turningpoint

by Lisanne Norman

  Lifting his head, he saw that this flatter ground wove downhill to a cluster of faint lights in the valley below. He was on the road to the settlement.

  Vartra be praised, he thought, lurching away from the stone and onto the roadway. Great was the danger of being seen, but greater still was a repetition of his fall.

  Now the going was easier. Instead of having to pick his way across unseen and uneven ground, he knew that he had a continuous flat surface beneath him. The downhill slope, though fairly steep, was actually an advantage. He could intermix sliding cautiously with walking, thus making better headway.

  Use the terrain to your advantage. Make it work for you, not against you. When walking on sand, your feet will not sink into the surface if you are on the damp area near the water's edge. Rocky ground? Then jump from rock to rock. Water? Then look for stones above the surface or just under it. Don't give yourself extra trouble. Accept the land's conditions.

  "Yes, Father," said Kusac dryly. He knew all about these things, had since early childhood. Why did his father keep lecturing him on the obvious?

  Behind him he heard the mechanical screeching and whining of another groundcar. Instantly he bunched his muscles and leapt for the cover of the bushes growing at the roadside, trying to stifle his cry of pain at the sudden movement. The car passed and he emerged again to continue his painful slithering walk.

  The settlement was a collection of some twenty or so houses facing one another across a broad roadway. Behind each was a fairly large area of cultivated ground. As yet he had no idea which house he wanted: the girl's mind had been in too much turmoil for him to find the information he required. It had been difficult maintaining contact with her at all throughout his journey. The link was strong enough for him to trace her to the settlement, but not for him to pinpoint her home. He had to call her to him.

  Pushing his way into one of the gardens, he spotted a small wooden hut far enough away from the house for him to investigate without being seen. He limped over and, leaning against the door, pulled himself upright. With fingers so numb he could hardly move them, he pulled at the restraining bolt. It slid back with a bang. Quickly he slipped inside, pulling the door closed and securing the latch. It was a toolshed, smelling of dried onions, rows of them hung from hooks set into the wall. In the far corner he could see a pile of rags and a large wooden box. Gratefully he limped across and sat down. On closer inspection the rags turned out to be sacks woven from thick vegetable fibers.

  He could feel the pain beginning to steal back into his body. Already his head was aching with the effort of trying to maintain his control. Time was running out quickly now.

  Rolling a couple of sacks into a wad, he placed it under his injured leg, propping it up slightly. Pulling some more free, he wrapped them round his shoulders to cushion his back against the crate. He also figured out that the tantalizingly familiar odor he had been smelling for the last few minutes originated from the box. Easing himself up slightly, he thrust his hand inside, grasping hold of one of the round, hard objects it contained. An apple! Ravenously he bit into it, aware as he did so how dry his mouth had become.

  His eyes refused to stay open any longer and reluctantly he decided not to have a fourth apple. This was the part he was dreading. To be sure of reaching the girl, he had to utilize all his Talent, relinquishing his control over the pain. He was exhausted beyond endurance and knew he could not have made it this far without the control. Whether or not he could remain conscious long enough to make contact he had no idea, but he had to try now. That he'd managed to make it this far was a miracle. He'd come within a whisker of being found by those Alien soldiers. Why they hadn't seen him, he'd never know.

  Shutting his eyes, he lay down, making sure that he was well covered. Cautiously, he allowed his mind to relax, trying not to shock himself into unconsciousness with the influx of pain. He was pleasantly surprised: it was not as awful as he had imagined. Oh, there were aches in every limb and joint and he could hardly move his pounding head, but there was no pain at all from his leg. That was bad.

  My leg must be worse than I thought. He pressed a hand to his face, feeling how hot he was. Almost immediately he started to shudder again.

  The fever, he thought. No wonder I was so thirsty! I must reach the girl. Hurriedly he strengthened the link between them, making it narrower until he knew that he had penetrated her mind. Her thoughts were flooded with confused images slowly meandering through her subconscious and he had almost begun to panic when he realized she was deeply asleep. A drug induced sleep, if her slow alpha rhythms were anything to go by. There was no way of reaching her until she awoke. Too utterly spent to even curse fate, he withdrew, leaving her to sleep on in peace.

  Chapter 2

  A drink, she needed a drink. She reached out and began to grope along her bedside table for the glass, but before she could reach it her hand was taken and held.

  "What is it, Carrie? What do you want, love?" Meg asked, her voice so quiet Carrie almost had to strain to hear it.

  She tried to speak and found she couldn't. Confused, she attempted to pull her hand free. A small, faraway portion of her mind was trying to panic, but it was too much effort. With a struggle, she managed to open her eyes and Meg's familiar face swam into view, the image losing its blurred edges after a few seconds.

  Antiseptic. Why did her room smell of antiseptic? Frowning slightly, she slowly turned her head to look around. Everything seemed the same, was in the same place, so what was different?

  She looked back at Meg and wondered why the woman was holding someone's hand, a hand that was heavily bandaged.

  "Wa..." was all she was able to croak as her thirst reasserted itself.

  "Water? Of course, my dear," said Meg, reaching over to pick up the glass. "No, let me," she said, holding it up to Carrie's mouth as the hand in hers twitched slightly.

  A mouthful and her thirst was quenched.

  "Now you just lie down and go back to sleep again," said Meg soothingly. "There's nothing to worry about, you're absolutely safe."

  Safe? thought Carrie. Of course I'm safe. Why shouldn't I be?

  Meg leaned forward to replace the glass.

  Carrie croaked a negative and reached out to stop her.

  "More? Here you are," Meg said, holding it toward her again.

  Carrie turned her face aside and reached for it herself. Her hand! It was her hand that was bandaged. She turned frightened eyes to Meg, knocking the glass aside as she jerked back in panic.

  "Oh, Carrie," said Meg, reaching both hands forward to gently cradle her face, "it's all right, love. You're safe. The worst is over. Believe me, it's all right."

  No, it's not, her mind said as she tried to push through the mist that was fogging her thoughts. It's all wrong.

  "Jack Reynolds has given you a sedative; just rest, love. Sleep a little longer and when you wake again, everything will be fine."

  "Elise? What happened?" she croaked, wincing at the pain in her hands as she clutched Meg's arm.

  Meg hesitated.

  "She was caught, Carrie. The Valtegans caught her trying to steal something for the guerrillas."

  Fear and loss began surging in again, threatening to overpower her as she started to retreat from what Meg said. Then she felt her mind grasped firmly and held.

  "The link between you and Elise was so strong this time, love, that you've suffered some of her hurts. Jack'll come and explain it to you when you've rested, but you're fine, you're in no danger, believe me. I'll stay here with you and watch while you sleep," said Meg, releasing her.

  Despite the hold on her mind, terror still fluttered on harshly beating wings; the blackness again threatened to engulf her. Elise! She had to find her twin. She couldn't be dead. If only she looked...

  No. Stay here. You must live. If you die, you kill me, too.

  The voice inside her head shocked her into immobility. Whose mind was touching hers? Who was able to talk to her?

  Live for
me. I need you, don't leave me. Sleep for now and regain your strength. It wasn't a suggestion, Carrie discovered as the same lassitude as before spread through her aching body and, against her will, her eyes began to close.

  * * *

  This time the room was empty. Carrie tried to lever herself into a sitting position, wincing anew at the agony in her hands. Once she'd sat up, she began to explore her body to find the sources of the pain.

  Everything seemed to take an age, so muzzy was her brain.

  Jack's sedative must still be working, she thought.

  Without undoing the bandages— which was beyond her because of the state of her hands— she couldn't tell the extent of her injuries. She was, however, able to ascertain that she probably had a broken rib, plus multiple bruising and lacerations on her arms and around her face. Wryly, she decided not to bother checking in the mirror for the present. She knew from her past experiences what bruising of Elise's face looked like on hers.

  Elise. Funny, thinking of her twin didn't trigger off the waves of panic like last time. In a detached way she searched inside her mind in that place where Elise had been, and found... something. What, she wasn't sure, but something, or someone, was there.

  A noise from outside diverted her, and she turned her head toward the window.

  She had to get up. There was something she had to do if only she could remember what it was: if only the drug wasn't clouding her thinking. The drug. She had to fight it and force herself to get up.

  With an effort, she pushed back the bedclothes and struggled to swing her legs round and over the bed. Thank God she was wearing her pajamas! All she needed to do was pull on her coat, then she could go outside.

  She struggled to her feet, forcing her mind to push back the woolly confusion caused by the remnants of the sedative still in her system.

  Her slippers were under the bed. They weren't suitable for wearing outside, but at least they covered her bare feet. With each step she took, she found herself able to think more clearly and movement became a fraction easier. From her wardrobe she pulled out the first coat that came to hand and wrestled into it, the effort and pain causing her to swear profusely. Several times she thought of giving up and going back to bed, but the compulsion to go outside was getting stronger and her curiosity, if nothing else, would not let her give in.

  Mercifully, the kitchen was empty. Meg must be in the taproom, she thought, picking her way carefully round the large rectangular wooden table. The smell of cooking filled the air and she heard her stomach rumble in appreciation. She was starving!

  She hesitated, torn between the desire for a bowl of the broth she could smell cooking, and the knowledge she should go into the back garden. The compulsion intensified again, and she felt herself resolutely pulled toward the door.

  As she opened it, the cold air hit her like a physical blow. The snow was at least a foot thick. Again she hesitated, realizing how silly it was in her condition to want to go outside in a foot of snow clad only in her pajamas and slippers. Then a patch of black, partially concealed by winter greens, drew her attention.

  She stepped out, oblivious now to the cold and the snow, intent only on reaching what lay there. That was what she wanted!

  "It's moving!" she said disbelievingly as she floundered toward it, her aches forgotten in her desperate need to reach the creature.

  She knelt down in the snow beside it, stretching out a tentative hand.

  As the amber eyes opened, she missed the brief flare of awareness in her mind.

  "You're a cat," she said, disbelievingly. "A forest cat!" She touched him, her vision blurring momentarily. She shook her head to clear it.

  "You're hurt," she said, leaning forward to touch his injured flank. The back leg was badly swollen, the wound covered with dried blood.

  "Carrie, don't move," said her brother's quiet voice from behind her. "I've got the gun trained on him. Just get very slowly to your feet."

  Carrie looked over her shoulder then flung herself across the cat's body.

  "Leave him alone," she said, her voice still hoarse. "I want him. He's hurt and needs help."

  "Carrie, he's a wild animal," said Richard. "He could attack you at any moment. Move aside."

  "No. He's mine, I want him. Get Jack Reynolds. He's hurt, he needs our help."

  "Carrie, for God's sake, be reasonable! He's a dangerous wild animal. Get out of the way!"

  Carrie looked up at him, eyes glaring. "You're not killing him, Richard. Fetch Jack, or help me take him indoors unless you want me to spend the rest of the day out here in the snow."

  Amber eyes flicked open again, a mute appeal visible in their depths.

  Richard lowered his gun. "Carrie!"

  "Carry him in for me, Richard," his sister pleaded, clinging more tightly to the animal's neck. "He hasn't made a move or a sound that could be seen as violent."

  Richard slung the gun over his shoulder and moved closer, looking down at the creature.

  "He's huge, Carrie, almost as large as me. We don't know anything about these creatures. Even the guerrillas, who see them fairly often in the forest, know very little."

  "They've never said they're vicious, have they? Only that they avoid people. Please help me take him in. He'll die out here, and Jack has always wanted to study one of them. It's not as if he's even a real threat in this condition, is it?"

  "I don't know, Carrie," her brother said, scratching his bearded chin thoughtfully. "Dad won't like it. The animal's large, powerful, and wild. These cats are predators and likely to be vicious. It isn't as if it was a kitten you could raise to be tame."

  Carrie ignored the worried look on his face and pulled gently at his trouser leg.

  "Come on, skinny," she urged. "I'll handle Dad. You just get my cat into the kitchen, then fetch Jack Reynolds. He'll know what to do."

  Her brother sighed.

  "Well, move over. I can't do anything with you wrapped around him like a blanket, can I?"

  Carrie moved back and her brother hefted the injured animal into his arms and headed toward the kitchen door.

  "And, Richard, please hurry," she added, steering him through the doorway and over to the table. She swept the various cutlery and dishes aside for him. "I'm sure he must be in a great deal of pain."

  "We don't know these animals well enough to treat them with any success, Carrie," Richard warned, setting the cat down gently on the table. He hesitated. "I don't like leaving you alone with him. What happens if he goes for you?"

  "He won't," said Carrie confidently as she ruffled the creature's ears.

  Richard looked down at him for a moment. His sides moved rapidly with shallow breathing, his ribs stood out against the tautly stretched fur. The eyes were closed now, and from between his teeth Richard could see the tip of a pale pink tongue. Unless he had help, very shortly, this cat would be dead.

  "I'm going," he said, heading back outside.

  Fetching hot water and disinfectant, Carrie busied herself with cleaning Kusac's wound, her own forgotten.

  "Carrie! What on earth are you doing down here, and with your coat on? You shouldn't even be out of... oh, my God!"

  "It's all right," said Carrie, turning round to look at Meg. "He's hurt, and he isn't dangerous. Richard's gone for Jack."

  "I don't care! Get it out of my kitchen!" Meg said, her voice rising hysterically.

  "No," Carrie said doggedly. "He stays. Don't worry, it'll be all right, you'll see." She turned her attention back to her inexpert swabbing.

  "Get him out of my kitchen," repeated Meg, her voice rising a couple of octaves.

  "It isn't your kitchen, Meg," Carrie replied quietly, a portion of her mind taken aback at her newfound determination.

  A buzzer sounded, its insistent tone ignored by both women.

  "What did you say?"

  The silence lengthened till Carrie broke it. "I think that's the taproom. Hadn't you better see who it is?"

  The door closed too quietly behind h
er as Meg left.

  Carrie sluiced her cloth so energetically that water splashed everywhere. Damn! Why had she spoken to Meg like that? Since they'd landed on Keiss, Meg, also bereaved by the same malfunction which had killed their mother, had lived with them more as a loved aunt than a housekeeper. She hadn't deserved that comment.

  I've got to save him, though, she thought. I don't know why, but he's important.

  She went back to cleaning the wound, finding it soothing to do something that required no thought.

  She had just about finished when her brother returned with the town's medical expert.