At night, the forest was like a dark and twisting labyrinth. Deadfalls and obstacles lay at every turn and it would be all too easy to get turned around. The last thing he needed was to come crashing through the undergrowth only to find himself right back where he’d started. Without the stars to navigate by, he needed something else. Something that could be used as a guide and assure he was headed in a consistent direction.
It was riskier to stagger blindly through the night than it was to gather his bearings, so Tanner stopped near the remains of an Old World house that was now nothing more than a mound of decaying wood within a brick-lined pit. He listened past his own haggard breathing, past the swishing of blood that seemed to fill his ears; ignoring the child’s cries and protests, he closed his eyes and focused.
He could faintly hear shouts in the distance, voices calling out to one another in the darkness, and they sounded as if they were fanning out. So he’d been right then. The Spewer Village had decided on pursuit. How long would it be before he glimpsed their torches? How long until the human net closed in around him?
He knew he’d move more quickly without the kid, but part of him insisted that it would be more dangerous at this point to go it alone. These savages moved through the wilderness with ease. Even if he did dump the little one, they’d swarm over him before long if he didn’t come up with a solid plan. So it was better to keep his prisoner for the time being . . . just in case.
So he had to ignore the sounds of the search party and allow them to become as unimportant as the chirping of insects. Nothing more than background noise. And then, just barely, he heard it: the sound of a river.
Using the rushing waters as a beacon, he darted into the darkness again, this time with purpose. Rivers provided water and fish so settlements often sprang up on their banks. Some of the newer ones were even experimenting with dams and water wheels in an attempt to return to the reign of electricity. If he could find this river, he’d be able to follow it, perhaps find allies and guns.
As the sounds of the water grew louder, hope welled within Tanner. Such a story he’d have for Shayla when he returned home, one which would even rival the history hidden within the fairy tales she so loved. The three other children in his community would gather around as well, each chewing their fingernails and leaning forward with round eyes as he told of the Spewer village.
By the time the soft earth of the forest turned into the loose rocks and sand of riverbank, Tanner had almost convinced himself that escape was a certainty. But now he felt that optimism fade like a lantern running low on oil. He could see the torches of the villagers now, bobbing through the forest like giant fireflies. And they were so fast, the savages: some of the closest ones looked like blurred streaks of light as they darted through the trees and he heard a voice, much too close for comfort, screech out what he assumed was the child’s name.
Behind him, the river roared like an angry god as large waves crashed over partially submerged boulders. The previous week, it had stormed so heavily that it seemed as though the deluge would never end. Torrents of rain had pounded against the tin roof of his sleeping quarters and the ground had become so saturated that every squishing step caused water to rise up within the grass. While the sun had dried the earth, the river still raged with after effects. It’s waters, even on a moonless night, were green and murky; toppled trees undulated on the white crested waves, hundreds of pounds carried effortlessly by nature and tossed about as if they were no more than splinters.
“Asham! I’m coming, child! I’m coming!”
The voice was close enough to be heard above the river and a cold certainty dawned upon him: he’d never be able to outrun them. Before the night was through, the Spewers would have his life and, despite his heroic attempt at escape, Shayla would be left an orphan. Unless . . .
Tanner whirled around and faced the river, watching how quickly the logs and debris were carried downstream. Even the fastest Spewer wouldn’t be able to match that pace. Of course, there was the chance that he’d be dashed against the rocks or pulled into the undertow. He could die out there in the raging waters. But staying ashore was a certain death. At least in the river, he’d have a fighting chance.
Turning around again, Tanner tossed the child onto the ground like a sack of laundry. His small head smacked flatly against a rock and the child’s eyes glazed as a low moan escaped through his throat. The kid was stunned, but if he was as resilient as adult Spewers that wouldn’t last long.
Kneeling beside the boy, Tanner took the dagger that was meant to spill his blood and held it against a bulging vein in the child’s neck. A hostage was no longer needed . . . .
But his hand refused to make the cut. Without the scars of infection and spurting blisters, the child could have easily passed for a settler. His skin was clear and unblemished and only residual stink from adult savages clung to him. If the child were bathed and the filthy loincloth replaced with honest to God clothes, the beast would almost be human.
But he’s not, part of Tanner’s mind urged, you know this. He’s a disgusting little animal that will grow up into a Spewer. He could kill dozens. Hundreds, even.
The child blinked rapidly, seemingly unaware of both his surroundings and the weapon held to his throat. He shifted slightly and, in a weak voice, muttered a single word: “Mommy.”
The torches in the forest glowed more brightly and seemed to getting larger. Within moments, he and the child would be discovered. Maybe he should just leave the boy on the bank. When they found him, alive and unharmed, perhaps they’d be content and give up the chase.
He’s not a child, you idiot. He’s a fucking Spewer. He may look harmless enough, but that won’t last. It never does. Would you want Shayla playing with this piece of shit? Would you want her drinking after him or using a pillow he’d laid his disgusting little head on?
“Asham! I’m coming . . . .”
For perhaps the first time in his career as a Sweeper, Tanner Kline had no idea what to do. But if he hoped to live, he knew he’d have to make a decision within seconds.
IX.
Asham was close. Lila knew this as surely as she knew the man would suffer for taking her child. It was almost as if she could sense his presence in the forest, drawing her to him like iron filings to a magnet. She called out his name again and again but whether or not he replied was of no consequence. All that mattered was that he knew she was out there, that he wasn’t alone and she was coming for him.
She should’ve killed that son of a goat when she had the chance. If she would’ve run him through when she first spotted him, none of this would have happened. Her child would be safe and happy, not being spirited away by a man whose heart was as small, cold, and unfeeling as a nugget of ice. But she had to think of The Way, didn’t she? She had to let tradition dissuade her from what she knew in her soul to be right.
“Maybe The Way no longer applies.” She thought. “Maybe the time has come for action. To stop being hunted and pick up our spears. To fight!”
This time the voice the voice of her late husband, offered no arguments.
From somewhere nearby, Lila heard the sound of the river. She imagined herself out there in the darkness: the hunter now the prey, surrounded and scared and knowing that death was on its way. She’d search out something familiar, something that would give the illusion of hope. She’d know there was no way those who pursued her could be on the far bank. The waters were too high and the rapids too turbulent. So they would close in on her from a single direction, a known direction . . . .
The murderous swine was heading for the water. He had to be. After all, it was what she would have done had their roles been reversed; and, while it was true that he was the very embodiment of evil, he was far from stupid. Which made him all that more dangerous.
For that reason, if nothing else, she would kill him this time. She would rend the flesh from his bones and show him his own intestines before allowing him to die. Even that would be too good for him.
When Lila broke through the tree line, she ignored the torrents of water rushing by. Instead, her eyes scanned the bank, looking for the slightest sign of movement or perhaps a flash of white from the man’s suit. But as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but the silhouettes of rocks and mounds of debris that had washed ashore from past recent flooding..
He had to be here somewhere. Her instincts told her to look more closely, to take in every detail as if it were the last time she’d gaze upon the earth. Sweeping the landscape again, she allowed her Cougar Eyes to crawl over moss covered stones and rusted hunks of metal that had washed ashore; like an invisible serpent, her eyes slithered along the contours of the river bank until they came to rest on what she’d originally mistaken for a large piece of driftwood.
For a moment, Lila’s heart forgot to beat. The moisture in her mouth evaporated as quickly as a drop of water on a glowing coal and the night air suddenly felt colder. In some ways, she was planted firmly in the here and now: she was acutely aware of how restrictive her necklace felt, almost as if it were cinching around her throat like a noose; she also heard the waters of the river gurgling and rushing with such clarity that it almost seemed they surrounded her on all sides. But at the same time, it also felt as if her consciousness had fled into the back of her mind, as if she were trying to distance herself from this dark riverbank. Her body was a shell and her spirit nothing more than a speck of dust within it.
“Asham!”
Breaking through her paralysis, Lila ran over the jagged stones of the riverbank. Her usual grace had abandoned her, causing her to stumble and fall as her feet entangled themselves in another. Sharp rocks peeled back the skin on her knees but before blood had even begun flowing she scrambled to her feet again.
As she grew closer to the object lying on the shore, details began to reveal themselves. The mop of red hair, pale skin, and brown loincloth. His tiny, rounded nose and lips that seemed to perpetually pout.
Please no, please no, please Great Spirit, please please please ….
Asham lay on his back with his hands folded across his chest, thumbs interlocked as if making the shape of a bird with his palms and fingers. His eyes were closed and he appeared to have fallen into a deep, sound sleep.
Falling to her knees, Lila flung her spear to the side and scooped her son into her arms. He hung limply in the cradle formed by her elbows as she pressed him to her chest and rocked back and forth. He was just napping that was all. He’d wake up with that special smile of his, would beg for a breakfast of venison when he knew perfectly well there was none. He would laugh and skip and play until it was time to sleep again, time to rest. She hadn’t really seen a smooth slit arching across his throat that looked like a flap of skin that had simply come loose. And the sticky blood covering the rocks was nothing more than a trick of the light, just a cruel trick, that was all. It had to be trick.
Lila felt, more than heard, the low moan building in the hollow void of her chest. She felt it resonate in the abyss, growing in strength as it spiraled through the barren cavity. Asham wavered in and out of focus as hot tears streamed from her eyes and she clutched him more tightly, intent on not allowing him to fluctuate out of existence.
She had no idea how long she’d sat there, rocking the lifeless body of her son while her voice broke and cracked through the words of his favorite songs. Time meant nothing. There was only the chill of Asham’s body seeping into her own warm flesh and the sound of the river, continuing on as it had for millennia.
Eventually, a callused hand touched her so lightly that it could have been a butterfly alighting on her shoulder. She jerked away and pressed her face into Asham’s red hair, allowing it to muffle her sobs.
“Lila . . . he’s gone.”
Her head snapped up and whipped around so quickly that tears flung from her glistening cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy, but they flared with pinpoint glimmers of anger.
“No!”
“He’s lost . . .”
“He’s not gone! He’s not. He was taken. Like Myra. Like Jarnell. Like Tolek!” As quickly as her voice had risen in anger, it dropped to a hoarse whisper that was almost drowned by the roar of the river. “They will die for this. All of them. They will know what it means to lose a child. To lose a husband. Their pain will balance the scales. Do you see? Do you see, Tanta? We must have vengeance.”
A small group of people had clustered around Lila and the light of their torches made it look as if Asham’s eyelids were about to flutter open. Most of the tribe could not look directly at her, fearing the madness and sorrow that seethed within her gaze. They studied the rocks of the shore, watched the waters flowing by, or simply closed their eyes. No one spoke, so Lila repeated in a louder voice, “We must have vengeance.”
Tanta, a short man whose beard looked like a overgrown scrub brush, shook his head slowly. He tried to speak in calm, measured tones but the words faltered. “It is not The Way , Lila. The Council would not approve.”
“Damn the Elders!” Spittle flew from Lila’s mouth as the words burst forth. “They would have us sit and wait to be slaughtered like game. They would stand idly by while our children are left to die.”
“You are grieving, woman. You don’t know what you say . . .”
Lila scrambled to her feet and thrust her arms toward Tanta as if offering him the corpse draped across them. “This was my child, Tanta. My child. Where is the honor in this? Is this a noble death? An honorable death?”
“You must listen to . . . .”
“No!” Lila screeched. “You must listen. You all must listen.” She turned slowly and watched as the eyes of her brothers and sisters flickered between the ground and Asham’s body. “They will continue to hunt us. They will continue to strike us down. Passivity teaches them how to treat us. We are telling them this is okay. That our lives are theirs for the taking. But I swear before my ancestors . . . this is not okay!”
“Listen to yourself . . . you’re talking about suicide.”
“I am talking about war! With or without the Council of Elders’ blessing, I will wage this battle. Whether or not any of you stand with me, I will fight until the last of the clear skins’ blood has been drank by the hungry earth.”
Lila took a deep breath and looked down upon Asham’s face. She studied every feature as she would the forest floor, intent on locking it into her memory for all eternity. She would never forget what he looked like, would never struggle to recall a particular characteristic. He would be with her always.
“They will die for their sins, my sweet boy.” She whispered. “They will die.”
X.
Gather at the feet of the Elders, brothers and sisters, and listen to a tale from the time of our ancestors. May they always walk with us …
So it came to be that The People lay staring at the sun while the blood of their bodies made mud in the fields below them. The weapons of the clear skins had cut our numbers by two thirds and John Redtree, he who is greatest among our ancestors, saw that to continue would mean the certain death of those still left alive. Gathering his warriors, he allowed The Great Spirit to guide them deep into the forest. They came to a vast lake where the waters were so clear that in the dark of night it looked as though the earth had captured the stars overhead and possessed them as her own. Here, The People laid their heads upon the grass and cried for their fallen brothers and sisters, knowing that they had passed through the Veil, never to return. It is said that for five days and nights their tears soaked into the soil and The Great Spirit was so moved by their plight that it took pity and delivered unto them a motherless calf so that they might fill their bellies.
Even with the coming of food and an abundance of water, however, The People were mired by loss and heartache and they knew not where to turn in these times of turmoil. As the Days of Tears moved on, John Redtree looked upon the disheartened tribe and anger blossomed in his heart like a rose in spring.
“You have nothing I want!” he shouted to t
he distant clear skins. “I reject you and your ways! From this day forth, The People and clear skins shall be like the rabbit and wolf, never again to live in peace.”
So great was his anger that he who is greatest among our ancestors (may they always walk with us) rejected the name that had been given to him by his father. From that day forth, the man known as John Redtree was no more, calling himself instead Jo’ree. Guided by The Great Spirit, Jo’ree taught The People how to capture the fish from the lake and which berries could be eaten from the vine without souring the stomach. Building shelter from the bounty of the forest, they followed The Way with each man, woman, and child taking new names as well.
It was thought that The People would live by the shining lake forever, but this was not meant to be. For the clear skins had sent their assassins into the world with evil in their hearts and minds. Once the harvesters of life, these white-suited Sweepers were now harbingers of death and The People were driven further and further from the lands that had always been called their home.
As with all things, The Great Spirit finally saw in It’s wisdom that the time had come for Jo’ree, he who is greatest among our ancestors, to part the Veil. Many were the saddened hearts who bid his spirit safe journey and it has been told that even the earth itself cried, swelling the streams and rivers to the point that hills became as islands.
With their great leader walking among the stars, dissension fell upon the minds of those left behind. Some wished to continue walking the path that Jo’ree had set them upon. Others wished to use it as a guide which they could, in turn, base their own teachings and doctrines from. Some wanted to commune peacefully with the earth and some wanted to make war against the clear skins for the indignities The People had been made to suffer. And so it was that the six great tribes were formed.
Yet it is said that Jo’ree still looks down upon us all from beyond the Veil, watching over his brothers and sisters, guarding and guiding us in all things. If, on a clear night, you turn your eyes to the heavens, you may be blessed to see a streak of light shooting across the darkness like an ember caught by the breeze. If this happens, brothers and sisters, then your heart should sing joyful praises, for this is the bursting of Jo’rees blisters and wherever it touches, new stars will form And you should live your life knowing that there is hope, that a time has been foretold when The People shall no longer be hunted, but will live out their days in peace and harmony with all things.
Apocalyptic Organ Grinder Page 5