by Mark Eller
Gerda looked expectantly at him. Aaron belatedly realized Bersalac had said something and waited for his reply. Reaching back into his memory, he dredged up a few remnants of conversation.
"What was that again?"
"You will find that you are not the only outlander among us when we reach Telven. Teacher made this same journey last fall."
"Teacher? What's her name?" This woman, Aaron assumed, would be an older person filled with religious fervor and a desire to uplift the noble savages from the depths of their ignorance.
"She has no other name," Besalac said. "As you are Death, she is Teacher."
"But my name is Aaron Turner," Aaron protested. Because of their insistence on calling him Death, or Bringer, or Chosen, the words had lost their shock value. Still, it would be nice to hear his true name every now and again.
Bersalac smiled while Gerda gestured to the plains surrounding them. Her sweeping hand took in the far horizon, the wind-suspended birds, and the thin clouds drifting high in the blue sky. "You sit on a Clan horse," Gerda said. "You ride over Clan grass, looking over Clan land and sky. These are our lands, and we name those who come to us. You are the Bringer of Death, Chosen of the One God."
"The hell I am," Aaron cursed. "I'm not Death's Bringer or the Chosen or anything else. I'm Aaron Turner."
She did not answer. None of them answered. Aaron knew they thought him their destroyer, their hope, and their tool. His task was to fulfill their shaman's prophecy.
In other words, he was here to be used.
Gods, he was thirsty. He needed something more than water. Alcohol would help the aspirin take away the pain. It had been a long time since he last rode a horse, and even then he had not ridden as far as this. Most of his rides had been short evening jaunts with Sarah after Kit had shown him how to sit on a --oh damn-- Kit.
Shit.
He had completely forgotten about Kit.
Uncomfortable prickles ran up and down his spine.
He had never gotten back to Kit. He had put the matter off and then forgotten about it entirely after writing a letter to the engineers. Felicity would not be happy with him. Worse yet, Kit would kill him. She would pull him right out of his skin and murder him. The last she had known, he was going off to fight a battle he had a good chance of losing. For all she now knew, he could be several weeks dead.
No, that was not true, either. She had her Talent for finding; she would know he was alive because he had moved far away from N'Ark. On the other hand, she would still be unhappy with him. He should have filled her in on the failed kidnapping attempt.
Maybe if he held off for a while longer. Maybe if he didn't actually make a visit for a few more months, her temper would settle down. It wasn't as if she wanted him around all that much anyway. As things stood, the less she saw of him, the better she liked it.
No, that wouldn't work at all. Kit would not forget. The longer he put this off, the angrier she would get--and making her angry was not a good idea because she owned a very solid right cross. He would have to find some excuse to slip away for a couple hours tonight to visit her. Maybe the work on the factory was far enough along to brighten her mood a little. He hoped so. One of them would need a brighter mood.
A sharp pain throbbed in the center of his back. Aaron shifted his weight to take stress off the affected area. His attempt worked, but it pulled at a muscle along his thigh. Tightening his lips, he peered at the sun and gritted his teeth. It would be at least another hour and a half before they reached the promised pond. Gods, he hated horses. If the misbegotten animals weren't trying to bite him, they tried to break him apart.
* * *
"Snakes!"
Aaron's screech brought curious stares from most of the others. Delmac scowled.
Heralda's laughter rang out across the open water. "They are harmless. See."
Bending down, she made a lightning fast grab and held up her arm as she straightened, a snake's neck grasped firmly in her fist. Hissing anger, its two-yards-long body writhed and twisted around her arm.
The sight of the muddy gray body against her bare skin made Aaron shudder. He hated snakes. He hated them far more than he had ever hated a horse. He would touch a horse and risk it taking a chunk out of him, but he would never, ever voluntarily touch a snake.
Twisting her wrist, Heralda brought the snake's mouth closer to her eyes. She gave Aaron a superior smile as her index finger repeatedly tapped it on the head. Chastised, the snake closed its mouth and used only its stare to let her know of its ire. Still smiling, Heralda kissed the snake on its snout, making Aaron want to gag as she allowed it to fall back into the pond. The water swirled momentarily, and then the snake was gone. Its disappearance did not soothe Aaron's mind--dozens of others were out there to take its place.
"They are friends," she called up. "When they are near we know the water is safe, because they are never in the same water as jirants."
"I don't care if they're the world's friendliest pets," Aaron called back. "I'm not getting into that pond."
"You stink," Delmac said matter-of-factly.
He stood waist deep in the pond, rubbing a combination of sand and mud over his body. A scraping stick floated beside him. Two snakes intertwined by his right knee. Snakes were everywhere in the water, too many to count.
"We will not allow you to ride with us when you smell so badly," Bersalac added.
Aaron snorted. The idea of walking to his destination in peaceful solitude instead of being torn apart by a blanket-draped horse was decidedly appealing. He had needed help dismounting once they stopped for the day, and he had not fully straightened up since. Even now, he didn't dare walk normally. His chaffed thighs made walking difficult unless he did it bowlegged, and even that hurt.
Even without the snakes, he would not go into a pond full of naked people. Except for Delmac, everyone was female. Aaron knew the clans saw little difference between a clothed and unclothed body. They also had no concept of marriage or fidelity.
Aaron was willing to admit their outlook had a certain appeal. Although the sun and wind had been harsh on their faces, these women looked stunning where clothing had protected their bodies. Their skin was dark and smooth and strong-muscle tight. Heralda looked especially good except for a fading scar just between her breasts, though at fourteen--
Aaron shook himself. No! He refused to think about her that way.
He snuck another look. Some of them did look pretty good--
--but what was he thinking? He had already been told his pale skin made him unappealing to Clan women. He would not think about it, not with Heralda who was too young, or with any of the others. He was married, and he would not cheat on Kit. Never.
Not that these women were interested.
"I'll get clean," he promised. "But I'm not going near that water. I'll fill my canteen from the inlet stream and use that to wash with."
Gerda paused in her scrubbing. "It will take you over an hour to do it right."
"An hour it is," Aaron agreed, knowing he had options other than the stream. "I'll see you when I'm done."
* * *
After transporting to the men's section of the manor's outhouse, Aaron walked to the main house and found it empty.
He walked back outside.
Nobody was out there, either. Aaron walked though the ranch yard, calling out for anyone, but received no reply. Most of the horses were absent from the barn, and two of the wagons were missing. He thought about walking over to the new factory building, but its doors were closed, and the window shutters were tightly drawn. He thought it unlikely anyone was inside.
Aaron went back into the manor, looked at the crossed out days on the calendar, and realized that it was Friday. Kit and the others would have traveled to Last Chance for the Lady's services. Kit took her religious observations seriously, and she insisted that those who worked for her did the same.
Relieved, he allowed his shoulders to slump. Reprieve. Kit couldn't blame him for not t
alking to her when she wasn't here. He was alone and filthy, and a water pump stood less than ten paces from the manor's front door. The water would be cold, but cold water was better than washing off in a pond filled with naked women and snakes.
Aaron strode over to the pump and stripped off his clothes. A bar of soap hung from a rope draped over the top of the pump. Shiver-cold water made him clench his jaw and gather his nerve as he wet down before lathering on the soap. His hands shook when he pumped the handle before cupping them under the flow to splash water on himself. The task was slow and inefficient and miserable, but he eventually managed to do a decent job of it. Finished, he decided not to put his sweat-stained and filthy clothes back on his newly cleaned body. He used the rest of the soap to wash them out.
Knowing Kit would not appreciate him dripping water all over her floors, he hung the clothes from a couple tree branches and, naked, walked back into the house. A short search found a sheet of paper and a pencil stub. He licked his lips and hesitated before finally setting the pencil to the paper.
Kit, sorry it took me so long to get back to you. About a million things have been going on, and I have spent too much time in places where I could not get away.
The problem in N'Ark has been resolved. There was no fight since the guard had already arrested the slavers before we returned. I am well. Will see you when I can next get away. Once again, sorry it took so long to get back to you.
Aaron
P.S. Sorry. I don't know what happened to your chopper. I am afraid it is lost.
Again, sorry.
"Well there, Kitty, me love," he said when he finished. "Explanation and apology all in one."
After looking at the letter, he decided not to return for a while since Kit tended to anger easily and cool off slowly. Something told him she wouldn't cool down for a very long time. Aaron's best bet was to remain distant. An angry Kit was an unsafe Kit. She threw things when she got mad.
His wet clothes would not dry for quite some time, and Aaron was unwilling to wait. Fortunately, he still had clothes in his room.
Aaron trotted upstairs and down the hallway to his bedroom door.
The door was locked.
Uh-oh
"Mister Turner," he muttered to himself, "this is not a good sign." He focused on an image of the floor immediately on the other side of the door.
Flicker
"Not a good sign at all," he repeated as he stood in his bedroom and gazed around. The process did not take long. The room had four painted walls, a white ceiling, and a window with blinds. His bed, his dresser, the chair he sat on while he pulled on his socks, the footlocker that had sat at the end of his bed, they were all gone. The closet door was open. It held empty hangers.
Yes. Kit was definitely in a mood. He would go back to his apartment in N'Ark--after he collected his wet clothes. He would not leave them here. He suspected Kit would dry them for him, on top of a bonfire.
Frowning, he flickered to the hall and made his way back downstairs. He padded through the kitchen and out the back door, only pausing at the sight of a water bucket beside the stoop. It figured. He could have filled the bucket for his washing instead of rinsing down with handfuls of water. Sometimes he just didn't take the time to think matters through. Hell, sometimes he didn't think at all.
Flicker
* * *
Four letters lay on the floor near his apartment door. Aaron stared at them as he slowly pulled on clean, dry clothing. One letter was in a powder blue envelope, one envelope had a floral design, and the others were plain business white. Each would probably demand his attention, his time. One persistent person or four separate ones, he was Not sure. He did know that people were pulling him thinner and thinner all the time.
He had moved to N'Ark because he wanted a nice, simple, stress-free life.
Welcome to the real world.
Aaron stretched his wet clothes out on the floor before looking at the undisturbed letters again. He would not deal with them now. Delmac and the women expected to see him soon. Delmac was the only clansperson who knew of his Talent. Aaron wanted to keep it that way, so he had to return in a reasonable time. If he read the letters, he would have to answer them. He did not have time for that, and he was not in the mood. Not when his legs and back and everything hurt.
So he wouldn't open them. Nobody knew he was here. He could collect the letters later.
Aaron took one more look at his small, generic apartment that was still filled with the personality of its last resident. It had furniture and chairs and small knick-knacks, but it held very little of Aaron Turner. Very little of Aaron Turner existed anywhere right now.
This damn place depressed him. The only thing going for it was that it held a couple bottles of wine. Well, a bottle and a half. He thought about grabbing the full bottle to take with him but decided against the idea. Explaining to the clanspeople where the wine had come from would be difficult. Instead he would-- Damn. He could not even grab a drink out of the open bottle. The smell on his breath would lead to awkward questions.
What if he just didn't go back?
Nothing prevented him from not returning. Everyone but Delmac would assume he had drowned or got lost or been eaten by the jirants. Did he really need to travel with them to see more of their culture? They were nomads and barbarians, for the Two God's sakes. What could they show him that would be of any interest or worth? Nothing! Absolutely nothing. He didn't need to break his body on the back of the blanket-draped, knee-chomping herbivore. There was no damn reason for him to continue on.
Except his word.
Aaron sighed.
He had given his word, his promise. Breaking that promise would further erode his integrity.
Damn.
Looking once again at the letters, he saw that the top one came from the engineers. Why would they write to him after his letter explained that he would be gone for an extended time. They knew he would not respond. If they had questions, they should contact Amanda. She would--
Amanda?
Crap. He had written the engineers, but forgot to write Amanda. She would be livid, but contacting her now would lead to a very long, very uncomfortable discussion. He did not have time for that.
Double damn.
Flicker.
Chapter 14
"Feeling nervous, Trainee?"
Joliet Random nodded. "Some. I've never done anything like this before."
Sergeant Walker laughed. "Hon, a lady your age hasn't done much of anything yet. That's one of the reasons we pull raids like this. It's exciting for you newcomers. Gets your adrenaline going, and gives you a taste of what you're getting into. Besides, it's a public service we're doing. There are hundreds of them out there, feral as all get-out and twice as likely to cause mischief. We bring them in. We get them to some sort of home, and we even civilize one or two."
"What if they fight us?" As best Joliet could remember, she had not been struck once in her entire life outside of her training in the guard. Not even her mothers had hit her for her few transgressions. Her home had been quiet and sedate because all fourteen children knew there would be hell to pay if it was not. Oh sure, there had been a few noisy moments and even a few fights between some of her siblings, but Joliet had never been part of that noise or those fights. She had been the perfect child, quiet, obedient, and always disciplined.
So why was she here now? What was it that had drawn her to join the N'Ark Guard less than twelve hours after turning fourteen? After all, she wasn't a physical person. She could not fight or run or do any sport. If anything, she fit into the 'brain' category since she was normally quick to pick up hidden meanings and connotations.
So why was she here?
The captain's arm raised.
When the arm dropped they were to move forward in a controlled line. Some officers were already in place; others were at the opening of alleys and beneath windows. The idea was to saturate a small area with enough officers that the guard would capture all
the feral children. Truthfully, the plan was expected to fail. These raids seldom netted more than three or four kids.
"Steady, Trainee. This isn't a battle. It's only a roundup."
The captain's arm dropped.
Joliet was so taken by surprise that she missed her first step. Embarrassed, she hurried forward until she walked in tandem with the others. Walker gave her a reassuring smile as they reached the first alley. Four guards dropped out of formation to take their places at the head of the opening. Looking ahead, Joliet saw a line advancing toward her, the second group of officers in this little enterprise. Four of them had also stopped at an alleyway. Joliet knew counterparts were stopping off at alleyways on the other side of the block. In the center of it all was a maze of nearly abandoned buildings and hideaways that twisted about in almost incomprehensible ways. N'Ark was an old town with a history stretching back more than four hundred years. It possessed rundown and ruined buildings equally as old. This warren had been designed only by time, not by human minds.
Feeling nervous, she peered down the alley as far as she could see. The ominous sight made her shudder.
Look at me, Joliet thought. Poor little rich girl is going to get herself into a rumble. She hoped it didn't hurt too much when she got struck. It wouldn't do to cry like a little child on her first permitted action.
What was she doing here?
"Our place," Walker whispered.
Joliet broke free from her thoughts as she and Walker separated out. Two others came with them, one experienced officer and another trainee. Joliet gave the other trainee an encouraging smile. The trainee smiled back, but her smile was almost sickly. The girl was ghost pale. In fact, she looked like she was going to puke.