Quozl

by Alan Dean Foster

  You can’t be, he thought wildly. It’s almost sunrise outside and diurnal expeditions are dangerous. Dangerous and infrequent—but not unknown. How lucky he was, how fortunate, to have encountered one of those rare daytime study groups.

  He wanted to strike out in anger, to slay them all here in this place to preserve his terrible secret, to cover his foolishness with their blood. Being Quozl, what he did was apologize.

  Profoundly, abjectly, in the most affecting and honest inadequate language he could muster, his ears lower than low, his eyes locked on the tunnel floor. Because they realized the seriousness of what he’d done they politely allowed him to go on, until hoarseness invaded his throat and stole his words.

  If they had only arrived a few moments later, after he’d left the tunnel. Or a few moments earlier, before he’d come inside. But they’d seen him enter. They knew he’d been outside, on the surface. If not his actions, then the soil and grass adhering to his sandals would have been proof enough of that. He’d cleaned them as best he could, but final cleansing would have had to wait until he’d reached his living quarters. Now it didn’t matter. Nothing much mattered anymore.

  “Given my lowly station and insignificant age I realize that this serious breach of the law must be reported,” he managed to wheeze. “I expect to pay for what I have done with all I have to give. I can ask only humbly that you take my immaturity into account and realize that this childish action was taken on a dare from my fellows, and that no real harm has been done.”

  The leader of the expeditionary group made a double gesture of resignation with his ears. This breach of Burrow security was more important than their plans. Their work must now be delayed while this unbelievable incident was reported. All his careful ceremonial shaving would be for naught.

  There were only three of them on the mount of inquiry, but they were intimidating enough. One was of his sire’s generation, the second an Elder, and the third one of his contemporaries. The usual assemblage for debating a juvenile offense.

  Landing Command said nothing about the inquiry while of course following it with the utmost interest. One of the conditions of Runs’s punishment was that he say nothing of his excursion to his friends or parents or anyone else. Landing Command and the Council were concerned now about damage control, not revenge.

  Runs could see that it required a considerable exercise of will on the part of the Elder to maintain his seat, when what he really wanted to do was charge down the imitation rock slope and batter the youthful offender to a harmless pulp. He spent much of the inquiry reciting passages from the Samizene to calm himself. It was the first time in his life Runs had actually felt physically threatened by an Elder, and for a while the whole bloodthirsty history of ancient Quozlene passed through his mind.

  It got so bad that the Elder eventually had to disqualify himself lest he embarrass his generation. The one who replaced him stared directly at Runs for the remainder of the session. It made Runs acutely uncomfortable, to the point where he feared his falsehood might be discovered.

  Because while he admitted to having broken the law by visiting the surface, and to having spent a number of days outside, and to having traveled a considerable distance, he neglected to specify exactly where he’d been, admitting quite truthfully that he didn’t know. Which was to say he didn’t know in terms of actual measurements. No one was able to ask if he’d visited a certain lake because he’d been the first Quozl to do so. His inquirers did not possess referents sufficient to assess the extent of his iniquity. They fumbled around the fringes and believed them extreme enough. It did not occur to any of them, nor to Landing Command, that a single ill-equipped juvenile might have traveled farther in a particular direction than any of their highly trained explorers. Of course he hadn’t wasted time on study. His interest had been solely in covering distance.

  Of his encounter with the native juvenile he said nothing. He did not lie, he merely did not volunteer. No one asked him if he’d encountered a native, of course. The odds weighed massively against it. No one considered that odds existed to be beaten.

  They questioned him calmly and steadily. Had he left anything behind? No. What had he hoped to gain from such a foolhardy and dangerous excursion? Enlightenment. Did he realize he had jeopardized the security of all the Burrows? He did not deny it.

  “Yet you went ahead anyway,” said his solemn contemporary.

  Runs felt slightly more comfortable talking to one his own age even though he knew that individual was the most likely to recommend the severest punishment, because he belonged to the generation Runs had shamed. The elder generations he had simply endangered.

  “It was the ultimate in foolish things to do,” he murmured. “I will never forget it nor be able to expunge the shame from my soul. This private agony I will carry with me to my death.”

  “We are concerned neither with your shame nor your death.” The female Elder shifted on her seat, adjusting the wrinkled, aged folds of her pouch. “We are worried only about the safety of the colony, which you have risked for your own infantile, selfish ends.”

  “If I may, in my embarrassment and sorrow, say but one thing in my defense?”

  They looked at each other and eventually nodded in unison.

  “I was but one to visit the surface of our home. There are many who expose themselves to possible observation. Scientists and researchers and other revered Elders.”

  “You speak of the experienced, those who travel in camouflage and know how to keep hidden.”

  “I studied their movements and methods,” Runs told them earnestly. “I would not have gone out otherwise.”

  “Your caution is appreciated,” said the Elder sarcastically. “Perusal of recordings is not experience, memorization not knowledge.”

  Runs-red-Talking bowed his head and said nothing. The Elder studied him. “We will consider what is to be your punishment.”

  They were in an awkward position regarding what he’d done, though he was so scared he didn’t realize it at the time. If they applied something of sufficient magnitude to fit his crime it was sure to be noticed and remarked upon by his friends and relations. The result would be the need to explain why he was being treated so severely, which was precisely what the authorities wished to avoid. It would have been much easier to punish him for a lesser crime, like defacement or disrespect.

  With reason winning out over emotion, the result was that he received the most severe tongue-lashing of his young life. That was all. Anything more might have provoked questions, something to be avoided at all costs. So he found himself released without restrictions, for which he was properly astonished and grateful. He took no joy in it, reveled in no private glee, because he knew how severely he’d offended.

  He knew he would be closely watched for future evidence of deviant behavior, that his every activity would be monitored and analyzed. That did not concern him.

  Indeed, from that day on he was a model citizen, not visiting the upper levels even on perfectly innocent errands, avoiding upside like a plague. Eventually surveillance was reduced. All colony resources were limited and trained personnel had much to do besides keeping watch over a harmless, very inconspicuous youngster. Round-the-clock observation gradually gave way to daytime checks and thence to random visits, until at last officialdom’s involvement with him was lost to time and monotony. Each report was the same: No dangerous or deviant behavior recorded.

  Since his journey Runs-red-Talking hadn’t gone anywhere near a Burrow exit, nor had he expressed the slightest desire to any of his acquaintances to do so. As he matured he opted for an unremarkable career in mechanical maintenance and repair. He appeared completely content with his training choice and his everyday life. Oh, he studied native transmissions, but so did everyone else. They were a diverting amusement. The authorities pronounced themselves pleased with the course his life had taken.

  So was Runs-red-Talking.

  IX.

  IT SEEMED TO Chad that nothing
was permanent, that the world existed in a constant state of flux. Certainly the change from twelve to thirteen was significant, more so than any of the preceding birthdays. Like any youngster he quickly forgot that each birthday was more important than its predecessor.

  But this time he was right. There was something genuinely magical about turning thirteen. He was no longer a child: he was an official teenager, something that Mindy had held over him for years. No longer. Of course, at eighteen she considered herself an adult, more of an adult than her parents. Though no woodswoman, she’d resigned herself to continued participation in the annual summer visits to the lake. As her mother was fond of pointing out, in a few years she would find herself immersed in other interests and other lives, and would do as she pleased. For a little while longer, her participation as a family member would be greatly appreciated. Chad was of a different opinion but knowing how little weight that would carry, wisely said nothing of it.

  Mindy’s interests had expanded beyond music and writing to include boys. No, not boys now. Men, in their twenties, impossibly old men as ancient as his dad, Chad mused. He paid little attention to them. His sister was pretty and they came and vanished in brief thunderstorms of aftershave and flowers.

  At least the mountains never changed. The engine hum was loud in his ears as he pressed his face to the glass and gazed down at the familiar sweep of forest and gorges. Not many people would dare fly these canyons, with their narrow sides and treacherous downdrafts. He’d taken his father’s flying skills for granted, but no longer. He now had some idea of the talent required.

  He was old enough to recognize certain peaks and valleys and individual bodies of water as they flashed by beneath. Not roads. There were no roads in this country, never had been, and if the federal government had its way, never would be. Just animals and birds and the occasional rugged backpacker. And the Collins family, who had a deeded acre with cabin and the means to reach it. Too small an exception for the government to take issue with.

  His father banked the Rutan sharply and dove toward the lake like a carrier pilot at Midway. You didn’t have time to worry because in seconds you were leveling out and bouncing across the deep blue waters of the lake. Chad strained for the first sight of the cabin, relaxed only when it came into view at the head of the little bay. It was unchanged, as immutable as the surrounding mountains except for the annual improvements his parents added. There had been heavy snowpack in the mountains this year. That meant high water, fast streams, and good fishing, according to his father.

  Having given up on Mindy years ago, he was always trying to get Chad to go fishing with him. Occasionally Chad would accompany his dad, not to fish but to wile away the hours lying on his back on the floor of the boat, toying with the water that seeped in, reading comics or paperbacks while his father did all the work. The real treat was the basket of sodas that hung over the side, refrigerated to an icy coldness by the lake.

  The annual vacation was the only time he and his sister had unlimited access to candy and junk food.

  Chad was never bored at the lake. As he grew, his parents allowed him to roam farther and farther from the shoreline. He’d never had any trouble in the mountains, and unlike L.A., there were no kidnappers or perverts to worry about. Bears and mountain lions were scarce and avoided every attempt of Chad’s to encounter one.

  It didn’t take long to unload the plane. Everyone knew what was required of them. For the last several years Chad had participated instead of immediately dashing off into the woods. After the unloading came the cleaning, sweeping the floor, dusting shelves and furniture, removing tarps and cobwebs. His father fired up the generator and checked the lights, grumbling softly whenever something refused to cooperate, making a list of what needed replacement or repair. His mother cleaned the bedrooms in tandem with his sister, then went to work making the kitchen serviceable. In no time they were ready for another two months of kickback-donothing, as his father called it.

  As man-crazy as his sister had become, Chad was surprised she continued to make the trek to the cabin. The isolation, she’d explained, was good for her work. She had determined to become a writer. So far her successes had been small and isolated, but encouraging. Poems in a small literary magazine that brought praise but no money, a pair of short stories to a magazine nobody bought, one novelette for which she received the munificent sum of two hundred and fifty dollars, and rejection letters full of suggestions.

  She spent the days cooped up in her room, her typewriter intriguing the mice and squirrels, working on The Novel. She had a lap-top computer with a big screen and spare batteries which Dad carefully recharged for her.

  The isolation was vital, she insisted. At the lake none of her beaus or suitors could get in touch with her. There was only the two-way radio in the plane. To mollify them she used the phone in town, on the rare occasions when she accompanied Chad and Dad on the bimonthly supply flights.

  Chad was delighted with her hobby. She no longer pestered him as she had when they were younger. He was something to be tolerated now instead of actively tormented. As far as he was concerned she could spend the whole summer in her room without ever emerging. This adulthood thing had changed her for the better, though he regretted no longer being able to tease her. Now she merely ignored him instead of getting mad. Growing up certainly altered people.

  It was at supper one week later when Chad finally broached the subject, as they were finishing the last of the barbecued chicken.

  “Dad, you’re always calling me a big boy.”

  “You are a big boy.” His father spooned mashed potatoes and gravy.

  “I’ve never had any problems hiking, right?”

  “That’s right. You’re damn sensible. That’s why your mother and I trust you to go off by yourself.”

  “Okay. So,” he took a deep breath, “do you trust me enough to let me camp out overnight?”

  The next load of potatoes never reached their intended destination. His father glanced in his mother’s direction. She said nothing. A positive sign.

  “We’ve already let you camp out.” He resumed eating.

  “Yeah, but just on the porch or down on the dock. I want to take some real hikes so I can see some of the back country. I’ve already been everywhere around here. I can do it.”

  “You don’t know how to cook, and even if you did, you don’t have any of the equipment.”

  “I don’t have to cook. I can carry enough stuff. I don’t eat much when I’m hiking. It’s only for a night or two, Dad,” he pleaded.

  Like ghosts from a dimly remembered history of sibling torment were his sister’s words. “You’ll get scared.”

  “I will not. I know these woods. I’ve never seen anything bigger than a fox and unlike some people I know, I’m not afraid of the dark.”

  That brought Mindy’s face up, eyes flashing. Then she simply sighed and shook her head sadly. Maybe his sister was no longer his avowed enemy, but she wasn’t any fun anymore, either.

  “I promise I won’t get scared.” He forced himself to keep calm. “And if I do, well, hey, that’s my problem, isn’t it?”

  “Not if you run off somewhere in the dark and go over a cliff,” his mother said grimly.

  “Ah, Mom, c’mon! I’m not going running in the middle of the night and I’m not gonna fall off no cliff.”

  “‘Any’ cliff,” she corrected him.

  “I know how to pick a good campsite, and I know how to make a fire. I’ll have my flashlight and sleeping bag. That’ll be plenty.”

  “What about the tent?” his father asked him. “I think you’re strong enough to pack the tent.”

  “My sleeping bag’ll be enough. It’s got a rain flap and I’d listen to the weather on the radio first and if there was any chance of rain at all, I wouldn’t go.” He looked at his mother. “I’d only go if it was supposed to be warm and dry.”

  “It still gets cold at night.”

  Lo and be thankful, his father finally
took up his side. “His sleeping bag is down. He’ll be warm enough.”

  “But what about animals?” Chad held his breath, aware the discussion had been taken out of his hands.

  “Like he said, he’s never seen anything bigger than a fox. I think he’d be okay for a night or two, Alice. He’s got to start sometime. It’ll teach him responsibility, being out on his own.” He looked back at his son. “It’ll be interesting to find out if he really isn’t afraid of the dark. The whole thing will be a real learning experience.”

  “I admit the weather’s good, but don’t you really think he’s a little young?”

  “Yes, he is, but he’s damn smart for his age and I know he won’t take any unnecessary chances. Will—you?”

  Chad shook his head violently. “I won’t do anything dumb, Dad.”

  “He’ll go in one direction only. As fast as he hikes, it won’t be hard to find him if there’s any trouble.”

  “There won’t be any trouble, Dad,” Chad said quickly. “What kind of trouble could I have? There’s nobody else around here and I’m not gonna try and climb any cliffs or anything. I’m only going on a longer walk. What could happen?”

  “You could break a leg, that’s what could happen.” His mother shrugged. “Overnight only, the first couple of times at least, and you be back well before sundown the second day. Then we’ll see.”

  “All right!”

  “You watch yourself out there,” his sister said, and to his great surprise, she smiled at him. Having spent his whole life engaged in sibling combat with her, Chad didn’t have the slightest idea how to react to affection on her part.

  He was so excited he rose with the sun the next morning. His mother was ready for him. Despite her concerns and objections to his forthcoming foray she’d prepared more sandwiches and medicine than any one boy would need short of an extended trek into the depths of the Amazon Basin, all of it neatly packed and ready to go.