The Howling Stones

by Alan Dean Foster

  Or else, she concluded tiredly, she simply did not pos­sess the necessary cultural referents for understanding.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She stayed awake until her body demanded sleep, and then she gave it little enough of that, rising immediately after the sun to check on her patient. Pulickel lay as she'd left him, prone and motionless on the couch, blinking at the ceiling. According to the scanner, his vital signs were unchanged. Small comfort, she mused.

  At her invitation, the Parramati who had been waiting patiently just beyond the defense perimeter filed som­berly back into the station. Ascela performed a respectful introduction, following which the oldest seni Fawn had ever seen stepped forward.

  His name was Ijaju. Ills back was bent and sharply curved forward, his tail broken so many times it no longer was held out stiffly but hung down, limp and flexible, be­hind him. Incapable of hopping, he could advance only by shuffling, sliding forward one huge foot at a time. Instead of being held erect and alert, his ears lay fiat on the top of his head. When he spoke, the double eyelids opened no more than a crack. It gave him the appearance of being perpetually asleep. The long snout was shrunken and wrinkled, the lips cracked and blackened, and most of his teeth were missing. Those that remained in the aged jaws looked none too healthy.

  But the delicate three‑fingered hands did not shake as they traced the length of Pulickel's comatose form. Fawn kept silent for as long as she could stand it before finally stammering, "Can you help him?"

  Ancient eyes turned to meet her own. The healer's voice was a lacework of whispers, and she had to strain to make out the words. "I do not know. One who has taken to such roads in ignorance may be doomed to wan­der them forever."

  "Wander‑but he's here," she protested.

  The elder didn't argue with her. "I will try. But not here. To heal, two stones are necessary. Two stones and two masters."

  That much made sense. Based on what she now knew, no stone functioned on its own. At least two were re­quired and for all she knew, sometimes more.

  "Where, then?"

  "Torrelauapa." As he said this, several of the assembled big persons indicated solemn assent, executing in unison the gestures she had come to recognize as the Parramati equivalent of a nod.

  Insisting that the patient be stretchered so that Ijaju could watch over him, and leery as always of the skim­mer, the Torrelauapans carried Pulickel over the moun­tain trail back to their village. Lesser males and females looked on in silence as the line of big persons conveyed the body to the longhouse of Solinna. Though subordi­nate in age and status to the visiting Ijaju, her healing skills were respected throughout the region.

  No feasting, no celebration preceded the treatment. The villagers went about their daily tasks as if nothing out of the ordinary was going to take place. This was very different from the ceremony of the blessing of the planting that Fawn had witnessed. Those youngsters whose innate high spirits could not be restrained were gently guided away from the healer's longhouse. Several elders whom Fawn had come to know well came up to her to offer condolences. Their concern made her feel ashamed. None of this would have happened if they'd simply left the stones alone.

  Which they couldn't do, she knew with equal certainty. Not after the planting ceremony, and especially not now. Pulickel would agree with her absolutely‑once he was able to agree to anything again.

  She refused to countenance the possibility of that never happening.

  Pulickel was placed on one of the most finely woven Parramati mats Fawn had ever seen. Incense pots were placed at the four corners of the mat and lit. Aromatic smoke filled the room, drifting out through a hole in the sharply raked ceiling.

  With two young villagers supporting him under either arm, Ijaju settled into a resting squat close by the motion­less xenologist's head. Solinna assumed the lesser posi­tion, at the human's feet. Chanting and waving pucici fronds, they set their respective healing stones down in front of them. These were typically unimpressive lumps of the same glassy green material Fawn had seen before.

  The chanting continued without a break, monotonous and uninspiring. Waving at the smoke, she frequently stepped outside for some fresh air and sunshine. No one could give her an idea of how long the ceremony might last. She knew that by nightfall her companion's body would be demanding fluids even if he couldn't come right out and ask for them. That would mean a return trip to the station for the necessary equipment. Whether it in­terfered with the healing ceremony or not, she had to at least get some sustaining glucose solution into him.

  She intercepted Ascela as the big person was bounding past. "I can't see that anything is happening or that this is doing Pu'il any good. When does the healing start?"

  The weather stone master eyed her sympathetically. At least, Fawn thought it was sympathetically. Her knowl­edge of Parramati expressions was less than perfect.

  "The healing has already begun, F'an." She took one of Fawn's hands in hers, the long fingers wrapping com­pletely around the smaller human hand, the middle one twice. That gesture, at least, needed no interpreting. "They are seeking the right road. Challenging or otherwise in­terrupting them may divert them from their course and make the healing more difficult."

  Frustrated and less than reassured, Fawn debated whether to call a halt to the ceremony and have Pulickel returned to the station. Assuming he'd shown no im­provement by then, she'd have no choice but to call for a medevac. Her options were limited by his condition.

  She ducked back into the longhouse, waving at the pungent smoke. His color was unchanged, which meant that it was still not good, but otherwise he appeared physi­cally healthy. While this could not be allowed to go on for days, recalling the effectiveness of the planting cere­mony convinced her to give the Parramati healers until the following morning. At that time she would have no choice but to have Pulickel evacuated to Ophhlia.

  Meanwhile she could only try to contain her frustration and nurture a hope that she didn't feel. With a start, she realized how much she missed Pulickel's quiet confi­dence, his assurance that any problem could be solved, any obstacle overcome. What she had initially perceived as blind stubbornness she now saw as conviction born of experience and knowledge.

  Maybe he wasn't the liveliest or most entertaining of companions‑but he was human. Once more she had only aliens for company. She found that she'd grown used to conversing in terranglo again. She even missed his im­plied insults.

  She doubted if analysis of the stones he'd taken would have provided any clues to his present condition. It did not matter in any event because they had been returned to their respective stone masters. By now she'd seen many of the sacred stones. Irrespective of function and while differing in size, all were similar in shape and composition. Even had they been available for analysis, she doubted they would have provided the necessary answers.

  Night had crept in quietly and the Torrelauapans had prepared and consumed the evening meal. Too troubled to be interested in food, she had declined polite invita­tions to join them. Bathed in torchlight, she stood outside the longhouse listening to the chanting from within. It did not seem to have changed much, if at all. In her mind she had begun to compose the evacuation request that would have to be sent to Ophhlia in the morning.

  She forced herself to chew a couple of concentrate bars and drink some supplement‑enhanced juice. It wouldn't do Pulickel any good to let her own system run down. A glance at her chronometer suggested it was time to make yet another check on the xenologist's condition. Know­ing in advance what it would be, she took a deep breath and bent low to reenter the longhouse.

  She'd grown semiused to the smoke, and it no longer stung her lungs as badly as the first couple of times. What she saw through the lingering haze snapped her out of her lethargy faster than any energy bar.

  Ijaju and Solinna had moved. Instead of squatting at Pulickel's head and feet, they now faced each other across his chest. Each held arms straight out toward one another, the f
ingers not quite touching. Ijaju's trembled slightly but did not falter.

  Resting beneath their hovering hands on Pulickel's chest was a single vitreous mass: their respective healing stones fused to become one. From it emanated an in­tense halo of pinkish‑green incandescence that had spread out to infuse the motionless xenologist's entire body. The light was brighter than that of the torches outside, brighter than that put out by the portable illuminator she carried in her backpack. So intense was it that his fea­tures were partly obscured, as if by a translucent pink­green wave. The concentrated effulgence cast strange shadows on the squatting bodies of the attendant stone masters.

  Afraid of disturbing them, she tiptoed inside and edged slowly along the interior wall until she found a place where she could see everything clearly. As she stared, Pulickel's body twitched sharply. Not adrenaline shock, she decided, but something else, something much deeper. He began to moan then, and it was the most horrible sound she'd ever heard emerge from a human throat. A shiver ran like ice water down her spine, and it took a consid­erable effort of will for her to keep from rushing forward and terminating the ceremony. All that stopped her was the realization that the stone masters had managed to in­duce a reaction, albeit a terrible one.

  The moan changed to a high keening, sharp and mea­sured. It was repeated at unpredictable intervals as the chanting rose to fever pitch. She stood motionless, unable to decide whether to rush forward, reach for her medikit, or flee. Ascela's warning loomed at the forefront of her consciousness. If she interrupted, the stone masters might have to start all over again. She didn't know if Pulickel could take that. Hell, she thought, she didn't know if she could take it.

  Several Parramati big persons pushed their way into the room with uncharacteristic abruptness. Usually they were unfailingly courteous, but this time they ignored her as if she weren't there. So intent were they on their pur­pose that she was convinced they would have shoved her aside had she been blocking the doorway.

  While Solinna sustained the chant, Ijaju leaned for­ward and grasped the conjoined stones with both hands. As he did so he barked instructions to the new arrivals. At that moment he seemed not ancient, but young and vigorous.

  The Parramati clutched Pulickel's flailing arms and legs and held him down. One did her best to keep his head from banging against the thick mat and the floor be­neath. Meanwhile that hideous keening continued to is­sue from the xenologist's throat.

  As Fawn stared wide‑eyed, the wailing began to soften and fade, the violent thrusting and thrashing of limbs to lessen. Pulickel's movements grew less pronounced, the terror in his throat less compelling. Then, with a deep sigh, his entire being seemed to relax and slump back against the mat.

  Solinna bent forward and put her six fingers on the stone. The radiance vanished and the mass came apart in her hands, separating once more into two dull green lumps. Taking hers, she rose and moved to the right side of the longhouse. Ascela and Massapapu helped Ijaju to his feet while Osiwivi reverently picked up the remaining stone.

  Something wonderful had happened in the longhouse, Fawn knew. Something that had very little to do with burning herbs and traditional chants and a great deal to do with a couple of seemingly static bits of rock.

  Approaching tentatively, she confronted the exhausted senior healer. Ijaju responded with the Parramati equiva­lent of a smile, more subtle than the analogous human expression but distinctive and ‑recognizable nonetheless. He continued to lean on the two Torrelauapan big per­sons for support.

  "Your friend will be alive now."

  She blinked uncertainly. "I don't understand. He's been alive all along."

  The venerable healer turned to look at the prone form of the xenologist, whose eyes were closed for the first time since the Vouneans had brought him back into the station.

  "No. He was not alive. His form was here, but the part of him that constitutes life was elsewhere, lost between here and the bad place where he was." Wizened slitted eyes gazed up at her. "He had started back down the proper return road, but somewhere along the way that part of him slipped off and could not find its way back on. Solinna and I had to help him back onto the road."

  It didn't make any sense, Fawn thought. But then, very little had since Pulickel's signal had vanished from the skimmer's pickup. Stepping past the healer, she knelt close to her companion and put a hand on his right shoulder.

  "Pulickel? Pulickel Tomochelor, can you hear me?"

  There was an extended moment of awful nothing. Then he blinked, opened his eyes, and turned his head toward her. For an instant, the briefest of instants, she felt that his gaze focused not on her but on something behind her. Behind his eyes there was a flash of panic the likes of which she'd never seen before. Then it was gone, re­placed by fond recognition, and she knew he was looking only at her. He smiled weakly.

  "Hello, Fawn Seaforth. It's good to see you again."

  "Good to see you, too." She squeezed his shoulder. "What happened?"

  "Where am I?" Pushing himself up on his elbows, he surveyed his surroundings.

  "Torrelauapa. I had to bring you here to bring you back."

  With her hand at his back he was able to sit up all the way. "Do they know about the stones I took?" he asked in terranglo.

  She nodded. "They've taken them back. I never saw either one, but they say they were responsible for what happened to you. When they brought you into the station you were completely comatose."

  "When they brought me in?" He blinked at her. "You didn't pick me up in the skimmer?"

  "I looked but I couldn't find you. Even your emer­gency locator was down." She fumbled with her back­pack, seeking the medikit. "You still haven't told me what happened. The Parramati say that you used the stones to travel down a bad road." She handed him a couple of energy tablets, which he promptly chewed up and swallowed.

  "I was seen taking the second stone. They came after me, and I ran. I remember tripping and falling. The stones must have been thrown together when I fell, be­cause I remember a light coming from my backpack. I re­member..." His voice trailed away, his eyes unfocused, and he shook himself back to awareness.

  "I'll tell you everything when we get back to the sta­tion. At least, I'll tell you as much of it as I can recall." A shudder passed through him.

  "Cold?" she inquired solicitously. Within the long­house, the temperature matched the humidity.

  "Only spiritually. I saw‑I saw some things I'm not sure I want to tell you about. Or try to remember. There are events I'd rather forget. That I'm going to have to work hard at forgetting."

  "While the Parramati were using the healing stones on you, you made some‑‑sounds. I'm not so sure I want to know what inspired them either."

  "Healing stones. I didn't know ..." He winced, his face contorting. His expression was drawn. "I don't feel so good."

  "I'm not surprised. Can you stand?"

  "One way to find out."

  With her assistance he rose shakily to his feet, but he was able to stand and take steps without help.

  "You can't walk all the way back to the station. Not in the shape you're in." She was unshakable in her opinion of his condition. "You haven't had anything to eat since the day before yesterday."

  "Two days." He pondered this.

  "I'm sure Ascela and the others will be willing to carry you back. Or I can go and return with the skimmer."

  "You're right. I'd best not rush anything." He eyed the attendant Parramati. "Maybe I could get something to eat besides energy tablets and concentrate bars."

  "Sure. Meanwhile you'd better take it easy or you're liable to keel over and hurt yourself."

  He licked dry lips. "I don't feel like racing any of the village sprinters, if that's what's concerning you. But there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with my ap­petite." Again the gentle, familiar mule, which she ap­preciated now more than ever.

  "Funny," he told her as she put the request for food to Ascela, "how in spite of whatever
trauma the mind may suffer, the body responds with its own demands. Hunger, thirst, the need for warmth: some things are beyond shock. What have you got there?"

  She held out her hand to him. "More concentrates." She urged him to take them. "Until real food arrives."

  He nodded and took the thin, foil‑wrapped bars. When his bare fingers touched her own she started slightly.

  "You're cold, Pulickel."

  "Too few calories and too much emotion."

  Her fingers wrapped around his and he smiled as he squeezed back, but the usual wiry strength was absent.

  They spent the night in the village. Pulickel ate every­thing that was placed before him and asked for more. Fearful of overloading his stressed system, Fawn ra­tioned his food and drink accordingly.

  It had been a long time‑a very long time‑since he'd been mothered, and while he had a hard time thinking of Fawn Seaforth as maternal, he found himself warmed by the attention nonetheless.

  Not until midmorning of the following day, and not until after he'd demonstrated to her satisfaction that he was capable of sustained physical exertion, did they start the long hike back to base. He snacked on concentrated field rations all the way and ran half a dozen programs through the food processor as soon as they entered the station. Just when it seemed that his bulging belly was about to explode, he declared with great satisfaction that he was finally sated.

  Retiring to the main lounge, he settled into the same couch on which he'd lain comatose the previous day and tried to give her some impression of his experiences.

  She listened to it all. Initial disbelief gave way to gradual, awed acceptance. It was too fantastical for her prosaic associate to have imagined, too rich in detail for him to have invented. Outside the realm of logic and rea­son, it hewed consistently to a frenzied, crazed internal logic all its own. For more than an hour Pulickel played the caterpillar and she was Alice.