F&SF 2011-11-01 - Nov_Dec

by F

  "Baroque," Pete muttered, grinning broadly. The tale transported him back to summer camps in the Rockies, to bonfires of crackling pine and cedar deadfall, to scary stories his scoutmaster had told to so many generations of kids they'd worn smooth as ancient metal coins. Of course this tale was for adults only.

  He signaled for another beer, and like the ones he'd already drunk, it was so dry and light that he seemed to inhale it. God, how many had he had? And didn't they want to be paid? The crone waved away his card, saying, "No plastic here, Sonny." Did they still use cash in Dolan?

  An old guy piped up and urged the Liar, "Tell him 'bout the Two Sisters," and Pete forgot about money. Even with his mind clouded by fatigue and beer, the name rang some sort of a bell.

  "Well, that happened a good while furtherer back. Back in my daddy's time. This young fisherman named Duke—"

  "Deuce," said somebody.

  "Drake," said somebody else.

  "So you say. Ah call him Duke. He was a ladies' man, and just about your age, son. Well, one morning early he took his boat out on the Inland Sea, because he'd heard the mackerel was running, the blues was closing in and driving them into a bait ball, and he wanted to get him some of both. Ain't nothing better'n a baked mackerel, 'less it's a baked blue. Used to be, you had to go way far south to find 'em, but nowadays when the rivers is low, the salt water comes north and the mackerel follow it and the blues and the sharks follow them.

  "So anyway, Duke was passing by what they call No Name Island when he seen two nekkid ladies on a beach, taking 'em a morning swim. Right then he forgot all about mackerel and blues, threw out his anchor and kicked off his shoes, jumped overboard, and swum to shore. At first the women was scared, seein' him come out the water like that, but he was a good-looking young guy, and he talked a good line and asked real sweet if he could jine their party. So pretty soon they was all three of 'em playing in the water together, none of 'em wearing nothing but their skin, and then they come back ashore and begun to play a different game on the sand.

  "Duke was young and strong and he liked the ladies, and he give satisfaction to both of them. My daddy heard him brag about it that night, and he said when he was pleasuring one—they was sisters, daughters of some squatter on the island—the other one would tickle him and squeal and giggle like crazy. So a good time was had by all, and they made him promise to come back next day and do it again.

  "But that night a fog come down, one of these yere cotton fogs we get sometimes in the spring and fall, where you can't hardly see the end of your own nose. Duke, he liked ladies but he liked living too, so he stayed in port that day. But the sisters they come down to the beach and must of thought they heard his voice. Well, fog does funny things with voices—one sounds like another, and you can't always tell whar it's coming fum and whether it's near or far. Maybe somebody on shore was sounding off, who knows? But anyway they thought Duke was calling to 'em.

  "So they decided to swim out and meet him, and they jumped in and tried to find his boat, only there warn't no boat out there. Then they tried to swim back to the island, but they must of lost their bearings in the fog, becuz they swum out into the sea, which is seventy-two miles wide at that point, and first one and then the other tired out and drownded. Ever since then, their ghosts been keeping an eye out for young guys to take Duke's place, and stay down in the water with them forever."

  By now Pete was thoroughly befuddled. Surely he'd already seen the Two Sisters? He searched for the memory, couldn't find it, and decided to ask Tim about it in the morning—right now he needed sleep. He made a last effort to pay his tab, again had his card refused, lurched to his feet, told the old boys good night, and headed for the door. Just as he stepped outside, he heard a voice say to the Liar, "Now, Jim, ain't you ashamed of yorese'f?"

  Speeded by a chorus of chuckles, Pete followed the muddy lane up the slope and through the cedars to camp. He found a small black bear fumbling at the nylon rope, but at his approach it shuffled unhurriedly into the woods, silent as a shadow absorbed by shadows. Within five minutes Pete was in the sack and snoring.

  HE WOKE TO a dawn obsessed with birdcalls, took a dip in the shivery, brackish Inland Sea, then huddled into his clothes while Tim built a campfire and made coffee.

  They sat side by side on a log and sipped scalding black stuff, while Tim blathered on and on about his thesis topic, the Rising of the Sea.

  About the ruined cities on every continent. About the Gulf of Mexico returning to recreate the Mississippi embayment—now called the Inland Sea—just as it had umpteen times before, laying down still another of those alternate pages of sand and silt, each with its own typical fossils, that told the geologic history of the Alluvial Valley. He spoke about the vast migration of Americans fleeing from drowned cities and spreading deserts, pouring into the near-empty Canadian spaces until the political balance on the continent shifted decisively. Canada a great power, the States an impoverished part of the Third World—a century ago, who could have imagined it?

  Not me, thought Pete, getting irritated again. There was something he urgently wanted to ask Tim about. He'd done something or seen something or maybe just dreamed something, and it was important. But the memory was maddeningly elusive, and having to listen to all this D&G stuff didn't make it any easier to recapture.

  He set out on the second day's hike expecting to hate it. Surprisingly, he didn't. For one thing, he no longer shortened Tim's stride. His muscles had loosened up, he was young and strong, had longer legs than his friend and kept up easily. Nature cooperated: Yesterday's cluttered second-growth gave way to open forest with columnar pines and red oaks and tulip trees veiled in lavender wisteria. Dogwood petals trembled like a snowfall in suspension, invisible mockingbirds sang arias, wild azaleas blossomed, purple and white violets carpeted the secret nooks of the forest. Pete saw no bison, but another black bear stopped demolishing a rotten log and gave him a casual glance before returning to its hunt for fat spring grubs.

  Noon came and went. They lunched on energy bars. Tim called his mother in Idaho. Pete plugged a button mike into one ear and listened to Revolutionary Grunge. As the day advanced, a growing and darkening wrack of clouds threatened rain, but they lucked out on that too, finding at dusk the first shelter they'd seen on the Westside Trail. The sturdy wooden shed was open on one side, with a platform for sleeping bags and a brick hearth for cooking. Pete gathered deadfall and made a crackling campfire, and Tim demonstrated unexpected culinary skills by concocting a meal of franks and beans that had him licking his mess kit long after the food was gone.

  Once again tents weren't needed. They spread sleeping bags under the shelter, arranged their packs as pillows, lay down, and, as usual, brought out their omnis. Tim checked the weather and news, then tuned in a concert in Copenhagen. Pete, belatedly remembering that he had parents, called Denver and told his mother with perfect honesty that he was fine, the weather was fine, Tim was fine, everything was fine. He was signing off when he heard unfamiliar voices.

  New hikers, a youngish couple wearing sweat-stained khakis, emerged from the darkening forest and dropped their packs. Their names were Marcus and Sophie, and Pete and Tim emerged from their bags long enough to make room for them under the shelter. The newcomers were tired—they'd hiked all the way from the ranger station in one day instead of two—soon took off their boots, munched a spartan meal of trail mix, and split a container of red wine. Then they unrolled a double sleeping bag, crawled in and disappeared from sight and sound.

  The storm arrived about midnight with spectacular lightning and thunder. Pete woke and watched the show, then dropped off again, soothed by the patter of rain on millions of leaves. He dreamed of wolves running through the forest, and he ran with them with an easy, tireless lope. He woke to a pale dawn, the drip, drip, drip of a misty day, and the bustle of Marcus and Sophie rolling up their gear and donning packs and ponchos. With a quick good-bye, they disappeared into the "cotton fog"—that was how Pete thought of i
t, though he'd never actually seen cotton, except woven into expensive natural-fiber clothing for those who could afford it.

  Left alone with still-snoring Tim, he lolled a final few minutes, fantasizing a switch of partners that would leave him with Sophie and the double sleeping bag. Then reluctantly he crawled into the unwelcoming world, made his own contribution to its wetness and began to rebuild his pack.

  No warmth and no comfort today. After a cold breakfast, he and Tim pulled on ponchos and set out on the mucky trail, feet squishing and heads bowed. Pete's face had sprouted the beginnings of a beard, and chilly dewdrops formed on the stiff bristles. The morning was dark, glum, and dour, the forest as intricate and sodden as a huge loofah. Fat droplets swelled at the tip of every twig, and micro-showers fell with every passing breeze. The fog was even thicker on the Inland Sea, where brushy island crests rose from the mist like hills in a Japanese print. Once a voice cried out in the mist—or was it the squawk of some unknown bird?

  When it came, the scream stopped Tim so suddenly that Pete ran into him. He turned and they stared at each other, faces no more than a foot apart. At the same instant both said, "Sophie."

  Pete followed Tim's mucky boots as they squelched through a dense porridge of mud, dead leaves, and last year's pine needles. His twenty-kilo pack pounded his spine as if he carried a rider. They stumbled into a little clearing, where the wet ground had been gouged and torn. Clumps of uprooted grass and broken branches were scattered everywhere.

  But that was all. No Sophie. No Marcus.

  Pete shouted, and his voice sounded hoarse and strange in the fog. Tim began casting about like a dog seeking a scent, and soon found a rough trail of crushed grass and broken branches leading into the woods. He plunged into the undergrowth and emerged holding a boot. From the size, it had belonged to Marcus. He turned it over, and inside was a foot severed just above the ankle.

  They stared at it stupidly. The ends of two white bones oozed a little pink marrow. A green fly arrived and began buzzing around. Then a harsh roar shook the woods and Pete whirled and froze. It came from back there —from someplace between them and the ranger station.

  Hands trembling, Tim dropped the boot, pulled out his omni and began to tap in 767, the universal emergency number. There was no sound but the pattering of droplets and the dit-dit-dit of his fingernail tapping the metal. Then something squelched in the wet mud and Pete looked up just as a vast, cinnamon-colored shape emerged from the undergrowth.

  Rising on bowlegs, it swung a wide paw and hit Tim a solid thump . He turned a cartwheel, landed two meters away, and the beast fell on him and buried its jaws in his throat. Pete stood paralyzed until the brown bear heaved itself up again and turned to face him. Blood dripped from its furry face, through which—as if through a mask—peered the glittering, depthless metallic eyes of a man obsessed.

  Pete ceased to think. He yanked at his carrying straps and his backpack fell off and before it hit the ground he was running for his life.

  Never before had he known panic, the power of Pan, the god of the deep dark woods. He pounded through a blur of trees and vines and fog, tripped on a gnarled root and fell on another, gasped at a sudden sharp pain in his ribs, jumped to his feet and ran on. Everything deceived him. The breath rushing hoarsely into his lungs became the beast panting at his heels. A slash from a thorny vine became a claw tearing at him. He doubled back and forth like a fleeing rabbit, sought cover in the woods, raced out again, crossed the trail at a jump and plunged into a void that suddenly opened at his feet. He landed on his forearms, somersaulted, and rolled down a long stubbled slope until a springy pine sapling brought him to a stop at last.

  He lay still, expecting death, working his lungs as if he never could get enough air again. But his body knew about fear and flight, even if his mind didn't. Gradually his heartbeat and breathing slowed. Everything was quiet around him. A light breeze sprang up and tendrils of fog drifted before it, languidly dispersing like ripples on a pond.

  He sat up and pawed his chest and shoulders for several seconds before remembering that his backpack was gone. He'd lost his supply of food, but for the moment he didn't think about that. He'd lost his best friend, but he didn't think about Tim either. What shocked him was the absence of his omni. For the first time in eighteen years, Pete was completely out of touch with the whole world.

  Slowly, stiffly, he rose and essayed a couple of steps. His most painful injury was the rib he'd bruised by falling on that root and, as his panic ebbed, it hurt every time he breathed. Slowly he climbed the muddy slope, turned to his right, and set off walking with head down, in silence. Where was he? Well, he was here, wherever here was. To his right the sea stretched away, a glimmering metallic plain exhaling wisps of fog. To his left the forest. And the beast somewhere behind him, maybe devouring Tim's body. So he couldn't go back.

  At the thought of Tim he sobbed a few times, but impatiently wiped the tears away with the back of a muddy hand. Yeah, Tim was dead, Marcus was dead, Sophie was probably dead, but he'd think about them all tomorrow. Right now he needed to find a town and get help. But where were the towns ?

  By noon the fog was lifting rapidly. Yet he walked for another hour, two hours, three, four, and saw islands both near and far, but not a single settlement. Where was the garland of fishing villages whose lights he'd seen from the Southern Belle ? Sometimes he spotted a sail in the far distance; sometimes heard the remote whine of a hydro engine or the throb of a diesel. Then silence, broken only by his panting breath and muffled footfalls and the endless pattering of cold droplets from the trees.

  Dusk was drawing in before he realized the obvious. The fishing villages must be on the eastern side of the islands, visible from the water but invisible from the trail. All but Dolan, he thought, suddenly recapturing a memory that had evaded him all day. And he couldn't go back there because Jorgon—that name came back to him too—the beast with its horrible indwelling madman lurked someplace between.

  Night fell. He sat down in the mud, stinking of sweat and shivering with cold. Hunger clawed at his gut. His rib must be cracked, it throbbed and throbbed. And with the darkness, fear returned. Not the frenzy he'd known before, but the primordial fear of the unseen. The night was impenetrable, yet alive with movement. Rough limbs sawed against one another, unknowable creatures rustled and padded here and there, going about their lives and deaths. Pete hated them all, because they knew how to get food from the thorny wilderness, and he didn't.

  He crept into a thicket and rolled on the side that didn't hurt, thinking I'll never sleep again. But he was wrong about that, for a sudden rending crash brought him bolt upright, mind still stupefied by the dregs of slumber. His heart paused, leapt and thundered. What was it, where was it?

  Oh hell, he thought as his head cleared. A tree had fallen, that was all. One life less in the vast living mat of the forest. Fatigue took over again, he slumped and went back to sleep, curled into a ball with his knees against his empty belly, his hands turned inward beneath his bristly chin.

  PERVERSELY, the morning was beautiful—the fog gone, the air cool, the sun bright. The Inland Sea rippled with creamy wavelets under a steady breeze.

  Pete stood up, stiff and lightheaded, knees trembling, belly growling. With his pack had gone his canteen, so he hiked down to the water's edge, fell to his knees, and lapped the water like any thirsty beast. An islet lay across a placid strait, a hundred or so meters away. He could swim there easily, but was it inhabited? If not, he'd merely waste energy he couldn't spare. He was thinking over his sparse options when a voice came chiming over the water.

  From the trees atop a bluff on the island, two figures emerged and waved at him. Either he was hallucinating—which was entirely possible—or they were the nymphs he'd seen back at the Scenic Overlook, two full days ago. He waved and might have gone splashing out to meet them, except for a nagging sense of unreality. There'd been a story, he couldn't remember who told it to him, a story about...about two sisters
and....

  As he hesitated, the nymphs sprang into midair and floated toward him like thistledown, waving white arms and making sounds like birds, repeating the same notes over and over again.

  Pete gaped, then turned and ran. Behind him, the voices changed to parrotlike shrieks, growing fainter as he fled. Finally he stopped, overcome by weakness and gasping for breath. He was still trying to shake the illusion out of his head when another human form emerged from the trees. This one too was female, but a real woman, not something from the darkside of the imagination—khaki-clothed, mosquito-bitten, and obviously terrified.

  "Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God," she cried, and ran into his arms. Pete held her close, smelling her sweat and damp hair and rank fear, so much like his own, and whispered, "Sophie. You're alive. Sophie."

  She'd lost her pack and she was starving, but for the moment nothing mattered except that they'd found each other. They sank to the ground and she huddled against him and told her story. How, yesterday morning, she'd been plodding along with head down, eyes on the mucky ground, when something huge launched itself out of the undergrowth and clawed at her backpack. She must not have closed the buckles properly, because the pack pulled away and she started to run. The beast stumbled over the pack, then came after her again.