Stone Voice Rising

by C Lee Tocci

  The ground at the oasis was windblown and well-trodden, but Keotak-se could see the trail of Lilibit’s escape. He followed her tracks around to the back of the shed, where he found, next to the corpses of the grizzly man and the mercenary, two small egg shaped stones of quartz.

  The stones were Lilibit’s. His knuckles bared pale as he clenched the stones in his fist, as if by sheer force of muscle he might will the child back to safety.

  Lilibit’s trail ended in the wash where it disappeared as it crossed with the tracks of the retreating enemy.

  The withdrawing choppers were miles away and Keotak-se could not hinder their escape without destroying them, and with them Lilibit, whom he assumed had been taken by the enemy. As he placed the two quartz stones in his pocket, he felt Branken, the stone Lilibit gave him earlier, trembling with energy. This gave heart to Keotak-se because he knew the stone’s lifesong would continue so long as Lilibit lived. Placing his staff on ground in front of him, he grasped the ends with both hands, and intoned loudly:

  “CHEE-ot-say. Toh-GEE-na. Sha-be-KAH.”

  As he cried out the last syllable, it modulated into the caw of a great bird. Where a moment before stood Keotak-se, the last of the true Stone Warriors, there now poised a giant condor, its eyes red with anger. With one massive sweep of its wings, the condor launched into the air and followed the retreating enemy.

  The official report had it that old Randy Lambert died in a gas line explosion.

  The locals, sparse and scattered though they were, knew better. They knew something big had happened out at the old Lambert Filling Station. Local legend held that aliens came down from outer space, and grizzly old Randy died single handedly defending the earth from extra-terrestrial invaders.

  And for centuries to come, in the annals of Kiva, this would be known as the Battle of Lambert Oasis. The opening skirmish in the War of the Staff and the Stone.

  And Randy Lambert would be canonized in that history as the first warrior to fall in battle.

  Chapter Seven

  Popokelli

  Lilibit’s body was wet and cold, yet her mouth was dry and raw. Her head ached and the world bobbed and dipped in a strange manner. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking in surprise to see a world grown dark with dusk.

  Her makeshift float had stopped before the mouth of a large concrete conduit. A grill of vertical bars prevented the larger flotsam from clogging the gully, and pieces of debris bobbed and bumped against Lilibit’s raft, scratching her legs and bruising her arms.

  For a long moment Lilibit lay, her head so fuzzy she barely recalled who she was, never mind where. Then, with a start, she remembered the battle at the oasis. She jerked her head and her body lurched sharply. The sudden movement upset the little raft and she toppled into the shallow stream. Coughing up mouthfuls of water, she waded to the embankment. There she sat with her arms wrapped around her legs. She wept quietly -- wet, cold, hungry, alone and too frightened to call out.

  She froze as the sound of a melodious tooting filled the gully. Looking up, she saw a small figure, the size of a large doll, sitting on the lip of the culvert on the other side of stream, playing a crude flute. As she watched, he stopped piping, then scrambled down the gravel embankment.

  He looked like a little man, but was no more than half her own height. His face was colored with broad blocks of red, green and blue. His white hair was cobbled into stiff little tufts, each tuft topped with a colorful bauble. His clothes, too, were patterned with bright colorful blocks and stripes, like a clown. Only his hands with their exceptionally long slender fingers seemed un-doll-like. His large black eyes blinked and glistened in glee. He beamed a broad toothy grin at the child.

  The little man’s voice was high-pitched, his speech, a rhythmic singsong. “Hello! How you are? Across may I come? Lost are you be? Face of you, glum!”

  Not being able to think of a thing to say, Lilibit just nodded. With that, the little man jumped the ravine in one astounding bound and landed next to Lilibit. His arms waved like laundry in the wind as he tried to keep from falling on his behind.

  “Popokelli was I. How you do did? You to me look like one lost little kid!”

  Despite her fears, Lilibit giggled. “My name is Lilibit. I… do… did… fine.” She paused. “Except I want to go home. I want my Aunties.”

  Popokelli stared closely at the girl. “Eyes of you leak-ed,” he said with a solemn pout. “Nose leak-ed too. If me took you to Aunties, what give to me, you?

  It took Lilibit a moment to understand what the little man asked. “I don’t have anything to give you. My Aunties can give you something, though. When we get there, they can give you cookies?”

  “Hmph! Pockets of you are bulging and full! Give of what pockets hold then took you I will!” Popokelli gave her a sly wink.

  Lilibit patted her pants, noticing for the first time that “the girls”, Veranda and Winnie were missing, but she had no time to do more than glance around for them before answering Popokelli.

  “All I have in my pockets are some stones I picked up,” she shrugged. “I can’t give them to you. They go where they want to go.”

  Popokelli pouted and he plopped down next to Lilibit. He placed his chin in his hands and stared at the child, sulking.

  Lilibit looked back at Popokelli and thought hard. Popokelli’s large black eyes grew even larger as, one at a time, Lilibit pulled out each of her stones. She held them against her cheek, listening, before replacing them back into her pocket. She shook her head at Popokelli, shrugging apologetically.

  After a long morose silence, Popokelli leaped up. Grabbing Lilibit’s hand, he announced, “To Aunties house will I and you find! I cookies no want but stones may change mind!” He tugged Lilibit to her feet and pulling her by the hand, led her up the embankment.

  Lilibit and Popokelli walked along the streets of the town. Those people who noticed them at all saw only a small dirty girl carrying a clown doll. However, most passed them by unaware, too busy minding their own minutes to take notice of a lost child. Several times she tried to speak to the people striding by, but Popokelli pulled at her hand and hissed a warning so she stopped trying.

  Popokelli seemed to know where he wanted to go. He took them along a maze of side streets and even once through a dry sewer pipe. He finally stopped in the back lot of a noisy building. Lilibit saw no one among the cars parked outside, but inside she heard loud music and people talking shrilly.

  Lilibit wanted to go inside and ask the people to take her to her Aunties, but before she got to the door, a man stepped out from a shiny black car parked near the building.

  The man wore a grey suit and had a shiny hairless head, but it was his eyes that made Lilibit shy away. His eyes were empty, like two dark bottomless caves. She turned to run, but his arm reached out and his hand grasped her shoulder.

  The hand was cold as death. Spears of ice pierced her neck. Her spine stiffened and her body grew rigid. Freezing pain impaled her brain. She couldn’t breathe. Yet those eyes tormented her the most. She felt them slicing through her mind, chasing the very soul out of her body.

  The world grew dim as she fell to the ground. She felt the frenzied hands of Popokelli, pulling at her pockets, stealing her precious stones. Yet it seemed he didn’t find what he was looking for, because the last thing she heard was Popokelli’s voice, raised in a tantrum.

  “Not here! Not here! Lied you to me!! Curse you! Curse you! I spit on your knee!”

  The man in grey laughed coldly and kicked Popokelli, who scurried away, cursing. He then bent down to pick up the limp child.

  All went black.

  Chapter Eight

  The Passing of the Stone Voice

  Keotak-se stood at the crest of Red Rabbit Ridge and looked down into the valley of Kiva. Below him, he could see the People plowing the fields, tending the animals, working, as they had all their lives. As had their ancestors for centuries before. Working to create a haven with which to nurture the Infant S
tone Voice.

  More than a month passed since Keotak-se left Kiva to collect the Infant Stone Voice. Summer was waning and the evenings grew cool and the People awaited their return. Keotak-se stepped onto the path that would take him into the Valley.

  Even from this distance, he could see the people pause in their tasks to watch his descent. He saw their heads turn with wordless questions and he read their despair in the answer.

  Keotak-se strode silently past the questions in their eyes and entered the Hall of the Flame Voice, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  On the floor near the western wall sat a woman, ageless and still, her eyes fixed on the flames rising smokeless from the firepit in front of her. Silver strands ran through her long black braids. Those streaks of gray and the knowledge in her eyes gave only the faintest of clues as to her true years.

  Keotak-se waited until she looked up before crossing to stand in front of her. He wasted no words on greetings or excuses.

  “Gil-Salla, the Enemy has taken the Infant Stone Voice,” he said with a voice robbed of all emotion. “Her stones grow faint, her Voice is stilled.”

  The eyes of the woman dropped back to the flames. Her face was impassive but the palms of her hands twitched as they brushed the mute soil. Then Gil-Salla stood. Crossing to the opening of her hall, she released a wail telling the People of the Valley the news they dreaded.

  The Infant Stone Voice was lost.

  Chapter Nine

  Milestones

  “Todd!! Todd!!”

  Todd could hear the other kids looking for him. But he wasn’t coming down from the tree where he was hiding. Not just yet.

  He wasn’t a reject, like them. He had a father. And he knew his father was coming for him. It was only a matter of time. And then it wouldn’t matter if he was the newest and the smallest.

  He pulled his cherished pocket knife from where he kept it hidden, sheathed inside his pant leg. It was shining silver and its handle was colorful with stonework. He still remembered what his Dad told him when he’d given Todd this knife.

  “You are a warrior, Todd,” he’d said, his voice deep and important sounding. “You are the son of warriors and the grandson of warriors. And someday your sons will be warriors too. Now, a warrior does not make war, but protects with his strengths those weaker than himself. It is a great calling. And to follow this vocation, you must acquire many tools. Here is your first. A knife worthy of a warrior.”

  Todd barely remembered the solemn manner with which his father had handed him the knife. He had been much to fascinated by the beauty of the weapon to pay much attention to his father’s words, but they came back to him now as clearly as if he were there in the tree with him.

  He slid the knife back into its hiding place. He wasn’t a reject. He was a warrior. His father said so.

  A large black bird settled on a nearby branch.

  “Find my Dad!” Todd hissed at the raven. “Tell him where I am! Tell him to come get me!”

  The bird rawked apologetically, ruffling its wings in sympathy, but didn’t leave the tree.

  “Go!” Todd swung his fist at the raven. The bird flitted off the tree and Todd, losing his balance and his grip, crashed to the ground.

  The force of the fall knocked the air out of him and the world flashed white. When his breath returned in choppy gasps, he rolled onto his stomach. He was pulling himself together when a grip on the back of his neck yanked him onto his feet.

  “Did you hear us calling you?” One of the bigger boys shook him by the shoulders while two others stood nearby, sneering. “Well, did you?”

  When Todd wouldn’t answer, the boy shook him harder, then pushed him back down on the ground. A second boy stepped forward, knelt down and yelled into Todd’s face.

  “Listen, you little weirdo. I don’t know what butterfly factory they let you out of, but here at Dalton Point, we have rules. Rule number one, no wandering off by yourself. And rule number two,” he turned to share the joke with his buddies, “no talking to birds.”

  The others laughed, and one boy picked up a rock and hurled it at the raven. With an indignant squawk, the bird flew off.

  “Listen!” The voice of the kneeling boy became less mean. “It’s just a stupid bird. You’re too old for stupid games like pretending birds can talk. Grow up.”

  Todd watched the bird disappear over the mountain without even a backward look.

  “Stupid bird,” he muttered, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

  And many years would pass before Todd allowed himself to once again hear the words of the raven.

  Five Years Later

  Chapter Ten

  The Lost Years

  Her first memory was loneliness.

  After that, she became aware of the bitter cold, the dank airless darkness, and her own body, throbbing with pain, yet unresponsive.

  But the very first memory to fill the void of her mind was loneliness. Colder than the frigid chill, darker than the pitch blackness that surrounded her, the first thing she was aware of was the sterile isolation of her soul. She would have cried out in despair, but her mouth would not move.

  And then she felt it. A tendril of a spirit that reached to her and gently caressed her aching mind. The soft hum that quivered up from a distance beyond reach, yet as close as her fingertips. She was not alone. The loneliness ebbed away and she focused on the world around her.

  The world rattled strangely. Later, when she could recall this time, she would realize that she was in a car or a truck. Then the movement stopped abruptly and she heard the crunch of stones. Footsteps on gravel, she would later guess, but at that moment, in the void of her broken mind, it was just the first of a series of meaningless sounds.

  The sound of a car trunk opening very near to her head. Then once more, the crunch of footsteps on gravel. A tense, frantic pacing, stopping abruptly, only to start again. This went on for some time until a new sound began. A purr of an engine that grew louder until it too stopped abruptly. A car door slammed and footsteps again: lighter with a quick staccato that approached with decision and authority.

  “Well, Baxter,” said a woman’s voice, clipped with a faint accent. “Do you have it?”

  “You’re late, Charon.” The man, Baxter, answered with a nervous quaver. “I was worried.”

  “I am precisely on time,” the woman, Charon, answered. “Where is it?”

  “Here. She’s in the trunk.”

  There was a jostling of vinyl, the sound of a zipper and then there was light. Bright and piercing, it seared her eyes. She would have squeezed her eyelids shut and turned away, but the muscles in her face weren’t working.

  A sheet of air, clean and fresh, swept her face, tasting of leaves and stones. She wanted to breathe deeply and gulp it sweetness, but even this was denied her.

  Patience, hummed the distant voice. Soon.

  Charon snorted with disgust. “They made quite the mess of the autopsy, didn’t they?”

  “They didn’t bother with an autopsy,” Baxter said. “This was done to her while she was still alive.”

  “It looks disgusting. How long has it been dead?”

  “They declared her dead late last night,” Baxter said quickly. “I had the paperwork ready to misroute her to the disposal unit. It’ll be hours before they miss her.”

  “It looks like it’s been dead for weeks.”

  “They finished up their regeneration research months ago. Since then, it’s just been the pain endurance trials and the deprivation studies.”

  “Rebecca Nils is a fool and a moron.” Charon spat out the words with venom. “She always was and always will be.”

  “Dr. Nils has been very successful---”

  “A fool and a moron!” Charon said more loudly. “If this is indeed the famous Research Subject 1717, then to have squandered that opportunity on malnutrition and abuse… Look at it! The records say that it’s eleven years old. It’s about half the size a specimen of that age should
be. The most phenomenal biological regeneration test subject ever recorded, and Nils tortured and starved it death.”

  “The Nils and Voight Research Institute is world renowned---”

  “She got lucky!” Charon was screaming now. “She is a mediocre scientist who managed to attract a mercenary who knew where to find the right research subject. It’s not her! And it’s not that vile troll, Voight, either. Everyone knows it was Syxx who found the subject!”

  “Quiet!” Baxter’s voice cracked with panic. “Quiet! Don’t say his name!”

  “Really?” Disgusted, Charon dropped her voice to a more reasonable level. “We’re twenty miles from the nearest town and you’re worried that someone might hear us?”

  “He’s not just some mercenary,” Baxter whispered. “And he’s not just the Institute’s Operations Chief either. He’s more than that. He’s ruthless. He’s…” Baxter struggled for the word “…evil.”

  Charon snorted. “Well, put the subject into my car and I’ll pay you your fee. Then you’ll never have to face the big scary Syxx ever again.”

  Fingers touched her face. They felt hot against her icy cheek.

  The woman snorted again. “Well, I will say this about Dr. Nils. She is thorough.”

  “Refrigerated body bag.” Baxter said. “She’s been kept on ice since she died.”

  “Don’t be sentimental, Baxter,” the woman said as she re-zipped the body bag. “It’s dead. Even when it was alive, it wasn’t a ‘she.’ It was only an ‘it.’ It was never a she. It was only a freak of nature, created for the good of science.”

  The blackness returned and the fresh air faded, but the girl in the bag didn’t despair. The voice that hummed in her head warmed her and lit her. Her body tingled.

  “Do you have the money?” Baxter’s voice squeaked slightly. “I need to be out of the country before they find out she… it… is missing.”