Kzine Issue 23

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  He forced himself to look down. The temperature rose rapidly, becoming nearly unbearable. Jets of fire erupted from fissures in the ground—crackling flames with hungry tongues that doubled in size each time he blinked. His robe shimmered and evaporated. His flesh crackled, turned black, became a gray powder, then blew away. He was nothing but bleached bones.

  A drumbeat of frantic paces echoed across the valley, shaking every hill, every stone, every grain of sand. The path lurched and wobbled. Boulders transformed into sulfurous beasts galloping beside him, ever closer. He leapt and crashed and leapt again, aware of pain so visceral that it could only mean that he was still alive. Up. Sideways. Up some more, as if drawn by giants tugging a massive vine clasped around his waist. Thigh-high insects with iridescent shells emitted piercing screams. He tasted the bitter salt of seas he had seen only in dreams. Time itself seemed to dissolve.

  A massive maw with jagged teeth opened in the hillside. An appendage lunged toward him. He reared back, but a second one grasped him, and then another. He resisted with all his might, but it was for naught. He tumbled helplessly into the void.

  Sand. Cool sand. Cool sand on a hard rock floor. Pain, pain in his legs, pain in his forehead, and the cool sand and rock floor. They were real.

  “It’s Kyle,” said a voice. A familiar voice.

  Fuzzy movement resolved into arms that were leading him to the fire in the central chamber. He coughed as he inhaled the smoky haze of the Jensens’ cave, wondering for the hundredth time why the clan had never bothered to carve enough ventilation shafts.

  A bright object flashed in his mind. He attempted to focus on it, but it eluded him. He dismissed it as one of the transient fever dreams that tortured people exposed to a heavy dose of The Grip. The Grip had a way of blurring experiences so thoroughly that it was difficult to be certain of one’s own name.

  Someone placed a mug in Kyle’ hands. He sipped cool liquid, but immediately he spit it out.

  “No brew for me,” he stated. “But I thank you anyway.”

  The clan leader paced to Kyle’s right, his face riven by the shadows of sputtering flames as he rubbed his pale, furrowed brow. “What errand has brought you to our home, young Turner?” said Master Jensen. He jutted his chin. “And did you see it?”

  “It?”

  “The demon, lad. The spirit that overtakes the mind.” The man’s motions were pained. Cave fever, they called it. It was especially severe among those who were older and who rarely ventured outside during the daytime.

  “Not that I recall,” said Kyle, though a wisp of an unsettling vision lingered.

  Master Jensen eyed Kyle closely and grunted in a manner that suggested disappointment.

  Presently, Kyle rose and recited the formal ritual: “Thank you for extending Sanctuary.” Anyone threatened by The Grip was entitled to seek protection from it in any other clan’s cave. Sanctuary bound the disparate families together despite their petty differences.

  The clan master folded his arms. “Be advised that there will be a meeting tonight.” His voice was stilted, hesitant. “Clan Jensen will be revoking Sanctuary to all other clans. You and your kin will not enter our territory again, for trade or for any other purpose, without invitation. Inform your clan leader.”

  “Have you no need of our candles and our clothing, let alone our company?”

  “We will make do,” said Master Jensen. “We have many mouths to feed and no food to trade.”

  “And Sanctuary—surely you recognize that we must shelter each other from The Grip.”

  Old Jensen turned toward the fire. “We will tend our crops and hunt our game within measured paces of our cave, so that we can retreat to the protection of these walls at the first hint of trouble. As must all clans. Nothing good can come from being accosted by that demon. Now, off with you.”

  Kyle looked past the man to the Jensens seated around the fire. Most avoided his gaze. Some tried too obviously to hide the tools they were working on: short, thick sticks with sharp points—much too small for hurling at leapers or other large animals.

  The clan master kept his back to Kyle as the youth flipped his hood over his head, turned, strode to the cave mouth and, without looking back, descended the hill to the winding path that would carry him home.

  * * *

  The angry humming that greeted Kyle below his cave entrance was not the advent of The Grip, though it was nearly as disconcerting. Stingers circled in unrelenting fury around fragments of their homes, which were strewn about amid thin pools of nectar. Who or what could have done such damage? He suspected the Berserkers of stealing small amounts of his nectar now and again, but whoever did the thieving always left the stinger homes intact. Now there would be no nectar or candles to trade with other clans for a whole season.

  Kyle’s uncle, the Turner clan master, was perched at the cave entrance. Kyle tried to maneuver past him, but the older man grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.

  “You see what happens when you neglect your duties.” The man spat past Kyle onto a sepia rock and shoved him so roughly that he fell onto his side. “Build new homes for the stingers before they make their own elsewhere.”

  Kyle brushed himself off and moved past his uncle into the front hall. “Who did this?” Kyle chose not to add “uncle” or “sir” to his question, which did not escape the clan master’s attention.

  “Does it matter, young fool?”

  “It might. I don’t think it was the Berserkers. They do not waste food.”

  “They are crazy from living in the open.”

  “I fear another possibility. Clan Jensen will no longer trade with us. They are revoking Sanctuary. And they appear to be making weapons for battle.”

  “Hah! The demon has muddled your mind,” said Master Turner, slapping his forehead with his palm for emphasis. “They must trade with us. How else will they obtain our clothing and candles, assuming you ever produce a single candle again?”

  “Maybe they plan to take what they want. And Sanctuary—”

  “Boy, nobody will deny Sanctuary to a clan member. Old Jensen was just trying to scare you, that’s all. To scare you into giving up these pointless journeys away from your home, where you belong.”

  “Do I?” muttered Kyle. He scanned the faces of his clan mates, many of whom had suspended their chores to follow the confrontation. Everywhere he looked, young children wrestled nervously in fatigued mothers’ arms, displaying so much pale skin. Two communal fires burned low, with only small piles of wood—branches, mostly—left to provide light and warmth and to cook the evening meal. From deeper in the cave a rancorous argument reverberated, no doubt over crumbs of food.

  Kyle selected one of the few remaining candles and, ducking to avoid a low ceiling, proceeded to his chamber. The clan master followed him.

  “This behavior cannot continue,” Master Turner said. “From now on, you will remain within one hundred paces of this cave.”

  Staring into his uncle’s face, Kyle saw some resemblance to his father’s—what he could remember of it: dark eyes, a small nose, row upon row of worry lines. But in disposition, the two men were as different as night and day.

  “Where I travel is not the problem,” said Kyle. “Look around. Young girls are having babies. There are too many people to feed. No one hunts where the leapers and grunters live. We don’t have enough cropland.”

  “The demon will not allow us to roam far. That is the way of the clans.”

  “Then the clans will die,” said Kyle. He was stunned by his words. But as soon as they left his lips, he knew them to be true. Before allowing Master Turner to respond, Kyle continued: “We must fight it. We must find a way to fight The Grip.”

  “That’s impossible,” said the clan master, almost in a whisper. “You can’t fight a monster that has no shape or form, one that creeps upon you without warning and poisons your mind.”

  Kyle saw himself out in the open. He was alone—but not quite alone. He strained t
o sharpen the memory—or was it just a dream? He could sense a brightness, like a towering cloud that promised a storm. But it melted away, and he was back in the stale air of his own chamber. He tried to anchor himself, seeking memories of better times. All that came to him was bitterness. “I wish my father were here. He would not act so—so cowardly.”

  Master Turner shook his head. “You are your father’s son—that’s for sure. But he’s dead, and if you keep taking chances out there, you surely will be dead, too.”

  * * *

  “This has to be a secret between you and me.”

  First Grandmother removed a small item from her pack and handed it to Kyle. His fingers trembled as he cradled the gift like a newborn bird and he tried to comprehend the beautiful picture and exotic letters. He lifted and moved page after page in deepening wonder. It was nothing like the readers she had made for the older children, which consisted of fragile pieces of brown paper with bark-ink letters that faded like smoke when exposed to the sun or rain.

  “It’s a real book—an old one. Once you have learned your letters, we can read it together. It tells a story—something a man named Isaac made up.”

  Kyle spoke drily. “First Grandmother, I am grateful.”

  She studied him for a long moment. “What’s troubling you, Kyle?”

  He drew up his courage. “Why must we hide ourselves away in caves? Why can’t we live in the fresh air?”

  Closing her eyes, First Grandmother exhaled demonstrably, her shoulders sagging. “Young Kyle, I wish we could do so. Truly I do,” she said, her voice leaden. “The Grip….” She turned from him and sobbed.

  The youth placed an arm around her shoulder. She grasped his hand and squeezed so tightly that it hurt. “Perhaps, one day, we will be free of it.” She stood.

  “Remember, this book has to be a secret. Keep it well hidden. We will read it together.”

  Kyle realized that tears were streaking down his cheeks as he recalled that day, one of the last times that he had seen First Grandmother. What was the name that she had called the book? Found something. Foundation, that’s it. Though he had buried it under a heavy rock, hard-packed dirt and a small rug, it had vanished at some point, probably wasted to feed a fire.

  With his parents dead and his uncle ruling the clan, he never learned his letters, nor did his cousins. Kyle’s questions about absent elders were answered only with vague assertions such as “Their time has come.” Was it possible that they had found another place to live—someplace free from The Grip?

  Kyle was certain of only one thing: If his father were still alive, he would have come back for him.

  Over time, outside children’s games and long hunting trips became distant memories, and daily life was increasingly dominated by incessant hunger. But Kyle’s hunger was one that could not be assuaged by one of the clan’s rare feasts. He was far from certain what lay ahead of him, but he had no doubt of his destiny should he resign himself to a life entombed with his clan mates.

  He stuffed his bedroll, water pouch, wildlife snare and a few other essentials into his pack. He felt bad about taking bread and dried fruit from the clan’s stores. But he had shouldered his share of work—more than his share. His cousin, Donal, snored softly as Kyle absorbed one last view of the only home he had known. “I wish you well,” Kyle said softly. “Be of good heart.”

  * * *

  The sharp snapping of a twig might have betrayed a leaper seeking a predawn meal, or perhaps a grunter that had wandered off from its pack. There followed a second sound, more like a rustling of leaves. Kyle’s mind spun with fireside tales of massive predators lurking in the great mountains to the north and poisonous slitherers abiding in the deserts of the south. After crouching motionless and breathing shallowly for some time, he stood, stretched and continued. The valley was engorged with prickly, shoulder-high bushes in this region, farther east than he had ever traveled. He was able to follow creek beds, some of which were dry. Both moons had risen, making it easy to identify impediments.

  Not 50 paces later, he heard odd sounds again. They seemed to form a pattern, perhaps footsteps. Yet no one else among the clans was likely to venture this far. He advanced slowly and stealthily. Presently, first light unveiled a cloudy morning, permitting him to scan the hillsides without squinting severely. He noticed few patches of rock and no column of smoke indicating a settlement. As midday approached, he sought a secluded spot where he could rest.

  The blurry motion on the left edge of his field of view could have been almost anything, but as he turned his head he thought that he glimpsed an upright figure dashing behind a stand of wide trees. Most likely a human. Kyle was so far from any known settlement that he could not assume that the person was friendly. Kyle was vulnerable in the valley, but he was curious in equal measure. As he searched for a rock with which to defend himself, the figure emerged, some 30 paces away and cloaked in deep shade.

  A Berserker. He had never seen one up close, so he couldn’t be certain. But he had to assume the worst. The Berserkers had never attacked a Turner. However, they were said to eat the children of other clans who wandered too far afield. At least, that’s what the older Jensen boys used to claim, perhaps to have some fun at the expense of gullible young ones.

  Not wanting to suggest weakness, Kyle took a slight step forward. The stranger held his ground. Kyle could see that he was garbed in skins that covered only his chest and a portion of his lower body. His hair was long and stringy, reaching almost halfway down his back. Kyle raised his right arm slowly to demonstrate that he carried no weapon. The Berserker flinched, as if to flee, then seemed to relax slightly. He raised one arm in imitation of Kyle’s motion.

  As Kyle took another step, he could make out thin arms and legs and deep brown skin. Sun exposure, of course. But the facial features soon became recognizable as those of a young woman, perhaps slightly older than he. The two stared at one another. Suddenly, the Berserker cocked her head, as if someone were talking to her. A moment later, Kyle understood. The Grip. It was starting.

  He scanned the hillsides, finding a stone ledge and a dark area below it that might offer protection. It was no more than 50 paces away. He raced toward the girl, pointed to the ledge and declared, “This way, quickly.” He offered his hand. She did not react, so he grasped her hand lightly and took a step toward the shelter. She pulled her hand away. He turned to face a woman who, despite her disheveled appearance and the imminent threat, exuded strength and confidence.

  The girl’s face began to lose definition, melting and mutating into that of Cousin Donal, and then into a gelatinous creature with tentacles where eyes should be. Torrents of boiling rain stung Kyle as they crashed down from a swirling purple and orange sky. Massive rents opened in the earth, accompanied by an ominous rumbling.

  He motioned toward the space beneath the stone ledge and yelled “Get in now!” The girl remained immobile. He fought his way through bushes to the opening and moved as far inside as he could manage. Immediately, The Grip lost most of its hold. He crawled back toward the front so that he could try once again to persuade the girl to join him. Tendrils of Grip fever reinserted themselves into his mind as he progressed. However, one thing was very clear. The Berserker had vanished.

  * * *

  One moon’s wan light greeted Kyle as he stirred groggily. He retrieved his pack, set his trap and returned to the tiny cave. The next time he woke it was daytime. His snare had done its job, securing a fat sprinter that he cooked and ate in the ample shade of mature trees. As he digested his meal, Kyle considered trying to track the young woman. He doubted that he could locate her if she chose not to be found. He continued eastward.

  The morning clouds soon abandoned the skies, and the troublesome bushes thinned. He estimated that the high ridge on the horizon was at least half a day away. Twice during his trek he thought that he could sense the coming of The Grip. Each time he bolted up a hillside in search of shelter. But each time the sensation faded before long. H
e wondered if being so far from home was unnerving him. Still, he was in no position to take chances.

  As sunset approached he searched for a cave where he could spend the night, and the rocky slope soon accommodated him. He collected wood for a fire, as the season was shifting toward the cold time. If there were dangerous creatures in these hills, Kyle at least wanted a view of them before they did their worst.

  He rose at dawn and ate a sparse meal before beginning his ascent. He navigated dense woodlands without paths and steep, rugged ravines. He struggled for breath as he reached the top of the ridge.

  A bowl-shaped landscape lay before him. Several creeks tumbled down hillsides toward a sparsely wooded, relatively flat central plateau. As he pushed past the last tree branch, a beam of bright light burst forth from below. He shuddered involuntarily and spun away. He found himself tamping down visceral panic, as if a monster had appeared out of nowhere.

  A large cloud moved across the sun. He forced himself to examine the plateau again. He noticed an irregularly shaped mound near its center. Its black-and-gray surface reflected the muted sunlight in patches between tangles of bright green vines. It resembled no rock he had ever seen. He could not shake the feeling that the mound embodied malevolence.

  Something long dormant was attempting to surface within him. Something important. He closed his eyes and probed his memories and feelings. Ghostly recollections of encounters with The Grip drifted like fine snowflakes, accumulating steadily until their weight forced him to his knees. He willed the fever dream to come upon him. The image of a brilliant flying object coalesced. It seemed—it had to be—more than just his imagination.