Diggory's World (Wayworld Book 1)

by T. Daniel Sheppeard

  A cold front moved in before I could leave, changing my mind. I had been told before that we were experiencing an uncommonly warm autumn, and now winter set in early. I was not equipped to camp out in the cold, much less travel. A portion of my dwindling supply of copper went toward having winter clothing made, and I paid a little extra for a rush job. I miserably faced the cold in shorts, shirt, and blankets until my new clothes were complete. I now had a pair of thick leather britches, a soft tunic of tupa wool, and a long coat made of a grey, black, and tan patchwork of furs. I fashioned a long scarf from some cloth and wrapped it about my head and neck.

  The pace of life in Black Banks slowed considerably. Many of its denizens seemed cold-blooded, to some degree or another. Vetuvenu mostly vanished from the booth, his oiwepol partner picking up the slack. The chivik wrapped themselves in furs and blankets and huddled on stools, keeping their feet off the ground, moving only when necessary. The grend seemed affected only a little, sheathing their long necks and their lower legs in thick cloth—making them look very comical. The wuv disappeared from sight. Paksachi no longer waded while fishing and moved a little more slowly, but otherwise seemed okay. Visiting shokhung now wore heavier kilts and donned woolen cloaks. Fires burned in large clay pots throughout the market.

  The fishing dropped off and I spent more time hunting and trapping. I wandered into the nearby woods and would sometimes spend the night out there. I fashioned warm over-leggings and a furry vest, just in time for my first Wayworld snowfall.

  It was just a light dusting at first. It seemed so incongruous: such an Earthly, mundane sight, floating and falling across the blue-green vegetation of Wayworld. A few days later, it came again, heavier this time. I spent a few precious ingots on lodgings inside a warm inn, where I slept surrounded by a half-dozen other species. The following morning I went about town and was treated to the delightful sight of alien children and adults playing in the snow. Somehow, by the end of the morning, is seems that some unidentified newly arrived alien had introduced the novelty of the snowball fight—an art previously unknown on Wayworld.

  The winter of Wayworld highlighted the differences of flora and fauna from those of Earth. Many animals that I had thought of as reptilian—hairless, scaly or pebbly skin—were just as abundant and active as before. Some, though not all, of the furred creatures, such as hodo, were still out and about, but definitely moved more slowly. Many of the frama were absent, either hibernating, or having migrated to warmer climes.

  I spent time with the denizens of Black Banks, working when I could find work, buying when I needed to, selling when I could, and often talking over a bowl of hot soup, with those who ate soup. I learned what I could of their journeys to Wayworld. I was no physicist, but it sounded like the mode of transport was similar to how D’Silva had described his engine: a field that allowed a ship to travel fourth-dimensionally (or fifth, or six—it was all a matter of perspective) where the straight line that connected two points was shorter than in three-dimensional space. For most, the technology was either brand new or at least fairly new.

  I lost weight over the cold month that followed that first snow. The snow itself was intermittent, and very rarely was it heavy, but the cold made foraging and hunting difficult. It’s not like I had a lot of fat left, so I was sure some the weight loss was muscle. My funds dwindled as I found myself needing warm lodging more often, and earning less money.

  The coldest part of the winter did not last long. Soon the weather warmed considerably, while still being cold. Activity increased in Black Banks and I was able to find a little more work, helping to offset the poor hunting and fishing.

  I found some ongoing work with Vetuvenu and his oiwepol partner, named Wohwon. I helped shape some of the ceramic goods, under the strict guidance of one or the other of them, or occasionally another employee. Another oiwepol and two more ruaka worked there. Like my tupa friends, the ruaka typically walked about on all fours, though they sat or stood on their hind limbs with the help of their thick tails. They seemed, to me, literal to the point of obtuse. Vetuvenu was, however, a shrewd businessman and a very fair employer. I never had to worry about what was on his mind: if it concerned me, he told me — plainly and simply.

  In another month, the weather had improved greatly. I was back to my morning fishing excursions with Paksachi. Late one morning I was treated to a sight I had heard of before, but never seen: a shokhung blimp.

  The blimp was unimpressive until you thought about the fact that it was built from scraps on a non-industrialized world. It was stitched together from seven or eight different colored cloths. A boat-shaped gondola hung beneath. I stood on the banks of the river and watched as it approached, eventually hearing the faint hum of its engines. The airship drifted slowly over the river to a field east of the city. The blimp lowered the ground as a small crowd came out of the city to watch. A few shokhung unloaded their wares and set up tables to sell them.

  Displaying the ingenuity that marked their reputation, the shokhung set out a vast array of goods that were mostly made of salvaged pieces of wrecked ships. There were small engines that ran on alcohol, and lamps fashioned of various reservoirs. There was an assortment of small tools. There were scraps of metal, plastic, and glass. They also had cloth and blankets, some woven of blue-grey tupa wool.

  I set about poking through the stuff while chatting with a shokhung name Mothash. He knew of both the okavi and tupa villages, and Thashingi and company, though he knew nothing of D’Silva. He was telling me about their scrap metal business.

  “We don’t sell much junk metal,” he said. “Most of that we keep and make things with it. But this,” he poked at a pile of scrap, “this is too brittle to work with. It breaks when we want it to bend. But others use it for weights, or grind it up and use it—I don’t know what for.” My eyes were drawn to the pile he mentioned. Next to his thick, hairy digit was a twisted metal plate, its edges torn and ragged, its surface scorched. But between burn marks I could see, intruding from one side, the remains of a rectangular field, about the size of the palm of my hand, painted or printed with alternating red and white stripes.

  I snatched up the plate and counted: there were seven red stripes, and six white. I counted again. Was I holding the remnant of a United States flag?

  Frantically I began digging through the trash, searching for other pieces. As I recalled, the Jamestown launched as an American craft, though the personnel were multinational. I could well be holding evidence that the Jamestown made it to Wayworld.

  “Where did you get this?” I demanded, waving the scrap in the air. “Please tell me!”(It is of no consequence, but for the linguistically minded, it was more literally “Happily tell me.”) “Are there any more like it?”

  “You like that piece?” said the merchant. “I’ll sell it cheap. To me, it’s just scrap.”

  “Fine, fine, I just want to know where you found it. I need to know! I need it to find my pakren.”

  “I thought your pakren lived south of Forest Fort.”

  “No—I mean—yes! One of them does, but I am looking for others.”

  “Ah. All this came from a scrap heap north of the mountains.”

  He explained there was a shokhung settlement on the other side of a mountain range to the north. He didn’t know a way to pass through the mountains, since he always traveled there in an airship. I asked if he could take me there. He said that his route would return him to Black Banks about two months from now, then back north, and he could transport me for a small fee.

  I could hardly sleep for days, I was so excited about the possibilities. Then the realization would come back to me, that even if this were a scrap of the Jamestown, it wouldn’t mean that they lived, or that if they lived, I would be able to find them. But still, it gave me some hope, some direction, something to do with my life besides odd jobs around Black Banks.

  Chapter 10: The Huntings

  About a ganulan later, I accompanied Vetuvenu and a ruaka worker n
ame Grishas as they traveled east to Sarnin. Like my tupa friends, they acted as their own beasts of burden, with Vetuvenu loaded up with a sort of packsaddle, and Grishas pulling a small cart.

  In only a few days, I began to question the wisdom of joining the trip. We traveled at night, as the ruaka were nocturnal. They were also strong and seemingly tireless, traveling all night with barely a pause. We ate a meal upon waking in the evening, walked all night, and ate again mid-morning before going to bed. Early evening we were awake again and resumed before sunset.

  There was a well-worn road between the two cities, and we passed numerous travelers going the other way. There were chivik, grend, oiwepol, and others I didn’t know. Some of these meetings resulted in a pause as the two parties traded with each other, while I reveled in a few moments of rest.

  Within half a ganulan, we made it the Sarnin. The outskirts of the city were occupied by small cottages and farms being worked by nearly every type of hren I’d encountered: oiwepol, chivik, grend, and the barrel-like creatures I’d encountered once at Black Banks.

  Sarnin’s walls stood a mere seven or eight feet high, and were more fence than wall. They were built from planks of pale lavender wood. Nevertheless the town had “city gates” with guards. The guards, Grishas informed me, were the praad.

  The praad were bipeds, standing digitigrade. They looked like they would probably be around seven feet tall if they stood upright, but instead they had a hunched posture that thrust their head forward and left them closer to six foot. Their skins was a muddy olive color with dark green spots around the dome of their heads and the back of their arms. Their heads were elongated from front to back, their eyes large black orbs, and their mouths sporting jagged bony-looking ridges instead of lips—almost like a flat beak. They carried long staffs that could have been some sort of yellow polymer or metal and were carved with various lines and rings. Their limbs and torsos were powerfully muscled.

  Once past the gates, I saw a city quite unlike Black Banks. The praad clearly outnumbered any other species, and came in many sizes and colors besides the ones I’d seen at the gate. Most were spindly rather than bulky, and colors ranged from a mustard yellow to a bright green to the olive of the guards, all with darker green spots in various patterns. The streets were laid out in a regular fashion, and many were paved in cobblestone or boardwalk. Buildings were fashioned of wood and regularly shaped.

  The ruaka and I made arrangements for lodging then went our separate ways. They were here for business, I for research.

  I wandered about the markets (easy to find as they were spaced out evenly about the edges of the town). Every booth was manned by praad, though many also had other hren working them as well, and there were plenty of non-praad buying and selling.

  I approached a booth and spoke to its purveyor. “Hello. I am looking for my pakren. Have you ever seen any creatures that looked like me? We are called ‘humans’.”

  “You farshalan andas filska for what purpose?” It asked me abruptly. “You makramosikrak expect? I not am kathurkakziha yours.”

  “I don’t understand you,” I said. “Do you speak Shikachui?”

  “I speak half-chui praad not.” It settled back in its chair and looked at me. Half-chui praad? Half speech of praad?

  “Does anyone else here speak Shikachui?” I asked. The praad mouth didn’t move. Nictitating membranes quickly blinked once. I had no clue how to read its “expression”. It turned to a nearby praad and made a clicking sound. The second praad came over.

  “What vish faktokti?” it asked.

  “Do you speak Shikachui? I asked.

  “What do you want?” it returned.

  “Have you ever seen any hren like me? We are called —”

  “Are we to be concerned with that?” it cut me off. The praad were a bit rude.

  “No, not really,” I said, “but you have been here much longer than I have, and I assume that you know a great deal more about this area than I do. I was hoping you could help me. That’s all.”

  “You are right,” replied the praad. Its demeanor shifted. “I see that you are only ignorant.

  “The praad have rotukas with sixteen hren,” he continued. “None of them are called ‘human’. We gamp to the northern mountains, south to the Forests of arlniskva, to the western mountains, and east as far as the land of kralsnar. Your pakren are not in that area.” The praad promptly walked away.

  Conversations with more praad yielded similar responses. Many spoke little or no Shikachui. The ones that did often spoke too fast and used a lot of words I didn’t know.

  A typical conversation would go like this:

  “Do you speak Shikachui?” I would ask.

  “What do you want?” they would often respond, instead of saying ‘yes’.

  “Have you ever met a hren like me? We are called ‘human’.”

  Their response would be a curt ‘no’, or often simply walking away. Many would answer or walk away before I finished the question. A few would explain. “No. I have met seven hren and they are not like you.” Others would lecture me, as the first one had, on how many species surrounded the praad, or how much area they knew about. One answered, “If they are not protected, I do not know them.”

  “What do you mean, ‘protected’?” I asked.

  “I do not travel. I only know the Protected,” he said. “Humans are not Protected.”

  “Please, I am new to this area and have never met praad before today. Can you please explain what you mean when you say ‘the Protected’?”

  “The Protected live amongst the praad and around our city. We protect them. We give them land and work, and protect them.”

  “Oh,” I said, “do you mean the hren I saw working in the fields as I came into the city? Are they the Protected.”

  “Yes,” he said. “There are no humans among the Protected. If you stay here, you may also become Protected.” This put the praad into a different light. They were ill-mannered, at least to my cultural eyes, but they were concerned with other beings who needed help.

  Sarnin was well-structured and orderly. Finding my way about the town was simple, though I could not read the signs. Asking directions from the praad was often unproductive at first, while the other inhabitants of the city tended to be friendlier, but everyone knew their way around. A grend merchant advised me that dealing with the praad was far easier if I prefaced my conversation with the phrase “I need your help.” For all their seeming rudeness, the praad liked to be asked for help. Another traveler explained that a big part of Shikachui was taken from the praad language, hence their use of the term ‘half-language’. Some spoke Shikachui as a matter of practicality, but none of them really liked or approved of the creole.

  The town was laid out in a wheel-and-spoke pattern. There seemed to be some rules about the markets and businesses and what they were and weren’t allowed to sell. The city had zoning laws that seemed obtuse and arbitrary, but I readily acknowledged that as a newcomer, I might be missing the underlying logic. In every section of the city I would see the praad guards—all the brawnier and browner version of the species. There were dark green praad that wore long robes and were showed great deference. They must have been some sort of government officials or perhaps priests.

  No one had seen or heard of humans, and aside from a handful of individuals that thought I was some sort of hairless shokhung, no one had any ideas where my pakren might be, or if they were on Wayworld at all. I did learn a little more of the geography, though. To the north was a mountain range and there were reports of hren beyond that. To the east lay a forest, but the area was rumored to inhabited by either vicious and bloodthirsty savages, or dangerous wild animals, depending on whom you asked, and travel there was dangerous.

  By the time the ruaka were ready to return to Black Banks, I felt I had exhausted the research available in Sarnin and I gladly prepared to make the journey back with them. Sarnin was well-appointed, and orderly, but it lacked the sense of vibrancy t
hat had marked the other villages I’d seen.

  We departed early one day and rented space on a barge to carry us back to Black Banks. The chivik crew were diurnal, so we floated downstream during the day and went ashore at night to camp. I grew restless sitting on a narrow bench all day doing little to nothing. The ruaka were content to lie down and snooze. I tried to follow their example, but could not sleep well on the bouncing and swaying surface of the deck. I slept poorly at night, too, as having no activity all day left me fidgety and nervous. I offered to help man a the barge-poles, but the chivik would have none of it.

  About the time I thought I would go mad, Black Banks came into view. The dirty, chaotic town was an oddly welcome sight, and I practically leapt from the craft as we pulled up to the town. Paksachi was ashore tending his boat so I jaunted over to catch up with him. He gave me news of animal attacks on nearby livestock, as well as a big fight that had broken out in the markets while I was gone. Otherwise, nothing was new in Black Banks. I told him of my trip to the praad city and my impressions of its peoples.

  I returned to my role as Black Banks’ resident Smart Hands and settled into my routine, awaiting the return of Mothash and his blimp. I would pluck fruit from high trees and sell them to Hwao. When I had first settled in the town I had planted some of my brai-alu near Paksachi’s shack. They were beginning to poke their faint purple shoots up through the soil. The weather was warming and the fishing picked up, though they were different fish than what I had caught the previous season. Hunting, I soon discovered, had suffered from the same uptick in predators as had the livestock.

  Though still technically winter, the morning felt quite spring-like. I’d had a good catch and eaten a fine breakfast of fried fish and brai-alu. I’d sold my remaining fish for a bit of copper and checked in with a few of my regular employers before finding my way to Vetuvenu since no one else needed me that day, and asked if he needed my help.