The Wild Lands: Legend of the Wild Man (11 page)

Urea burst on to the giant hexagonal roof of
Spire City. The roof was a sprawling garden, originally designed as
the world's highest pool and spa, but had long since been converted
into more food space. It was ringed in both types of telescopes.
Most of the citizens used the old analog devices, with their thick
lenses or rounded mirrors, but those with VRCs were able to get a
feed directly from the digiscopes. She raced towards the western
end of the Spire.

Skup waved her over.

“It's bad Urea. I sent Jacob to get Baucis
but he hasn't chimed me about it. I can't believe the old man’s
hiding out with fresh beasties down on the surface.”

“Beasts?” Urea asked, holding the plural
sound on her tongue, "there's more than one?”

Skup gestured towards the digiscope. Urea put
a finger on it, careful not to jostle its position. Its digital
image filled her vision completely. The digiscopes were a tribute
to the Golden age of technology. They totally overrode the eye's
signals to the brain with a touch, giving the viewer perfect, high
definition, magnified vision. They were equipped with high energy
infrared lasers that evaporated any clouds in their lines of
vision. The constant thunderstorm that clung to the Spire didn't
interfere with them in the least. Using one was like looking
through clear and empty space.

Far off, between the peaks of two mountains
and through a thick forest, Urea saw what had terrified the other
two: fire. Not a wild fire, or cooking fire, but a an enormous
bonfire. She could make out tree trunks burning white hot in its
core. Whoever built it, for it was surely built, had a great
understanding of man's most ancient tool, and did not fear it in
the least. She watched its flames, taller than her, crackle and pop
in the night, and then her heart truly stopped.

One by one, as if in some sort of a trance,
figure after figure danced and leapt between the fire and the
digiscope. There were dozens of them. She couldn't make out their
features, but their form was unmistakable. They were wild people, a
whole tribe of them, each powerful enough to kill a
biselk
or maim a
vultus
.

Her whole life had been spent in the
beautiful casino turned metropolis that rested atop a needle
pointed into the clouds. She felt closer to the stars up above than
to the giant blue green sphere that stretched to rounded horizons
on all sides of the city. Now she was confronted with a being who
had a reversed perception of the world. She hoped they didn't feel
like the Naturalists, like the Spire was a giant proboscis, sucking
power from Earth's system of energy.

The most frightening Naturalist tales had
always been stories of the
Wild Man,
man's long lost cousin.
He was a savage brute who was as at home in the jungles as humans
were in their cities. He ate nothing but meat, and was the king of
all the other animals. Like all children's stories, his powers grew
with age. Supposedly he could change shape, hunted in the black of
night, got powers from the moon and could scare any animal that
smelled him. But there had always been only one
Wild Man
,
not dozens. And he certainly didn't hunt with fire and a knife.

She let go of the digiscope and tried to
ground herself. “What do we do?”

Zetis and Skup answered in unison, “We have a
plan.”

How can I know these things? When you are older
young one, you will learn of our secrets, if you are brave and
foolish enough to trust one sly as me.

The young hunter heaves himself over the edge
of the cliff. He inhales deeply and smells the fire that guided his
climb. The trek up the mountain trail was a difficult one.
Oftentimes the trail had eroded to nothing and the hunter had to
scale sheer rock face. The skull and skin the chief had insisted he
wore made it harder. He is grateful the moon is still nearly full.
Time has only scratched a sliver from its face.

As he climbed he wondered more than once how
the old hermit could make a trek he struggles with. Maybe that was
why the hermit only came down on full moons to share his fables:
the moon gave him the strength he needed for the climb. Either that
or it took him the wax to climb down and wain to climb back up!

The hunter catches his breath and looks
around the cave. He has never been up here, few have. He sees the
fire with a clay pot above it, perhaps fifty paces in. The light
extends back as far, before fading into blackness. The walls and
most of the ceiling are covered in scribbles made of ash and paint
that the hunter's mind see as animals, even though none are really
here.

“Symbols,” the hermit calls them, “pictures
of symbols.”

There are animals of every sort, legendary
members of the tribe, and odd lines and circles that the hunter
doesn't recognize as the planets that they are. As he stares at the
pictures he remembers the stories the hermit tells so well. The
pictures almost tell them better than the old man. Stories of the
deadly animals that lived outside the mountains, the swarms of
insects, two headed wolves, and the one about the hermit's father,
who had discovered a glowing stone like the hunter now carries. All
of these paintings look ancient. Some have been touched up where
soot had dirtied them but most looked as old as the cave itself.
The light from the fire makes the paintings dance in and out of the
eye sockets of the hunter’s elk skull. They come to life before his
eyes.

There is information too. He sees
progressions of prongelk that grow larger with more gnarled prongs
in each picture. There are paintings of kingcrows with ever larger
wings, and blacker beaks. Their armament is carefully detailed and
their size shown relative to a tribesmen.

There are other animals, from distant lands
in hermit's stories. They don't look so old. The story of their
growth ends in fresh, unpainted cave walls. The work is not
finished. It may never finish.

“Do you like them?” a voice as old and worn
as soft leather asks.

The hermit has a funny way of talking, almost
like the birds of the tribe. He always begins his stories the same:
He uses his body to act them out but as he goes he chatters away
with sounds, putting more of them together than anyone in the
tribe. Most of the tribe understand him, but few answer in more
than one sound. The young hunter is no different.

He grunts his approval.

“They're stories.”

The young hunter nods, he knows stories, but
he does not know how to make sounds like the hermit. The old man
knows this. He shuffles over to the hunter, leaning heavily on his
walking stick. Each movement of his gnarled knees looks painful. He
reaches up and caresses the hunter's prongbuck skull, then the
prongs that jut from his arm. He nods, then shuffles deeper into
the cave, a flip of his wrist and the hunter follows.

The hermit stops next to a painting of a tall
tribesmen. He taps the figure, points at the hunter, then shuffles
over towards the fire.

The figure stands above a huge dead snake.
The hunter remembers no story or legend that involves a snake but
one. The only tale he can think of is the one of his father. When
the young hunter's sister had just been born, ten summers ago, an
enormous black snake had plagued the tribe. It came from the
planes, the story said, where the animals were bigger and their
meat forbidden. It ate three young and an elder and no one knew how
to stop it. It was huge, closer in size to a tree than a tribesman,
and anyone who tried to battle it was eaten or poisoned to
death.

The young hunter's father, fearing for his
mate and his young, caught the snake's trail, wounded it, then
followed it until dawn. He knew that scaled beasts get their energy
from the sun and guessed the snake would hold some strength in
reserve as long as it could. He had been right, and when he saw the
sun's first rays he sneaked up on the snake and slit its throat.
The snake was so still after the night of darkness it didn't fight
back until it felt his father's knife. Summoning up reserves of
energy, it had struck his father, poisoning him. A moon of snake
meat was his father’s parting gift.

The hermit returns with a charred stick, and
very carefully draws a larger figure next to his father, then three
barbs out of the left arm, then a few jagged horns that float above
the figure's head. The hunter instantly knows the hermit is adding
to the legends, and that the prongs will never leave his arm.
Before he can add more to his picture, the hunter removes the skull
and pulls out the glowing stone.

The hermit's eyes go wide. He shrieks, grabs
the stone and throws it to the ground. It bounces with a dull plunk
and rolls a ways. The hermit picks up a large rock and hurls it on
the stone. Even the force of this doesn't destroy the stone, it
only extends the already present crack, and the red light fades
into nothing.

The hermit hurries to the cave's mouth and
peers up into the sky. A bolt of lightning cracks in the hot night
air. For a moment the hermit is illuminated. His back is
straighter, he stands taller. He doesn't lean on his cane so much.
Then another lightning bolt and he is next to the hunter.

“That was from a strange beast?” the hermit
asks.

The young hunter nods.

“Death will fall upon the tribe.”

The hunter leaps up and rushes to the cave
mouth. He peers out, his muscles tense and ready to protect his
people. He hears only insects and sees only the stars, unblemished
by clouds to the horizon. The glow of the great bonfire filters
through the trees.

He turns to the hermit. The mysterious old
man sits next to the fire and stirs the big clay pot. He takes two
cups and measures out large servings for him and his guest. He puts
one in the young hunter's hands and places one at his own feet. The
hunter sniffs the tincture. It smells awful, of mushrooms and
decay, of rotten flowers and elk shit. He turns to the hermit who
smiles broadly and nods encouragement.

“Drink, drink!” is all the old man says.

He takes a deep breath, then opens his mouth
and pours the hermit's hot drink down his throat. It tastes worse
than it smells, like digested vegetables mixed with mud. He shuts
his eyes but not before he counts the skeletons of three frogs and
a lizard pass over his tongue. He feels countless insect legs,
spiny plants, and thick chunks of mushrooms go down his throat. It
takes more willpower not to vomit than it did to kill the
prongbuck.

The hermit cackles at his revulsion, then
drinks his cup, grimaces with disgust, and spits into the fire. The
flames crackle purple and startle the hunter. The hunter tries to
push himself up but finds his arms weigh more than he
remembers.

“Now young one...” the hermit begins, his
pupils wide despite the bright flames, “tell me your story.”

At first the young hunter's world only spins.
Words are not his gift, he prefers strength and stealth. The potion
makes his stomach churn violently, but after a moment it settles
and he feels different.

His vision is better, more acute. The light
cast from the flames dances and flickers in a chaotic pattern that
he can somehow feel and predict. He notices the floor of the cave
is alive with insects. Spiders, ants, and beetles all scurry to and
fro. His eyes see with clarity only experienced on his most
exhilarating hunts.

Magic,
he hopes. It is not poison,
unless the old man finally lost his mind. He tries to focus on the
hermit but the fire is too bright, the hermit is only a glow of
gray fur in the cave.

“More...” the hermit dips the two cups in the
pot and fills them again. This time the hermit drinks first. He
howls loudly when he finishes his cup, then glares a challenge at
the young one. The hunter drinks his more slowly. This time the
flavor is not as bad. He looks at the hermit again, thankful to see
his hairy body surrounded by a halo of dancing light.

“Your story!” he yells excitedly. The old
man's pupils grow wider by the second.

The hunter opens his mouth to speak but
vomits. He tries to stand but his legs will not support him and he
crashes to the floor. He rolls over, dazed, and looks at the
ceiling of the cave. It undulates up and down while the edges of
his vision flicker with colors he does not know. His world spins as
he searches for the hermit. He is not sure if he will beg for help
or make the old man beg for mercy. He slowly stands, and this time
manages to stay on two feet. He sees the hermit nowhere, instead
only bizarre visions.

The cave paintings are alive. His ancestors
hunt prongelk on the walls. The graceful pictures throw spears no
thicker than lines at elk that launch themselves from the walls to
the ceiling. Sometimes his ancestors chase off a lion or run from
one. Troops of monkeys swing through trees and his father battles
the serpent for time eternal. The hunter spins round and round. All
of the pictures speak to him at once. There are things in them that
he did not see before.

“Symbols” he hears in the hermit's voice, but
knows not if the old man or a memory spoke.

There is
one
story here. One grand
story made of all the pictures in the cave and the stories the
hermit tells. It is the story of how the elk got their prongs, of
why the lion's claws grown so long, of why kingcrows are so
vicious. It is the story of his brave people, their secret home in
the deep jungle, and the forbidden plains. The hermit has been
telling it for years, and its importance strikes the hunter like a
blow to the head.

It is the story of the Hidden, and he hears
it now half in the hermit's voice--both fresh and from a hundred
nights around the fire--and half in dazzling pictures that dance
before his eyes.

“Our people have always been here.”