Diggory's World (Wayworld Book 1)

by T. Daniel Sheppeard

  Awash in fear, I fell again, knowing I had to get back up and help Ankosh. My legs wouldn’t hold me. My sight went dark, but still I heard the sounds of struggle. I think I may have thrown up, but I’m not sure. I fell to the ground.

  I don’t know how much time passed. Dimly, I heard a cry. “Aimir! Aimir!” It wasn’t Ankosh’s voice. It was thin and high. I struggled to open my eyes. “Alp! Aimir!” Was that Shikachui? It sounded familiar. What was she saying?

  Wait…

  She?

  An idea struggled to reach the front of my sleepy mind. Leave me alone. ‘m sleepy.

  “Alp! Alpmi!” What did that mean?

  She. Huh? Why did I think it was a she? What was she saying?

  Sleepy.

  “Alp, amir!”

  Help. I’m here.

  Huh?

  “Alp! Ovir!”

  Help. Over here.

  Who? What?

  I woke with a start.

  “Help! I’m here!”

  English!

  I pushed my head up and opened my eyes. She! A girl, or a woman… speaking English!

  I looked up, my eyes barely able to focus. Off to the side of the village was a small, brown figure. Black hair. I blinked.

  “Over here! Help me!” The voice came from the figure. She was struggling with something. I shook my head. Blinked again. A child. A girl. She was pulling against a rope, tied to… something. I pushed up to my hands and knees. Ankosh was fighting, still in two forms.

  “I’m here! I’m here! Help!” she continued to scream. I grabbed a hold of the cart. Pulled myself to one knee. Three kralsnar fought against Ankosh. Bodies of kralsnar and villagers lay here and there. A child. A human child. Calling for help. Her hands tied. I stood, leaning on the cart. Slipped and fell to one knee.

  “‘m coming!” I croaked, barely audible. “I’m coming!” I pulled myself back up. I stumbled in the girl’s direction, almost unable to stand. Blood made my feet slippery. I tripped across the path and fell. “I’m coming!”

  “Hurry!” she cried, tears choking her voice. I dragged myself across the road, crawling when I could. Behind me I heard Ankosh still fighting. Somehow I found myself on my feet again. I took step after trembling step, leaning on anything I could reach.

  I could see her better now. She was thin and frail. Brown skin and straight black hair. Maybe Indian. Not yet a teenager. Her clothes barely qualified as rags. Her face was muddy and tear-streaked.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” she called out as I slowly neared her. “Hurry!” Then she screamed, and I fell as a kralsnar warrior slammed into me from behind. It leapt over me and scooped the girl up in its arms, holding her in front of it, it’s claws at her throat.

  “Khasufati,” it hissed. The intent was clear. A threat. It took a step back. I saw a wound on its shoulder and knew it was one I’d hit with the zarke but failed to kill. “Shasui mege mak!” I held up my hands in capitulation and made no move toward it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ankosh step over next to me.

  I remember feeling cold, whether from rage, fear, or blood loss, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care. Here was a child—a child of my own race, my pakren—in the clutches of a marauding killer, and I could do nothing. I was too weak, and too slow, and the kralsnar could—and surely would—rip her throat out in an instant.

  It kept backing up, holding the weeping, petrified girl, all the while repeating “khasufati”. In a few moments it had unfastened the rope from the tree stump to which she had been tied and, backing up all the while, disappeared into the forest on the other side of the village.

  And then I passed out.

  * * *

  I woke, thrashing feebly, held still by a gentle resistance that covered most of my body. What was on me? I opened my eyes to find the grey-green form of Ankosh cradling my battered body. His bellows-like voice came from near my head.

  “Diggory is awake,” he said.

  “Barely,” I managed to whisper. “Ankosh, we have to go… have to help her…”

  “Does Diggory speak of small captive of kralsnar?”

  “She’s just a kid, Ankosh. She’s… she’s human.”

  “Captive is pakren to Diggory?” he asked.

  “Yes. But she’s just a child… a young human, Ankosh. She can’t defend herself. Let me up. We have to go.”

  “Is it good for Diggory to turn into liquid?”

  “What? What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Kralsnar made many holes in Diggory. Diggory is turning into liquid where the holes are. Ankosh covered Diggory to keep the liquid Diggory with the solid Diggory.”

  “I’m bleeding, Ankosh. Solid creatures have liquid in them called blood. It’s leaking out. No, that’s not good.”

  “Will Diggory fail?” he asked.

  “Fail?”

  “Sometimes creatures fail. Creatures stop being creatures.”

  “It’s called dying,” I wheezed. “Doesn’t Ankosh die?”

  “Sometimes parts of Ankosh fail. But other Ankosh is still Ankosh. If Diggory dies, there is no other Diggory, is there?”

  “No.”

  “Diggory must not die,” he said softly. “There is no other Diggory. Will bleeding make Diggory die?”

  “It can.”

  “Diggory must not die,” he repeated.

  “I agree,” I said. “I have cloth and some medicine. I can make…” I didn’t know a Shikachui word for “bandages”. “I can make things that will help stop the bleeding. Blast! It’s in my pack, on Debbie.”

  “Ankosh will find Debbie.” I was terrified by the thought of being left alone. I was faint and weak.

  “Please don’t leave, Ankosh,” I pleaded.

  “Ankosh will not leave,” he said. I felt him shift, positioning me in a sitting position, then his form melted from around me, gently settling me on the ground, leaning up against a tree. He became humanoid, smaller than before. Recently he had been nearly twice the size of a man. When I met him, he had been slightly larger than human. Now he was the size of young teen.

  “Ankosh, what happened to you? Did they eat you again?”

  “No,” he said as he fetched water from a cistern using a small pail.

  “You’re so small. What happened to the rest of you?”

  “Ankosh will find Debbie,” he said, holding the water for me to drink.

  “Oh, you split? And part went to search for Debbie?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to go find the girl,” I said. “We’ve got to get moving.”

  “There is weakness in Diggory,” he said. “Does not Diggory need to rest and heal?”

  “But they’re getting away! I have to follow them. She needs our help!”

  “Diggory cannot travel. Diggory will die.”

  “Then you have to go, Ankosh,” I pleaded, though the idea of being left me alone was frightened. “Please, go help her. Go find the girl.”

  “Ankosh will find the girl,” he said.

  “Go now! Follow them!”

  “Ankosh is already following the girl and the kralsnar.”

  “What? What do you—oh! You split! Part of you is already following the girl.”

  “And Ankosh is finding Debbie,” he said.

  “And part of you stayed here,” I concluded.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Will you be able to find the other Ankosh?”

  “Ankosh is not other,” he reminded me, “Ankosh is Ankosh. And Ankosh will follow the trail of Ankosh. The taste is strong to Ankosh.”

  “Thank you, Ankosh. Thank you.” I drank from the water he offered me, then slumped up against the tree to rest.

  When I woke next Ankosh was larger than when we’d first met, but still smaller than he’d been just before I slept.

  “Ankosh found Debbie,” he announced as I stirred. “Diggory will have the cloth and medicine.” Over the next hour or so, I carefully washed and dressed my wounds, or more accurately, my gelatino
us friend did so at my direction. Numerous cuts and punctures marred my skin numerous. Many were superficial. Others were worse—they probably needed stitches, but my own hands were too shaky for the job, and I didn’t think I could guide Ankosh well enough.

  After cleaning my wounds and applying some salves I had bought in Clicksville we bandaged them as tightly as we could without cutting off the blood flow. One such wound was on my right thigh, with the muscle bared in one place, another on the right shoulder where I’d been cut by the scythe-sword, and two more on my torso.

  The process was both tedious and painful, and I cried and shouted through much of it. I nearly passed out a time or two. Ankosh was as patient and diligent as could be. Once the worst wounds were bound up, I napped briefly before we went about tending the rest of the cuts. When we were done I probably looked like a mummy.

  Ankosh brought me food and water and I ate as best I could. Then I slept again. When I woke I found Ankosh had searched the remains of the village and found a few items worth keeping: some fresh cloth and twine, and a few jugs of fermented juice.

  I was too weak to help but instructed him to build a funeral pyre for the dead. None of the villagers had survived the battle. We had given them a second chance, but in the end they had all died as surely as if we had not intervened. I wept quietly at the thought.

  Ankosh gently carried me to a bed, in a mostly-intact cottage. It was little more than a hay mattress on the floor, not quite long enough to hold my frame.

  Over the next few days he nursed me to health, preparing teas and soups as I instructed, and helping to change my bandages and re-dress the wounds. The herbal lore I’d learned from D’Silva served me well. So far I had escaped infection. I could sit up and feed myself, but walking was beyond me. Ankosh even took up hunting to provide me with fresh meat, though the art of fishing evaded him. He scavenged the remaining gardens of the village and brought me fruit and vegetables, but much of it I couldn’t be sure was edible.

  Ankosh fussed over me, inspiring me to tease him once saying “I’m okay, Mom.” This lead to a long discussion of mothers and fathers and children, all of which was utterly alien to him. He found it bewildering.

  “A family,” he said, “it is like Ankosh, joined together. It is unlike Ankosh, never one.”

  “There is oneness in it,” I said.

  “But there is much otherness,” he said.

  “Much otherness,” I agreed. “Sometimes too much.”

  “And yet, the family seeks to join together even more.”

  “At least sometimes, yes,” I said.

  He paused a long time.

  “There is beauty in this,” he said.

  Chapter 16: The Rescue

  Days went by before I could convince Ankosh to let me travel—I’m not sure how many. I slept a lot and woke at irregular intervals. A week, maybe more. He assured me he could still follow the trail of the other Ankosh.

  We started out late one morning with Debbie loaded up and me leaning on my spear. I could not go far and Ankosh was obliged to form into a heavy-set quadruped to carry me. He sent out a long proboscis-like tendril in front of him, sweeping along the ground to “taste” the trail.

  “The scent is still strong,” he assured me. “The kralsnar and the human are not traveling quickly.”

  “It was wounded in our fight,” I said, “looked pretty bad. And it’s having to either carry or drag the girl. That’s probably slowing them down.”

  We journeyed that whole day. I walked when I could, rode when I could not. My leg could barely stand the weight and I certainly didn’t want to tear anything open. On the following day I sketched a design that was basically an armchair with legs.

  “Could you take this shape?” I said, showing it to Ankosh. After some tweaking he and I came up with a form that allowed me to ride along without having to straddle anything or hang on. Though it took Ankosh a while to get the hang of walking in this form and he didn’t move as quickly, I was able to ride much longer without a break, so we both agreed we would make better time this way. I rode along in a long-legged chair for the remainder of the day. My pain eased a little, but I remained weak and walking was difficult.

  The following morning we came across the gutted and half-eaten carcass of an animal and signs of a camp. Ankosh could verify that his other self had been here recently. We were gaining on our quarry.

  As we traveled along that day I felt pensive and morose. If we caught up to them, what would I do? I could hardly fight. Would I bribe the kralsnar? Deliver a stern lecture? Leave Ankosh to deal with it while I hid behind a tree? What if it had gained reinforcements? Another battle would surely kill me.

  Fear crept through my brain. I could die. I might be dying already. I had faced death many times on Wayworld, but this time I was knowingly marching straight toward it.

  My thoughts drifted back over a year ago. I had foolishly stepped out of an IP dock into the cold of space, facing death for the love of a woman who had rejected me, and look what it had gotten me: abandoned, alone, marooned in an alien wilderness. How could I even think of racing into the jagged-toothed face of death for some strange child?

  Because she was a child. And like me, she was abandoned and alone, but captive of a blood-thirsty monster. Her tear-streaked face and big brown eyes haunted my memory. I did not know what I could do, but I would die if I had to. And if I did, at least she would know there was someone who was willing to do anything to save her. Maybe there would be another after me. Perhaps even my death would bring her hope.

  “We are here,” whispered Ankosh. I started up. I had unknowingly drifted into sleep. I was on the ground, Ankosh beside me, full-sized now. He had apparently rejoined with his other self, gaining its memories of the last week. “Kralsnar is over there,” he pointed. “Does Diggory have a plan to rescue human child?” I didn’t answer. I had nothing to say.

  Wordlessly, thoughtlessly, I gathered my battered body up and began walking where he indicated. The forest floor was surprisingly quiet under my feet. A clearing was up ahead. There in the evening gloom was the crouching form of the kralsnar.

  It stirred at my approach, turning around slowly to face me. Its movements looked painful. Even in the half-light, the wounds left by the pellets of my zarke were visibly infected and festering. It tottered to its feet. Its snout turned toward me, its eyeless face unreadable. It was dying. A cold, emotionless haze hung over me.

  I raised my zarke.

  Pointed at the kralsnar.

  I pulled the trigger.

  And held it down until the monster stopped twitching.

  There was no emotion as I pulled my spear from its sling and walked over to the now-still form of the creature. I felt nothing as I plunged it down into its chest to make sure it was dead. I felt no relief, no elation, no victory, no remorse.

  I nearly tripped over the huddled and motionless form of the girl. The fugue of apathy that had marked my psyche moments before evaporated instantly, replaced by terror.

  I was too late. The kralsnar had slain the child, either from anger or spite. I fell weakly to my knees besides her, tears springing unbidden to my eyes. How? How did I come here, torturing myself for days, only find her already gone? I lay my hand on her shoulder. She was so frail, so helpless, so… warm?!

  She shrieked and jerked upright, startling me out of my kneeling position and onto my back. Had the poor thing slept through my encounter with the kralsnar? Her big eyes shot open wide and she flung her head back and forth, taking in her surroundings. Her eyes fell on the carcass of her captor. She stared at it for several seconds, disbelief evident on her face, then at me. She flung herself across me, trying unsuccessfully to hug me, as her hands were tied together.

  “You came, you came, you came,” she kept repeating. “I thought it was going to kill you! I couldn’t watch!” She hadn’t slept—she had hidden her face. When I approached her she must have thought I was the kralsnar coming for her. I held her and let her carry
on. I ignored the overwhelming pain caused by her pressing into my many cuts and punctures, but not for long: a few moments later my vision went red from agony, and I passed out.

  I came to my senses to find the girl and Ankosh looking down at me. It’s a shame, I thought, I missed their meeting. That would have been fun to see.

  “Diggory is better now, yes?” said Ankosh. The girl looked at him, then me.

  “Diggory? Is that your name?” she asked. I nodded feebly. She cracked a huge smile. “I’m Pickles,” she said.

  I sat up a little. “Really? Pickles?” She snickered just a tiny bit and shrugged.

  “Well, my real name’s Judith. Judith Patel. But everyone calls me ‘Pickles’.” I sat up the rest of the way.

  “So, Pickles Patel, huh? It’s nice to meet you, Pickles.” Implications rose to the front of my mind—implications that had been eclipsed by the urge to rescue the girl from her captor. Namely: here was a human. A human whom ‘everyone’ called Pickles. “Who is ‘everyone’?” I asked.

  “Everyone at home!” she burst out excitedly. In the village where we’d first seen her, she had been desperate and terrified. Newly rescued, she was bright and enthusiastic. I knew already I was going to like Judith “Pickles” Patel. “Mom, Dad, everyone!”

  “Humans?” I asked.

  “Of course, humans!” she said, looking confused. “You—you can tell I’m human, right? Oh my! Wait, you’re not from Earth? Didn’t you grow up around other humans—No, wait, you’re speaking English, of course you grew up around humans. You did, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Where are you from?” she said.

  “Kansas, originally,” I said.

  “Oh.” She looked crestfallen. “I thought maybe you were from Earth.”

  “Kansas is on Earth,” I said.

  “Oh!” She laughed and covered her face. She laughed a while longer, then the laughter turned to sobbing. She covered her face still and cried. After a bit she looked up at me. “I’m so sorry!” she whispered. “I don’t know why I’m crying… I just… just…” She broke down into tears. I wrapped my good arm around her shoulders and let her cry.