Quozl

by Alan Dean Foster

  He’d chosen a night blessed by a full moon. Real wind brushed back the fur on his face and he immediately sampled the air, wary of nocturnal carnivores. His blood pounded.

  Having not encountered Rains-cross-Grain or Appears-go-Over in several days he doubted either would remark on his absence. Rains had never repeated her challenge and in all likelihood had forgotten the entire discussion.

  He had no difficulty choosing a course by the light of the moon. The ghostly landscape was bathed in silver, magnificent and alive. What you did not get from the otherwise thorough recordings brought back by the study teams were the smells, the odors, the aromas of their adopted home. He inhaled deeply, savoring every sharp, musky, sweet smell as he played at matching them with creatures or plants remembered from his studies.

  Whistling softly and chanting to himself, he headed down the gentle slope outside the exit in search of a suitable place to greet the forthcoming sunrise.

  VIII.

  “HEY, DAD!”

  Chad’s father had the cowling off the seaplane and was standing on a stool, bent over the gaping engine compartment. The plane’s pontoons bumped gently against the narrow, handmade dock. It was hot today and he harvested sweat from his forehead with the back of his free hand as he turned to face his son. A socket wrench dangled from his fingers.

  “Boy, can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “I know, Dad, but you said maybe we could fly into town today for groceries. Mom said she really needs that Crisco and some milk and eggs.”

  “Yeah. And you really need cookies and some ice cream.” He nodded toward the single-story log cabin that stood stolidly a hundred yards upslope from the lakeshore. “I’m sure your mom has some cookies hidden somewhere. As for ice cream, you know we can’t keep ice cream here. There’s no freezer in the little fridge. I wouldn’t mind having some ice cream around myself, but we need all the space in the chest to store block ice. For that matter, I’d like to have a freezer, a bigger generator to run it, and the money to pay for them both, but this year I’m afraid we’ll have to do without any of ’em.”

  “Ahhh, that’s what you said last year.” As the pouting eight-year-old kicked at something crawling hastily across the dock, his father sighed.

  “Maybe we can manage it next year, if I get that promotion. Right now I have to get this fixed or we won’t go anywhere for anything. Why not take a hike somewhere? Watch the fish. Shoot a moose.”

  Chad tried not to smile and failed. “It’s too hot.”

  “Then go swimming.”

  “Water’s too cold.”

  “Baloney. It’s warmed up by now. Go bother your sister, then, but leave me alone until I finish this. You want me to make a mistake and have us fall out of the sky on the way for groceries?” He ducked his head back beneath the engine cover.

  “That won’t happen, Dad. You know more about planes than anybody.” He turned and started toward land.

  A voice came from inside the engine compartment, softer than before. “Maybe in a day or two we can fly out for some ice cream.”

  Chad spun around. “Really, Dad? You mean it? For sure?”

  “If the weather holds and we don’t get a thunderstorm pattern.”

  “All right! I’m gonna have a Popsicle, ana Dove Bar, ana strawberry icee, ana …” The sugary liturgy faded like a solitary soprano’s in a cathedral as the boy turned and sprinted up the hill toward the cabin.

  His mother was in the kitchen manipulating meat loaf, her fingers slick with grease and ground chuck. Chad burst in and forgot to catch the screen door before it slammed behind him.

  “MomDadsaidIcouldhavesomecookies!”

  His mother looked across at him. Her hair was secured behind her in a ponytail. He never saw her wear her hair like that in the city. Only during the summer when they were at the cabin.

  “He didn’t say anything of the kind,” insisted another voice, oozing snide. “He’s just making it up.”

  “I am not!” Chad glared in the direction of the little den. His fourteen-year-old sister, Mindy, was sprawled on the sofa perusing a garish magazine featuring on its cover a longhaired young musician clad primarily in trendy rags. The lettering shrieked across the room.

  “Mindy, knock it off.” His mother looked back down at him. “Chad, did your father say you could have cookies?”

  “Well, not exactly.” Chad didn’t meet his mother’s gaze.

  “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

  “He sort of said we probably had some cookies. I don’t see the point in having them if we can’t eat ’em.”

  “You may have one cookie.”

  “Ah, but Mom! I’m going on a hike! I need my strength.”

  She neither smiled nor wavered. The law, he’d learned long ago, was the law. But she was concerned if not compliant.

  “Got your backpack ready?”

  “Sure. My pack’s always ready.” It lay on the bed in his room. There was another bed in the room, often occupied by his older sister, but as far as he and the fates were concerned it was his room.

  Just as it was his cabin, his floatplane, his lake, and his mountains. Legal niceties did not concern him. There was legal and there was self-evident.

  “There are some tuna sandwiches in the fridge,” his mother was saying. “Take one and an apple.”

  “Geez, Mom.” he was already pawing through the old refrigerator, scanning the Saran-wrapped sandwiches for the one displaying the least amount of crust. “I don’t want an apple.”

  “No apple, no cookie.”

  “All right, all right.” He hid the sly expression on his face. “One apple, two cookies.”

  This time she had to smile. “Two it is, but you’d better eat that apple.”

  “I will. I’ll save it for later.”

  She didn’t ask if he was taking water. He knew enough to stick close to the lakeshore. In addition there were several small streams from which he could drink. The pristine mountain wilderness area where the cabin was located had thus far avoided contamination by pollutants. They’d been coming here ever since her husband inherited the place and none of them had ever been made sick by the water. If anything it was probably one of the healthiest, most unspoiled places left in the country, or so Jack always insisted.

  “You be back before sundown,” she said unnecessarily. Chad knew the rules. Despite his age he was an experienced solo hiker, precocious and careful. He’d been taking short walks on his own since five. By the time he was twelve he’d be going out overnight. She tried not to think about the passage of time as she turned back to the chopping board and began sweeping minced onions into the ground chuck.

  Chad carefully packed his sandwich, the apple, and the two largest sugar cookies he could find, slipped the brown sack into his pack, and headed out the front door before his mother could change her mind.

  His father was still slaving over the plane engine, occasionally utilizing words which Chad knew he ought not to be hearing but which he was by now familiar with. Words he never dared use in the presence of adults or his blabbermouthed sister, who would gladly repeat them to his mother in the expectant ecstasy of seeing him punished. His father didn’t introduce him to cursing. The Bible took care of that. He would gladly have suffered fire and brimstone and plagues of locusts in place of a fourteen-year-old sister. Unfortunately that was the affliction the fates had chosen for him.

  Yet when he could get away from her, away from the cabin where she holed up with her magazines and poetry for most of the summer, it no longer seemed so important. Nothing was more important than anything else when you were eight, precocious, and intensely curious. Everything was new and fresh: the next tree, the next rock, the next beetle making its laborious way through the gravel that lined the lakeshore. The tadpole swimming in the sunlit water. The ghost birds that you couldn’t see who left their songs hanging like windblown transparencies in the evening air. The world was a wonder.

  As much as he enjoyed his explor
ations he was still disappointed no one else came to build a cabin by the lake. His father explained that it was no longer permitted and that if Grandpa Carson hadn’t built his before the government regulations had been put in place concerning this region, they couldn’t live here for the summer either. Besides which not everyone could afford or knew how to fly a floatplane. The rugged, precipitous terrain that enclosed the lake made that and walking the only ways’ in. There were plenty of other lakes, some much prettier, all more accessible. So few people came here.

  The isolation was what made their annual summer stays so pleasant to him, he’d tried to explain to his son. Flying big planes was hard work and he delighted in the solitude they found here in one of the least-visited parts of the country. The lake was narrow and twisty, difficult to land upon. Only the fact that he was a professional pilot enabled them to visit here with comparative ease, and he still had to make every approach with the utmost care.

  His mother also enjoyed the peace and quiet while his sister wanted only a place to read and practice her poetry. Chad had snorted derisively at that. What could you expect from an older sister, or from any girl? Poetry!

  Except Mom. Mom wasn’t really a girl. Mom was—Mom, and that was different.

  He wondered how far he’d get today. His parents insisted that whenever he went off by himself he keep the lakeshore within view. It limited his options considerably.

  There were so many streams he wanted to follow, so many talus slides worth scrambling up. His father wouldn’t listen. This way, he’d explained patiently, if Chad hurt himself (as if he could possibly hurt himself!) it would be easy for them to find him simply by following the shoreline. So he kept the cool water within sight, according to the rules, sometimes teasing the limits by walking uphill until only a tiny patch of blue was visible through the trees and delighting in the little thrill this near denial of parental authority gave him.

  It really was hot today, he mused, but so long as you stayed in the shade of the huge pines and furs that grew right down to the water’s edge you were okay. You could play tag with the sunlight, skipping from one path of shadow to the next.

  He studied his watch, of which he was inordinately proud despite the fact it only cost three bucks. He’d made good time since he’d left the cabin and judging by the angle of the sun and his own stomach it was time to stop for lunch. The cabin lay far behind him, well out of sight, along with the floatplane and the little dock his father had hammered together out of rough-cut pine and split lengths of six-inch log.

  He took a bite out of the apple and, contractual obligations thus satisfied, attacked the sandwich with gusto.

  Runs-red-Talking knew he was taking a chance nibbling unclassified alien vegetation, but he’d taken so many chances already this one additional small one hardly seemed worthy of concern despite the fact that no one knew where he was. Should he suffer any kind of poisoning that would prevent him from making it back to the Burrow, there would be no one to come looking for him. He was prepared for that.

  He’d planned for this trip as well as anyone in his position possibly could, studying the recordings made by authorized expeditions and committing to memory whatever seemed potentially useful. For example, there was a certain variety of weed which grew in profusion on the mountain slopes. While not particularly nutritious, it was quite edible and wonderfully fresh-tasting in comparison to the processed food available in the colony. There were also a number of edible flying creatures. All one had to do was convince oneself it was all right to eat a living being that had not been preprocessed. He kept reminding himself that there was native fauna which would have no such hesitations where he was concerned.

  Such thoughts made his first night’s rest uneasy. The second night (for now that he was out he had no intention of returning immediately) was better, though a tremendous piercing racket woke him abruptly just before sunrise. His fur did not relax until the noise was swallowed by the night, and he was surprised at how quickly he fell asleep again.

  He encountered nothing as monstrous as the massive nightmare whose stuffed form graced the museum, but he did espy something long and tawny-hued crossing the talus slope opposite him on four padded feet. Its lower jaw hung slack, enabling him to see the prominent canines, but it was far away and failed to sense his presence. It kept climbing until it disappeared.

  He had no map. It would have been dangerous to make one, since its discovery would have revealed his intent to any thoughtful adult. What information was available on the ground he was traversing, mostly from the initial pretouchdown survey, he had committed to memory. Like everything else known about the surface, it was available to any who wanted to study it.

  He did not have to debate which direction to take. He chose the path he did, not because it was inherently any more interesting than any other, but because it enabled him to follow the course of the river which ran above the Burrow. Regardless of what else he might encounter, he would be assured of a constant supply of drinking water.

  According to the report filed by a single expedition member more than a year earlier, the river fed a large lake in a sheer-walled valley to the east. The report was never confirmed because the interests of that particular expedition lay elsewhere, but it struck Runs as a useful goal. He would walk to the lake, sample its waters, and return.

  Three days out from home he caught his first glimpse of it and experienced the rush of excitement which signified that he was about to cross from Quozl-mapped territory into unknown parts of Shiraz. The slope he was descending was gentle and easy. He could have raced down it at high speed, easily dodging between the widely spaced tall trees, but it was so much more pleasurable to take his time and touch each tree as he passed. Their rough, deeply scarred unQuozlene bark was a constant amazement. He could easily sense the sap moving through xylem as the tree pumped it skyward.

  Artists and administrators fought constantly over Shirazian wood. The artists wanted to cut more of it while the administrators worried that such cuttings might be noticed from the air. The philosophers tried to mediate, with the result that only fallen trees and dead wood could be brought back into the Burrows. So the artists continued to fume while the administrators continued to worry.

  Runs bent to heft a fallen branch worth a week’s meditations to a skilled carver. He tossed it aside with the casualness of the suddenly wealthy. He had around him, as it were, wood to burn.

  From his studies he believed that the tall plants which formed a meadow at the western end of the lake would prove not only edible but tasty. The habit of Shirazian vegetation of concentrating metals in their roots and stems added spice to their natural flavor. The forest of succulents he eventually encountered were no exception. They grew in such dense clumps that he was able to leave the shore and walk through the thicket itself. After a while the slope sharpened, the plants fell behind, and water tumbled musically over slick boulders in its rush to reach the lake.

  Soon the cold would return to this part of Shiraz and all this beauty would disappear beneath a blanket of frozen water. Then the pace of exploration would slacken and only specially equipped expeditions would dare its frigid surface.

  He knelt to examine a seed pod which had fallen from a nearby tree. It was still intact, having not yet been disturbed by the small chisel-toothed quadrupeds that made their homes high in branches and tree hollows. They were not the only ones who found the contents of such pods appealing. As he walked he used his teeth to peel back the thick seed covers, spitting them aside so he could suck out the nourshing nut-meats within. They were a real luxury in the Burrow. Ever since he began his journey he’d gorged himself on such treats. His store of tablets lay untouched in his pack. He was confident the trail of kernels would not be noticed by any passing aircraft.

  Not even the Head of Council feasted so well. Only the members of the exploration teams had shared such delights. He ate what he wanted and tossed the remainder aside.

  As he followed the river he search
ed for signs of the peculiar amphibious creatures which inhabited its shores. There was nothing like them in the old records and they had charmed and fascinated expeditionary zoologists. Usually they sat without moving, their throat sacs pulsing, until something disturbed or intrigued them and they leaped into the water. They filled the night air with the most extraordinary chorus.

  One particularly fine specimen did not run when he approached, choosing to maintain its perch even when Runs stepped into ankle-deep water. His hands relaxed on his knees as he stared.

  The creature flicked a golden eye in his direction, tensed, and hopped off into the reeds. Runs mimicked the posture and hopped right alongside it. As soon as it landed it flung itself into the tall thin growths a second time. Runs heard it splash somewhere up ahead. Automatically he checked his legs. No doubt this tranquil backwater was home to numerous water-borne parasites, but expedition zoologists had yet to identify any that found Quozl flesh palatable. Most could not make their way through dense Quozl fur.

  He crouched to follow the amphibian when another sound made him freeze. It was much more frightening and expressive than the mysterious yowl which had momentarily kept him awake that first night.

  “Hey, a frog!”

  Runs-red-Talking spun wildly in the water, his ears erect for maximum reception. He was surrounded on three sides by tall reeds whose stems reached no telling how deep into the murky water. The lake itself lay somewhere not far ahead. That left him with two choices: to retreat into the reeds and hope he didn’t stumble into water over his head, or to make a dash for the dry land on his right. While he was trying to decide, the decision was made for him.

  “Maybe over th—”

  Unless his language studies had been for naught, Runs knew that the native had ceased in the midst of an incomplete thought. His first impression was that for a Shirazian it was very small. Even making allowances for its nonexistent ears it appeared unusually tiny. He was struck instantly by the nakedness of the arms and face, made even more grotesque by the unruly knot of fur which adorned the skull. Long strands of the stuff hung down the back of the native’s neck.