Brindle gave him a push from behind and he popped out of the hole and slid toward the edge of the ledge. "Whoa!" he shrieked as the world about him turned dark and the force of the abyss threatened to claim him once more. But before it could, Brindle reached out and grabbed his sash and yanked him backwards, pulling his buttocks back into the hole, getting him re-stuck. He felt like just a butt-first-baby, but at least he could see again.
"Wait! Will you just wait?” Tyter cried. "I’ll come with you, but let me do this myself.”
Brindle loosened her grip. "No! Don't let go of me. But don't jerk me around. Just touch me until I get myself turned around."
Brindle complied. She held her arm out through the hole as far as she could following his movements, while allowing Tyter to control their contact. As she felt his body slowly rotate, she marveled at how cautiously he moved. She had once thought him to be the bravest person in all of Nuttinnew. But now, it was as if she had had this hungering to bite into a perfectly baked veggie cake, only to discover it was infested with veggiworms. The illusion was broken. Still, he was no coward, or he could never have been the wellwalker. But he was no hero either. Wherever Fate was leading them, it would be up to her to get them there safely.
Brindle crawled backwards as Tyter popped his head into the opening. "I really don't think this is a good idea,” he offered, while hesitating in the entrance. It was more than Brindle could take. Reaching out, she grabbed his pullover and yanked him through the opening. While it had been a fairly tight squeeze for Brindle, it was a breeze for Tyter. He flew through the hole, literally, knocking Brindle onto her back and landing sprawled on top of her. It was remarkably reminiscent of her encounter with the wellkeeper, Loden, pressed between her thighs, setting her loins aflame.
"Are you okay?" Tyter’s young, male voice broke into her fantasy. He was looking at her strangely in response to the queer look upon her own face.
"Yes,” she panted in an unusually high pitch. She could feel her face burn with the rush of blood, as they struggled together in the narrow tunnel. Soon, both were on all fours, facing northward with Brindle in the lead. Tyter's knees were clamped tightly about her calves, making it impossible for her to move. “Let - go - of - me!” Brindle growled, as she yanked her legs from his vicelike grip. "Now, don't touch me - anywhere."
However, Tyter's world had fallen into instant blackness. In response, he groped forward, grabbing Brindle about her neck. He could see now, but he was pulling her over backwards. Brindle struggled to loosen his grip, but eventually decided it was a futile act, and just laid back against him. "We’re not going to get very far this way,” she announced, calmly.
A moment later the ground beneath them began to quiver. "Look, you're just going to have to follow me blind. Tie my sash about your neck so you don't get lost. There's no other way, unless you want this place to be our grave."
Tyter didn't like it, but he did as Brindle ordered. At first, Tyter tried to keep his arms so that they would brush alongside Brindle's legs as they crawled along the narrow shaft. But the constant flicker of on-again, off-again sight began making him nauseous. He didn't particularly like being blind, but he liked feeling sick even less. It was bad enough that every so often the ground shook beneath them, as they wormed their way northward through the underearthian tunnel.
***** ***** *****
There were the loud cracking sounds, like so many dried veget reeds being snapped for the cooking fire. There was the violent shaking of the unstable earth. There was the ear-shattering clanging of the Center House bell. There were the screams of human agony. Then, there was silence.
Fearful fingers held fast their grip about fixtures no longer firmly fastened. The protecting arms of parents pressed their scared youngsters to their own frightened bosoms. Their wailing filled the air to drown out the terrifying clanging sound. Curses were shouted to drown out the wails. Muscles ached with tension, as all awaited the next big quake which never came.
Gradually, the people of Nuttinnew began to move about. Few words were spoken. Mostly, the air was filled with the low gurgles of gasps and groans, as the reality of the devastation visited upon them came into focus through the fog of trauma which pervaded their minds. At first in slow motion, then in a frantic fury, bloodied hands tore away at newly formed heaps of rubble. Agonizing cries oozed from beneath the clumps of vegemud bricks which just that morning had stood as their ramparts of refuge, their pillars of protection, their sanctuaries of surety, but now provided substitute sepulchers for the less fortunate among them.
At the well, the males who had been working on the bridge were hurriedly attempting to rescue those who had fallen partway into the abyss, only to realize that some were beyond rescue, and were forced to watch as one by one their strength gave out and they drifted into the newly formed grey mist which, fittingly, cloaked the depth of the Great Gorge like a casket liner. Many Nuttinnewian families, both east and west, would have at least one fewer bowls of veget mush to fill on the morrow’s meal.
With all this going on, it was no wonder no one had looked toward Center House and noticed the filthy, naked, scrawny female climbing out upon the rubble. Arising out of the dust, she made her way along ascending beams to the pinnacle of the heap upon which rested the Center House bell. Standing atop the bell, Pentalope raised her arms high and wide and emitted the most strident timbre a single human voice could ever produce. The modulations ripped through the town and went unnoticed by no one, other than the dead. Even the rescuers ceased their frantic efforts and turned their eyes toward Center House.
Pentalope’s scream lasted a small eternity and only trailed off when the last volume of breath was squeezed from her lungs. Then she stood motionless with straight and stiff outstretched arms that formed a "Y". Gradually, the rescuers went back to the urgent work at hand. Only the mayor's ambassadors, who had fled Center House to the safety in the Great Veget Field, ran to her aid. But even they only advanced as far as the western edge of the gorge where the rubble of Center House stretched delicately across the expanse to the eastern edge. There they stood, looking fearfully, expectantly upon Pentalope, perched in its midst. For although each ambassador was willing enough to live for their Lord Mayor, not one was of a mind to die with her.
***** ***** *****
Loden was about ten rods down the slope of the ravine, securing a rope around the waist of a fellow rebel who had the misfortune of being tossed over the edge of the makeshift bridge, but the good fortune to be snagged by a protruding stone. Unfortunately, he obtained several cracked ribs in the process. Fortunately, the pain had caused him to lose consciousness, relieving him of the onerous task of considering his unfortunate situation.
Even in the depth of the gorge, Loden could hear Pentalope's shrill wail. At the same time he felt himself slowly descending, although he had not signaled to be lowered any further. In fact, he had been at the perfect depth, and had already managed to work a rope around the fellow’s waist. Vigorously digging his toes into the jagged slope to slow his descent, he frantically worked to tie a knot in the rope. However, before he could complete the task, he had descended too far to reach the fellow now hanging just overhead. And to make matters worse, the fellow let out a long, low, groan and shifted his position slightly to ease his pains. The change in position was just enough to roll him from his perch and down into Loden's arms. The extra weight on the rope about Loden's waist threatened to break him in two.
Gasping for air, he called upward to no avail. Either those who were managing the other end of the rope couldn’t hear him over Pentalope's wailing, or were wholly distracted from the task at hand by it. Whatever the reason, Loden could do little more than kick at the sloped wall, gaining, at best, only an occasional, temporary foothold, but mostly only causing a series of small avalanches. Eventually, the wailing ceased and he began to hear shouts overhead. In concurrence, the rope about his waist was given a sharp tug, causing his back to pop. But the discomfort was well worth the
pain, now that both males were being lifted to safety.
At the slope’s edge Loden emitted a loud groan as the weight of the other male was relieved from the rope about him. He let out several more groans as the others drew him out of the Great Gorge. He beckoned for them to be gentle with him. His back felt like it had been hit with a roof beam from the Center House porch. He remembered the popping sound and feared the worst. They obtained the services of an eastern caretender who, after wrapping his lower torso in veget gauze, assured the rebel leader that, other than his back muscles being severely bruised, all was pretty much as it should be.
As Loden rested at the gorge’s edge, his attention was turned toward Center House, or rather, the remnants of what had once been the very heart of their existence. His own heart sank lower than the bottomless pit from which he had just been drawn. "Oh, by the Great Veget Harvester,” he moaned. Tears filled his eyes and he wondered if somehow his stubborn rebelliousness, could have caused all the disasters which had recently befallen them.
It was only a momentary thought.
***** ***** *****
The clanging of the Center House bell drew Bourg like a magnet. The violent quake had been throwing him to the ground so often he felt as if the ground was jumping up and smacking him. He had half a mind to stay put the next time they made contact, but the bell seemed to call out to him.
As if swimming against a strong undertow, he barely made forward progress. Two steps forward, one step back was the best he could do. He had barely advanced to the edge of the Great Veget Field when Center House collapsed before his eyes.
Bourg stood staring at the resultant rubble and struggled to reconstruct the magnificent building in his mind. However, each imaginary attempt merely collapsed again and again into the heap laying before him. His heart was deeply saddened by the sight, although he didn’t understand why.
The northern end of the gorge ended midway between Center House and the Great Veget Field. Bourg stepped towards it and stared into its cold, misty depth. Then his ears were pierced by a most horrible shrill sound. He looked up and saw Pentalope’s outstretched, scrawny, naked body perched upon the mysterious, shiny bell.
In that instant Bourg’s entire life flashed through his brain. He remembered everything: his friend, Talon and his friend’s beloved wife, Maadle; their young son, Tyter, and their wedding ring. He remembered the well, and Center House, the pride of Nuttinnew which once stood solid and unchanging, but now lay in a rubble at the Mayor’s feet.
As he stared at her, she no longer filled him with the awe of reverence. Instead, he saw her as a weak pitiful soul who forced her own miserable suffering upon the lives of others, and would continue to do so until all were as decrepit as she, destroying all that was held sacred along the way. For she was truly the destroyer, yet naked and alone, so Bourg resolved to seize the opportunity and bring about her final destruction himself. She had once thought him capable of murder. Now, he was determined to prove her right.
Bourg raised his voice in howling unison with Pentalope's. The discord of the sound reflected the hatred filling both their hearts. Their harmonics lasted until Bourg's rage peaked. Then, in a blind fury, his massive body charged forward onto a suspended Center House plank, which immediately gave way beneath his weight, releasing him into the mysterious, grey mist of the gorge below.
Pentalope's voice trailed off into silence. She never heard Bourg's accompaniment or, if she did, she may have assumed it was nature affirming the magnificence of her own destiny. Either way she sat motionless with arched back and outstretched arms, as her ambassadors gathered at the western edge of, what now had truly become, the Great Gorge.
Pentalope had not chosen her ambassadors for their wisdom, but even they were wise enough to ascertain that their ascension upon the delicately suspended rubble of Center House would most likely cause the entire heap to collapse into the abyss below, thus, taking their leader with it, imparting upon her a horrible, insufferable death - not to mention their own terrifying, untimely demise. Then, as if to confirm their fear, an ominous cracking emanated from somewhere behind Pentalope.
"Help me! For Veget's sake, someone, help! Penca is trapped in this rubble!” Fleetra cried. “I can’t get her out by myself.”
"Penca!” Kudjer exclaimed, recklessly lunging out onto the suspended debris. Several hands tried to pull him back, but he shook free of them and scrambled over loose boards and crushed furnishings which slid and slipped beneath his feet. Still, he pressed onward, past Pentalope perched ethereally on the bell, to where Fleetra sat with her ear pressed to a fallen stair rail.
"Where is she? Is she...?"
"Shush! Listen,” Fleetra said, motioning for him to press his own ear against the rail.
Kudjer looked at her as if she were crazy. Did she think his beloved wife was inside the railing? Still, he did what he was instructed to do. "I can’t hear any... no, wait! I do hear something - moaning sounds in the rail. But how...?”
"This stair railing drops down onto that collapsed flooring. I think your wife is trapped down there, behind that broken wall slab. Somehow this rail carries her sounds up to us."
Kudjer was even more convinced Fleetra was crazy. Still...? He hesitantly placed his ear to the railing once again and listened very carefully. Were they really moans? Were they Penca's moan? He wasn't sure.
"You mean you think she’s down there - under that wall - still alive?"
"I've never heard of a dead person moaning.”
Ignoring the inappropriate sarcasm of her response, Kudjer grabbed hold of the rail, and slithered down the exposed portion, about three reeds to the wall slab. With unusual strength he pulled it upwards, away from the rail. From that angle he was unable to see beneath the wall in his hands. “Can you see her?” he called upward with a grunt.
"I think I ... yes, yes, I can, I can see her!” Fleetra shouted as tears of joy choked her throat, purposely ignoring the memory of how she had treated the poor female earlier that day.
"Is she alright? Can you talk to her?” Kudjer called as he struggled to hold up the wall slab. His body was beginning to quiver as his endurance waned. "Blast! Why hasn’t the mayor ordered someone else to come help rescue my wife?" he cursed.
"I can only see her legs. Can you lift the wall a little more? That’s it. Wait! I think I can also see - Oh!"
"What? What’s the matter? What - what do you see?” Kudjer shouted, hesitantly, not sure he wanted to hear the answer, but knowing he must.
Fleetra could not see all that well, but the moon had drifted just enough to cast a glow among the shadows beneath the slab. As her eyes continued to adjust and focus, she could see the dark puddle of fluid pooling about Penca's torso which had been parted at the waist by the lower edge of the wall Kudjer was struggling to hold up. By shifting the slab, he had inadvertently severed his wife in two.
"She has escaped her misery,” Fleetra softly announced, echoing the words she had heard a caretender say when her mother died.
Although Kudjer didn’t hear her words, the long, subdued silence confirmed his worst fear. Gradually, as his hope sank to despair, the weight of the wall sank with it. Slipping from his hands, it struck the descending rail, dislodging it into the dark grey abyss. There was a loud snapping sound and the suspension beneath them began to break away. Fleetra jumped backwards, but she could see that without the stair rail to re-ascend, Kudjer was trapped. Quickly, she jumped forward onto her stomach and swung down her arm.
“Grab hold! Grab hold! Hurry!” Fleetra shouted. She didn’t take time to consider the likelihood that she would have the length of reach or strength to pull this male to safety. Nor did Kudjer, who, using a nearby pile of broken furniture as a springboard, found himself hurled high into the air where Fleetra’s outstretched arm jerked him with the skill of an acrobat, onto the upper level beside her. What would have looked nearly impossible, had somehow been performed quite easily.
As soon as he was safe, Kudjer spu
n around and looked down just in time to see the wall slab tilt upward, revealing his wife's severed remains being smeared across a large portion of flooring. Then, as if in slow motion, the entire repugnant image was released, and glided silently into the grey mist below. Kudjer vomited profusely.
"Fleetra, my mantle, bring it to me at once!” Pentalope ordered from atop her bell throne. Fleetra turned and looked up over her shoulder. Towering above her, she saw the one person in all of Nuttinnew she wished would have had her innards smeared into the gorge.
"Since Fate has delivered you to me once again, Fleetra, I shall not tempt it. You shall be as you were. And Kudjer, you shall be as your wife was to be - after a fashion." Pentalope didn't even look at them as she spoke. She didn't have to. She knew she had their full attention. Kudjer had even ceased vomiting. "So, it's settled then. Fleetra, why haven't you brought me my mantle?” Pentalope growled.
"But...,” Fleetra was about to say that the mantle had been lost in the abyss when her eyes caught sight of its familiar glitters. The same event which had killed Penca had also crushed Pentalope's closet walls, exposing the articles within. Predominant among all the finery was the mantle of many pieces.
Working together, Kudjer lowered Fleetra by her ankles into the infrastructure of the suspended wreck. Feeling the blood rushing to her head, Fleetra grabbed up the mantle and one of Pentalope's pullovers for herself. For, in her awkward position, she had become quite aware of something she had not yet considered - she, too, was completely naked.
The trauma Kudjer had just been through with the loss of his wife had overwhelmed his senses. He hadn’t even noticed Fleetra's nakedness until now. And now that he had, he suddenly felt embarrassed to be grabbing onto her nude body as he pulled her up onto the landing where he was kneeling. Twice he had almost let her slip due to his attempt to secure a modest hold.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 52