Tallas (The Tallas Series Book 1)

by Cathrina Constantine

  The beast stopped and appeared to be waiting. Still holding the beast’s fur, Fabal twisted around to see his mom astride of the horse in Fulvio’s arms pacing toward them. He’d dropped the reins, granting Zennith his head. The stallion’s muzzle prodded the lush vegetation and, pushed the creeping vines aside. The horse and Tibbles, with their riders slipped into a secret cave.

  Peering into the darkness, Fabal inhaled a cold, loamy odor as his body swayed in rhythm to Tibbles lumbering gait. He glimpsed over his shoulder at their ingress, the vines interweaving, mending the gap through which they’d entered.

  Scritch—a tiny flame fluctuated in the dark.

  Fulvio guided the match head to what looked like a pole. Swoosh. The pole blazed with flickering torchlight. Toting the flaming pole in one hand and supporting Keeyla with the other, Fulvio and Zennith headed down a tunnel. Tibbles followed as Fabal viewed undulating shadows dancing eerily over the chamber.

  Farther and farther, they went under the mountain. Fortifications of granite upheld the narrow passage as soft soil gave way to stone. Coming to a fork, Zennith dithered then subsequently steered to the right. In the span of twenty yards, the horse halted and knelt, allowing Fulvio to slide from the saddle.

  When Tibbles finally came to a rest, Fabal loosened his death grip. The beast tipped sideways to dump the boy. Rolling over the ground, Fabal leapt to his feet and gave the beast a piqued glower.

  “Here, Fabal,” Fulvio said. “Take the torch.”

  Executing a wide berth around the beast, he took hold of the torch. He shadowed Fulvio, who was carrying his mother. He deposited her on a divan. Her unconscious body depressed the cushion, and a squirt of downy feathers puffed out of a small slit in the fabric.

  “Bring the light closer.”

  Fabal held the torch higher, illuminating numerous barrels and storage containers bordering the periphery. He also noticed a darkened niche containing a variety of armaments.

  His curiosity appeased, he glanced down at his mother’s colorless face. Her breath shallow as Fulvio removed the torn rags he’d applied earlier to quell the bleeding. Fabal gagged and turned from the sight. Images of the indented hole on the Mediator’s forehead flashed to mind.

  “Damn, it’s a lot of blood loss.” It was then that Fulvio noticed the torchlight shifting. “Here, give me that before your bobbling sets us on fire.” He walked to the center of the cave, where a ring of rocks bordered a fire pit, and set the torch to a bundle of prepared wood. It sizzled and sparked to life, making the darkness recede into the cracks and crevices of the cavern. He then rooted in one of the barrels, retrieving water bottles and what looked like strips of linen. Tossing a bottle to Fabal, he said, “Drink, my boy.”

  Fulvio sloshed the linen with water and swabbed Keeyla’s face, then dabbed her shotgun-holed shoulder. He balanced the rim of the bottle to her chapped lips, water dribbled into her mouth and along the side of her face. He set the bottle down and, taking dry linen, securely wrapped it around her shoulder and under her armpit, securing it with a knot.

  Afterward, he rummaged through a rectangular trunk. Finding what he was looking for, he carried a woolen blanket to the divan, covering Keeyla. Then he turned to Fabal. “I need to leave for a while. There’s a medicinal plant I need to get for your mother, which can only be found at night as it blossoms by the light of the moon. Keep her warm and try to get her to drink. If she wakes, don’t let her rise or move. She’s lost too much blood already.”

  Fabal looked from Fulvio to his mother. “But—but you mean? You’re leaving me alone?”

  “Of course not, my boy.” He chuckled. “Tibbles will keep you company.”

  Fabal peered at the beast, now curled up like a gigantic cat by the fire.

  “If you need me for any reason while I’m gone,” Fulvio said while tapping a finger on his bearded chin. “Tibbles will find me.” His thick eyebrows lifted high onto his forehead like he’d remembered something very important. Rushing to a barrel, he shoveled through it and extracted a vial. He returned to Keeyla and inserted a dropper between her lips.

  “What’s that?” Fabal asked.

  “I’d almost forgotten my latest attainment of a liquid pain reliever. It’ll suffice for a while.” Without another word, Fulvio wedged his toe into the stirrup and, gripping the saddle horn, mounted the horse.

  Fabal gawked at the backend of Zennith’s swishing tail as his newly discovered grandfather trotted from sight.

  Chapter 9

  Stupefied, Fabal peered at the giant creature. He left me alone with that? Executing furtive backward steps, so not to incite the snoring beast, he left the warmth of the fire to linger near his mother’s bedside.

  When his stomach grumbled loud enough to rouse the dead, his eyes flicked to the bear. He covered his belly and prayed the creature wouldn’t stir. It didn’t. He reached for his satchel. Opening the flap, he withdrew the stale bread, dried turkey, and the last of the grapes. He popped a grape into his mouth, treasuring its juicy goodness. He unwrapped the hard bread and crunched the paper in his fingers.

  The beast jolted awake, and black beady eyes targeted him.

  Fabal turned to stone.

  Sitting upright, legs in a straight-out position like a child, Tibbles meaty paws hung in front of him. His snout flexed, snuffling. Even positioned on his rump, the beast was a daunting six feet tall. His blocky head tilted to the side, and a guttural mumble came from his mouth.

  Like a dazed marionette, while keeping his gaze on the beast, Fabal brought a piece of the bread to his mouth. His teeth ground it to paste. Attempting to swallow the paste was difficult, as his throat had dried with fear.

  Monitoring the beast for any sudden movement, and simultaneously pondering how to protect his mother should he attack, Fabal sucked in another grape. Imbued with dread and slightly peeved that his grandfather hadn’t returned, a nervous boy rocked from side to side.

  The beast also commenced to rock side to side.

  Fabal didn’t know what to make of the bear pantomiming him. He lifted a hand and scratched the top of his head. The beast’s meaty arm also rose, scraping into his fuzzy skull. He outstretched his arms, so did the bear. He yawned, so did the bear. He snorted a chuckle, so did the bear.

  After a few minutes, as the bear’s actions amused him, his fear decreased. He moved closer to Tibbles, telling himself it was probably a mistake. As a peace offering, he held out a jittery hand with a piece of turkey and tossed it at the bear’s feet. Fabal scrambled backward as Tibbles tipped forward and, with taloned claws, speared the turkey and flipped it into his mouth.

  “You’re hungry.” He waved a tempting slice of meat in the air. “Like me, right?”

  Tibbles grunted and shook his head in response. Fabal snickered and divvied up the remaining package of bread and turkey. Confiscating the grapes for himself, he slid the food within a paw’s reach. The bear collected the vittles and scarfed the food in one bite.

  “Wow, I guess you’re real hungry.” Fabal hoped the beast wouldn’t think of him as a tasty nibblet.

  In haste, he rifled in the satchel for more food.

  After pitching more scrapes of bread, his fear ebbed completely. He hedged even closer to the bear. With a yard separating them, they shared bread and turkey, and he even rolled a couple of grapes in the beast’s direction. Tibbles missed time and again as he endeavored to impale a grape with his taloned claw. A giggle jingled up Fabal’s throat.

  “Those can really hurt it they catch on your skin,” he said, pointing at clumped patches of burrs on Tibbles. “You might want to get rid of them.” The bear’s head bent low, as if trying to see the spot he’d indicated, and he actually shrugged.

  Ever mindful of the looming animal, Fabal moved closer then closer. He again pointed. “Right there, a bunch of prickers. If you promise not to eat me, I could get rid of them.” He hesitated, tipping his head to peer up at black inquisitive eyes. “Okay, I think I can do this,” he said, more
to himself then to Tibbles.

  A bit wary, he touched the coarse texture of the beast’s fur and, after closer inspection, noted it was tinted blue. Careful not to puncture his fingers, he tugged burr after burr, throwing them into the fire. When he’d completed the right side, he worked over to the left.

  “There, I think that’s the lot of them.”

  Tibbles paw swung out, catching Fabal’s shoulders, drawing the boy to his ginormous chest. Fabal thought for sure he was a goner. Foregoing a quick bear hug, the beast released him, and snorted in gruff, happy tones.

  Fabal ran his sleeved arm over his forehead. “Phew. Okay, that was different.” He plucked a number of furry hairs sticking to his lips, then noticed shadows appeared to be closing in on them. Gathering an armload from the dwindling woodpile, he lobbed the timber into the dying fire. “We’ll be needing more wood,” he said to no one in particular.

  Seeming to understand, Tibbles came to his full, shocking height and padded from the cave.

  Staring in wonder at the departing animal, he heard a mild groan issue from the cushioned divan. He darted to his mother. She fidgeted, rucking the woolen blanket off her body. He dampened a rag and dabbed her face then squeezed water over her lips as Fulvio had coached. Pulling the blanket to his mother’s chin, he spotted the bandages were turning red.

  He added fresh linen scraps to the wound, pressing tenderly. Wrinkling his nose at the sight, the blood absorbed into the threads of the linen almost instantly. He tucked the blanket under his mom’s chin. Her eyes were open, staring at him. He forced a smile. “Hi, Mom. Fulvio’s getting some medicine to stop the bleeding. You’re going to be okay.”

  She stirred, causing a twinge to her brow. “Fabal, I want you to know.” Her voice sounded brittle. “Your father’s alive. They said he was alive.” As she tried to move her face twisted. “Water.”

  Obtaining more water, the cool liquid seemed to soothe her scratchy throat.

  “We’ve got to get him out of the village. They’ll make an appalling show of his escape, especially when they return without you.” She coughed. Each exertion caused the white linens to fill with more blood.

  “Mom, you need to relax until Fulvio comes back. Just rest, don’t talk anymore.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered, looking zapped of energy.

  Where the heck is Fulvio? Pouring water on a rag, he blotted his mom’s forehead.

  Soon, click clopping echoed throughout the cavern as Zennith, with Fulvio astride, returned.

  “My dear boy,” Fulvio said while disembarking from the horse, “go to that black trunk. Inside should be a mortar and pestle.” While gesturing, he noticed Fabal’s confused expression. “A mortar and pestle is a small bowl and a stick that resembles a tiny baseball bat. I assume you know what that is?” He didn’t linger for the boy’s nod, and headed over to Keeyla, and tsking as he unwound the bandages.

  Fabal turned to fetch the requested gadgets.

  While Fabal held the bowl, Fulvio shredded greens and added water and a few drops of the liquid pain reliever. Taking the bowl from the boy, he ground the concoction into a mushy salve. “I’m no physician. That is your father’s business. But I do know we must stop the spread of infection. If I cauterize the wound too soon it might seal in bacteria. Devoid of proper antibiotics—” He paused in thought. “We must stem the flow, so we’ll apply this salve for another hour and then I’ll cauterize the wounds. Possibly an herbed broth would do her good,” he said as he pasted the salve over Keeyla’s flesh.

  “Doogan?” Her eye’s flickered.

  “No, Keeyla—Fulvio. I hope I’m not hurting you. But this should help the sting and draw out any germs.”

  “Doogan’s alive. He’s alive…” Her voice thinned to a muted whisper.

  Fulvio blinked, rinsing his eyes of brimming water, and inhaled a shuttering breath. “Ah—h, I’m so happy and relieved to hear that. When I found you and the boy alone in the woods…well, I assumed the worst.”

  The heads of Fulvio and Fabal turned to a noise coming from the mouth of the cave. Tibbles entered with an abundant armload of wood and dropped them on the shrinking pile. Fulvio said, “Thank you, Tibbles. I can always count on you.” Resuming his task, he reapplied linen bandages to her wound. “Rest now. You’ll need all your strength.”

  Fulvio walked to a corner and grabbed a wooden stool, headed to the fire and sat.

  Scanning the heaping menagerie of items, Fabal discovered only one stool stood among them. Discontented, he was about to sit on the ground when his grandfather said, “Check around in some of the barrels. I believe we have a supply of sleeping bags and whatnot.”

  A grunt panted from the beast.

  “I’m sorry, Tibbles,” Fulvio said. “Go and eat. You must be ravenous.”

  Tibbles thumped on all fours and tromped toward the dark passage. The boy’s head bobbed in awe. The bread and turkey barely filled me. It was probably a nibble for a beast that size.

  Scrounging in a metal locker, Fabal found a rank smelling sleeping bag. He tried not to whiff in the odor as he unrolled the bag and made his bed near the fire pit. Sitting cross-legged on top of the material, he faced his grandfather.

  Firelight played on Fulvio’s predominant mane of silver hair, and on his forehead, a collage of horizontal grooves deepened in the dim light. He reminded Fabal of his father, excluding a stream of lines from his piercing gray eyes carving into his whiskers. Stretching over the man’s broad shoulders was a billowy, button-down shirt and a tawny-colored tunic made from burlap. The tunic flounced over camouflage cargo pants, which had rectangular pockets filing down the legs, and a wide leather belt, scarcely visible under his bulk.

  Obtrusive in height and width, Fulvio stared, as if hypnotized by the flames, stroking his beard.

  Fabal cleared his throat. “Fulvio?” His grandfather appeared spellbound, but questioned anyway, “How did you find us?”

  Fulvio blinked repeatedly and his brow arched as if surprised to see him. “Well, Fabal,” he uttered, coming to his senses. “I’d been on the look-out for months, waiting for your family’s arrival. Zennith was the first to alert me something was amiss by reacting to the sound of gunfire.”

  Fabal glanced at the stallion, whose mighty head jogged in assent as he trotted from the cave.

  “Ah, his time for a respite.” Fulvio’s broken grin exposed white teeth behind the chunky mustache. “Well now,” he said, “where was I? Oh yes, Zennith and Tibbles have excellent hearing, not like my old ears.” He probed his ear with his pinky finger. “I need to clean out the cobwebs every once in a while.”

  Fabal’s shoulders hunched as he snickered.

  “There’d been a vexing squall,” Fulvio continued. “Thunder and rain. At first, I thought they’d confused the thunder with gunfire, but then I heard a blast. We raced toward the sound. And when I happened upon you and Keeyla—without your father, I thought I was too late. At least, too late to save my son. But I’m elated to hear Doogan is alive and—”

  “Probably not for long by the time the Mediators get done with him,” Fabal butt in. “My parents wouldn’t listen to me. I told them to go back. I’d make a good mole and then we’d be safe in our village. Not perfect, but…” He shrugged and twiddled with a loose string on the sleeping bag.

  ***

  Listening to his grandson, Fulvio quivered. His heart quickened with memories of Doogan, no older than Fabal. His small back lacerated from a whipping he’d received after stealing apples. Doogan had contracted an infection and a racking fever after that. The inflamed gashes welling with pus, and Doogan’s mother, Brige, had applied medieval poultices, temporarily relieving his ache. All forms of medication were lacking, yet, Fulvio had appealed to his colleagues to furnish him with antibiotics. But his pleading had fallen on deaf ears, since hungry little boys such as Doogan were heralded as criminals and had no right to the coveted drugs.

  In his search for a cure, Fulvio had uncovered a secret. Due to deficien
t provisions, Management had confiscated pain-relievers, antibiotics, and general medicine for their sole use, until more could be processed. When Doogan had finally recovered, Fulvio left the stately mansion, where he was honored as an Elite, and moved his family into the village.

  Fulvio regarded Fabal. The boy’s eyes looked haunted by events no youngster should have to endure. “My little one, we gain knowledge by our mistakes. I have devastating, war-torn memories of my youth, the worst tolerable being after I reached manhood. I once was like you, full of fervor. Existence in a ravaged world requires courageous souls and there were countless.

  “Alas,” he said, “history forever repeats itself. Corrupt people in power with their hypothetical rhetoric continue to despoil what is left of civilization. Originally, Management was formed to stabilize and bring peace to the survivors, however, a species of dictators has evolved.” Fulvio pushed fingers through his hair. “Tallas has physically improved—somewhat—in the past thirty years with the downgrade of radiation in the water supply and growth of chemical free vegetation.”

  Fabal blew out a breath, winking sleep from his eyes. He laid down and pillowed his arms under his head.

  “Your parents were correct in their course of action,” he stated, coiling the ends of his mustache with his fingers. “Management doesn’t have the right to recruit children.” He scrutinized the boy for a moment. “Have you ever wondered why children were conscripted so suddenly?”

  Fabal stifled a yawn. “To find water in small underground outlets,” he answered and readjusted his posture. “Adults are too big.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, my little man,” Fulvio tsked, and in doing so, his mustache quirked.

  Fabal’s eyes sagged and his body seemed to be melting, the lesson in history could wait. Instead he tried to alleviate the boy’s angst. “Your father is greatly needed for his medical proficiency. They won’t terminate him.”