Jane Carver of Waar
Page 35
I looked over at Lhan and smiled. Maybe we wouldn’t go looking for magic stones after all. Maybe in the morning I’d ask him if he’d rather just take a road trip instead.
Somewhere around there I started to drift off. My eyelids drooped and my brain got fuzzy. I rolled over and spooned against Lhan, purring like a cat.
I thought I heard a noise through the fog. Had Sai’s messenger finally come? I was almost too tired to care, but I lifted my head. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
There were shadows in the next room. Candle flicker? No. The candles were out.
I tried to shake off my sleep. I couldn’t. Something was wrong. The room smelled like butterscotch pipe tobacco.
There were shadows over the bed. Shadows in orange and white robes. They reached for me.
CHAPTER THIRTY
BANISHED!
I woke up on a rock floor with the mother of all hangovers drilling for oil in my head, and an elephant sitting on my chest. At least something was squashing me into the ground and crushing the air out of my lungs. I could hardly breathe. Wherever I was, it was dark, but the way my gasping echoed I knew I wasn’t outside.
I tried to lift my hand to find out what was on my chest. It was heavy as lead. Was I wearing a chain mail shirt? It was an epic struggle just to raise my arm, and when I finally dragged it over my body I touched naked flesh. And there was nothing on top of me. What was this fucking weight?
“What the hell is going on? What the fuck did those creamsicles do to me?”
I got to my feet. It took a while. It felt like I was giving Andre the Giant a piggyback ride. A faint green light was coming from somewhere and after a bit I could make out some details. I was in a high-roofed cave, standing on an uneven stone floor. It was dry and hot and empty.
I turned to see if I could find the source of the green light. Behind me a translucent stalagmite was glowing a pale, lemonade green. By the time my tossed salad brain figured out where I’d seen a light like that before it was starting to fade.
I stepped toward it. I was so damned weak I could barely move. The stalagmite dimmed and went out. I touched it anyway. Nothing. Cold, smooth stone.
“Fuckers! Where the fuck have you dumped me now, you fucking fucks?”
I really shouldn’t have screamed. My head throbbed like a hive full of bees. My stomach headed for the exit.
When I was finished puking I looked up again. Now that the green light was gone, I could just see a dim pink light coming from the left. I stared until the highlights and shadows turned into a picture. A narrow passage. Somewhere down it was the pink light. There was no guarantee that whatever the pink light was would be better than this cave, but people tend to walk toward light and I’m people. I walked.
It felt like I was slogging waist deep in a peanut butter swamp. I clumped along like Frankenstein. The passage led to the mouth of the cave. I peeked out.
The cave was in the side of a cliff, looking over a landscape from a Mars lander photo; sand everywhere, huge skyscrapers of stone all over the place. The sky was blood red and the air was hot enough to curl your nose hairs.
“Hell, they’ve sent me to hell.”
Something moved in the corner of my eye. I ducked back, ready for anything. Far across the sandy plain some kind of weird vehicle with wheels on the roof was racing down a long, straight road. It got closer. I squinted at it.
It was a Chevy mini-van with a pair of kids’ BMX bikes racked to the roof.
I watched the mini-van drive out of sight again.
I laughed.
I couldn’t stop.
I cried.
I couldn’t stop that either.
I was back on Earth.
Now that I knew that, I knew where I was. This was Monument Valley. The weight on my chest was Earth gravity. The blood red sky was an Arizona sunrise.
I was home. I was where I’d wanted to be all along, away from a shit-hole world full of slaves and gladiators and naked sexists and killing, in one of the most beautiful places on the planet, one easy hitch-hike away from a bottle of beer and a Marlboro, and all I could think was...
I want to go back.
AFTERWORD
There were a few more things on the last tape—directions about sending the money, if I made any, to her Aunt Cici in Florida, “The only family I ever had that was worth a shit,” a warning not to try and find her, that sort of thing, but that was all there was of the story. I don’t know where Jane is, if she made it back to Waar, or if she’s still here, or if the whole thing’s just a big hoax, but you can be sure that if I do make any money, I’ll do exactly what she wants. The thought of making Jane angry, even if she’s light-years away on another planet, is not one that appeals to me.
Her last words on the tape were this. “Later, bro. I hope you can do something with this crap. I got a bus to catch.”
Acknowledgements
Ten years ago, I brought a sloppy parody of a planetary romance to a writing class taught by Emma Bull and Will Shetterly. I thought, in my hubris, that it was ready to be published. Emma and Will showed me otherwise, then opened my eyes to what Jane could be, if I took her seriously. Without them, this book would not be in your hands.
Nine years ago, I showed the newly reworked Jane to my friends Sue and Grey, who both gave me sharp, insightful criticism and kept me on the straight and narrow. Without them, this book would not be in your hands.
One year ago, I dug Jane out of its dusty drawer and showed it to Howard Andrew Jones, hoping he would tell me it was good enough to e-publish. Instead, he told me it deserved a proper publisher, and passed it on to his agent, Bob Mecoy, who also saw something in it. Without them, this book would not be in your hands.
Six months ago, Ross Lockhart at Night Shade Books read Jane, and... Well, you know the refrain by now. Without him, this book would not be in your hands.
about the author
Nathan Long is a screen and prose writer, with two movies, one Saturday-morning adventure series, and a handful of live-action and animated TV episodes to his name, as well as ten fantasy novels and several award-winning short stories.
He hails from Pennsylvania, where he grew up, went to school, and played in various punk and rock-a-billy bands, before following his writing dreams to Hollywood—where he now plays in various punk and country bands—and writes novels full time.
Table of Contents
AUTHOR’S FOREWORD
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
AFTERWORD
Acknowledgements
about the author