The far side of the hill was thicker with trees. He reasoned that the trees would provide cover as they made their descent. They raced down the hill, zigzagging past the round boulders and rectangular hedges.
Still, as they approached the bottom of the hill, the Black Sentry were not far behind.
He started down the trail that would pass through the densest part of the forest. He could hear the Old Man gasping and wheezing beside him. Occasionally his feet would tangle or he would trip over an obstacle, but he never stopped for long.
“Only about a fourth of a mile further,” he said, not breaking his pace. “Then we’ll reach the Collins place. There are haystacks and barns and other hiding places. We’ll be much safer there than out in the open.”
The Old Man nodded, without slowing. His face was sunbaked and his eyes seemed large and watery. He moved without complaint, but he could not possibly keep up this pace indefinitely.
They rounded a corner and, in the distance, he spotted the Collins barn. A moment later, further down the road, he saw something else. Six dark spots dotting the road.
Another Black Sentry platoon.
They froze. The Sentry were both before them and behind them. There was nowhere to go.
He felt a heavy sickness in his stomach. He had acted impulsively—and stupidly. All he’d wanted to do was help this man—and now perhaps his rash actions had doomed them both.
“I’m sorry. I’ve failed you.”
“Not yet,” the Old Man said, pulling him toward the fence. “We must cross into the forest.”
“But the Creepers—”
“–can’t be worse than the Black Sentry.”
“How will you get over the fence?”
“The same way I came in.”
“But—” He heard the black boots drawing closer. Soon the Sentry would be near enough to identify him. A few seconds after that, they would be captured. And he knew what the penalty would be for assisting a Rebel. The Acolyte had made that abundantly clear.
“There is no place to plant your feet. How can we climb the fence?”
“Just watch.” To his surprise, the Old Man reached into his backpack and pulled out a rope with a metal hook on the end. He swung the hook in the air a few times, then hurled it toward the top of the fence. The hook clamped down on the top snugly.
The Old Man pulled on the rope a few times, tightening it. He stepped back several paces, then made a run at it. He leapt up, and hoisted himself to the top, walking sideways up the fence. Despite the huge difference between their ages, he doubted he could make the ascent half so well.
He gave it his best try. He grabbed the rope, made a run for the fence, leapt into the air, and pulled with all his might. He scrambled over, then thudded down on the other side. He was less graceful than the Old Man, but he made it.
They had violated the primary Law of the Sentinel. They had entered the forest outside the wall.
They were in the territory of the Creepers.
The Old Man retrieved his rope and quickly put it back in his pack.
He still couldn’t believe it. He was outside the village walls for the first time in his life. A surge of excitement raced through his body, but it was soon replaced by another feeling altogether. “We will be dead in minutes.”
The Old Man scanned the forest. “I know a few tricks.” He ran a few feet, holding a finger to his lips, signaling him to be quiet.
They listened to the Black Sentry on the other side of the fence.
“Where did they go?” he heard one Sentry ask.
A few of them must have suspected where they’d gone, but no one spoke the words. Probably they feared that if they suggested their quarry had gone over the fence, they might be ordered to follow.
The Sentry moved along the fence. Their voices became more distant. He felt safe for a fleeting instant.
Then he detected the faintest rustling behind them. Within the forest.
“Creepers,” he whispered, barely able to form the horrible word.
“Follow me,” the Old Man said.
He turned, wondering whether the Old Man would move left or right. To his surprise, he did neither. He moved up.
The Old Man grabbed a nearby tree by its lowest branch and hoisted himself aloft. Climbing trees in the Forest of the Creepers? Was he mad?
“Come on!” the Old Man hissed, hauling himself up to the next branch.
He followed. Pressing his foot against the trunk, he managed to hoist himself to the first branch. This tree seemed different than any tree he had ever seen or touched in the village. The trees he climbed as a boy were perfectly formed, perfectly smooth. But this tree was rough and asymmetrical. Bits of bark broke off in his hands. Looking around, he saw that the trees were not perfectly spaced, but were irregular, almost haphazard. The Sentinel’s need for Order apparently did not reach outside the village fence.
“This tree seems...strange,” he commented.
“That’s because it’s real,” the Old Man replied. “You must climb higher.”
Glancing up, he saw that the Old Man was a good three branches ahead of him.
He continued his ascent until he was on the same level as the Old Man.
“We should be safe. At least for a while.”
“I’ve heard the Creepers can climb trees,” he said, barely daring to think the thought.
“You’ve heard correctly,” the Old Man replied. “When the scent of prey is upon them, they will go almost anywhere. They can whip their tendrils around branches and pull themselves up. But it is a slow business.”
“I have heard they can go anywhere and do anything. That they seek out evildoers like a hound hunts a fox.”
“You’ve heard stories invented to frighten children. If they could go anywhere, why would they not scale the fences that surround the village?”
He did not know the answer.
“Because the fences are sheer and there is nothing for them to grab onto,” the Old Man continued. “They are vile creatures, to be sure, powered by a relentless hunger for flesh. But they are not invulnerable. Or invincible.”
He heard a rattling, slithering, crunching noise at the foot of the tree. And then, for the first time in his life, he saw the creature that had held him in fear his entire life.
A Creeper.
Although his first instinct was to turn away, he forced himself to watch. He felt paralyzed, transfixed by the putrid horror before him. It bore no resemblance to anything he had ever seen before. It was huge and pulsing, shifting its shape with every step. Its ghoulish exterior was covered by a glassy, revolting, gelatinous skin. It had no eyes as such, but two luminous green lights protruding from each side of what must have been the monstrosity’s head. It seemed neither plant nor animal, or perhaps both. It was mostly brown and green, and its outer covering was sinuous like ivy, but almost completely covered with oozing black pustules. Worst of all was its slavering, lipless mouth—an immense wet maw.
The creature slithered forward leaving a fetid black trail of slime in its wake.
Just looking at the monster made his blood run cold. The Creeper had two limbs, or tendrils, perhaps, that writhed above it as it slithered along the ground.
How it propelled itself was not immediately apparent. Perhaps there were short legs on the underside of the body. All he knew was that it did move, and fairly quickly at that.
He gasped as he saw the Creeper’s long green tendril-tail, many times the length of its body and easily long enough to strike a full-grown man in the face.
“It’s the tail that kills,” the Old Man explained. “Once it has you close, there’s no man fast enough to escape it.”
“Is it deadly?”
The Old Man nodded. “It can be. A direct hit with its stinger will produce a painful death within an hour. Even a glancing blow can cause days or weeks of sustained agony or blindness, and can produce scars and welts that never disappear.” He paused. “I’ve seen many a good man and woman f
all to the tail of a Creeper. Many a comrade.”
“There are more of you? Rebels, I mean.”
“Later.” The Old Man’s eyes focused on the ground.
The Creeper stopped just beneath their tree. He watched as it moved its tentacles all around the tree.
The Creeper had detected them.
“What can we do?”
The Old Man did not answer. He searched the neighboring trees, but none was close enough to reach. They could jump down, but they could not jump far enough to escape the Creeper’s whip-like tail. There was nothing they could do.
They were trapped.
8
Daman watched the Creeper slither around the tree, whirling its tentacles. Its tail suddenly lashed out, faster than his eye could follow. It grabbed the lowest branch of the tree, just as they had done.
He watched in terrified amazement as the quivering creature hoisted itself into the air.
There were no higher branches to which they could climb.
The Creeper waved its tendrils, targeting the next branch. If it mounted that branch, it would be close enough to strike them with its tail.
He was being punished, he thought, just as he was warned he would be. He had violated the Laws and Ways of the Sentinel by blaspheming, aiding the Old Man, and crossing the village fence. Now he would pay the penalty. He had been a fool and now he would die for it. Worse, this Old Man, who had lived so long, would come to a futile, pointless death.
He started to ask the Old Man a question, but the man silenced him with a harsh look.
He heard loud laughter from the other side of the fence. Probably to relieve their anxiety, the Sentry were telling tales—loud, boisterous jokes.
Just as the Creeper prepared to grasp the second branch, it stopped. Its front tentacles circled around and reached out toward the fence.
The creature paused for a moment, then descended. It hit the ground in a matter of seconds and slithered toward the fence.
Had the Creeper determined that the victims over there were more attractive than the two in the tree? The insurmountable fence that stood between it and its new prey apparently did not register.
“The Creeper has no eyes, not as we do,” the Old Man whispered. “It sees with its frontal antennae. And it does not have true sight. It only touches and hears and detects motion.” The Creeper whirled its tail into the air, but it was not long enough to reach the top of the fence.
The Creeper hit the fence, pounding with its tentacles, making it sway. The Sentry fell silent.
He heard one of them hiss the word “Creeper.”
After more than a minute of the incessant pounding, he heard the Sentry bolt down the road, away from the swaying fence and the horrible slithering and slathering sounds.
“This is our chance.” As quietly as possible, the Old Man scrambled down the tree. Daman followed, quickly if clumsily. To his embarrassment, the Old Man made much better time. They both landed on the ground in a clump of something dry and crisp.
The Old Man winced. “Hurt my ankle,” he whispered. But they could not discuss the matter further.
The pounding on the fence ceased. The Creeper detected their movement.
They raced back toward the fence at a point far south of the Creeper. He knew now how quickly the hideous creature could move. They had no time to waste. The Old Man had trouble keeping up. He favored his right foot. Each step appeared to cause great pain.
He pulled the rope out of the Old Man’s pack and slung the hook onto the fence. He sprang up and, balancing at the top, offered a hand to the Old Man.
“Hurry!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Creeper slither closer.
After considerable effort, they landed together on the other side, barely seconds before the Creeper arrived.
They were safe, at least for the moment. The Black Sentry platoon was gone. Twilight had fallen. He knew it soon would be dark and they could travel more safely. He allowed the Old Man to place one arm around his shoulder. Together, they hobbled back toward the village.
“That dry, crackling brush we fell in on the other side of the fence,” he asked. “Those were leaves?”
“They certainly were,” the Old Man said, breathing heavily.
“They fall from trees?”
“Every year.”
“But in the village, leaves never fall. They stay on the branches forever, in an orderly fashion.”
“The Sentinel’s trees are fakes, fabricated. Just like the flowers and the butterflies and...well, everything else in your village.”
“What do you mean? A tree is a tree.”
“You have a lot to learn, son.”
He took the Old Man back to the village and headed for his family’s home. Fortunately, the streets were mostly empty and they had ample warning before the rare traveler approached. He assumed that most people, still exhausted from the Festival the day before, had eaten their dinners and gone to bed. Still, he kept his eyes and ears alert, ready to hide at a moment’s notice.
The quiet intensified his anxiety. His hands trembled with fear. He only hoped the Old Man could not detect it.
They took the road to his family’s house and, as usual, began counting. As his home came into sight, a warm glow passed over him. They were actually going to make it.
Then he heard a noise almost directly behind them. Someone approached quickly.
Dragging the Old Man along, he darted into the easement beside the Moore cottage and ducked behind the trough.
Peering over the top, he tried to see who approached, hoping it was not a member of the Black Sentry. As the figure came closer, he realized it was someone smaller, younger...
Brita. Even in the darkness, her vibrant yellow hair seemed as radiant as the sun.
She appeared to be staring directly at them. Was it his imagination, or had she spotted them?
Barely a second later, a Black Sentry platoon marched down the lane in formation. He ducked his head and waited for them to pass. They moved slowly, obviously searching for something. Or someone.
He realized that although he might have eluded the Sentry for the moment, the search had not been abandoned.
After a few minutes, the Sentry passed out of sight.
Brita had also disappeared.
As far as he could tell, the way was clear. He helped the Old Man to his feet and quickly completed the journey to his home.
Many years before, his father had dug out a large cellar behind their house, principally for the storage of supplies and equipment and baking ingredients.
The perfect place to hide the Old Man.
They crept inside. He tried to make the Old Man comfortable. He could see the man was in pain.
“I will fetch the physic.”
“No. You must tell no one I am here.”
“But your ankle—”
“It’s a minor injury. It will heal on its own in time.”
“The physic is a good man.”
The Old Man shook his head. “The Sentinel’s influence is everywhere. There is no one we can trust while he holds the villages in his grasp.”
“But you can’t stay here forever.”
“As soon as my ankle is strong again, I will be on my way. I have a quest to complete.”
The Old Man spoke bravely, but as he gazed into those tired eyes, as he watched the Old Man’s lungs heave, he found it difficult to believe the man could carry on much longer.
“I will return later with pillows and bedding to make you more comfortable.”
The Old Man smiled. His face drew up, intensifying the crinkles around his eyes. “You are a good boy. And a brave one. Thank you.”
He lit a small candle and hurried out of the cellar, careful that no one should see him.
*****
When Daman entered the front door, he found his mother waiting for him.
“Where have you been?”
“I—I was—” What could he say? “I was...delivering bread for Father
.”
“You have been gone eight times as long as your task required.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I was—” He stopped, drew in his breath. He couldn’t tell her the truth, but he didn’t want to lie, either.
“Idling at the marketplace?”
“No.”
“You weren’t at your practice session with Mykah. He came looking for you.”
“No...”
“Making merry at Victor’s celebration?”
“No.” He wanted her to know that he had not been wasting his time. But he could not explain. She was upset enough already. How could he tell her he had aided someone the Acolyte himself had named an enemy of the Sentinel?
“Yes, Mother,” he said finally. “That’s what I was doing.” He hoped she didn’t check with any of those who were at the victory celebration. “I’m sorry.”
His mother’s anger was palpable. Her hands tightened and her nails bit into his shoulder. “You will go straight to your room.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“You will have no supper tonight. Or tomorrow. You will not be permitted to see your friends for”—her voice trembled—“until I say so. Except Mykah, of course. You may work for your father and prepare for the Winnowing. And that is all! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mother.”
*****
Daman went through the usual motions of preparing for bed, even though he had no intention of sleeping. Just before he turned down his bed, he spotted his father in the doorway.
“I have just spoken with your mother,” he whispered.
“I know I’ve made her angry. I know she does not like me very much.”
“Oh, Daman.” His father pulled his boy close and hugged him again. “Your mother loves you more than she loves life. She’s not angry. She’s frightened.”
His father did not say any more, nor was there any need. He was fifteen, soon to be sixteen. The Laws and Ways of the Sentinel could not be avoided.
“I will try to do better,” he whispered into his father’s ear. “I promise.”
His father held him at arms length and smiled. “Thank you, son. I knew you would.”
The Black Sentry Page 5