Entropic Quest
Page 19
which was roughly an hour, was counted off by a designated Timer, a Smacker who followed the horde but didn't take part in the transfers. Periodically, the Timer called out the count so the others would know how much time remained. It was a great point of pride among Smackers to make a great distance during this interval, and another Smacker was assigned to mark ground. How this was done remained a great mystery, but the regular truth was that every new scrum set a new record. By now the ventures were legendary. They were said to cover hundreds of miles in the segment.
Of course, no one took any of this very seriously. The Smackers did what they did, and they loved it. No Smacker was known to have ever resigned from the game, and not every applicant could be accepted. Strict tests were installed to make sure the aspiring Smacker was up to the task. If not, well, they had to be Hunters or Gatherers and keep up their training for the next sign-up period, which was a suitably rare occurrence. The all-time great Smackers were heroes, but since they kept all their activities unto themselves, no one else knew even their names. It was practically a secret society.
In the end, the last Smacker holding the ball when the segment was up would just let it go. The Timer called out "TIME", and everyone stopped. No matter his or her placement or position, no matter the size or condition of the ball, no matter the time of day or night, the last Smacker holding would open their hand and let the thing drop. After that, it was up to the Strikers, all of whom were simultaneously mentally alerted to this event, with a flashing in their eyes and a ringing in their ears. This was the instant the Strikers lived for.
The Timer called "TIME" and the Holder let go. He was perched at the top of a very tall tree, perhaps a hundred feet high in the air. The tiny crow egg started to fall. The tree, an old elm, was quite thick with leaves. It was certain the egg would get stuck somewhere up there, likely the egg would get broken, but down it kept going, falling and falling, evading each branch and each leaf, picking up speed as it hurtled towards the gravelly ground below. At that moment, a snake was peacefully snoring, curled up snugly around the neck of its master. Maybe it heard the egg whistling. Maybe it felt the breeze of its impending arrival. Whatever alerted her, Princess stuck out her tongue and held it there, steadily, and the little crow egg landed softly between the two forks.
Twenty Three
With all the flashing and the ringing, it took Barque several moments to realize that the so-announced ball was actually right in front of his nose, as Princess raised it teasingly to his face.
"O-ho!" he shouted. "Great catch, my girl! What a great catch!"
He'd been merely standing there, consulting with Baudry about what to do next. The two had been ambling aimlessly since they noticed that the women had vanished. They never did have a clue where they thought they were going in any case, so without Ember to drive them on in her man-herding way, they were pretty much at a loss. They'd stopped for lunch, then stopped for a snack, then stopped just to stop as the day went along. They hadn't made it far from the lake. In fact, Barque kept hinting he'd like to go back, maybe go for a swim, or at least look around a bit more. The unspoken notion was that he really wanted to meet Gowdy again. Baudry had peaked his interest in the once-famous bestselling author. Barque had a weakness for fame. Since he considered himself to be one of that kind, he felt a kinship with others who had some renown, as if they were destined for friendship. Bumbarta would not have honored that sentiment, but Barque could hardly know better. Baudry had resisted the suggestion, and wanted to avoid a meeting that was bound to go badly for Barque. It wasn't that he particularly liked the Striker. He simply didn't like conflict.
Now that the ball was in Barque's hands, however, the idea of the lake was out of both of their minds. Instead, Barque had only one problem. He possessed the remarkable thing, and he instantly knew it to be what it was, but where was he supposed to be taking it?
"Baudry," he said, "Where's the goal?"
"The goal?" Baudry stalled. Uh-oh, he thought to himself. I guess this is where I'm supposed to come in. The truth was, he hadn't been paying attention the whole time. He could have imagined this part would be his. After all, there were four of them called by The Hidden One, and four parts to their task, and one of those parts was the remarkable tree, in which would be placed the remarkable thing. As a Goal Hunter, it should have been obvious to him.
"Maybe I could just pick a tree, any tree," he muttered, and looking around, thought 'eenie meenie miney moe' while glancing at random surrounding trunks. He sighed, however, realizing it couldn't be so easy. The Hidden One would probably find out and then he'd be in big trouble.
"Um, this way, I think," he said, louder, and started walking off, away from the lake.
"Okay," Barque said cheerfully, tagging along after him. Barque began whistling, carrying the egg gently in his palm, while Princess blinked in pride at her conquest. It didn't worry Barque that all the other Strikers would have received the alarm, and would come hurrying after the ball. Any one of them could arrive any minute, and then there might be a struggle. It didn't matter which one of them originally came into possession of a ball. It was always ripe for the taking until the goal was actually scored. Therefore, a Striker must be ready to fight, not only to get it, but to keep it until he could strike. Many battles had resulted in more than wounded pride, although no one was ever seriously injured. Barque himself had never been scratched. He was bigger and faster and stronger than most other Strikers, and also the most foolhardy. Others were wise to be wary of him, and some of them simply gave up the ball when they saw him approach.
Baudry was finding it hard to stay sane. For one thing, Barque was a terrible whistler, and as a formerly world-class musician, Baudry was sensitive to horrible noises. He was also becoming quite anxious. He'd never been very good at goal hunting. Barque had been right. The only reason that Baudry was even on a team was because of the rule that no one could be rejected. Up to this point, he had found exactly two goals in maybe seventeen years, and one of those didn't really count, because he'd gotten it from another Hunter, who'd felt sorry for him. There was really no way he was going to somehow come up with one now, under duress and with the pressure mounting every moment. He was finding it harder to breathe, harder to think, more difficult even to walk.
"Um, Baudry?" Barque stopped whistling to say. "It sure seems like we're going in circles."
"We are?" Baudry looked up. He hadn't been noticing where he was going.
"Yep," Barque said. "We keep going around this old tree. About three times now I think."
"Really," Baudry stopped, and turned to look at the tree. It was a maple tree. Some of its leaves were yellow, some red, some brown and already falling as if it were autumn, but only for that tree. Curiously, there were several low branches which had rotted off, leaving knotholes behind them. Out of one of these holes oozed a sticky red sap. Baudry reached up to touch it, and put the gooey liquid into his mouth.
"Mmmm," he said, "syrup," and put out his finger for more. Just then, though, a squirrel came scrambling down from above, clucking and jabbering at Baudry and showing his teeth. The squirrel stuck out its paw and shook it at him. Baudry withdrew his hand quickly in alarm. Squirrels were known to be dangerous.
"Guess it's HIS syrup," Barque chuckled at Baudry's quandary. Baudry took a step back, and, annoyed by Barque's laugh at his expense, said,
"Yep, that's the one. That's the goal."
"The goal?" Barque asked him, surprised.
"Yes," Baudry nodded. "That's it. There you go," and with that he started walking away. Let Barque deal with that creature, he thought.
"Okay," Barque said slowly, as the squirrel kept menacing them. He hesitated, not certain what he should do. He thought about finding a rock, and throwing it at the thing, hoping that would scare it away, or maybe find a big stick and take a few whacks at the thing. Instead, it was Princess who came to the rescue. She struck fast, darting straight at the squirrel, which shrieked, and hurried back up the tree. Princess
retreated with a glow of success.
"Aha, then," Barque said. "Now this is going to be easy."
He held up his palm and gazed at the egg for a moment. He knew he could just reach out and place the egg into the knothole, but his Striker's pride wouldn't let him go easy. He focused his mind, and used his great power to levitate the egg and cause it to drift in the air toward the goal. Baudry had turned to watch, cringing with the fear that his choice would be wrong, that somehow the Striker would know it and turn to confront him. Barque narrowed his eyes and drove the egg steadily towards its target. Only a foot or so from the goal, a shout rang out from behind them. It was Gradge, another Striker, who'd only just now arrived.
"Leave off there!" Gradge cried, and Barque's concentration was momentarily broken. The egg remained in midair while he turned to gauge his opponent. Gradge was another sixteen, a tall, thin young man with bright long red hair and a face full of very bad acne. As soon as he saw it was Barque, he started trembling, but he forced himself to come forward.
"Leave off," he commanded uncertainly.
Barque frowned and took a step toward him. Gradge froze, his courage beginning to wane.
"Boo!" Barque shouted, and thrust out his arms.