I purchased a pack animal. The vedrad’s body was about the size of a large goat’s, but long, spindly legs made the shoulders nearly level with mine. It had a long, sinuous neck and tail and its snout terminated in a foot-long, forked proboscis that it used like a pair of small trunks. It was hairless with mottled stripes in ochre and a dark teal. It was not an affectionate animal and seemed to owe no loyalty to its owner, but was exceptionally docile and could be led about easily on a line, and would eat just about any vegetation it found. With Debbie (as I had named her) at my side, I could carry enough supplies for an extensive journey.
I departed on a northbound trail one morning in early spring. Debbie and I were both loaded down with food, water, and supplies. I had my bow in easy reach and used my spear as a walking staff. The trail was not well-worn, being little more than a line where the feather-ferns were growing more thinly than the surrounding area. The territory north of Black Banks was hilly and sparsely wooded. Whenever I stopped for a break I’d hobble Debbie and she would contentedly munch on whatever plants were nearby. Mohari of various sizes, shapes, and colors spotted the landscape, along with the occasional pagemot or refik. I saw a small herd of wild mongmoth.
Half a ganulan into my journey, I came across the ruaka village that had been the home of Vetuvenu. The village had a small mine that supplied Vetuvenu with much of the non-clay supplies that he used in his ceramics. Once they found out that I knew their pakren in Black Banks they invited me to stay the night, but slept poorly since the inhabitants were, of course, nocturnal and active. I parted ways with them in the early morning after having confirmed directions toward the mountains.
The gentle hills became steeper. I crested a hill, a few days after leaving the ruaka village, and caught my first sight of the mountains, grey and hazy in the distance. The tips still held snow. They did not look high enough to be snowy year-round, but the scale could be distorted if they were farther away than I thought.
Within a week, I arrived at a village at the base of the mountains. One of my boots was in need of replacing from where it had been torn by a small but fierce varmint in a dispute over a slain tusker. My pack was not much lighter: game and foraging had been plentiful throughout the hills. Debbie now carried an assortment of hides in addition to her previous load.
A small crowd of chivik approached me from the village, each holding a long spear and wearing knee-length tunics.
“Givusto,” spoke the foremost among them, in an authoritative tone.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Do you speak Shikachui?” There was much murmuring between the six of them. Finally, one stepped forward and spoke in heavily-distorted Soup-Talk.
“I talk Shikachui,” it said. “What doings have you here?”
“I am seeking passage through the mountains.” It stood a while, then spoke to its comrades, then back to me.
“Not knowing passage,” it said.
“Going through,” I replied. “I want to go through the mountains.”
“Knowing talk-part ‘passage’,” it said. “We want know you know way. We want know you want way-to-show one.” I thought maybe it was asking if I wanted a guide.
“Can you guide me?” I asked.
“Not knowing talk-part ‘guide’.”
“Can one of you show me the way?”
“One not go. Only three or more go. You want three to show way? You pay three.”
“Is the way dangerous?”
“Not knowing talk-part ‘dangerous’.”
“Are many hurt or killed going through the way?” I clarified.
“No,” it said.
“Then why only three or more?”
“Not many hurt and killed going on way,” it said. “Not many go on way. Few go on way. More few come back.”
“Oh.” Sounded like ‘dangerous’ to me.
The conversation wound on for many awkward minutes due to the chivik ‘s limited grasp of Shikachui. It could relay to me no specific dangers, though it admitted that they would only travel in groups of at least three due in part to fear that a client might rob or kill them in the journey. It did not know for sure whether this had ever happened, but guides had vanished a few times and the clients were never seen again.
The cost of hiring three or more guides was more copper than I had, and they showed no interest in any of my wares. With mounting apprehension I inquired about buying a map of the path. They had no maps, they said, but the pass was mostly wide and not too hard to navigate. Details about potential dangers (besides getting lost) were not forthcoming. And no, I could not stay in their village while I thought it over. I could pay for transit or I was on my own. Thrusting my growing sense of trepidation aside, I continued my journey into the mountain pass.
Where I entered the mountains, the valley was wide and U-shaped. Ponds and streams marbled the landscape. Frama were abundant. The valley climbed steadily toward the pass, growing more V-shaped by the second day. Here the weather was colder and I donned my long coat. The valley grew rockier and trees crowded down closer to the center.
On the third day I was attacked.
My assailant was a pale, shaggy quadruped. It stood about four foot high at the shoulder, and was about seven feet long. Its head was broad; its face flat; its mouth wide and toothy. Two long, tusk-like teeth framed the sides of the jaw, jutting forward. It came crashing through the dense brush of the woods, growling and snarling.
A poor hunter it was, giving away its location so obviously. It bounded toward Debbie and me. Debbie bolted, snatching the lead from my hands and darting away from the monster. The attacker howled at me, pacing around in a circle. I readied my bow and sank an arrow into its chest. It howled again and rushed at me. A second arrow found its mark alongside its sister before the animal closed quarters with me.
My spear was out in a moment and I fended off the rush. A paw, replete with long, hooked claws swiped at my spear and knocked it off course before the animal snapped at me with its jaws. I allowed my spear to continue its direction, spinning the shaft around and parrying the creature’s head. I thrust the butt end at its neck, pushing it away, then clubbed with the shaft before pulling back and stabbing the spear into ribs. The creature quickly stumbled to the ground, whimpering momentarily before collapsing entirely.
The fight was over faster than I’d expected. Something wasn’t right. The animal seemed weakened—perhaps ill. I didn’t trust the meat of an animal that had given in so easily, but the hide looked promising. The fur was soft and dense—it would make a warm coat. I sought for Debbie, finding her quickly. She had just run far enough to be away from the fight. I coaxed her back to me and hobbled her as I went about skinning the waybear, as I had dubbed the dead creature.
I had scarcely finished when I heard a mewling growl that came from the same direction the waybear had. I picked up my spear and readied for another fight.
The sound came again, clearer now, and not menacing at all. It sounded small and either hungry, angry, or frightened—maybe all three at once. I crept slowly toward the sound. Something mewled again and rustled in the underbrush that lined the valley walls. I found a broken mess of ferns and brush, and, following the path they created, found a miniature version of the creature I had just killed. Its fur was damp with a slimy residue.
My stomach sank as I realized why the creature had been defeated so easily. She had just given birth. And I mean just. Probably minutes before I had encountered her. She may have attacked out of fear for her young or for hunger.
The poor cub was crawling in the direction its mother had gone, mewling and growling as a hungry cub would do. My heart went out to it. I briefly considered killing it, thinking this was the most humane treatment. I couldn’t possibly hope to take care of myself, could I? Of course, there seemed to be no true mammals on Wayworld—the mother wouldn’t have supplied it with milk. What would she have fed it? Pre-chewed meat seemed the most likely answer.
No, I couldn’t kill the cub. Too much
of a softie, I guess. I approached it slowly. It blinked at me with tiny brown eyes and mewled again. It shuffled over to me on over-sized paws, sniffing as it approached. I wondered if it smelled its mother on me. It did not resist as I picked it up, though it growled hungrily.
It was about the size of a toy poodle. Its teeth were small and its tusks barely present. Its fur was the same pale yellow as its mother’s. I carried it back to the sight of the battle and opted to wrap it in its mother’s fur, which may sound morbid, but the cub settled and calmed down. Now I needed food for the little one.
I had some fish leftover from breakfast. I mashed it up in a bowl with a spoon and dropped small spoonfuls into the cub’s mouth. He ate greedily. I don’t know if cooked fish is good for waybears, but they like it! After the animal fell asleep I spent a few minutes fastening a makeshift sling to carry the him wrapped in the fur, then resumed my journey.
I knew taking on the cub was a stupid thing to do: I had enough to worry about keeping myself alive without trying to nurse a newborn wild animal. Still, there was something soothing about seeing the little monster eat and now sleep.
I slowed my pace to spend a bit more time hunting so I could provide fresh meat to the waybear cub. He ate regularly and would fall asleep soon after. By the next day he got very restless and would wiggle around until I let him walk. He followed as best he could, but soon he would fall behind and start crying and I would have to double back and pick him up again. It made for very slow going.
I traveled like this for another day and a half before reaching the high point of the pass. I proceeded down the other side, all the while seeing a broad, rolling, orange plain ahead. The valley broadened again, and trees grew more densely. The ‘trail’ now was just a brook that snaked down the center of the vale. It was on the second day that I found myself pursued by more waybears.
There were three of them, all larger than the one I’d slain. I wondered if they pursued me out of hunger or if they were attempting to retrieve the cub. I decided to remove one of those incentives. I wrapped the cub in the fur and placed in the center of a clearing, backing away and hiding in a nearby clump of shrubbery. Soon the three entered the clearing, sniffing loudly and looking around. Two went to investigate the cub while one loped about, still sniffing. The cub climbed out its bundle and roared a tiny little roar. The waybears pawed at it, but gently. It pawed back and nuzzled the larger beast. It looked promising.
Debbie bolted. I looked to see what had startled her. The third waybear had found my hiding spot and was moving toward.
My arrow sank into its neck. I turned and ran in the same direction as my vedrad. I hazarded a glance over my shoulder. One waybear was in pursuit of me, the other was examining its wounded comrade. They ran in a bounding, loping motion, and moved surprisingly fast. I pushed myself, legs pumping harder and faster. I leapt from a rocky outcropping, landing feet first and rolling several times before recovering my footing, but kept moving.
The waybear fared poorly in its own leap, collapsing in a heap. Apparently they were not great jumpers. I kept running and glancing over my shoulder to see the creature picking itself up. By the time it had recovered I had gained a lot of ground. I veered toward the rockier ground on the edge of the valley, dashing back and forth between boulders and aiming for—and leaping off, of—ledges wherever I could find them. The waybear had me outclassed on speed, but not on maneuverability. A tense few moments later I heard a frustrated growl far behind me. I looked up. The waybear turned back to its companions.
I spent the next hour searching for my pack animal. The vedrad had run in a straight line away from the perceived threat, then stopped and wandered about when it no longer sensed danger. A breadcrumb of dropped parcels from my pack eventually led me to a field with a pond where Debbie was gulping water. I re-packed what was left of my goods, then guided Debbie back to floor of the valley, where we continued our journey. I’d lost some—quite a bit—of my provisions, but if the orange plains below held food, I should be okay.
Within another day I was moving through the foothills north of the mountain, which diminished rapidly to the rolling plains I’d seen from the mountain. The stream that ran down the center of the valley joined with several others to form a small river. The river immediately snaked off eastward at the base of the hills. I followed it, having been told that there were a few villages alongside the banks.
The land around me was starkly different than anything south of the mountains. Orange was the predominant color here—mostly dull, earthy orange. Plenty of the teal trees and semi-trees grew along the base of the hills and along the banks of the river, but elsewhere all was orange. Foraging here would be tricky, as the vegetation was almost entirely foreign to me. Debbie showed no consternation at the new menu, and ate quite contentedly.
An aroma like honeysuckle and cinnamon met my nostrils, along with an earthy funk that spoke of the presence of animals. The chittering sounds of insects—or the various arthropods that graced Wayworld instead of insects—filled the air. I took a brief nap and resumed my journey.
Animal life abounded. There was a herd of plant-munching hexapedal creatures that looked like squat, duck-billed cattle. A small variety of waybeast with a shaggy mane of hair down its spine showed as well as a scaly long-legged biped that leapt in bounds that would have put a kangaroo to shame. Fur-lizards skittered about between the dense orange ground cover.
Late that afternoon I found small lake and fished there. By evening the lake crowded with the same sorts of creatures I’d seen earlier, which settled down to sleep after drinking their fill.
The next day I skirted the edge of the lake to its egress and continued my journey on the river that flowed from it. Within another day I found myself looking at a large town of low-lying shacks and houses. Smoke poured from numerous chimneys. The clang of metal on metal blended with sawing and grinding noises. I made out the shambling gait of shokhung loping busily through the streets. I hailed the first I approached.
“Ele!” I called out.
“Ele,” she replied (female shokhung could be discerned from males by their smaller size and the near-absence of a cranial ridge). She had dark fur, nearly black. “Suga from where you?”
“Earth,” I said, “I mean, south of the mountains.”
“They talk kang kang ngikh shui there?” Huh?
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand much of what you say. Do you speak Shikachui?”
“Kang mok mok talking you are,” she replied. “You come side mountain other?”
“I come here from Black Banks,” I said.
“Black Banks?” she said. “You mui fosha place. You fly-person Mothash meet?”
“Um, yes? He told me that this village was here.”
“Nga nga?” After months of learning to speak Shikachui, I now faced another dialect, or perhaps another language altogether.
I pulled out the scrap piece with the flag on it and showed it to her, asking if she know where I could find the scrap dealer, but I did not find a way to communicate the idea. I left her and went in search of other help.
The village was the largest gathering of shokhung I’d ever seen. There was also a pair of ruaka, a group of chivik, and a species new to me. The latter had pale green skin and long, thin bodies that walked about on four gangly, multi-jointed limbs. What I suppose you’d call a torso had six long arms that each terminated in a single dagger-like claw. Their heads were likewise long and thin and bore two long antenna-like projections. All in all, their appearance was rather insect-like, but they lacked any carapace and seemed to have skeletons.
The chivik spoke much like the ones I had seen just south of the mountain pass. I understood them better than the female shokhung that I’d spoken with earlier, but still not well. I could barely make out a word the new hren spoke, but I gathered that they were called bodifos.
I had my best luck talking with the ruaka. They hailed from the ruaka village I’d visited on my way here, and spoke pass
able Shikachui. They were merchants who’d traveled here before winter, and were waiting for warmer weather before returning over the mountains. They confirmed that the dialect here was substantially different and gave me a very brief language lesson, but given the taciturn nature of their species, it wasn’t much. But I learned that the town was called Sharvri, and they were able to point me toward the scrap dealer.
I passed through the town, assaulted by noise. The shokhung here were tinkering, building, sawing, and drilling. Several had simple motorized machines, among them being steam engines. I saw what I thought was a still. I stopped a few times along the way to confirm directions, with mixed results as regards to comprehensibility.
Amidst the clang and clamor of Sharvri I found the scrap dealer’s yard: an open area surrounded by posts and cordoned by ropes. There were impressive mounds of junk metal, leaving me wondering anew just how many ships crashed into Wayworld. Closer examination revealed, however, that much of it was crudely fashioned items that probably originated here. I was wandering the perimeter when the loping form of a shokhung approached.
“Miri khafuma looking for?” he said.
“Do you speak Shikachui?” I asked. He bobbed his head in a gesture that, for a shokhung meant something like a chuckle.
“It is all Soup-Talk,” he replied. “You come from the middle lands, right?” he asked in words I understood well.
“I came here from Black Banks,” I said.
“Yes, yes, Black Banks. That is in the Middle Lands. Did you ride air-bag wagon?”
“No, I walked here.’
“Ele! You really did come a long way, right? What do you need here, comer-from-far-away?” I dug into my pack and retrieved the flag-bearing scrap.
“I am looking for the rest of this,” I said, holding it up. “I am looking for pieces that have markings like this.”
Diggory's World (Wayworld Book 1) Page 20