Shadows Beneath: The Writing Excuses Anthology

by Brandon Sanderson, Mary Robinette Kowal, Dan Wells, Howard Tayler

  He had told them. He had told them. Do not come to Patji. Fools. And they had camped here on the beach itself! Was nobody in that company capable of listening?

  Sixth picked his way through the remnants of the camp. How long had it been? He stopped beside a group of gouges in the rocks, as wide as his upper arm, running some ten paces long. They led toward the ocean.

  Shadow, he thought. One of the deep beasts. His uncle had spoken of seeing one once, from a distance. An enormous . . . something that had exploded up from the depths. It had killed a dozen krell who had been chewing on oceanside weeds before retreating into the waters with its feast.

  Sixth shivered, imagining this camp on the rocks, bustling with men unpacking boxes, preparing to build the fort they had described to him. But where was their ship? The great steam-powered vessel with an iron hull they claimed could rebuff the attacks of even the deepest of shadows? Did it now defend the ocean bottom, a home for slimfish and octopi?

  There were no survivors—nor even any corpses—that Sixth could see. The beach was too dangerous. He pulled back to the slightly-safer local of the jungle’s edge. Here, he scanned the foliage, looking for signs that people had passed this way. This attack was recent, within the last day or so. The company really had beat him to the islands, despite his head start.

  He’d been certain they’d listen to reason. A dozen different trappers had spoken to them. Fools! He absently gave Sak a seed from his pocket as he located a series of broken fronds leading into the jungle. So there were survivors. At least one, maybe as many as a half dozen. They had each chosen to go in different directions, in a hurry. Running from the attack.

  Running through the jungles was a good way to get dead. These company types . . . they thought themselves rugged, they thought themselves prepared. They were wrong. He’d spoken to a number of them, trying to persuade as many of their ‘trappers’ as possible to abandon the voyage.

  Well, these survivors were likely dead now. He should leave them to their fates. Except . . .

  The thought of it, outsiders on Patji . . . Well, it made him shiver in something that mixed disgust and anxiety. They were here. It was wrong. These islands were sacred, the trappers their priests.

  The plants rustled nearby. Sixth whipped his machete about, leveling it, reaching into his pocket for his sling. It was not a refugee who left the bushes, or even a predator. Not a common one, at least. A group of small, mouse-like creatures crawled out, sniffing the air. Sak squawked. She had never liked meekers.

  Food? the three meekers sent to Sixth. Food?

  It was the most rudimentary of thoughts, projected directly into his mind. Though he did not want the distraction, he did not pass up the opportunity to fish out some dried meat for the meekers. As they huddled around it, sending him gratitude, he saw their sharp teeth and the single, pointed fang at the tips of their mouths. His uncle had told him that once, meekers had been dangerous to men. One bite was enough to kill. Over the centuries, the little creatures had grown accustomed to trappers. They had minds, thoughts beyond that of dull animals. Almost, he found them as intelligent as the Aviar.

  If they were intelligent, they could be trained. Perhaps. You remember? he sent them, through thoughts. You remember your task?

  Others, they sent back gleefully. Bite others.

  Once, they had been dangerous to men. Trappers ignored them. Sixth figured that maybe, one of these little beasts could provide an unexpected surprise for one of his rivals. He had been cultivating small groups of them across the island. They’d have been frightened of the company and its many people. But perhaps . . .

  Have you seen an other? Sixth sent them.

  Bite others! came the reply.

  Intelligent . . . but not that intelligent. Sixth turned back to the forest. After a moment’s deliberation, he found himself striking inland, following one of the refugee trails. He chose the one that made him the most nervous, the one that looked as if it would pass uncomfortably close to one of his own safecamps, deep within the jungle.

  Sixth passed out of the sun and beneath the jungle’s canopy. It was hotter here, despite the shade. Comfortably sweltering. Kokerlii joined him, winging up ahead to a branch where a few lesser Aviar sat chirping. Kokerlii towered over them, but sang at them with enthusiasm. An Aviar raised around people never quite fit back in among their own kind. The same could be said of a man raised around Aviar.

  Sixth followed the trail left by the refugee, expecting to stumble over the man’s corpse at any moment. He did not, though his own dead body did occasionally appear along the path. He saw it laying half-eaten in the mud or tucked away in a fallen log with only the foot showing. He could never grow too comfortable with Sak on his shoulder. That was one primary reason he preferred her to other Aviar.

  It did not matter if Sak’s visions were truth or fiction. The constant reminder of how Patji treated the unwary was enough. It kept Sixth alert, and that kept him alive.

  He fell into the familiar, but not comfortable, lope of a pantheon trapper. Alert, wary, careful not to brush leaves that could carry biting insects, cutting with the machete only when necessary, let he leave a trail another could follow. Listening, aware of his Aviar at all times, never outstripping Kokerlii or letting him drift too far ahead.

  The man he tracked did not fall to the common dangers of the island—he cut across game trails, rather than following them. The surest way to run across predators was to fall in with their food. The refugee did not know how to mask his trail, but neither did he blunder into the nest of the firesnap lizards, or brush the deathweed bark, or step into the patch of hungry mud.

  Was this another trapper, perhaps? A youthful one, not fully trained? That seemed something the company would try. Experienced trappers were beyond recruitment; none would be foolish enough to guide a group of clerks and merchants around the islands. But a youth, who had not yet chosen his island? A youth who, perhaps, resented being required to practice only on Sori until his mentor determined his apprenticeship complete? Sixth had felt that way ten years ago, when nearing the end of his uncle’s training.

  So the company had hired itself a trapper at last. That would explain why they had grown so bold as to come, despite the council of men like Sixth.

  But Patji itself? he thought, kneeling beside the bank of a small stream. It had no name, at least not one that Sixth had given it, but it was familiar to him. Why would they come here?

  The answer was simple. They were merchants. The biggest, to them, would be the best. Why waste time on lesser islands? Why not come for the Father himself?

  The refugee had stopped by the river. Sixth had gained time on the man . . . or, rather, the youth. Yes, that footprint: judging by the depth it had sunk in the mud, Sixth could imagine the boy’s weight and height. Sixteen, perhaps. Certainly not fully grown. Could he be younger? Trappers apprenticed at ten, but he could not imagine even the company trying to recruit one so ill trained.

  Perhaps two hours gone, Sixth thought, turning a broken stem and smelling the sap.

  The boy’s path continued on toward Sixth’s safecamp. How? He had never spoken of it to anyone else. Perhaps this youth was apprenticing under one of the other trappers who visited Patji. One of them could have found his safecamp and mentioned it.

  Sixth crossed the stream and continued. Each member of the pantheon supported a variety of trappers. In ten years on Patji, he had only seen another trapper in person a handful of times. On each occasion, they had both turned and gone a different direction without saying a word. It was the way of such things. Trappers would not attack one another directly unless defending a camp.

  Of course, they would try to kill one another. They just didn’t do it in person. Better to let Patji claim rivals than to directly stain one’s hands with their blood.

  This one, though . . . this one was making directly for Sixth’s safecamp. If he really was a youth, he might not know the proper way of things. Perhaps he had come seeking help
, afraid to go to one of his master’s safecamps for fear of punishment. Or . . .

  No, best to avoid pondering it too much. Sixth already had a mind full of spurious conjectures. He would find what he would find.

  He finally approached his safecamp as evening settled upon the island. Two of his tripwires were cut. That was not surprising; those were meant to be obvious. He crept forward, passing the deathant crack in the ground. It had been stoppered with a smoldering twig. The nightwind fungi that Sixth had spent years cultivating here had been smothered in water to keep the spores from escaping, and the next two tripwires—the ones not intended to be obvious—were also cut.

  Nice work, kid, Sixth thought. Someone really needed to teach the boy how to move without being trackable, though. The youth had left more footprints, broken stems, and other signs than a mainlander might have if—

  “Um, hello?”

  Sixth froze, then looked up.

  A woman hung from the tree branches above, trapped in a net made of jellywire vines—they left someone numb, unable to move.

  A woman, Sixth thought, suddenly feeling stupid. The smaller footprint, lighter step . . .

  “I want to make it perfectly clear,” the woman said. “I have no intention of stealing your birds or infringing upon your territory.”

  Sixth squinted in the dimming light. He recognized this woman. She was one of the clerks who had been at his meetings with the company. “You cut my tripwires,” Sixth said. Words felt odd in his, and they came out ragged, as if he’d swallowed handfuls of dust. The result of weeks without speaking.

  “Er, yes, I did. I assumed you could replace them.” She hesitated. “Sorry?”

  Sixth settled back. The woman rotated slowly in her net, and he noticed an Aviar clinging to their outside. The bird had subdued white and green plumage; a Streamer, which was a breed that did not live on Patji. He did not know much about them.

  The setting sun cast shadows, the sky darkening. Soon, he would need to hunker down for the night and await its passing. The jungle was even more deadly at night than it was at day, for that was when the most dangerous of predators came out.

  “I promise,” the woman said from within her bindings. What was her name? He believed it had been told to him, but he did not recall. Something untraditional. “I really don’t want to steal from you. You remember me, don’t you? We met back in the company halls?”

  He gave no reply.

  “Please,” she asked. “I’d really rather not be hung by my ankles from a tree, slathered with blood to attract predators. If it’s all the same to you.”

  “You are not a trapper.”

  “Well, no,” she said. “You may have noticed my gender.”

  “There have been female trappers.”

  “One. One female trapper, Yaalani the Brave. I’ve heard her story a hundred times. You may find it odd to know that almost every society has its myth of the female role reversal. She goes to war dressed as a man, or leads her father’s armies into battle, or lives alone on an island just like any man. I’m convinced that such stories exist so that parents can tell their daughters, ‘You are not Yaalani.’”

  This woman spoke. A lot. People did tha, back on the Eelakin islands. Her skin was dark, like his, and she had the sound of his people. The slight accent to her voice . . . he had heard it more and more when visiting the homeisles. It was the accent of one who was educated.

  “Can I get down?” she asked, voice bearing a faint tremor. “I cannot feel my hands. It is . . . unsettling.”

  “What is your name?” Patji asked. “I have forgotten it.” This was too much speaking. It hurt his ears. This place was supposed to be soft.

  “Vathi.”

  That’s right. It was an improper name. Not a reference to her birth order, but a name like the mainlanders used. That was not uncommon among his people now. It had something to do with the visits from the Ones Above.

  He walked over and took the rope from the nearby tree, then lowered the net. The woman’s Aviar flapped away, screeching in annoyance and frustration as she hit the ground, a bundle of dark curls and green linen skirts. She stumbled to her feet, shaking numb hands and shivering, an after-effect of the vines’ skin poison.

  “So . . . uh, no ankles and blood?” she asked, hopeful.

  “That is a story mothers tell to children,” Sixth said, walking away from her. “It is not something we actually do.”

  “Oh.”

  “If you had been another trapper, I would have killed you directly, rather than leaving you to revenge yourself upon me. Come. Step where I step.”

  She shook a small pack from the vines and straightened her skirts. She wore a tight vest over the top of them, and the pack had some kind of metal tube sticking out of it. A map case? As he led the way, she followed, and she did not attempt to attack him when his back was turned.

  Darkness was coming upon them. Fortunately, his safecamp was ahead, and he knew by heart the steps to approach along this path. As they walked, Kokerlii fluttered down and landed on the woman’s shoulder, then began chirping in an amiable way.

  Sixth stopped, turning. The woman’s own Aviar had moved down her dress away from Kokerlii to cling near her bodice. The bird hissed softly, but Kokerlii—oblivious, as usual—continued to chirp happily.

  “Is this . . .” Vathi said, looking to him. “Yours? But of course. The one on your shoulder is not Aviar.”

  Sak settled back, puffing up her feathers. No, she was not Aviar. At least, her species was not. Sixth continued to lead the way.

  “I have never seen a trapper carry a bird who was not from the islands,” Vathi said from behind.

  It was not a question. Sixth, therefore, felt no need to reply.

  This safecamp—he had three total on the island, though this was the largest—lay atop a short hike following a twisting trail. Getting to it either required climbing this single path and exposing oneself to the traps or somehow coming down the cliff above. At the top of the trail lay a small stand of trees, the largest of which held alof a single-room structure. Trees were one of the safer places to sleep on Patji. The treetops were the domain of the Aviar, and most of the big predators all walked.

  Sixth lit his lantern, then held it up, letting the orange light bathe his home. “Up,” he said to the woman.

  She hesitated, then looked out into the darkening jungle. By the lanternlight, he saw that the whites of her eyes were red from lack of sleep. She looked exhausted, despite the unconcerned smile she gave him before climbing up the stakes he’d planted in the tree.

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  Vathi hesitated, near to the trap door leading into his home. “Know what?”

  “Where my safecamp was. Who told you?”

  “I followed the sound of water,” she said, nodding toward the small spring that bubbled out of the mountainside here. “When I found traps, I knew I was coming the right way.”

  Sixth frowned. That was impossible. One could not hear this water, and the stream vanished only a few hundred yards away, resurfacing in an unexpected location. Following it here . . . that would be virtually impossible.

  So was she lying, or was she just lucky?

  “You wanted to find me,” he said.

  “I wanted to find someone,” she said, pushing open the trap door, voice growing muffled as she climbed up into the building. “I figured that a trapper would be my only chance for survival.” Above, she stepped up to one of the netted windows. “This is nice. Very roomy for a shack on a mountainside in the middle of a deadly jungle on an isolated island surrounded by monsters.”

  Sixth climbed up, holding the lantern in his teeth. The room at the top was perhaps four paces square, tall enough to stand in, but only barely. “Shake out those blankets,” he said, nodding toward the stack and setting down the lantern. “Then lift every cup or bowl on the shelf and check inside of them.”

  Her eye widened. “What am I looking for?”

  �
�Deathants, scorpions, spiders, bloodscratches . . .” He shrugged, putting Sak on her perch by the window. “Better to find them now than when sleeping. The room is built to be tight, but this is Patji. The Father likes surprises.”

  As she hesitantly set aside her pack and got to work, Sixth continued up a ladder to check the roof of his structure. There, a group of bird-sized boxes lay arranged in a double row. Kokerlii landed on top of one, trilling—but softly, now that night had fallen. Other coos and chirps came from the other boxes.

  Sixth climbed out to check each bird for hurt wings or feet. These Aviar pairs were his life’s work; the chicks each one hatched became his primary stock and trade. Yes, he would trap on the island, trying to find as many nests and wild chicks as he could get—but that was never as efficient as raising nests.

  “Your name was Sixth, wasn’t it,” Vathi said from below, voice accompanied by the sound of a blanket being shaken.

  “It is.”

  “Large family,” Vathi noted.

  An ordinary family. Or, so it had once been. His father had been a twelfth and his mother an eleventh.

  “Sixth of what?” Vathi prompted below.

  “Of the dusk.”

  “So you were born in the evening,” Vathi said. “I’ve always found the traditional names so . . . uh . . . descriptive.”

  What a meaningless comment, Sixth thought. Why do homeislers feel the need to speak all of the time, particularly when there is nothing to say?

  He moved on to the next nest, checking the two drowsy birds inside for wounds, then inspecting their droppings. They responded to his return with happiness. An Aviar raised around people—particularly one that had lent its talent to a person at an early age—would always see people as part of their flock. These birds were not his companions, like Sak and Kokerlii, but they were still special to him. He had raised each one, and had chosen to keep them for breeding rather than taking them back to the homeisles for sale.