Bhotta's Tears: Book Two of the Black Bead Chronicles

by J. D. Lakey

  “You think me careless of our lives, I know, but I am not so careless as Mora would be, nor nearly so bloody minded. I want to save us and this is the only way I know how.”

  He stared down into her eyes.

  “Tell me what you see, Little Mother. Let me in. Let me take some of your burden,” he said softly so only her ears could hear.

  “Truth? I am blind,” she said, her mind shying away from the ambient. “Death dances around me but I refuse to give up anything to it. I will not let it win. Not in this. Not in anything.”

  Tam considered her.

  “I will not say I understand but I will repeat what you must surely know. I am your blade and your shield. Let me do my job.”

  She returned his gaze but could think of nothing to say that would not harm them both, so she said nothing.

  Repeating the feeding routine from First Camp, she fed the bennelk, measuring out only as much food as would fit in the measuring scoop. When the animals seemed rested, they moved on.

  They reached the third camp around mid afternoon. Cheobawn slid off Herd Mother. Her legs would not support her. She ended up in a heap in the dust. Herd Mother nuzzled her, concerned. Alain pushed the large nose away and stooped to help her up, supporting her tottering steps to the watering pool while Tam and Connor set about feeding the animals.

  How much longer? Cheobawn asked, not sure if she could get back up on that broad back one more time.

  Soon, the Mother of her mind reassured her. She relayed that to the others but no one had the energy to laugh.

  It took longer for the bennelk to cool down. Cheobawn lay in the shade, her head on Megan’s lap, and watched as the boys groomed the coats of the tired animals, using curry combs found in the depths of one of the bear boxes. The bennelk seemed to appreciate this attention, their heads dipping down to the ground, their lids half closed in pleasure.

  Cheobawn dozed.

  Bear Under the Mountain was dancing the mountain into motion all around her. Things, near and far, moved to intercept her. She woke with a start and looked up into Megan’s face. Megan, sunlight turning her curls into a golden halo, raised one finely arched brow, a query on her face.

  “They found our tracks on the East Road. They know we have the bennelk. Mora has guessed our intent. Sybille and a handful of Fathers have just left the dome, riding the remaining bennelk who were locked in their stalls and could not kick their way free.”

  “What does that mean to us?” Megan asked, her face solemn and lovely in the filtered light of the dense canopy. Cheobawn reached out to brush a tangled curl from her friend’s brow.

  “We have less of a head start than I had hoped for. They are nine hours behind us but their animals carry adult weight. They have no spare mounts to change to when theirs become too tired. I think perhaps they will not travel as fast as we did. Twelve hours is the best we can hope for, barring anything Bear Under the Mountain might throw in their path.”

  “What is this bear?”

  Cheobawn thought about ignoring the question. It did no one any good if she revealed the depth of her own insanity. But this was Megan asking.

  “I thought it was something I imagined but Herd Mother knows him, too. If you put all the life around us into one body and gave it a mind, it would be Bear Under the Mountain.”

  Megan nodded, an odd look in her eyes.

  “Do you think I am crazy?” Cheobawn whispered.

  “No, no. Why would you say that? Have I not watched you grow up? I, more than anyone, know how your brain works. I am frightened for you, because your gift creates a wall between you and the rest of us who can only guess at what you see. You make us seem blind.”

  Cheobawn sighed. Megan would never lie to her nor would she put a nice gloss on unpleasant facts. This was the best she would get from her heartsister. Acceptance tempered with sadness.

  Tam squatted beside them.

  “We need to move,” he said softly. “The animals are ready.”

  Cheobawn sat up. Tam helped them both to their feet. Cheobawn was glad for the help. Her body felt as if it was a thousand years old, the muscles stiff, the joints creaking. Tam tossed her up onto Herd Mother’s back when it became apparent she was having a hard time getting her limbs to obey her.

  The sun sank toward the horizon as they rode on. The bennelk’s smooth gate turned to a labored, jarring trot as the day drew to a close. She wished with all her might for this to end.

  The relief was palpable in the ambient when they broke free of the trees and spotted the small dome constructed not far from the edge of the Escarpment. They had arrived at Meetpoint Camp, at last.

  Cheobawn sat up and stared. The world just seemed to end. She tried to make her brain work but the bottom of her stomach dropped out and her knuckles grew white as she instinctively clenched Herd Mother’s ruff.

  Stop, stop, she said, as the herd picked up the pace and began to jog towards the edge.

  Food, rest, Mother insisted.

  It was the roar of Badnite Creek Falls, filtering up the slope through the trees to the right that finally drew her eyes away from the edge. The sound gave depth to a world that seemed to float upon clouds.

  The children had little time to admire the terrible beauty here at the end of the world. The riderless animals crowded close to the great doors of the dome, jostling each other, ill tempered in their exhaustion. Tam slid down. The other children followed his lead and clung to each other, as tired as the bennelk. Herd Mother shouldered her way through her sisters to stand with her nose pressed expectantly against the dome gate. Tam found the security panel and palmed the door switch. The doors slid open. The animals pushed at each other, trying to be the first ones in and it took a bit of squealing and a few hard nips before they manged to sort themselves out and file in one by one.

  The Pack waited, out of way of the small stampede. After the last dusty rump disappeared into the dome, the children peered in cautiously. The entire floor of the dome was covered in deep straw and sawdust. Rope mangers hung everywhere, stuffed full of hay. In the center of the dome, a circular stone trough caught the water that bubbled out of a vertical pipe sunk into the stone of the cliff top, the overflow disappearing somewhere under the floor. Tam shooed them all inside. After a quick inspection of the interior of the dome, he seemed satisfied that all they needed lay inside the protection of the dome. Palming the security switch, he closed the doors, locking them in for the night. Cheobawn looked up in time to see the enviromatics open up the venting panels in the ceiling. She could only assume the body heat of the bennelk triggered the sensors. Clever engineering never ceased to impress her.

  An open platform ringed the interior wall of the dome at a height just high enough to be above the reach of an inquisitive fenelk nose. Megan found a looped chain. She pulled on it and a ladder dropped down from the edge of the platform. Scrambling up to explore, the Pack discovered sleeping pallets, supply boxes, and cook stoves. Even exhausted as she was, Cheobawn could not rest until the animals were taken care of. She hunted through the bags until she found the bennelk’s food nuggets. Dragging the heavy bag back down the ladder, she made sure each one received a triple measure. Alain found the curry combs and Connor found something that looked like a woodcarver’s awl that he said was for cleaning out claws and toe pads. Only after she was sure the herd was settled did she return to the platform. Tam had found a large pot in one of the storage boxes. It sat, simmering over a charcoal fire, filling the air with a smell that made her mouth water.

  “Stew? How did you make stew?” she asked in wonder.

  “All sorts of smoked, jerked, and dried stuff in the cook boxes,” he said with a tired shrug. “It may not be as tasty as Nedella’s stew, but at this point, I could eat boiled boot leather and be happy.”

  They shed packs, tunics, boots, and gaiters, and returned to the dome floor to bathe in the water trough. By the time Cheobawn came back up the ladder, her hair damp, wearing only her shorts and light undershirt, t
he stew had turned thick and bubbly. Megan found a tin of crackers in another box, so their supper turned into a small feast. Cheobawn ate three bowls of stew and a mound of crackers before exhaustion overtook her. She was all for falling asleep where she sat but Tam nudged her awake.

  “What do we do next?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said with a yawn. “Sleep?”

  “What do you know?” he insisted. “Give us a clue to what is going on in your mind, even if it is just a vague hint.”

  “The Lowlanders came over the lip about two clicks from here, to the east,” she said with a tired sigh.

  “So close?” seethed Tam, rising to his feet. Connor made a grab for the hilt of his long knife, as if to follow him.

  “That was days ago. I don’t think we need to go there. I am waiting for something.”

  “What?” Tam asked.

  “Shh,” Megan said, touching Tam’s hand. “She doesn’t know yet. Don’t push.”

  Megan and Tam began to argue. Cheobawn nodded off.

  Sometime later, Megan nudged her to her feet and led her to a sleep pallet.

  Cheobawn dozed, dropping in and out of sleep as the other children talked strategy. They had to find the Lowlanders in the morning, that much was clear. Sybille and Hayrald would be here before midday if the elders traveled all night without sleep. They would arrive in a foul mood and unwilling to listen to reason. Hopefully she would have some idea what their next move would be long before then.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The bhotta was old, uncountably old. Only the stones of the mountain were older. He remembered so many things. He remembered the time before the two-legged creatures, when his kind covered the surface of the planet, their dominion unchallenged by anything except the great sea spiders who climbed out of the deep waters in numbers so vast the sand disappeared under the heaving mass of their bodies. The spiders would bury their eggs in the sand, high above the highest tide, staying to defend the eggs until the hatchlings scuttled into the surf and the cycle began again.

  Before the two-legged beings, the sea spiders had challenged the bhotta only once every thirty cycles of the sun, just after the snows melted. Sometimes the bhottas won. Then the hatchlings crunched pleasantly between the teeth on their way down. Sometimes the sea spiders won. Then bhotta flesh fed the next generation of spiders.

  But that time had long since passed. The sea spiders had disappeared from the sea. The bhotta’s lowland cousins, their numbers diminished, no longer went hunting their eggs. Life learned its lessons well, passing knowledge on to ensuing generations. Survival meant hiding the body and the mind from the two-legged ones.

  The bhotta was old. He hardly needed to hunt anymore. It was just as well. The run down the mountain made his joints creak and his muscles ache. It was much easier to sit in his den and call the food to him. Once a year, as the cold sucked the green from the world, he would call a bennelk or two, fat from a summer of grazing. They would come, silent, compliant, to lay themselves across his jaws, that he might snap their necks to munch on them in peace.

  He was old. He had staked out his territory long ago and few were left who could challenge him. So it came as a surprise when the dark thing slid up the cliffs and wandered the limits of his domain, killing his children and taunting him with its power. He left his den one last time and went hunting.

  In the deepest, darkest part of the night, the Old Father bhotta found what he had come looking for and died for his troubles. Bear Under the Mountain wept as the giant lizard died, for with him went the last clear memories of sea spider and her children.

  As Bear forgot a part of himself and the world shuddered, wounded, Cheobawn woke. She wanted to scream or cry or throw up but she did none of that. When she thought that she could be silent, she pulled her fist out of her mouth and put her fingers to the small of her back, hesitant, searching. She expecting to find a gaping wound but found herself whole. It had been just a dream.

  Megan moaned in her sleep, throwing her covers off, her shirt soaked in sweat. Cheobawn froze, holding her breath. The older girl muttered, turned over, and settled back into exhausted sleep. Cheobawn waited, listening to the night. There was a silent void below her. The bennelk were awake and warding as hard as they could.

  It was time. Bear Under the Mountain pressed at her mind. Star Woman called silently. The Eater of Worlds danced in the ashes of Bears grief, howling in pleasure. She sat up. Her body protested. Here was her first obstacle. She was not recovered from the long day of riding.

  She stole energy from Bear Under the Mountain. She stole from Star Woman. She even stole from Eater of Worlds, though its energy made her snarl. She set it all into a spiral in the center of her body. Her pain disappeared. Her body, exhausted and depleted, burned the world instead.

  Then she divided that energy in half, setting another spiral in motion in the opposite direction, creating a warding bubble. Cheobawn disappeared inside it.

  Old Father Bhotta’s death hung in the air, pulsing like an angry wound in the ambient. She pushed it away, to just beyond the edges of her awareness.

  She looked from Tam to Megan to Alain to Connor. She could feel their love for her tugging at her, holding her here. She smiled, reassured. No matter how far she traveled, they would always pull her back. Gathering up her tunic and belt, the hunting knife still hanging from it, she slid them on as silently as possible. Then she rose and padded barefoot across the platform, hiding herself inside the bubble of her wards.

  At the bottom of the ladder she looked around. The bennelk stood frozen, watching her. She could see them but her mind kept sliding away. She would not disturb their silence by saying goodbye.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Eiocha hung high in the sky, her white light creating a gray twilight along the top of the cliffs. Cheobawn glanced over her shoulder, curious. The Lowlands were shrouded under clouds and mist. She could see nothing.

  Turning, Cheobawn faced the place in the ambient where Old Father Bhotta lay, the agony of his last dying thoughts driven deep into his bloodstones, their dissonance tearing at the world like a wound that would not heal. She spread her bare toes across the stone under her feet, listening to the mountain, drawing in its power. It gave her a sense of the planet. With this she built a compass and a map inside her mind. Now she knew where she was, where she had to go, and the path that lay between. She ran.

  There were no more walls left inside her anymore. Bear Under the Mountain came and went as he pleased. A laughing Star Woman picked up her dark skirts and danced, the stars in the hem of her skirt caught up in the rhythm of her steps. Somehow Cheobawn found herself and all she knew caught there as well. Eater of Worlds worried at Old Father’s remains, distracted by its prize, else he would have heard her coming.

  She lost herself. She lost any sense of time and distance. She could only feel her body remotely, filtered through light and shadow, like sunshine reflecting off a dark pond. Perhaps it was as she feared. Perhaps Star Woman wore her like a second skin and was walking around unmindful of the damage she might cause. Perhaps it was Bear who danced her body. She hoped it was Bear. Her interests most coincided with Bear’s, both of them wanting to save the thin, fragile fabric of life that existed on this tiny bit of rock under the Eiocha’s pale light. Star Woman, she had thousands of planets, so many that she would not grieve extraordinarily much if she lost one or two. Cheobawn could not afford to be that coldly pragmatic. She had only one home. She would fight Star Woman, with everything she had, to keep it safe.

  She ran.

  It was like a dream. In the dream, she ran down a game trail that angled towards Badnite Creek. She remembered running across a jumble of logs, a natural bridge, her bare toes unerring on the weathered wood, the rush of white water roaring underneath her. Her feet found another game trail on the other side of the creek. She took the westerly path when it branched, repeating the process again and again, each trail leading her closer to Old Father’s body.
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  Cheobawn compared the dream to the map in her head. She was going west and north, the game trails following the ridge line above Badnite Creek before heading up a small tributary. Old Father’s death pulled her onward, just as it pulled at all the carrion eaters.

  She stumbled to a halt, suddenly afraid of what lurked in the shadows around her. Taking back her mind from Bear Under the Mountain, she sniffed the ambient. Things paced along the game trails before and behind her; bat eared foxes, duff pigs, and little carrion lizards among the many. They paid her no mind, intent as they were on the promise of weeks of fat bellies.

  Oddly comforted by such company, she ran on.

  It became an endless cycle of breathing in the mountain, stealing its power to feed her tired muscles while maintaining her ward shield as Herd Mother had taught her. The hungry whisperings of a hundred little minds ran with her.

  The change in the ambient began so gradually, she hardly noticed. The minds of the carrion eaters grew silent. Star Woman hung in the sky, watching with baited breath while Bear sat quietly, oddly pleased about something. Curious, she stopped to peer into the gloom of the trail before her with more than just her Ear. A red-gold light flickered high in the canopy of a dense stand of cedars, the source hidden by a shoulder of the ridge. She cast her mind down into the heart of the light and listened to what came out of the ambient.

  Three unshielded minds beat loudly there, pressing at her, grinding at the bones of her face, overwriting the dissonance of Old Father’s death with their own.

  Trying to breath around the pain, fighting the rising nausea, she set about building a wall around herself so tight it felt like her psi sense had gone numb. Squatting on her heels in the middle of the game trail, she tried to calculate her next move. One thing was certain. There was no way she was going anywhere near these people. Truly, did Lowlanders walk around, broadcasting every emotion into the ambient like infants in the womb? She thought about what the Coven had said, thought of a dome packed with three million of such people. Horror sucked the breath from her lungs. Mora’s face flashed in her mind; the look on her face as she stood in Amabel’s birthing room, playing a game of half truths. Mora, holder of so many secrets, secrets she refused to share, had not shared this one, either. The Coven had more than a few good reasons to keep the Lowlanders far, far away from the tribes. She could not imagine Mora tolerating even an hour of such pain nor could she begin to contemplate the damage such people would inflict on Menolly and her acolytes. Of all the Coven, only Sybille would not flinch but her knives would drink their fill of Lowlander blood.