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spews forth. When he breathes, any nearby living thing—be it man, beast, or plant—perishes from
his poison. He has no—"
In the midst of his carving, Dett came over queer, as if the ground tilted beneath him, or he had
eaten something that made him ill. "Enough, Grandmother!" he cried.
She stopped. "What is amiss, Dett?"
He reeled away from the bloody carcass, trying to keep down his nausea. He snatched a bucket from the foreign girl, Gefalal, and dashed cold water on his face. The queasiness receded, but the uneasy feeling did not. It was similar to what he sensed on the cliffs while watching the strange skies, but much, much stronger.
He glanced westward, toward the distant cliffs. Standing there, stark against the gray skies, was the red figure he'd seen before, swaying slightly on its flipperlike legs. "There!" Dett croaked. "Look to the west! Klevey comes! Do you see him?"
The villagers turned to stare, but the gods had granted the sighting to Dett alone. Unable to gaze at the monster any longer, he collapsed, retching. When he managed to look up again, Klevey had gone.
Beside him, Gefalal shivered with fear. He nodded, hoping to reassure her, then turned to the others, who were also staring at him in dismay. Dett was sober, quiet, and not given to displays, unlike his flamboyant brother. They didn't know what to make of his behavior.
"A sighting, nephew?" Uncle Talloc asked in tones clearly hoping for a denial.
"My second," Dett whispered. "I saw the Red Scourge yesterday, at the cliff bottoms. I planned to tell the council of it." "It is true," Mebaw said. "I spoke with Dett not long after the sight-ing." "This was worse. He stood on our land, though he was there but for a moment," said Dett. Grandmother pursed her wrinkled lips. "Well! This will be a more interesting council meeting
than most. Enough so, I suspect, to make me yearn for boredom. Under the circumstances, I shall tell a different tale, for fear my words bring back the Red Scourge."
"But I want to hear—" Rarpibb began, but fell silent at a sharp gesture from her mother.
"I shall speak of the swimming dances of the Seafolk, held in their glittering underwater palaces." As she related the simple story, the others returned to work. Dett listened anxiously as he hacked at the carcasses. It took a long time for the awful wretchedness inside him to abate. By evening, when the chunks of meat had simmered to perfection in the Pit, the families ate well, but Dett had to choke down nearly every bite. The fresh meat tasted foul, as foul as Klevey's breath.
That night, as Dett slept beside his wife and children, Klevey walked through his dreams. At first Dett thought it was just Orrul's wheezy rattle, which had recently worsened. Then he realized his mind's eye was seeing his well-tended fields of barley and wheat, and beyond them, the flower-sprinkled rise that marked the sheep enclosure. His mind's ears heard the sheep calling frantically while that hoarse coughing grew louder. Dream-Dett climbed the rise in the same place he and Mebaw had climbed when they stopped to check on Fummir-rul. He looked down on a scene of horror.
Woolly corpses littered the pen. Klevey, his huge chest heaving as he struggled to breathe air, lumbered after the surviving sheep on his awkward flipper-legs. Not that he needed to go near the animals to cause them harm. Some collapsed from sheer fright. Those close enough to smell the noxious fumes from the monster's mouth died in writhing agony, while others were felled by blows from his clublike fists. He popped an entire lamb in his gaping mouth; his daggerlike teeth shredded it, and blood trickled down onto his torso.
As dream-Dett watched, frozen in terror, he noticed two things that gave him hope: Fummirrul was not in the pen and the new sheep were escaping. As the older animals huddled near the wall, the new beasts, in almost orderly fashion, leaped on their backs and vaulted to safety. Even the ewes and lambs made it out, though it seemed impossible that the little spindly creatures could jump that high. Led by Trouble, the largest ram, the entire flock trotted north along the shoreline and disappeared from sight. Dream-Dett could only hope his son had vanished with them.
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Klevey soon decided he was done tormenting the sheep, so he lurched to the wall nearest to dream-Dett, and heaved himself over with his massive arms. Dream-Dett threw himself behind a boulder, hoping Klevey's single red eye had not noticed him. The Red Scourge followed the path to the tilled fields, and plunged into them. His flippers trampled the young plants; what he didn't crush, his venomous coughing destroyed. The tender green and golden shoots blackened and died; the skies grew darker and the air colder.
When all the fields were smoldering, Klevey finally stopped. The destruction was taking a toll on him. Spasm after spasm racked his broad chest. Klevey was skinless, yet his exposed red flesh glistened moistly as though his exertions had made him sweat. Black blood pulsed through the yellow veins crisscrossing his frame.
After what seemed to dream-Dett an eternity, Klevey stopped barking and wheezing. He rested a moment, knuckles pressed into the turf, then turned toward the village.
Dream-Dett knew it was futile, but he tried to scramble around the boulder to stop the monster. He slipped on the wet grass and found he couldn't get up, for something was pinning down his tunic. He wheeled around to free himself, only to find a large gray seal had the cloth in his mouth—nor did it appear ready to let go. It stared at him with eyes unlike any he had ever seen in a seal before. There was intelligence behind the dark pupils. No ordinary seal, then, but one of the Seafolk.
"You must let me go," dream-Dett pleaded. "Klevey is attacking my village!"
The seal, or, rather, Seaman, its mouth still firmly shut on the tunic, shook its head. Its belly and sides were encrusted with wet sand and a long tendril of seaweed was draped over one flipper. This gave it the appearance of having only just crawled out of the sea . . . except there were no tracks of its passing behind it, only the grassy heath, with the virgin shore some distance further.
"Have pity! Or are you in league with the monster?"
It shook its head once more, its wide eyes wet with tears.
"Is there nothing we can do?" he wailed, fully expecting the creature to shake its head a third time.
It did not, but released him so abruptly he stumbled onto the grass. When he turned back, the Seaman was gone, leaving nothing behind but the seaweed and a few smears of crusty sand on the grass. Dream-Dett ran into the village, but he was too late. Klevey had gone—the tracks of his flippers quite plainly ran through the entire community and down into the harbor, where they disappeared into the surf. A resounding silence met Dett, filling his ears until he thought his head would burst.
Then he awoke and found the silence in his own house was real. Or-rul was dead, his painful wheezing forever ended.
The village elders, when summoned by Mebaw for an urgent council, listened to Dett's account of his dream in an aura of concern. All were shaken by Dett's queer comments at the Pit and by the death of Orrul while his father was witnessing Klevey in his mind's eye. They tried to interpret what Dett had seen.
"Klevey means death and destruction," said the Mastersinger. The gaunt old man knew more songs and tales than anyone in the village, save perhaps Grandmother Glin. "He has not walked among us in long years. This dream is a sign he has come again."
"No doubt of that," said Mebaw. "My nephew's death is but the first, and Dett has feared for some
time that the strange skies portended ill."
Uncle Talloc pulled on his dark beard. "But what can we do? Nothing!"
"No!" said Grandmother Glin. "If we could do nothing, then the Seaman would have let dream-Dett die with the rest of us. After the Seaman released Dett, he disappeared. Where? Back to his home in the sea, of course. Therefore, we must beg the Mother of the Sea for protection. She alone can keep Klevey in the sea where he belongs, and away from our lands."
The Mastersinger nodded sagely. "And do not forget the monster's dread of fresh water. We should place buckets of lake w
ater beside the door of every house." Mebaw laughed. "And we should hope the weather stays bad! It is so cold and rainy, the enemy will dare not surface from the depths, for fear the raindrops might sizzle his skinless flesh."
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"My brother, watch your tongue," Dett said with great weariness. "You would not speak so lightly had you seen Klevey's hate-filled red eye."
Mebaw, for once, had the decency to look embarrassed.
Later that day, they put small Orrul's body to rest in the barrows beyond the village, then prepared an offering to the Mother of the Sea. They went down to the harbor, ignoring the icy drizzle, and everyone— even Gefalal the stranger girl and Fummirrul, who had left the sheep alone to participate—placed a pinch of grain in a bowl. Then Dett's father and uncle took their boat a short distance into the bay where they dumped the bowl and a chunk of venison, in hope s the Mother would find it pleasing. The Mastersinger, accompanied by Mebaw, sang many verses in praise of the Mother while Orrul's closest relatives made an offering for his safe journey to the world of the dead.
Although Dett grieved for the loss of his small son, his spirit felt lifted by the devotions. And it helped that the heavy rain clouds blocked out the dread, red skies.
Unfortunately, the offering did not please the Mother, for there soon followed the coldest autumn and winter anyone could remember, even Grandmother Glin. It truly seemed as if the Mother had lost her strength, and Lord Father Winter reigned supreme. A snowfall ordinarily lasted a day or so, but now white drifts blanketed the island. No sooner did one melt than another covered the land once again.
Klevey was working in tandem with his oath-brother, for his vile touch was evident in the stunted wheatstalks, the frost-damaged vegetables, the withered and brown grasses. With the cold and the failing crops came the deaths, leaving no family unaffected. Uncle Talloc was hardest hit, losing a dozen family members to different ailments. Only his oldest son, now a widower, and Gefalal survived. Dett's wife, Jolpibb, and the baby died before the solstice, and only Grandmother Glin's skillful nursing saved Rarpibb from a deadly flux. Grandmother herself seemed undaunted, save she walked more slowly and her back was more bent. Otherwise, she was as enduring as the red cliffs, taking punishment from the pounding waves, yet still standing.
Fummirrul, on the other hand, no longer smiled and joked, and his slim frame seemed bonier than ever. He had ceased complaining about the pesky new sheep and treated Rarpibb so tenderly the little girl wearied of it. One night, she tried pinching him to provoke him into teasing back. He simply moved away to the other side of the hearth and continued sewing a seam in his trousers. That was usually women's work, but the only woman in Dett's household was Joloc, and she was sorely overburdened. Under more ordinary circumstances, Grandmother Glin would have stayed to help Joloc; Glin had no permanent home, being related to everyone, but moved where she was needed. As the most skilled healer, she was in constant demand that season. It would have been too selfish of Dett to insist she stay after Jolpibb died, not when others needed her care.
Rarpibb, small as she was, helped where she could. Her sister was teaching her homely skills, but she was still clumsy at sewing and weaving and weak from her illness. Dett hoped Rarpibb would stay healthy and learn more, for the day would come when Joloc's courses would begin, and she would eventually wed and move into the house of her husband's family.
But that was still several years distant. For now, Fummirrul's somber ways were a more immediate burden on Dett's mind as he and Mebaw worked to repair a hole in Mebaw's roof. "It's as if Fummirrul's spirit is being crushed by all the deaths. He has not laughed in days. Every week, he reports we've lost another sheep, and Joloc counters that another villager has died. How long can Klevey plague us?"
Mebaw barked his knuckles on a chunk of flagstone and swore mildly. "Well, Grandmother insists that your encounter with the Seaman means that at least some of us will survive. The elders agree with this interpretation. I'd even go so far as to say that you have something to do with our chances."
"Me? I'm nobody special. It's men like Father and Uncle, the bold ones, who accomplish things." "But the Seaman appeared before your mind's eye and did not deny you when you asked, 'Is there nothing we can do?'" Dett laughed bitterly. "Here's what I can do: patch a roof."
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"Fine. Maybe that will prevent the rain from soaking my family, and thus we shall not freeze. You have saved perhaps nine people."
"Always joking, brother."
"I am not joking. You may have already helped us prepare for this cold reign of Lord Father Winter, with your clucking over the strange skies. My wife, matching your worries with her own, was especially frugal with our grain this summer. Thanks to her foresight, we will have enough to last till spring. Other wives did the same."
"Jolpibb among them," Dett said, tears welling up in his eyes.
"Ah, but I have spoken with men from other villages on Western Island. Some of them are already starving, and Klevey's culled their flocks the way he did in your dream, right down to the last lamb. Your boy Fummirrul may mourn our losses, but we've still got a decent-sized flock, and promise of more come spring. I went by our pasture yesterday, and that troublesome ram was humping the ewes like a woolly bridegroom on his wedding night. Made me feel proud to be male, he did, and the other ram, the brown one, was having his share of the ladies, too."
Talk of the sheep made Dett feel uneasy. "All the same, it is easier to be frugal when there are fewer mouths to fill. I imagine there is plenty still in Uncle Talloc's storebins, as there is hardly anyone to eat it in his house."
"Hush! Here he comes, his own self, and he looks angry. Greetings, Uncle!"
"Greetings, Nephew Mebaw. I would speak to you a moment, Nephew Dett. A matter of concern between our families." Talloc drew his sealskin cape across his barrel chest—he was built like Dett—and waited for the younger man to slide down from the rooftop.
"Something wrong, Uncle?" Dett asked.
"Your son, Fummirrul, has been spending time in the company of the stranger girl, Gefalal. He has been doing so for many months now."
"If this has been so for many months now, why do you sound annoyed by it?"
"At first, I did not mind. Fummirrul has helped her learn our tongue. Perhaps she learned more from him because he is nearer her own age. I am grateful, for her position in my house has grown in importance since Klevey has taken so many of mine, including wife, daughters, and daughters-in-law. It is good she knows simple words and commands. But he must not come near her any longer."
"Why? Where is the harm? They are but children."
Talloc kicked a loose stone, sending it ricocheting off Mebaw's house. "Because she is now meant for Glinaw, my last remaining boy! I do not want anyone, not even a grandnephew, taking her and planting his seed within her!"
"How absurd, Uncle!" said Dett. Clearly, grief had rattled the older man's wits. "She is still unbloodied, and Fummirrul has not yet sprouted his man's hair, nor had his first dreamtime wetness. He's a boy still, with the slender shoulders of youth and a high voice like those of the shore-birds. As for his manhood . . ."
"I care not that Fummirrul's manhood is as yet unripe. If he stays any longer by Gefalal's side, he will know what to do as soon as it is ripe, and he will desire to do it with her.
"Gefalal could start her courses any time. She is a woman in shape, no longer the ragged stick-child we rescued last spring. Her hips have widened, to prepare for bearing my grandchildren. Her breasts have rounded, the better to nurse my grandchildren." Talloc's breath came a little faster, puffing white in the cold air, and he shifted his feet, as if suddenly uncomfortable. Dett had not seen enough of Gefalal to realize how much the stranger girl's body had changed over the seasons, but clearly Talloc knew it in detail. Dett suspected his uncle's lecture had two goals: to protect Gefalal for Glinaw, or, if Glinaw died, to save her for himself. Glinaw had the same wasting cough that had taken many of the villagers in the last month.
And Talloc was still virile, though getting on in years: his wife had died in childbirth not long after Dett's dream.
Dett said, "As you wish, Uncle. I shall speak to the boy, though I am sure you are worrying needlessly." "You would worry, too, had you been as afflicted as I! At least three of your children still breathe! Even those daughters of mine who dwelt with their husbands are gone, and all the grandbabes with
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them." He choked up, then abruptly walked away.
"Well!" said Mebaw from above. "That was an unpleasant performance."
"He is shaken by grief."
"Shaken by lust, if you ask me. He's just waiting for the stranger girl to ripen, then he'll pluck the fruit. Glinaw doesn't have a chance; he must have breathed plenty of Klevey's fumes." This uncomfortably echoed Dett's own thoughts, but he said nothing out of respect for his uncle's position and sympathy for his losses. It sometimes seemed Mebaw respected nothing. "I must speak to Fummirrul," Dett said. "This news will only make him gloomier, I fear. He enjoys talking with Gefalal."
"Go, then. I can finish this myself."
Dett pondered. "It grows late. He should be putting the sheep back into their enclosure soon. I will wait for him there, if he has not yet returned from the pastures."
He began trudging through the village, noting house after house and remembering those who had died. Icy slush covered the ground; Dett could feel the chill creeping through his boots. As he made his way past the silent fields, he realized he had been avoiding the sheep pen ever since his frightful dream. He knew why: he didn't want to see the place where Klevey had run rampant before his mind's eye. Even now, ascending the rise, he felt uneasy, though the harsh winter landscape differed significantly from the green grasses of his dream. The tiny pink flowers were long gone.
He heard the sheep baaing as he approached, but not the frantic calling he remembered in his dream. Nor, when he looked down, did he see ruin and destruction. The sight, however, was sobering: perhaps a fourth of the flock had died, and some of the remaining beasts were sickly. By some weird twist, all of the animals taken by Klevey thus far had been from the old flock. The new southern sheep, for all their frisky and peculiar ways, seemed in far better health.
Turtledove, Harry - Anthology 07 - New Tales Of The Bronze Age - The First Heroes (with Doyle, Noreen) Page 35