by Sharon Lee
CALAMITY'S CHILD
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Pinbeam Books
http://www.pinbeambooks.com
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used fictitiously.
CALAMITY'S CHILD
Copyright © 2006, 2011 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that distributing an author's work without permission or payment is theft; and that the authors whose works sell best are those most likely to let us publish more of their works. First published in WHEN by SRM, Publisher.
Sweet Waters first appeared in 3SF #1, Spring 2002
Sweet Waters ©2002 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
A Night at the Opera first appeared in Murder by Magic, edited by Rosemary Edghill, October 2004
A Night at the Opera ©by Sharon Lee and Steve MIller
ISBN:
Kindle: 978-1-935224-30-3
Epub: 978-1-935224-31-0
PDF: 978-1-935224-32-7
Published April 2011 by
Pinbeam Books
PO Box 707
Waterville ME 04903
email [email protected]
Cover Copyright © 2006 Thomas Peters
Cover design by Richard Horn
CALAMITY'S CHILD
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Dedicated to
Glennis and Thomas
Sweet Waters
The trap had taken a kwevit -- a fat one, too.
Slade smiled, well-pleased. Beside him, Verad, his hunting-partner and his oldest friend among the Sanilithe, saving Gineah, grunted in mingled admiration and annoyance.
"The Skylady Herself looks after you, small brother. Three times this day, your spear failed to find its target, yet you return to your tent with a fair hunting of meat."
"The hunters before us this morning were noisy and hurried -- making the game scarce and distant even for your arm," said Slade. "My spear flies not quite so far."
Verad waved a broad hand at the sky in a gesture meant to take in the whole of the world, and perhaps the whole of the universe.
"It is the trail we find today, hunter."
Slade nearly smiled -- Verad's stern-voiced lesson could have as easily come from one of his merchant uncles, for all that those uncles would scarcely acknowledge Verad human and capable of thought, much less sly humor. The humor was lacking at the moment, so Slade kept his smile behind his teeth, and moved quietly toward the trap and its skewered victim.
"If I am a poor hunter," he asked, "is it wrong to find another way to take meat?"
"The tent must eat," Verad allowed. "Still, small brother, a hunter should keep several blades in his belt, and be equally skilled with all."
Slade knelt on the wiry moss, put his spear down, and carefully removed his kill from the trap.
"One skill at a time," he murmured. "The tent must eat speaks with a larger voice than Slade must hunt with erifu."
From the side of his eye, he saw his friend make the sign to ward ill luck. Slade sighed. Erifu -- "art," or, as he sometimes thought, "magic" -- was the province of women, who held knowledge, history and medicine. Men hunted, herded, and worked metal into the designs betold them by the women.
"If you are a bad hunter and discourteous, too," Verad commented, settling onto a nearby rock. "You will be left to stand by the fire until the coals are cold." He blinked deliberately, one eye after another.
Slade frowned, rubbing the trap with nesom, the herb hunters massaged into their skin so the game would not scent them.
"What if I am left unChosen?" he asked, for Gineah had been vague on this point. He situated the trap and set the release, then came to his feet in one fluid motion.
"Those left unChosen must leave the Sanilithe and find another tribe to take them."
Slade turned and stared -- but, no, Verad's face was serious. This was no joke.
"So, I must be Chosen." He chewed his lip. "What if I do not come to the fire?"
Now, Verad stared. "Not come to the fire? You must! It is law: All blooded hunters who are without a wife must stand at the fire on the third night after the third purification of the Dark Camp's borders."
Tomorrow night, to be precise, thought Slade. He would be there, around the fire -- a son of the grandmother's tent could do no less than obey the law. But...
"Sun's going," Verad said.
Slade picked up his kwevit by the long back legs and lashed the dead animal to his belt. He recovered his spear, flipped his braid behind a shoulder with a practiced jerk of his head, and nodded at his friend. "I am ready."
*
The scattered tents of the Sanilithe came together for Dark Camp in a valley guarded by three toothy mountain peaks. It was toward the third mountain, which Gineah had taught him was called "Nariachen" or "Raincatcher" that Slade journeyed, slipping out of the grandmother's tent after the camp was asleep. He went lightly, with a hunter's caution, and spear to hand, the cord looped 'round his wrist; the broad ribbon of stars blazing overhead more than bright enough to light his way.
He should not, strictly speaking, be away from night camp at all. Man was prey to some few creatures on this world, several of which preferred to hunt the night. But come away he must, as he had during the last two Dark Camps -- and which he might never do again, regardless of tomorrow night's outcome.
To the left, a twisty stand of vegetation formed out of the shadow -- what passed for trees. He slipped between the spindly trunks and into the shocking darkness of the glade, where he paused. When he had his night eyes, he went on, angling toward the mountain face -- and shortly came to that which was not natural.
It might seem at first glance a shattered boulder, overgrown with such vegetations as were able to take root along its pitted surface.
At next glance, assuming one hailed from a civilized world, it was seen to be a ship, spine-broke and half-buried in the ungiving gray soil.
Slade moved forward. Upon reaching the remains of his ship, he fitted the fingers of both hands into an indentation of the tertiary hatch, braced himself and hauled it back on its track, until there was a gap wide enough to admit him.
Inside was deep darkness, and he went slowly, feeling his way along the broken corridor, his soft-soled boots whispering against the dusty plates. His questing fingers found an indention in the wall, he pressed and a door clicked open.
Carefully, for there was torn and broken metal even inside the one-time supply cabinet, he groped within.
His search gained him several small vials, a single cake-bar of the survival food he'd wrinkled his nose at in pilot training class, and an ironic appreciation of his situation. He had fought the ship to the plains, knowing it unable to survive a planet-fall in any of the world's salty seas.
By the seas, he might have found a mix of food and vitamins better suited to his off-worlder needs -- but the scant beaches below the cliff-lined continents were all of shale and broken rock, and he had thought an inland grounding
might preserve his ship.
Choices made. Or as Verad might put it, this was the trail he found today.
He unzipped the cake wrap, the burp of preservative gas letting him know it was still edible, and -- though the sweetness of it was surprising -- ate it as if it were a delicacy as he continued to rummage through the former larder.
One more tiny container came into his hand -- the last of the wide-spectrum antibiotics. He tucked it into his pouch with the others, pushed the door shut, and crept onward in the dark.
As he moved, his back brain did the calculations: if he rationed himself to a single dose every three days, he could stretch the vitamins he needed to survive through one more migration cycle.
At last, he gained the piloting chamber, where a single go-light glowed, faint. He inched forward and sat in the chair which, with its webbing and shock absorbers, had doubtless saved his life, and reached out to touch a switch.
The stats computer came up sluggishly, the screen watery and uncertain. Despite this, he felt his heart rise. His ship was alive.
Alive, yet mortally wounded. The distress beacon, its power source undamaged, gave tongue every six Standard hours, hurling ship ID and coords into the heedless chill of space. For two full turns of the Sanilithe seasons -- almost three Standard Years -- the distress beacon had called.
With no result.
A less stubborn man might by now have given up hope of rescue. He supposed, sitting there at the dim board in the shattered belly of a dead ship, on the eve of being either mated or cast out, that he ought to give up. Surely, the choices before him were daunting.
Were he cast out of the Sanilithe and left to his own methods, he might hunt well enough to feed himself. Perhaps. Certainly, he could not expect any other nomadic, hardscrabble tribe to adopt him. It bewildered him yet, that Gineah had taken him in -- undergrown, wounded, and without language as he had been.
As to the probability of being Chosen at the fire -- he considered that approached negative numbers. Worse, if he were, by some passing madness of the local gods, Chosen, he would forthwith have broken every non-fraternization reg in a very substantial book.
The consequences of which were merely academic, unless he were rescued.
And, surely, he thought, flipping his braid behind a shoulder and leaning toward the board, if he were Chosen, his underfed and nutrient-lacking seed would quicken no child among the Sanilithe.
If he were, against dwindling odds, rescued, and left thereby the tent of his wife, she would not suffer. Her sisters would care for her, and share with her the profits of their tents, until all converged upon the wintering Dark Camp again, and she might Chose another hunter to serve her.
And if he were Chosen and remained unrescued -- well.
The day's trail did not always yield good things.
He touched a key.
The screen blanked, then swam back into being, displaying the last entry he had made in the log, on the night before the Sanilithe broke apart into its several Light Season bands and roamed far, gathering what foodstuffs could be wrested from the sullen land.
Carefully, he placed his fingers on the pad and began, slow and hesitant over his letters, to type, giving as the date Dark Camp, Third.
Last night, the final purification was done by the eldest and most holy of the grandmothers. Tomorrow night, I am to stand around the fire as a candidate husband, for the choice of any woman with need. If this chance comes to me, I shall seize it, in order to remain in proximity to the ship and to the beacon.
If I am not chosen, I will be forced away from this kin-group. Should that transpire, I will shelter in the ship for the remainder of the Dark Season. Then, if rescue has not found me, I will attempt to reach the sea. If I make that attempt, I will record my plan here.
I have this evening withdrawn the last of the nutrient drops and antibiotics from the emergency locker.
He hesitated, his right hand rising to finger the length of metal in his right ear, which named him a son of Gineah's tent, just as the heavy braid of hair identified him as unmarried. Married hunters, such as Verad, had their hair cut short, and wore the earring of their wife's tent with pride in their left earlobe. Slade sighed, thinking that one might wish for a mating, if only to be rid of the braid.
He put his fingers back on the keys. When he had begun this log, he had filled it with observations of custom and language. There had been less of that, as odd custom became that code by which he lived, and the curiously nuanced language the tongue in which he dreamed. Likewise, he had previously recorded the weakness which came to him when he denied himself the supplements and ate only local food. There was no need to repeat that information for those who ...might... read what he had been writing.
He moved his fingers on the keypad, laboriously spelling out his name:
Tol Ven yo'Endoth Clan Aziel
Scout survey pilot
Then, as an afterthought -- though he'd done the transliteration earlier in the report -- he added one more typed line:
Slade, second named son of Gineah's tent.
*
Slade stood, Arb on his right hand, Panilet on his left, before them the man-high blaze of the Choosing Fire. It was difficult to concentrate in the flame-swept darkness, for which he blamed the various brews he had been compelled to swallow during the purifications, as well as the chants and songs of those of the tribe gathered to witness the Choosings.
Briefly, he closed his eyes, seeing the flames still, dancing on the inside of his eyelids. The day had begun at sunrise, with Verad rousing him from Gineah's tent and hustling him, with neither meat nor berries to break his fast, to the far side of the encampment, where the hunters of the Sanilithe gathered, each bachelor under the patronage of a married man. Verad stood as Slade's sponsor, for which he was grateful.
There were prayers to recite, smokes to inhale, and strange beverages to drink. There was no water, nor tea, nor aught to eat. Still, he was not hungry and as the day with its duties progressed he found himself remarkably calm, if slightly lightheaded.
At last the waning sun disappeared behind toothy Nariachen. Slade, bathed and oiled by Verad, shivered in the sudden coolness, his naked skin pebbling.
"Drink," his friend said, offering yet another horn cup. Obedient, Slade drank, feeling the liquid take fire in his blood. He handed the cup back, blinking to clear the tears from his eyes.
Verad grinned. "That will put the heat of the hunt into you!"
An aphrodisiac? Slade wondered, as Verad carried the cup away. It seemed likely -- and too late to wonder to what lusty adventures the dose in the cup, meant for a broad-shouldered and heavily muscled specimen such as Verad, might incite his shorter and more slender self.
"Now..." Verad returned, bearing a strip of soft, pale leather. He showed the length between his hands. "Up with your arms, brother! I will dress you finer than any who will stand beside you." He slipped the skin 'round Slade's hips, wrapping it in an arcane pattern. "I took this one after last year's Choosing, when Gineah had held you back from the fire, saying that next year was soon enough." He worked swiftly, making the leather kilt tight.
"One throw of the spear brought it down, and I asked my wife for the skin, for I had a brother-gift to make." A final flourish and he stepped back, pride plain on his wide face, his grin displaying several broken teeth.
"There, now," he said. "What woman wouldn't Choose you? That's the question!"
It was certainly, thought Slade, slowly lowering his arms, a question. He looked down at himself. The kilt was ...brief, and he suspected, from what seemed a very great distance, that he looked ridiculous.
"Don't be so long-faced," Verad said, leaning forward and slapping him on the belly. "All muscle and lithe as a finoret, too! There will be Choosers brawling to have you!" Another broad grin, then a wave of the hand. "Turn around, small brother. I have one more gift to give you."
Careful on feet gone slightly silly, Slade turned, and felt his braid tugged, l
oosened. Heavy, his hair unwound across his shoulders -- two long seasons of growth.
"Like honey," Verad crooned, and Slade felt a comb slip down the length of his mane. "You will glow in the firelight, like a star. The eyes of the women will be dazzled. Doubt not that you will be Chosen. And when you are..." The combing and Verad's crooning whisper resonated weirdly in his head -- or perhaps it was that last drink. Slade closed his eyes.
"When you are Chosen," Verad continued. "Your wife will lead you to her tent. There, she will reveal a great mystery. A very great mystery." The comb stroked downward, soft and hypnotic. "In the morning, she will cut away all of this honey-colored hair and you will return to us as a man and a husband.
"Your wife will take you to the metal worker, and she will put the hot wire through your ear and twist it into the sign of her tent. Then..." The comb whispered down once more ... stopped. "And then, we will hunt together as full brothers." He snorted, for a moment the workaday Verad. "And you will practice with your spear until it is said truly that you never miss a cast."
Yes, very likely. Slade tried to say that, but it was too much trouble. Behind him, he heard Verad laugh, and felt a calloused hand on his shoulder.
"To the Fire, brother."
Slade opened his eyes, and glanced quickly to each side. Arb yet stood at his right hand. Panilet was gone. Chosen. Despite the heat from the fire, Slade shivered, and closed his eyes once more.
*
Arb had long been Chosen, and the man who had stood beyond him.
The Fire was a black bed upon which a few red embers kept vigil. Slade frowned at them, wondering laboriously if one of the witnesses beyond the circle would come and tell him to leave; if he would be brought his spear, and his tough hunter's leathers, or if he would be cast forth weaponless and all-but-naked.