body shocked him. The man was mangled, utterly
mangled. Bone was exposed, blood everywhere, and the gaunt terror
of Darse’s face gripped Brenol’s ribs in a crushing hold.

We’re done,
the boy thought.
There’s no way we can escape with him like this.

Fear clamped down on Brenol’s spine and
slithered down to his gut. The youth hovered over the twisted form
of a man, darting his eyes between it and the doorway, unable to
stop. He kept expecting to see the stranger towering over him,
humming idiotically.

“I’m worse than a sheep,” Darse said.
Somehow he had captured an element of calm, now that Brenol’s
safety was no longer a mystery.

“Huh?” Brenol’s attention snapped back to
the situation.

“Untie me,” Darse directed. “We’ll figure it
out step by step… A sheep. You know. Walking, mindlessly, falls
right off the cliff or into a pit, whatever.”

“Your boots are missing,” Brenol said,
staring at his bare feet.

“I’ll buy us both new ones if you get us out
of this place,” Darse replied evenly. “Bren?”

Brenol blinked, suddenly realizing action
was required, and hovered to work. He strained against the knots.
They were tied in an unfamiliar fashion, and the cord itself was
difficult to maneuver, especially with trembling fingers. It took
many long minutes before the bonds were eased from Darse’s hands
and feet. With the release of the cords, Darse sighed.

“Can you move your leg?” Brenol asked.

Darse grimaced. There was no need for an
answer.
Work your mind, Darse! This leg cannot be the death of
you both. Work your mind!

Finally, Darse asked, “Where did Master
Fingers go?”

Brenol choked out a laugh at the name. “I
don’t know. Off in the trees somewhere. I think he’s got a house
out there.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of the man’s last
heading. “Fingers. Ha,” he said again softly to himself.

Darse pondered, but finally realized there
were no options. He sighed decisively. “Tie me back up. But
loosely.” His voice was uncompromising.

“No,” Brenol protested. “There’s no way I’m
leaving you. Forget it.” Yet, the creeping feeling behind the boy’s
back kept him turning incessantly to the door.
Any minute and
he’ll come in. Any minute.
Brenol shook under the compulsion to
run and never look back, but leaving Darse was not an option.

“Not really suggesting that. But we need
time. And I don’t know if we have it right now… Look around, see if
there are any weapons or tools. We might have to wait
’
til
dark.”

Brenol groped around in the black shed. It
was not a large building, and the search was short-lived. The space
was empty save the cart that had carried Darse, resting upon the
back wall, as filthy as the barn itself.

“That’s ok. Get out of here before he comes
back… Wait
’
til it gets dark and he’s clearly down for the
night. We’ll get out of here.”

Brenol thought a minute while fumbling
through retying Darse. “Here, at least take my penknife from the
visnati. It’s only good for whittling, but better than nothing.” He
slid the cool blade into his friend’s bound hand. Darse looked up
with grateful blue eyes and a small, forced smile.

“I’ll be back,” Brenol promised. He tried to
sound reassuring, but there was only so much assurance possible. He
crept out into the blinding light, closing the door on the two
shining eyes staring out in the darkness.

The land is alive. It is a perilous fact to
forget.

-Genesifin

Beads of sweat emerged on Brenol’s hot
forehead. Fingers had been in the shed with Darse for over an hour.
It had only been moments after Brenol had secured the door and
fallen back into the cover of the trees that the stranger had
sauntered back, humming dumbly and smacking his fleshy lips.

What’s happening in there? What? What?

Screams emerged and flew out above the
forest, but the trees did not bend, they did not react. It was as
though the whole forest had heard this sound before and the novelty
was lost.

Brenol glanced down to find tufts of red in
his clenched fists. He opened his fingers and let the hair slide to
the earth. As he inhaled shakily, another wave of shrieking filled
the wood.

The eye of the land peered at him in
entertained speculation. It hovered and fell on Brenol’s shoulders
and sent his insides squirming.

No more,
he thought.
No
more.

He shot out of his hiding place and began to
move hard toward the residence—or what he assumed was the
residence—of Fingers, determined to find a weapon. A good one.

Yet something stopped him in his stride, and
he skidded briefly across the loose dirt. There, atop the
pine-needled floor, shuffled a man, bent and dirty. He was tall
compared to the average Massadan, but barely seemed it because he
carried his frame in a sloppy hunch. His spindly figure was
strangely arachnid and his cheeks were grossly gaunt. The man was
dressed in mismatched clothes that sagged in some places and were
tight in others, and an unsightly beard sprouted upon his face. A
strange line cuffed his ankle and extended out like a leash. It was
so long that Brenol did not know where the end rested. The eyes,
though, were the most unusual feature on the man. The irises were
entirely yellow, glinting with bitterness and hungry hatred.

Brenol shook with adrenaline and could
barely think, so he merely stared and took in the haggard,
golden-eyed man.

“You,” the man said with a pointed finger.
His features were contorted and hideous in rage. “Who are you?”

“Bren,” the boy said slowly. He did not know
what else to do.

“And in the shed?” His eyes narrowed down
onto Brenol like a sunburn. “His name?”

Brenol was silent.

“His name!” he spat through clenched, broken
teeth.

“Darse.”

“I’m free?” The man said to himself in
disbelief.

Screams again echoed out against the silent
wood. The stranger tilted his head to listen.

“Wh-what is he doing to him?” Tears fell
hotly down his cheeks, but Brenol swiftly wiped them away. He
refused to give this ferret-man any additional satisfaction.

The man’s face transformed. It was no longer
harsh, but questioning. “You cry?”

Brenol scowled. Suddenly hatred and wrath
flared, and he felt the power of it in his fists. He stoppered up
any remaining tears and pushed out his lips in defiance.

Yet the man was not so easily deterred. He
was both fleeter and stronger than his appearance had led the boy
to believe, and his arm shot forward like a lizard tongue to pull
Brenol to him. The stranger’s jaw clicked back and forth as he held
the youth’s damp jacket at the nape with tight fist. His golden
irises scanned Brenol’s features with a crude, childlike
curiosity.

“Wh-who are you?” Brenol finally
stammered.

“Crayton? I think…” His voice trailed off.
It was the first time the man had sounded human.

As Crayton eased his grip, Brenol attempted
to twist his way from the grasping hold. “What do you want from me?
Let me go!”

As commanded, Crayton released him, and
Brenol’s tailbone made impact with the hard earth. He blinked in
pain, but also in astonishment at the immediate acquiescence. He
eyed Crayton as he madly scurried back like a crab and scrambled to
his feet.

Brenol’s freedom lasted but a moment.
Crayton’s mind awoke from whatever spell it lay under, and the man
leaped out toward him, limbs splayed like a frog in flight. His
face was angry and fierce. He gripped the loose fabric on Brenol’s
pants as the boy turned to run, and the youth collapsed backward in
a hard crash.