by Adam Roberts
But it was only a grey-worm. It poked its stupid pin-eyed head round the branch to look at them.
Ati was screaming with enormous gusto. Tighe knew how he felt; the shock had been so terrible. Except that Ati was overdoing it a little. He was howling like a baby.
Tighe tried to calm him. ‘It’s only a fat-worm,’ he said. ‘Ati! Ati!’ He was having to shout, to be heard over Ati’s howling. ‘Ati, be quiet, it’s only a fat-worm, it’s harmless, it’s harmless. Ati!’
He gripped the sides of Ati’s head, and fixed his eyes upon the other boy’s, trying to will him not to panic, to calm himself, to stop screaming. ‘Ati,’ he said.
Ati stared back at him, screaming and screaming. He twisted his body, so that his limp hand dangled a little before him. Tighe looked down. A claw-caterpil had fastened on to the hand.
Tighe couldn’t control his first reaction, which was to let go of Ati and back away. Then he rebuked himself with a yell and launched back towards his friend. The claw-caterpil had fixed itself on Ati’s wrist with two crop-haired forelegs and its relentless jaws were chewing at Ati’s hand. Tighe watched as a finger loosened from the hand and dropped away.
Tighe grabbed Ati round the shoulders, so that the terrified boy’s screams howled directly into his ear. He put his own shoulder to the wall to balance himself and started kicking out with his good foot. He landed several blows against the beast’s back. It continued chewing placidly. Ati’s hand was a stump now, like a bloodied fist that was too small for the arm to which it was attached.
‘Get away with you,’ howled Tighe in his native tongue, ecstatic with fear and rage. ‘Foulness, foulness – get away, away!’
A second claw-caterpil head appeared over the rim of the meshwood trunk. Then a third.
Ati had screamed himself hoarse and was now breathing heavily and hard. Tighe shifted himself and let go his hold of Ati, thinking to free both his hands and find some weapon against the creatures. But Ati reached round with his good hand and gripped him, his face close to Tighe’s.
‘Don’t leave me,’ he rasped, straight into Tighe’s ear. ‘Don’t leave me like we left Ravielre. Please.’
‘Ati,’ barked Tighe, feeling sick and uncomfortable, feeling the fear chewing him, his mind racing. ‘Ati,’ he said again, when what he meant was, Don’t distract me, I’m trying to think what to do. But there was another part of him that thought, I’m not bleeding as you are, I can get away even though you can’t.
He shouted again, trying to drown out that voice inside him. They were close to the wall and Tighe pulled a wedge of turf from behind him. He stuffed the clump of soil and grass directly into the path of the first claw-caterpil’s jaws.
‘Don’t leave me,’ whimpered Ati. ‘Please don’t leave me.’
The other two claw-caterpils were clambering up the long body of the first one, their jaws clicking like scissors.
Ati hauled another lump of wall-turf free and rammed it between the jaws of the first monster. Its chewing clogged for an instant on the stodge of earth and grass-roots and Tighe gave a frantic kick with his right leg. The claw-caterpil slid backwards a little way. A second kick and, with its two snaky wriggling fellows, it toppled away and down.
Tighe hauled Ati up, reaching for a branch above their head. ‘Help me, Ati,’ he said. ‘Reach up with your good hand!’
But Ati had passed out.
Tighe was expecting a swarm of wriggling claw-caterpils to come out of the foliage all around him at any moment. ‘Wake up, Ati!’ he called. ‘Wake up!’ He dropped Ati back to the trunk, his back against the wall. What to do?
‘Ati,’ he said, pleading, begging. On instinct he reached out and slapped Ati’s face, but that had no effect.
With a desperate malice, he grabbed Ati’s hurt arm, thinking that the pain might startle him awake. He even jostled it and it moved loosely within its sleeve. There was an audible click and it went stiffer in the joint. But Ati was still unconscious.
There was a rustling below him. Peering over the ledge of the tree, Tighe saw a terror of claw-caterpils, half a dozen or maybe more, twisting and wriggling along the lower branches and through the foliage. Their mouth parts were all snapping together. They could smell Ati’s blood. Tighe knew it; he could almost see it in their actions. They were smelling Ati’s blood.
Tighe was away, scrabbling up to the next meshwood tree before he even knew what he was doing. One step up and a handhold within easy reach to the next one, but he looked down. Ati looked calm, as if asleep; only the mess that had been his hand spoiled the picture. Don’t leave me, like we left Ravielre. Tighe shuddered. He was crying, the sobs so sudden and hard they felt like hiccoughs. He could not grip the branch tightly enough because his hand was trembling so much.
He looked up at the climb ahead of him; then he looked back down at Ati.
He jumped, landing on his bad foot which punched pain up through his leg. But there was no time for that. He backed against Ati, reaching round to draw the unconscious boy’s two limps arms forward and round his neck. Then he stood up, with Ati a limp backpack, and started forward. He could only hobble; the pressure on his bad foot was almost unbearable.
He could not climb with this weight on his back and it took both his hands to grip Ati’s arms and stop him falling back. Below to the right of the trunk was swarming with claw-caterpils. Below to the left there were more, but there was nothing else to be done.
Tighe leapt down, hoping for a good foothold. He landed on the back of one of the claw-caterpils, a large one; the bony plates on its back provided surprisingly good purchase. It whipped its head round and snapped its jaws, slicing through Tighe’s trouser-leg and scratching against his calf. But Tighe was away, leaping down to the next trunk, and down again to the next one.
Each leap was a terrifying tumble through space; he could easily have missed his footing, particularly with the added burden of Ati on his back. He had to land on his good foot, or he would have crumpled over. And without his hands free he could not steady himself. Stride followed stride until his foot slipped and he slammed down painfully across the trunk. Somehow he managed to keep Ati on his back and with an enormous heave he deposited him over the body of the trunk.
6
It took him a while to calm his desperate sobbing, and his head twitched back and forth, checking every tremble of leaves for an emerging claw-caterpil. But he also knew that they couldn’t stay where they were. The monsters would come sooner or later. They were probably coming now.
‘No,’ he moaned to himself. ‘No.’
He could hear water shuddering through leaves a little way below him, and after checking his way carefully he dropped down and swigged a draft from the cold spring. Then, filling his mouth, he clambered back up and spat the stuff all over Ati’s face.
‘Wake up, Ati,’ he pleaded. ‘Wake up.’ He started rubbing Ati’s face, chafing the forehead, the cheeks. Ati’s eyes flickered and opened.
‘We cannot stay here,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ said Ati. ‘Oh, oh. My arm hurts. My shoulder and my hand.’ But he was at least moving his hand now, waving the wine-red stump in front of him. He started crying. ‘Look at my hand!’ he said, through chokes. ‘Look at it! Oh, it hurts.’
‘We have to go now,’ said Tighe. ‘Use your left hand to help you climb. All right, Ati?’
Ati’s crumpled face uncreased, and he looked straight at Tighe with an innocent openness. ‘Your face looks funny,’ he said in a childish voice. ‘Have you been crying?’
‘Yes Ati,’ said Tighe. ‘I have been crying.’
Ati nodded. ‘What about Ravielre?’ he asked. Then his face creased up again and the tears started. ‘Ravielre’s dead,’ he said with a strained voice, crying freely. ‘We’ll all die.’
‘Come,’ said Tighe, ‘we must climb away to safety. Ati!’
‘My hand,’ moaned Ati, waving the stump in front of himself. ‘Look at it!’
‘You have another hand,’
Tighe pointed out. He gripped Ati by his shirt and pulled him up. ‘Come on.’
It took a little more chiding, but eventually Ati got into a rhythm of going up from trunk to trunk. It was an awkward, slow procedure, but they were climbing up and to the west. Tighe found himself pondering their position. They were presumably still far to the east of the Meshwood. If they hoped to go all the way through to the west it would take them several days.
Ati had stopped and was sitting on a trunk sobbing to himself.
They rested soon, both hungry. The intimacy of their terror had receded a little, but they still both felt overwhelmed by the horror of their surroundings. But at least they had seen no more claw-caterpils during their climb.
The dusk gale started with a tremendous shaking and rustling of leaves that made both Ati and Tighe cry out and hug one another. But it was only the wind disturbing the leaves and they found a place to wedge themselves in. They held each other very tightly as the wind thrashed about. ‘Maybe this wind,’ said Tighe, trying to think of things that would console Ati, ‘maybe it blows off all the claw-caterpils, blows them all off the wall.’
Ati laughed sobbingly. ‘But they would have been blown off this morning,’ he said. ‘Or during last night’s dusk gale. Or some other time.’
‘No, no,’ soothed Tighe. ‘They live in a big cave downwall from here. But they were tempted out by us and now they are too far from their cave and are all out on the branches. All blown into the air! All blown away for ever!’
Ati laughed again and for a while they were silent whilst the wind raged. As it died away they both fell asleep, but Ati soon twitched awake again. ‘We can’t stay here,’ he said, feverishly. ‘We can’t stay here or they’ll come and devour us. Oh, my hand hurts!’
‘We’ll be all right, ‘I think,’ said Tighe. But he wasn’t certain.
‘No, no, we must go away.’ Ati struggled up, pulling himself away from Tighe’s embrace. ‘We must climb.’
The night was thoroughly black, a complete darkness which made climbing much harder to manage. They had to feel their way up the wall at their side, reaching for a branch. ‘Ati,’ said Tighe after less than an hour of this. ‘Ati, can we stop? We must rest, we must.’
Ati mumbled something.
‘Ati,’ said Tighe firmly, grabbing him round the waist. ‘This is idiot thing. Come, stop. We might as easily put our hands on a claw-caterpil in the dark as escape them in this manner. Stop!’
That thought gave Ati pause and he curled himself up, crying. Tighe knelt down and embraced him and then positioned him gently so that he was lying across the trunk with the wall at his back. He curled in behind him, pressing his own body close. ‘We’ll be warm and safe,’ he promised. ‘It will be all right.’
Ati sobbed for a while and then it seemed he fell asleep. To Tighe, he felt like a baby in his arms. But Ati could not sleep long. He would come awake abruptly, shouting, ‘They are coming!’ or ‘My hand! No!’ Sometimes he woke with a mere yell. Each time it took him longer to get back to sleep.
Tighe felt hungry and exhausted and found himself resenting Ati’s constant interruptions. By the time the dawn gale started they had neither of them slept for more than half an hour.
Come the morning, they were both so tired they could barely co-ordinate their limbs. It was much harder climbing in this state, particularly with Ati’s added handicap.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry and my hand hurts.’
They had climbed only three trees up. Tighe left Ati propped against the wall and stumbled along looking for some kind of food. His eyes kept closing themselves and once his foot slid and twisted away when he thought it had been properly planted. The jar to his chest winded him and he had to lie on the trunk until he got his breath back.
He saw a grey-worm, a small one, and pounced on it. But when he brought it back, Ati began shuddering and he turned away. ‘I can’t eat it,’ he said. ‘It’s too repulsive. ‘I can’t eat it.’
‘Come!’ said Tighe. ‘It is food.’ He took a bite and chewed it enthusiastically.
‘I want grass-bread,’ said Ati, tearful.
‘Where could we possibly find grass-bread here in Meshwood? Don’t be silly. Come.’ He pulled free a lump of the worm’s flesh and passed it towards Ati, but he mimed disgust and buried his face in the crook of his left arm.
Tighe ate on alone.
When he had finished they resumed their climb.
At eighty, or thenabouts, they made it on to a brief grass- and moss-covered crag. This led up and shortly past its end there was a longer ledge, partly overhung and growing with fresh meshwood tree shoots. At the end of this was another one. This was much easier going and the two of them soon reached the far end.
Before them was a long vertical chimney, backed with tiny slabs of manrock and so straight up and down that no meshwood grew there. Five arms’ lengths upwards there was a curious metal grille, deeply rusted, and a slab of smoother manrock beside it. The faint impression of a single yellow line, the paint flaked and over-mossed, could just be made out going straight down. Grass clung to the lip of this gash and moss lined the innards. On the far side another almost wholly overhung ledge carried on up.
‘It is too far to jump,’ said Tighe, ‘but we might make a bridge.’
He pulled a branch of meshwood tree from below and broke it off. This reached over the space easily, filling the hole with its leaves.
‘It is not strong enough to support us,’ Ati pointed out.
‘We will need several. Come, help me.’
But Ati, with only one hand, could not pull and sever the branches and Tighe worked on alone. After a short while he had laid four over the gap and tentatively tried the structure for load-bearing ability. ‘I think it is all right,’ he said, inching forward. ‘I’ll go over and you can follow – that way ‘I can catch you and help pull you up.’
The soggy branches of meshwood bowed under Tighe’s weight, and the far end arched up; but they jammed under the overhang and did not come loose. When he was across the gap he motioned for Ati to follow him. ‘It’s safe,’ he said, ‘really it is.’
Ati was whimpering with fear, but he pushed himself out along the precarious structure. ‘Think!’ Tighe told him, to encourage him. ‘If we find it hard to cross this chimney, then the claw-caterpils will surely find it impossible.’
With a big tug Tighe pulled Ati up the last bit and the two of them lay hugging one another on the far ledge. Then Tighe made sure to kick the makeshift bridge away, and they continued their upward trek.
At the top of this angled trench was a dog-leg, and the two of them doubled back on their track, still ascending. Then the ledge ended, with an easy step to a meshwood tree trunk and up to a clear and lengthy ledge. Branches in easy reach spread up and to the west. Their way was easy, straight before them.
‘There!’ called a voice.
Tighe and Ati looked round together. Three grey-uniformed Otre soldiers were standing, a little more than twenty yards away. One was pointing with an outstretched arm and the other two were raising their rifles.
‘Quick!’ squealed Ati. ‘We can clamber into the trees, and lose them.’ He ran quickly to the western edge of the little crag and leapt, reaching out for a broad, horizontal branch to use it as a swinging-bar to the next crag along.
‘No!’ called Tighe, starting after him. But it was too late. Ati was in the air, reaching out for a branch with a hand he no longer possessed.
His stump scraped along the branch, and his left fingers scrabbled at the bark. Then he was falling, tipping through the air to plummet straight down.
Tighe, ignoring the shouts of the soldiers, clambered down from the crag and hurried along the downward ledge. He found Ati at the bottom, lying on his back, his head bent so far round that it was practically upside down.
Tighe crouched beside him, weeping fully. Because Ati’s head was at such a weird, horrific angle, his scowl was transformed into a grin. Wh
en the soldiers came up behind him, placing their huge hands on his shoulders, Tighe was still crying.
7
The three Otre soldiers tied Tighe’s right hand to his right ankle with a plastic tether just short enough to force him to stoop awkwardly as he walked. They needn’t have bothered. Tighe was too stupefied to think of trying to run away.
He loped along between the lead soldier and the second in line as they retraced their steps, moving awkwardly between ledges. At one point they helped him, hauling him unceremoniously up a series of trunk stepping-points one above the other. Then they reached the broad ledge, possibly the same one that Tighe had been on the previous day when Mulvaine, Ravielre, Pelis and Ati had still been alive. The thought made Tighe cringe into tears and cry with his mouth open. The tears smarted and stung in his eyes. The soldiers ignored him until they became annoyed by the incessant noise and shut him up with a series of sharp knocks from their rifle butts.
They marched east along this ledge at a leisurely pace. All this time the three soldiers chatted amongst themselves in their odd, guttural language. They seemed completely at ease and laughed often.
Within the hour they emerged from the Meshwood at its eastern border. The guard eyrie which had been built by Imperial troops was now occupied by grey-uniformed Otre soldiers and the shelves beyond were busy with Otre military activity.
Tighe walked with the soldiers, making his way awkwardly up the ledge and on to the shelf, loping and snivelling. ‘Here,’ said one of his captors in atrociously accented Imperial, ‘you go here.’ They were standing at the doorway to one of the dugouts.
Tighe lurched through and fell forward. The Otre had erected a wooden door and it was dragged across the opening when Tighe was inside. Light gleamed in four thin lines through the gaps between the planks of wood.
There were perhaps a dozen people in the shadow-coloured space; all tethered, either with a wrist tied to an ankle like Tighe or else with their hands strapped together behind their backs. They all looked up as Tighe stood there, but nobody said anything.