by Hugh Howey
They did, and the three friends exited into a strange world full of howling winds and a chorus of moans from the distant canyons. With the bands gone, they found themselves feeling more alone than ever before, the flapping of their suits loud in their ears, no thoughts in their heads but their own.
The Rite of Wadi Thooo had officially begun.
12
The three of them split up outside the building, Molly walking straight ahead while Cole angled right, the direction from which their shuttle had come. Walter went to the left.
Once beyond the break provided by the shelter, the wind began pushing against their backs, propelling them forward. Cole tried to keep the direction of the breeze in mind as he found his pace; the hike back was going to be much more difficult than the walk in.
“Good luck and be safe,” he thought to Molly, then remembered she couldn’t hear, the habit of the red bands not yet worn off.
As he marched along, the loose folds in Cole’s suit seemed to flap louder and louder. The noise rose from rustle, through various states of annoyance, and on up to sonically painful. He chose a small gully to follow and looked forward to descending into a canyon to see if the breeze would be reduced. As strong as the wind felt, the gale on the prison rooftop had sounded much stiffer. Whether that was due to altitude or the city serving as some sort of buffer, he couldn’t tell.
Less than a kilometer into the hike, the moaning from the canyons could be heard again over the loud flapping from his suit. It sounded as if the entire land was clutching its belly, doubled over and dying. Then the wind freshened, and his suit drowned out the haunting sound once more.
Cole held out his arms, gathering the wind at his back, allowing it to push him along. It felt like he was sliding down a rock incline, shuffling his feet to keep from falling. He was almost going too fast when he came to the terminator, the line separating night from day.
Pulling his arms in quickly, he leaned backwards into the gusts to keep from being thrown forward into the light. Kneeling, Cole marveled at how defined the shadow was, even though it must be cast by a ridge some dozens of kilometers distant. He leaned down to get a closer look. Ahead of him, waves of heat rose off the rock like smoke, the lit areas of stone baking in the sun. Cole thought about how long the rock endured that state, no respite from the glancing rays, no time to cool off for hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of years.
He waved his hand through the sunlight and felt just a slight difference in heat. The air remained cooled by the wind from the dark hemisphere. He set his lance down and pulled one hand inside his metallic sleeve for protection. Reaching out, he pressed a finger to the sunlit rock.
A crackle and a hiss made him snap his arm back. He looked at his sleeve and gaped at the melted spot of fabric, then waved his finger in the air to cool the burning. There was no way he could step out in that.
He left the disappointing gully, which he could see deepen well into the sunlit side of the planet, and walked along the edge of the terminator. The landscape rose and fell, casting the border between night and day into a jagged and dangerous line. He kept his distance, wary of the steaming stone, until he came to one of the canyons.
Worn by the eternal flow of wind, it was deep enough, and angled just right, to provide a thin path of shade along one wall. Cole leaned over the edge and peered into the steep-walled ditch. Off toward the city, it grew shallow, becoming a rut. In the opposite direction, it deepened into an impressive-looking canyon, one edge lined with shade.
He dropped his lance down, making sure it landed flat, then lowered himself over the edge. Careful not to rip his suit, he pushed off with his toes to clear the rock face, then dropped the last few meters into a crouch. The rising walls on either side gave immediate comfort. He hadn’t realized how much that wide expanse of land had him on-edge until he descended out of it.
Pulling out his cloth map, he determined, with a modicum of confidence, which line he had entered. He tightened his grip on the lance and started walking into the daylight side of Drenard, following the thin trail of shadow that clung to the base of the low cliff.
••••
Molly was half a kilometer down her own canyon before she first noticed the holes. Several centimeters in diameter and scattered along the cliff wall, they seemed to be the source of the persistent whistling and moaning that filled the land. Molly peered into one of them, but it was too dark to see inside. She pulled her hood back and lowered her ear to one of the larger ones, pressing her head against the rock. A scratching noise seemed to emanate from inside, but over the wind, the flapping of her suit, and the agonized cry of the canyons—it was hard to tell.
Thus far, she had seen no signs of life in the canyons. The thick waves of heat rising up from the stone floor and the occasional dust-filled gusts, were the only things moving besides her and her racing thoughts—most of which orbited Edison. Which gully had he gone down? Was his furry hide suited for this atmosphere? She kept an eye peeled for one of these ceremonial lizards, but she was far more interested in finding her friend.
The canyon Molly had chosen to explore stretched ahead in a roughly straight line. At a slight angle to the eternally setting sun, it cast a shady path on one side over a meter wide. It wasn’t until the canyon turned in the other direction that she realized how tricky navigating this labyrinth would be. Her dark trail of coolness petered out ahead of her just as an impossible-looking shadow led across the lit canyon to the other side.
Molly stared at the black strip in the middle of the scorching rock. It had no apparent cause. She leaned away from the wall and looked up the canyon, toward the shimmering waves of light. In the distance, something glinted in the sunlight. Something metallic. It was far away, but she could see it spanning the canyon, high up the cliff faces, from one side to the other. It blocked the sunlight, casting a solid pathway down to her location.
It was a bridge made of shade!
Somehow, the Drenards had installed a metal column further down the canyon, in just the right spot to provide a path to the other side. Molly stepped out onto the dark strip and felt an immediate difference in the heat moving down the center of the canyon, the air warmed by the blistering rock. Her mouth, already parched, felt full of sand. She licked her lips, but the moisture just burned in the dry cracks that had already formed, stinging like venom. She took a few more steps toward the center—
A gust hit her suit suddenly, nearly blowing her into the boiling stone to the side. She dropped her lance and fell into a crouch, fighting to regain her balance. Both hands went out to the shaded bridge to steady herself, the fabric of her suit flapping and trying to carry her away. Molly made herself as compact as possible, inhaling a deep, dry breath as she waited for the wind to subside.
As it did, she looked to her lance, which thankfully landed mostly in the shade. She pulled it back in and reached out, mostly out of curiosity, to prod the other end with a finger. It wasn’t just hot, it would have burned her had she continued to touch it. In only a few seconds of exposure.
Swallowing a dry breath, Molly looked up at the ten meters of bridge remaining. She decided to stay on all fours, pushing the lance ahead of her, using a wide base to compensate for the changes in the wind’s intensity. The air in the center stifled, even with the movement and the cooler temperatures from the night side blowing through. Sweat dripped from her face, precious fluids splattering down in front of her. Now and then, small beads were carried deeper into the canyon by the wind—out into the harsh sunlight. Molly watched them evaporate before they even reached the ground.
When she got to the other side, she collapsed against the rock wall and glared across the innocent-seeming line of shadow. The seriousness of her task struck her for the first time. Wadi Thooo was not a simple symbolic ritual—it was a true rite of passage. A test of will. A stroll through a foreign landscape suddenly had become a fight for survival. By crossing that narrow bridge, Molly had removed the easy, uninterrupted path of sh
ade that led back to safety.
She no longer had room to run.
Glancing along the strip of shade ahead of her Molly saw not a path, but a ledge. A fall from it would be no less dangerous than from a great height.
The thought made her dizzy as she rose. She kept one hand on the cliff wall, grasping at the holes in the stone for balance. Gathering her wits, she made sure her map was tucked snugly in her sleeve, and pushed forward, keeping the lance to the sunlit side where it was ready to brace her if another gust attacked.
The problem was, she had become so concerned with the danger on that side of her, that Molly didn’t notice something else: the holes in the canyon wall were getting bigger.
••••
Walter stood in front of the first hole he could fit his hand inside. He was hot, tired, and annoyed by the wind. He had already walked almost half a kilometer, including several hundred meters down a partly shaded canyon. The Rite wasn’t as exciting as he thought it would be, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to leave the planet, anyway. He’d mostly come along to keep an eye on Molly and make sure Cole wasn’t bothering her with all his boyfriend nonsense.
He grumbled to himself about this when something in the hole pricked the end of his finger. His annoyance instantly flared up into fear, and then fury. He balled up his hand into a protective fist, but this just expanded his thumb, making it impossible to jerk his arm free.
Walter went kinetic; he created an even tighter fist and yanked furiously on his captured arm. Dropping his spear, he flattened his other hand on the rock, pushing and pulling at once, his torso twisting in desperation.
Whatever it was, it got him again on one of his knuckles. He tried to shout above the wind, but his throat was too dry. He whimpered and pleaded and pulled, begging the cliff to release his hand, when suddenly it popped free.
Walter staggered backwards and fell, the top of his head landing out in the direct sunlight, a sizzling sound coming from the back of his hood where it touched the rock. He screamed and rolled to the side, his scalp seared with pain, a brief glimpse of Drenard’s twin suns burned into his vision.
The frightened portion of him longed to huddle in the shade, to cower and shield himself. But a different part, something from his father, rose up inside. It was angry at being hurt. It was the boiling rage his uncle had been known to stoke up, use for nefarious means, then beat back down after it bubbled over.
He looked at his fingers—two of them were streaked with blood. Walter felt an overwhelming urge to inflict damage in return. To lash out.
Grabbing his lance off the rock, he stood up and shoved it deep inside the offending hole. Rattling it in all directions, he pushed in and out and found enough mad wetness in his throat to toss threats in after whatever had done this to him.
Something within shrieked back. A wail—pitched high and piercing—shot out of the hole like a bullet. The noise put a shiver up Walter’s spine, but he shoved the lance in further, feeling something softer than rock under one of his stabs.
The blare from within the hole went up even higher and louder—then fell silent.
Walter leaned on the rock, panting furiously. He could feel the wind fluttering his hood, the material pulling on his scalp where the two had melted together. His head pounded with the heat and the danger, his hand tingling from what must be a toxin of some sort. He wanted to cry or scream, but had the moisture for neither.
He looked at the hole, the lance still sticking out of it. Grabbing the lance, he lifted it up to the center of the tunnel and pushed it in as far as he could. When he brought it down, he could feel it rest on something soft. He pulled the lance back, scraping the thing across the bottom of the hole and out where he could reach it.
He grabbed the Wadi Thooo and brought it into the shade. The thing was still alive. Four legs, terminating in sharp claws, twitched slightly. A long, scaly tail with a sharp tip spun in a feeble circle every now and then. Its tapered head lolled to one side, two tongues hanging out past rows of overlapping teeth. The thing’s back was covered with iridescent hues that shimmered like the Drenard sunset, especially across two bony stumps that rose up from its shoulder blades.
Walter could feel a pulse of life in the creature, its round and white belly expanding and contracting in his hand. The thing was no more than eight inches long, from tip to tail. He felt sorry for the Wadi as it seemed to weaken in his hand, its pale life barely distinguishable within.
Then he saw the blood trickling from his fingers and across the lizard’s belly. His knees felt weak from the strain of his battle. Looking at the Wadi’s rows of teeth, seeing his own blood on them, drained whatever empathy Walter had for the damn thing.
He made a fist, tightening his fingers around the soft underbelly, and squeezed the life out of the small beast. A raspy croak came out of the creature’s mouth, fading into a sigh.
The small noise was carried off in the wind, drowned out by the howling of the canyons.
Satisfied—gloriously so—Walter turned to the narrow path and began retracing his shadowy steps. He marched toward the night side of the planet, back in the direction of the shelter, his head held high.
He was a Drenard now.
••••
Cole crossed over the third bridge slowly; he’d had quite a scare on the last one after the first bridge lulled him into a false sense of windless security. He quickly learned to drag the hooked end of his lance across the ground, helping him brace for the gusts.
As he approached the other side of the canyon, he noticed the strange holes in the side of the cliff had grown to nearly the size of his head. He still couldn’t see inside of them or puzzle out their geological origin; he figured he’d keep going until the holes were big enough to explore, if they even increased to such a size. Surely the lizards they were looking for would choose to live in these natural caves rather than scurry across the baking stone.
Tracing the cliff wall with one hand, Cole stumbled upon a remarkable sight: the remains of a tree frozen in the face of the canyon. Split open and petrified, its pulpy interior had long ago been replaced with solid rock. He rubbed the grainy surface, the texture reminding him of his sink counter and the frigid, refreshing water that flowed from it. He wondered how long it had been since the planet was in motion and covered with life.
He was so focused on the beautiful patterns in the shaded rock, he didn’t see the glistening eyes that appeared in the hole above him. They sparkled in the ambient light reflecting off his suit. Wrapping two sets of claws over the lip of the hole, the creature tensed itself up, prepared to defend its lair.
But Cole turned and surveyed the heated rock to his left. He looked at his map again and saw how a few other canyons would merge with his own a few kilometers ahead. He gripped his lance and set off deeper into the lighted land, desperate to find a Wadi Thooo.
••••
Molly knelt down in front of one of the holes and peered inside. She leaned close, but the light on the shaded side of the canyon only filtered in a few decimeters. Beyond that, it was just mysterious blackness emanating a weak moan. She considered reaching in to her shoulder and groping past the darkness for an egg-filled nest, but the thought of sticking her hand that deep sent a shiver up her spine.
The wind abated for a moment, pitching the moaning even lower. The sound made the deeper parts of the canyon creepier, the small caves more ominous. Molly felt a twinge of fear before kicking herself for being such a wimp. She felt positive Cole and Walter weren’t having any problems with their hunt, so she needed to soldier up. If Drenard youth could do this, so could she. In fact, she didn’t want to come out of this with any old Wadi—she needed to make sure hers was bigger than Cole’s. She’d never hear the end of it otherwise.
She moved on, keeping an eye out for any movement up and down the canyon. At the next bridge, she sat down in the shade to adjust her boots, a loose lace nearly tripping her up during her last crossing.
She pulle
d her hood back a little and secured a double knot in the laces, then noticed her reflection in the side of her boot, her face smudged with sweat and dust, the skin beneath pink and sunburned, even though she hadn’t left the shade. She checked her reflection, turning her head side to side—then got an idea.
Pulling off her boot, she rested her lance in her lap and began weaving the laces around the hooked end. She tied them off around the shaft and cinched them tight, adjusting the angle a little.
Molly stood and walked back the way she’d come, to a hole about the height of her eyes and a little larger than the others. She peered into the darkness, her nose almost inside the lip.
“Hello?” she called into it, her voice ringing metallic as it reverberated in the cylinder of stone.
She heard no response over the wind and the groaning canyon.
Stepping back, she wiggled the boot on the lance one more time to make sure it was secure, then extended it into the sunlight.
The flash nearly blinded her. She’d naturally been looking right at the boot as she reached it beyond the shade, and the thing just happened to be angled right at her face. She turned her head away from the blinding light and nearly dropped the lance, cursing herself for not moving it out at a safer angle. Gradually reopening her eyes, Molly saw an image of the boot everywhere she looked—a white shape dancing in the center of her vision.
She tried to blink it away as she dragged the lance back into the shade. Leaning against the rock wall, she rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, the sound of her lids against her dry eyes like the click of claw on stone. She squinted across the canyon and waited for her vision to return to normal.
Pulling the cloth map from her sleeve, Molly traced her finger across the branching lines. She had no idea where she was now—the canyon had split and joined too many times to keep up. Getting out of here, however, should be as simple as leaning into the wind.