by R. Lee Smith
If. Ha, as Murgull might say. There was no Vorgullum here to scoop her up now. There wasn’t anyone at all. Even Murgull was almost halfway there and not bothering to look back.
No one was going to carry her this time. Olivia started up.
It was easier. That was the first thought that came to her as she made her cautious way up into daylight. The women who had carved their clawholds into it had done so thinking of the burdens they would have to carry up and down and they had made their marks deep, not just a series of holes for her to grope for, but holes set into ledges she could see, ledges she could almost stand on. It was really more like climbing a ladder than a wall, even if the rungs had been sized for gullan legs, and that did make it easier.
At first.
But the ladder went on and on and on, and having to reach six inches further than her body wanted to for each hand- and foothold, wore on her fast. She kept her eyes aimed upwards, hoping that the sight of her goal coming ever closer would provide encouragement to her aching wrists and knees, but it wasn’t coming fast enough. Murgull reached the top, gave her a grin and a cackle and moved away, out of sight. She didn’t even bother to make fun of her.
She heard the scrape of claws below her soon after and hugged the wall to rest while the gullan women passed her. One of them did, moving up and onward without so much as a glance her way. But only one.
“Shall I carry you?”
Olivia made the mistake of looking down to see who spoke and saw, past the gulla with her backpacks slung over her arms and a basket strap digging into her forehead, a black abyss, bottomless with the light behind her. Her stomach flipped over. Her knees loosened and her wrists clenched. She looked up, counting clawholds.
“Here.” The gulla came quickly and easily up beside her and braced her wide shoulders. “Take hold.”
“I think I can do this,” Olivia said. Her voice sounded very breathy, very small.
“But I’m certain I can,” the gulla said, and turned enough to show Olivia a toothy grin. “You have the rest of your life to be right. Or wrong.”
Good point. Olivia loosed her left claws and slung her arm around the gulla’s neck, then her leg around the broad hips, and finally let go her right hand’s grip and grabbed wildly for fur. “Sorry,” she panted, settling herself on the uncertain terrain of the gulla’s back. It had been a long time since her last piggy-ride. “And thank you.”
“It is a small thing,” the gulla said cheerfully, her body rolling in strangely graceful lurches as she climbed. “I’m Thurga. Which one are you?”
“Olivia.”
Tension like a stony wave rippled down through Thurga’s body; she hesitated between clawholds, seeming to teeter.
The other gulla was coming back, her packs and baskets filled. “Lazy-paws!” she called good-naturedly, passing them.
“Ouch,” said Olivia, looking after her.
“That was meant for me.” Thurga started climbing again, but not with the same surety as before, as if Olivia’s name had come with another hundred pounds of weight. “Are you really?”
“Am I really what?”
“Olivia.” Her name was hushed, almost a whisper. Or a prayer.
She couldn’t help the laugh that came out of her then, or the blush that rose in her cheeks. “I hate to think what you must have heard about me,” she said, knowing firsthand the sorts of things Vorgullum had told his hunters.
“That you are our leader’s mate,” said Thurga. She reached the top and climbed out onto the ledge, crouching so that Olivia could dismount.
Olivia did. Thurga stayed crouched.
“So you finally arrive, eh?” Murgull heaved herself up from the sunny rock where she had been sitting and came back into the mouth of this open cave. Thurga scrambled back as the old gulla drew nearer, and Murgull paid her absolutely no mind at all; no doubt she was used to people scrambling to get out of her way. She dropped her leathery hand over Olivia’s arm and began to tow her into daylight, cheerfully berating her for all the time she had been waiting, just as if it had been hours in the rain.
“Thank you for your help,” Olivia called.
Thurga ducked her head, watching her go with awe-struck eyes.
“Help, is it?” Murgull laughed and shook her head derisively. “And thanks for it, ha! You are the leader’s mate. Necks should bend to you.”
“I’m not better than she is.”
“No. You are taller. Enough of your human chatter. You are here to learn. Look there!”
She looked, and saw the sun for the first time since she had seen it going down the night she had driven home from a normal day at work to be abducted out of her bed in the night by monsters. It was white and round and brilliant in a sky bluer than any sky had ever been. Olivia pulled her arm from Murgull’s grip and moved out from the shadows into warmth, such warmth.
It was beautiful, the way it had never been when she had been free to walk carelessly under its light, but she didn’t start crying. Her heart didn’t swell at the sight, she didn’t fall to her knees in wonder. It was beautiful, like a dream, and the dream was over.
Gradually, she became aware of Murgull beside her, watching her.
“It isn’t the same,” she said.
Murgull grunted and rubbed at the scarred half of her face. “Nothing ever is.”
“So…” Olivia looked out again, not at the sky this time, but at the mountainside itself. She saw a thin fall of frothing water pouring out of the rock into a deep pond and on down the mountain in a gushing stream; large baskets hung anchored in the current by ropes; the banks of the pond were black and stinking with fertile soil. There were no fields, not even a patchy square for a garden, but some effort had been made to bring plants in close to the cave: she could see half a dozen different kinds of berry bushes from here, and thick tangles of growth by the pond where leafy things of all description grew in clumsy rows. Trails worn flat by generations of feet looped out and around in all directions, and she could see several gullan women moving around in the distance, but Murgull appeared to be in no great hurry to join them. “So what are we doing here?” she asked.
Murgull crooked a clawed finger at her and limped over to the pond and to the small jungle that surrounded it. “Here are my tools, little sister, and it is time for you to know them. Goldenspray, here,” she said, stroking at the flowering leaves of a tall-stalked bush. “Young leaves and old blossoms make strong tea, good for the waters, and for matters of digestion. A poultice can be made of boiled stems and torn leaves, to help all burns, sores, and other wounds heal clean. And here, sweetsleep.” She moved to indicate another tall shrub, this one with puffs of tiny pinkish-white flowers like miniature umbrellas all along its crowning stalks. “A powerful medicine to ease the nerves and make sleep. Not as good as tharo, but good, eh? Safe for sucklings and their mothers when you use the leaves for tea. The roots are stronger and last forever, but can kill a child so use it sparingly. Here, dugwort.” This one was little more than half a dozen branches jutting from a central stalk, sparsely fringed with soft, tumorous-looking growths that split along the tops to leak a milky sap. “Foul stuff, but strong. Crush the roots to make a paste good to heal infections or abscess of the teat, eh?” She gave Olivia’s left breast a friendly poke, then moved on to a new plant. “Here, bellyroot—”
“Murgull, I can’t remember all this!”
Murgull sighed, dropped her arm, then turned around and slapped Olivia in the side of the head.
They looked at each other.
“Bellyroot,” Olivia mumbled, rubbing her ear.
“Dig up in spring for best medicine,” Murgull continued, turning back to the plant. “Good to settle bad stomachs, eh? Best for sparking women. The magic lasts perhaps one year, then give it all to the kitchens. They put it in bread and such, bah. And here, goatsbeard…”
7
It was not difficult work, but it was tiring, combining all the mental stress of a college cram session with th
e physical drain of standing out under the summer sun. She couldn’t even complain, because every time she looked around, she could see Thurga and her friend hurrying along the steep slopes, gathering packs from the foragers and carrying them away at a run. The foragers had it even worse: digging up roots, climbing trees, or just hiking however far they had to go to find the things they needed in amounts sufficient to feed the entire mountain. Back and forth they went over the same stubborn territory, naming the plants, reciting their uses, moving on to the next one, until at last the sun began to sink. Only then did Murgull release Olivia—exhausted, sweaty, dirt-smeared, and sunburned—to return to the cool welcome of the cave.
There she sat, leaned up against the unfriendly face of the rock, to stare at the shaft dropping down into the women’s tunnels. Her arms were okay—they’d had all day to recover from the climb—but her legs already felt like they were about to fall off.
“Shall I carry you?”
Thurga again, crouched submissively beside her with a shy smile.
“I would be tremendously grateful,” she said honestly. “But won’t I be too heavy?”
“You?” Thurga looked as though she wanted to laugh, and didn’t quite dare.
“I don’t want to make more work for you.”
“I would be honored to carry you.”
“Oh for—Look, I am not that special. I’m the complete opposite of special. I’m clumsy and weak and fragile and an incredible nuisance, and it’s okay to tell me so. You’re the one who’s been working all day, running back and forth under the hot sun to haul food when the most strenuous thing I usually do in a day is eat it. In fact,” she went on, really warming to her own sense of self-disgust, “I ought to be the one offering to carry you, except that I can’t even haul my own tired ass down that wall.”
Thurga stared at her, her snouted mouth hanging open.
“Plus, I’m all sweaty,” Olivia went on morosely, raising one arm for a tentative sniff. “So not only would I be a heavy nuisance, I’d be a smelly one. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Thurga recoiled as from a slap and stammered, “You are our leader’s mate!”
“So?” Olivia looked at her, at all of her. She sighed. “You’re not hunched over like that for me, are you?”
Thurga started to straighten, then crouched even lower, utterly unpinned.
“Please don’t, if you are. He picked me out entirely at random, you know.” Olivia laughed a little. “It’s like worshipping one of his loincloths.”
Slowly, Thurga stood up. After a moment, she even smiled. And then laughed, covering her mouth with one hand. “His loincloth.”
“Same general purpose,” said Olivia, and Thurga laughed again. “If you want to give me a ride down, I’d appreciate it. But if you don’t, you really shouldn’t have to. You don’t owe it to me just because I’m with Vorgullum.”
“I think I like you,” Thurga said. “Let me carry you.”
She put out her hands this time, instead of bending. Olivia chose to mark that as a victory of sorts, even if it did mean holding herself chest to chest against Thurga for the ride down to the ground, with her legs wrapped around another woman’s waist.
At the bottom, Thurga went on ahead, giggling to herself and muttering, “His loincloth,” under her breath. Olivia pulled out her flashlight and clicked it on, then followed.
The women’s commons was almost empty. All of the humans were gone and only a handful of gullan remained at the hearth, speaking quietly amongst themselves as they cleaned up and put things in order for the next day’s work. Horumn sat on a bench beside the tunnel that led to the mainway, her robe hitched up so that she could rub at her bad leg. She grunted when she saw Olivia, but was apparently too tired for insults. She merely limped on ahead to unlock the door and lock it up again after Olivia had passed through.
In the familiar mineral-rich air of the mountain, the heat and stink of Olivia’s body seemed twice as bad as it had been in the open air outside. It clogged her senses with the smell of sweat and fecund earth, of flowery perfumes and the nectar of plants that lured in bugs with the reek of rotting meat.
She really didn’t want to go home like this.
Olivia stopped, turned around, and set off for the depths. She walked, hoping in vain that she might bump into some friendly gulla who would offer to swoop down and let her get a bath, but it was getting late and she met no one. Soon she was standing at the lip of a hundred-foot drop, fingering her metal claws and wondering just how badly she wanted that bath.
“What are you doing here?”
Olivia screamed and nearly dropped her claws over the ledge. She spun and saw Cheyenne’s captor about twenty feet away. He was holding a Power Rangers backpack in one hand and an unlit candle in the other, and looked faintly irritated at her reaction.
“I was going to bathe,” she stammered. “But I don’t think I can climb all the way down and back.”
He blew a grunt of exasperation and came over to the ledge, tossing the backpack and candle carelessly to one side. “I’ll carry…you.” His nostrils flared slightly and he blinked several times as he neared her.
He recognized her.
“Don’t bother, I’m sure I’ll manage,” she said nervously, and backed away from the ledge.
His teeth bared as if by reflex when she spoke, then he seemed to shake himself and focus hard on her face. He glanced at the chasm and growled as she knelt down again. “No,” he said, sounding angry. “I’ll carry you.”
“I mean it, don’t bother.”
“You are not climbing down this wall, I mean it.” He put out his hands firmly and glowered at her.
Olivia thought of putting her life into those hands. That brought her the inevitable image of him throwing her off the chasm. She thought of running. It ended the same way. Her screams wouldn’t carry much further beyond this cavern and she’d passed no one on the way in who might hear them.
‘The longer I stand here, the more suspicious he’s going to get,’ she thought. She lifted her arms and held still.
He came up and took her, lifting her by waist to hold against his chest. “Hold on to me,” he said.
If he were anyone else, she’d have slung her legs helpfully around his hips to help support her weight. Instead, she put her arms around his neck, touching as little of his flesh as possible. Her fingertips brushed the stiff bristles at the crown of that funny mane he had, and she thought of him again, straddling Bolga on the bench. It was him, had to be him. No other gulla she’d seen had that same mane. What was she doing, for God’s sake? How could she put herself here in his hands?
He wasn’t moving. She could hear him breathing. His claws flexed in her waist minutely. She looked up and he immediately looked straight ahead. She saw the glint of one sharp tooth beneath his curling lip. Then he leapt off the chasm.
She’d known it was coming, but still she crushed herself against him, forgetting every reservation as she wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her fingernails into his back. He wobbled in the air, then hit the ground hard. His whole body shuddered at the contact; his arms tightened, yanking her full against him, and stayed that way.
“All…right?” he said in a drugged voice.
“Fine,” she said timidly. What the hell was wrong with him?
He continued to hold her, not looking at her. In growing horror, Olivia became aware of his swelling erection digging against her thigh. His hands, still on her waist, trembled minutely. Suddenly, he reared back and half-flung her from him. “Get your bath,” he ordered, eyes dark with disgust, strangely unfocused.
“You don’t have to—”
“I’ll wait.”
“No, really, you—”
His head whipped around so that his snapping stare could stab at her. “I’m not going to watch you,” he said, speaking very clearly and with undisguised bitterness. “I will wait here.”
She scrambled up and had to force herself not to run as she left him ther
e. She could scarcely recall the way; her feet moved independently, taking her down the winding passage to the low-ceilinged cavern with the pools like mirrors scattered across its floor. She stripped, shivering, and plunged herself into the first tepid bath, scrubbing blindly at herself with the greasy lump of soap left by some other bather and expecting at any moment to see him. She never should have come this way, never should have left the women’s tunnels, never should have left Vorgullum’s lair at all. No one was here, no one to hear her if she started screaming, no one to stop him if he decided to come back and just nudge her underwater a little.
Before or after he pushed her up against the wall of the bath, that was, and let her have all of what she’d felt pushing at her on the way down. There was that, wasn’t there? She thought of him and Bolga, his hand splayed open on her face, shoving her body back and forth on the bench in those quick, brutal thrusts. The gullan word for fuck: pounding with a rock.
Olivia dunked herself, came up sputtering, and tried to think. There was no other way up from the depths than the Deep Drop. She knew that, because otherwise, how could the wasted ones have been kept here for so long? So she couldn’t run, and if she hid, God knew, she might not ever find her way back out again. If she waited here long enough, someone else might come down to bathe. Of course, he might get tired of waiting and come in after her. That seemed a lot more likely. She had no weapons, not even a loose rock. Not even a rock, and here she was, in the middle of a damned mountain! Olivia wailed laughter and dunked herself again.
She was trapped.
‘All right, you know what the problem is,’ she thought, thinking in her new tough voice. ‘Now come up with a solution.’
She couldn’t run. She couldn’t hide. She couldn’t wait.
She had to go back to him.
‘And if he kills you, it will be your own stupid fault,’ she told herself.
True.
Olivia climbed out of the pool and went into the side-cavern for something to dry herself with. There were towels, blankets, pieces of cut-up canvas tents, and tablecloths all on one table for just that purpose. Elsewhere, heaped in baskets, were clean clothes—mostly loincloths and gullan robes, but a few human things. Her own tie-dyed t-shirt was there, she saw. Cleaned, dried, and thrown back in the stacks.