Seed- The Gene Awakens

by Jane Baskin

  “It doesn’t.”

  “It will. You may as well be occupied, until we can get rid of you.”

  She, whirling back to him. “Get rid of me? As you tried before?”

  “No. I told you – maybe you don’t remember, because you were so sick – but I told you, I would never try to harm you again. I’m sorry for what I did. After the winter, we’ll send you home. Until then, you may as well have a look around.”

  “You’d … you’d send me home?”

  “Of course.” Nayan, relaxing over his saddle. A serious look on his face. Locking eyes with her. “Look, you should never have been taken in the first place. This kind of thing – it’s not our way. My brother … he can be reckless sometimes.”

  “That man – he’s your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “All the heavens have mercy on you.”

  “Agreed.” Extending his hand again. This time, she took it. With a lithe jump from her and a boost from Nayan – from his mind – in seconds, installed behind his saddle. Nayan, wheeling the animal toward the forest. Nudged it into a canter. At first the girl: trying to hold onto the raised back of the saddle. Settling as best she could into the rhythm of the gantha’s gait. But this: not a firm hold. And over the hindquarters: a rocky ride. Obvious to Nayan: the girl could ride. But might fall off anyway.

  Against her will, wrapped her arms around Nayan. He, feeling the little icy points of spite, right through his heavy cloak.

  Took her into the near section of Cha-Ning Forest. This forest: truly as fearsome as its reputation. Beyond the first trees: a darkness almost other-worldly. The density of the giant trees: blocking out almost all sunlight. Strange ferns and paddle shaped plants, emitting faint orange light in the darkness. Now dried, still for the winter. Like fronds of wood. At the lowest level, in the tiniest spaces between the shrubby vegetation, bulb shaped flowers on long stalks. Glow flowers, people called them. Giving off low, glowing light … without which, the small roadway would have been dark as night.

  This: a soft path in between the trees, padded by discarded leaves and needles. The canopy: too dense to permit snow, yet. There: look. A red tree. Devoid of leaves, at this time of year. But its graceful drooping branches: red as blood. The branches, elegant, curved, falling like water; ending in twigs like blood red hair.

  The hostage: didn’t want to talk to him. But – could not hold back her curiosity. “Is that a lashigah tree?

  Nayan, bring the mount to a stop. Backed up a few paces, to just under the tree’s beautiful branches. “Yes, this is a lashigah tree.”

  “The wedding tree.”

  A soft laugh. “So it’s called.”

  “You take a branch from it for part of the wedding ceremony.”

  “So do you. We sell them to you.”

  “We don’t buy them.”

  “Some do.”

  “But you have to return the branch. Or suffer a terrible marriage.”

  “That’s the legend.”

  “But how do you return a branch once it’s been cut?”

  A shrug. “We don’t completelhy understand either, really. But the wound remains open until the cut branch is returned. It won’t close unless it’s burned. The branch has to be returned to the exact place it was cut. No other branch will bond there. Then it’s re-assimilated back into the mother tree.”

  “If I pull this twig, will it be re-assimilated?”

  “If you pull that twig, the tree will slap you. Go ahead. Try it.”

  The girl: yanking on a small hair-like twig near her hand. At once the larger branch, smacking her head. Yelped in surprise.

  Nayan, laughing and spurring the gantha away from the tree. “The tree doesn’t give up its parts easily.”

  “So you attack it.”

  “That’s the ritual. Riders come at it fast, slice off a branch with a knife, and then try to get away before the tree beats them to death.”

  “You steal its branches.”

  “We return them later.”

  Like me. Turned away from the tree, angry.

  Further into the dark wood. Nayan, steering the mount onward. A walk, now. The gantha, prancing here and there. Nervous.

  Nayan, doing his best imitation of a tour guide: “Once, millennia ago, people actually lived here. There are ruins of old castles and houses, deep into the wood. Probably before the lions took up residence.”

  “Lions? You mean they live … here? This far from the center wood?”

  No answer but a sly smile from Nayan. The pace, getting slower. The gantha’s nostrils, flaring. The animal, starting to crow hop.

  Nayan, controlling the skittish animal expertly. Still, hard to keep a solid seat. The nervous gantha, rearing slightly. To the girl: “Hold on.”

  She: unable to refuse. Had to tighten her arms around him.

  Nayan, still pushing the animal forward.

  Over there: look. A quick flash of gold behind some fan shaped plants. Almost imperceptive. But. And there: again. What – ? And again. The girl: starting to understand. The gold: eyes.

  Cat eyes.

  Oh. She had heard, of course. Everyone on the planet had heard of them: the terrible Cha-Ning lions. Huge beasts, one and a half times the size of the largest ganthas. Collapsible spines along their backs; extended in battle and used to rake opponents or prey to ribbons, once caught in the lion’s deadly roll. Teeth as long as a man’s hand, sharp as knives. Jaw strength greater than the most powerful factory crushers. Huge paws seeming soft – but with long retractable claws, razor sharp at the ends. A misery of a beast; apex predator; unconquerable except by (sometimes) the only other predators higher on the food chain: humans.

  “What … what is that?”

  Nayan, not answering. A slow smile starting across his face.

  The gantha, rearing in earnest now. Neighing and whistling. Refusing the goad. Only Nayan’s expert riding kept the two of them from landing on the ground.

  Then: a mind-shattering roar, as the lion charged.

  The gantha, rearing and screaming. Reared so high it almost toppled over backwards.

  The girl, sliding off its back.

  Nayan, unsheathing a gruesome long whip from his saddle pack. Cracking it once in the air. Pushing the gantha forward on its back legs, jumping against its will.

  The girl, seeing the flash of russet and gold as the most terrifying animal she had ever seen broke from the brush and made directly for them. A huge male, defending his territory, his heavy mane flowing with the rush of its charge. Back spines, rising up.

  The sound! Unable to keep herself from covering her ears. How can any beast make such a sound? Louder than a factory klaxon, a sports arena speaker.

  Nayan, pushing forward. He and the animal, charging one another.

  Then the whip: cracking almost as loud as the lion’s roar.

  The terrified gantha, now moving toward the lion to get away from the whip.

  Almost together now …

  Nayan, snapping the whip almost on the lion’s huge nose. Another sharp crack millimeters from its mouth. The lion, halting its charge. Shaking its head. Another whip smack, almost directly on its nose. The lion, setting its stance. Opening its mouth to roar again, met by a painful snap of the whip against its furry cheek. Another snap.

  Then … oh. The lion, standing in its tracks, refusing to budge.

  And Nayan, fixing it eye to eye.

  A pause, as if time had stopped for a moment. Gold eye upon black eye, frozen. Just watching, the one upon the other. Something awful there, like a cyclone that stopped turning to stare at its victims. Like time stopping. No sound; no movement. No time at all. Just two sets of eyes, consuming the universe.

  Suddenly the lion: turning. Trotting back into the brush.

  Nayan, whirling the gantha as he wrapped the whip around his neck. Extending his hand as he cantered past the startled girl on the ground. Giving her a little boost with his mind. Hauling her up behind him as he let the gant
ha give in to its terror and race out of the wood.

  Outside the forest, into the meadow. Slowing now, heading for the castle.

  Nayan, starting to laugh. “Well, as I’m sure you guessed, that’s a Cha-Ning lion.”

  The girl, silent and angry behind him. But holding tight.

  Back, now. Cantering the gantha across the wood and stone bridge. Hauling up to a full stop in the courtyard. The girl, sliding off the animal before it had completely stopped. Nayan, turning toward her. Dismounting. Don’t let her run.

  His expression: puzzled. She looked so – angry. “Did that – frighten you?”

  “Of course it frightened me! You might have told me what you were doing. And … what was that back there? Having a staring contest with a Cha-ning lion? Are you crazy?”

  “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Go to every hell in the universe.” Stormed off, through the main doors, to her rooms.

  Nayan, watching after her. A moment or two. Then: laughing. What a crazy girl.

  Had absolutely no recollection of having had a “staring contest” with a lion.

  6.Clouds Coming, From South

  Many more riders coming now, from the South.

  Relatives of People in the North. Refugees from what was becoming all out war between lords and peasants in the south. Struggling to get to the North before the northern winter settled in truly. Before such hopes became preposterous.

  An odd time. Clusters of people, here and there in the great hall, in the corridors. Entire families, gathering together in too small apartments. Some, moving out into old or abandoned cottages in what had been villages surrounding the castle, before the castle became its own village.

  These old buildings: neglected. In disrepair. Hard to heat.

  Of course, Dar-agan and Ilia-te taking the initiative. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with all these people either, my dear, but it’s not right to let them freeze.” Inspiring local residents to help with repairs. Doing much of the work themselves. Installing fire-stoves; central heating in homes able to be plumbed. Bringing food, blankets, furniture, bedding.

  Che and Colwen, visiting with the brothers in Nayan’s rooms. Dar-agan and Ilia-te, coming to join them one evening. Helping themselves to ale.

  Dar-agan: “Che, tell me what’s going on.”

  “The South. Peasant revolt.”

  “I know that. But these refugees? Are some of them your family members?”

  “Some. All of them – are relatives of some northern Person or another.”

  “Hmmn.”

  Ilia-te: “Of course, they’re welcome. We’ll do all we can to offer mercy, new lives. But there’s only so many a climate like this can absorb.”

  Che, nodding. “Understood, Ilia-te. But apparently, it’s hells risen up, down there. You’re either fighting or burning. A lot of people are just trying to run away. They don’t dare stop in the cities; too many southern spies. Word is, it’s the same at Rhymney and Aurast.”

  “Hmmn.”

  Dar-agan: sending Andor and some of his riders to the South. See what’s going on. Come back. Report.

  The riders: back quickly. Not only because of weather. Andor, reporting to the lords and leaders of People, all having come in from the three territories. A massive public meeting in the great hall at Cha-Ning.

  Andor, a deep breath before speaking. Then: “I’ve never seen anything like it. Some of the bloodiest battles I’ve ever seen. The revenge … it’s terrible.”

  Dar-agan: “Go on.”

  “The lords have re-equipped themselves. Restored their armies. But they won’t be raiding here, this year. They’re raiding their own homelands. In the more northern six, burning whole villages, killing men, women, children. Burning crops, killing livestock. Rape, torture. Bodies on pikes, everywhere. Even in this cooler weather, the flies enough to choke the living. It’s like they’re mad on blood.”

  A few onlookers, refugees: tears.

  Ilia-te: “This is rough dealing. Even for them.”

  Andor: “I’m fairly certain they have no idea it was us, who first blew their weapons caches. All they know is, they’re under attack. From people they consider less valuable than a farm beast.”

  Ilia-te, a gasp. “All gods. Did we start a revolution?”

  Terrible words. Oh.

  Nayan, breaking the silence. “We did not start a revolution. We were merely defending ourselves from these miserable raids around harvest time, and especially when we move the gell in the spring. We did what was necessary because of Southern aggression toward us, in the form of the fever disease. There was no way we could have known that a revolt was forming. Perhaps we fed into what was already there, but it wasn’t our intent. No way anyone can blame this uprising on us.”

  One of the People of Aurast: “Nayan’s right. This has been coming for two hundred years. My family members have told me for years. Now and then they get letters or line-messages out. The treatment of ordinary people there … it’s bestial. “

  A northern Person: “Why do they stay?”

  “Where will they go? And if they get caught trying to leave, it’s certain death. Painful death. These ones who’ve made it here so far, they’re only a fraction of those who tried to get out.”

  Andor: “There’s something else.”

  Dar-agan: “What?”

  “The lords, they have new weapons. Those factories aren’t just turning out bayonets and axes. They’re turning out rifles. But not like the crude ones we have, that can’t hit anything unless you’re on top of it, and only hold a few cartridges of pellets. These weapons – they’re accurate. At a distance. Some can fire fifty shots without reloading. They’re a new kind of deadly.”

  Unnoticed near the back of the room: a girl, her red hair partly hidden under a cap. Listening intently. Her pretty green eyes: wet with tears.

  Nayan, looking up suddenly. Feeling her. Even far across the room, sensing her presence. Looking closer, straining to see. Is she weeping? Why? And knowing she was.

  Remembered, then, oh. The thing he had put out of his mind once he was sure of success in his crazy raid on the South. The feeling of something dark when he and Noar had first dreamed up their insane caper. Something foreboding, that he could not identify. Felt it again, now. Almost saw it, standing by his shoulder. Some awful power … like Death itself.

  Learned, from the trickle of refugees, that there were new leaders of ordinary People – known as peasants in the South – arising throughout southern provinces.. Men and a few women, rallying people to unite. With captured weapons, training (as best they could) in military arts. Even old people and children, working around the clock to manufacture more weapons in secret locations. Raiders, stealing food stores and guns, over and over.

  This rebellion: serious.

  Even more serious than the peasant revolt of nearly two hundred years ago, when the butchery had been savage beyond imagination. When southern lords had nearly wiped out the people on whom they depended. When, it was said, they had to till their own fields. Until, it was also said, they could rebuild the population of peasants.

  This, by rape and forced breeding. Surviving peasant females, rounded up en masse. Given to lords and soldiers; given to surviving male peasants. Impregnated over and over again, unto death. Vast new generations of peasants, rising more quickly than imaginable. Generations of mothers, bred until they died. Strong backed offspring, raised communally. In barns. In fear.

  This time: not as easy as before. The peasants, unifying. Armed. With projectile weapons far deadlier than crossbows, than the crude shotguns used at the time of the first rebellion.

  So: bloodier. More deadly. Southern lords, hard as flint. Outraged, them. Would not be defied. Would not tolerate resistance to their absolute right to rule.

  Winter, deepening. Heavy snow, now. Violent cold winds, whipping across open fields. Most of the population huddling around fires and fireboxes in castles and villages. Even with the new c
entral heating: nothing like the comfort of a fire. The gell processors, long ago back from ice caves under the polar cap. Stores of food, brought up from caches.

  Not so bad, actually. Winter: the time to huddle close. Warm oneself with fire and gell tea and ale. Stuff oneself with roasted meats and vegetables. Relish the near constant smell of fresh bread, baking. Stay in bed late; go to bed early. Enjoy the delights of the bedroom.

  Noar, busying himself with his usual winter string of lovers. One of these:

  Seren-ye, the maid who had caused such trouble for Nayan in the past. Noar: deliberately engaging in public displays of affection that Nayan was sure to see.

  One day, Noar: “I know she likes you best, but I’ve got her now.”

  Nayan: “What are you talking about?”

  “Seren-ye. Your little maid friend. She’s warming my bed, now. And pretty damned lively at the task, as well.”

  All gods, he’s trying to make me jealous. “Noar, there’s nothing between me and that maid. You know that. You’re welcome to her. As a matter of fact, thank you. Maybe it’ll keep her out of my hair.”

  Suddenly a darkness in Noar’s eyes. A little pause, while the air turned black. Then: “Sure.” Turned his back on Nayan, walked away. An angry stride.

  Nayan, irritated in return. Wondered what was going on. Noar, trying to goad him so often, lately. Had been so touchy … ever since he brought the hostage back.

  But. Nayan, busying himself on cleaning details, carting details. Hunting in the terrible forest to bring in extra food for the refugees. Even in the cold. Clearing snow off the practice yard for hand-to-hand drills Tough young men like him and Che, still practicing. For shorter periods, but still. Just in case the raiders came in spring. Like they usually did. Just in case the riders were wrong. Just in case.

  Thinking now and then of Kiome-te. Wondering who was warming her bed this winter. Wanting to send her a line-message invitation – if she were not otherwise occupied. Smiling at the thought.

  Che: finding him paused in snow shoveling, leaning pensively on the shovel. “What are you grinning about?”