by Jeffrey Ford
He cleared the water from his eyes in time to see a bolt of lightning tear the western sky. Thunder quickly followed, and, with it, the rain began to fall in torrents. He looked around for Wood and saw him already cowering in submission to the storm. Cley’s first thought was to pitch the tent he had made. They had used it only twice when first entering the plain and then not against rain but cold night winds. He felt well rested and wanted desperately to find a way out of the flatland. “We are going to get wet anyway,” he thought. “We might as well move on.”
They broke camp and started out just as a weak, diffused light began to spread across the sky. No sooner had they begun to walk than the wind that had been absent for nearly an entire day swept down from the northwest, driving the rain at an angle. Cley now carried the bow, having wrapped the rifle in a skin and stored it on the sled.
The ground had begun to turn to mud, and the rain gathered in puddles. Wood was having a hard time pulling the sled, its runners occasionally getting stuck in the soft earth. Cley got behind and pushed the contraption in order to get it going again. The downpour never tapered off, but constantly increased in strength until it was difficult for him to see more than a few feet ahead. Once, when trying to free the sled, Cley slipped and fell in the mud. He landed only a few inches from one of the nest mounds of the flightless bird. Discovering a clutch of half a dozen good-sized eggs, he carefully gathered them and put them in his pockets.
By the time they stopped to eat, it seemed that most of the plain was covered by an inch or two of water. In certain spots the puddles were deeper. He pitched the tent to allow them a few minutes of refuge from the storm and as a canopy beneath which he hoped to light a fire. It was difficult trying to get the demon-horn pegs to hold in the wet earth, and he had to search for a time before finding a piece of ground that was a foot or so higher and still relatively dry. Once the pegs were fixed, he slid the willow sapling rods, which gave the thing its boxlike structure, into the sinew notches sewn to the deerskin cover. The shelter was tethered in place by ropes woven from vine. He and Wood sat beneath it and rested, safe from the persistent battering of the storm.
“If you shake the water off you in here, I’ll cut your other ear off,” Cley said with a grim laugh.
The dog moved over next to him and looked into his eyes.
Cley petted him on the head. “A little water,” he said. “How about some eggs?”
The hunter went outside and yanked up one of the bushes they burned nightly. Returning with it to the tent, he placed it inside to dry for a few minutes. Then he went through his pack and pulled out a small copper pot. Taking the pot, he walked a few yards away from the cover to where a deep puddle bubbled wildly beneath the driving rain. He was about to dip the pot into the water when he noticed something dark moving through the shallow pool. Leaning over, he looked more closely, past the agitation on the surface. There, swimming through the grass, was a school of tiny, black fish.
“Fish born of nothing;” he said. Knowing there wasn’t anything he could do about this miracle, he siphoned some water off the top of the puddle and returned to the tent.
“Fish in the puddles,” he told Wood.
The dog barely lifted his head at the news.
Cley took the stone knife out of his boot and used it to gouge a deep hole in the ground that was the floor of their shelter. He then hacked some choice branches off the bush and threw the remainder outside. Next, he dug through his pack and brought out the book.
“Sorry, Wood,” he said as he ripped out the first few pages.
The dog lifted his lip and gave an unconvincing snarl.
“We’ve read them already,” said the hunter. He replaced the book, then wadded up the loose paper into balls. Placing these at the bottom of the hole, he took the cut branches of the bush and built a pyramid structure around them. As good as he had become with the stones, it was obvious that this operation called for matches. He retrieved them from the pack, and in minutes the smoke was rising, streaming out of the sides of the tent. He hoped that the branches, though still damp, would dry enough as the paper burned to then ignite. The words concerning the nature of the soul wrinkled brown and vanished in the flames. A short time later, the eggs of the flightless bird rolled in the boiling water of the copper pot.
The respite from the storm was so welcome that Cley did not want to leave the shelter. He sat, listening to the rain battering the skin, its rhythm now almost comforting. Wood rested his head on his paws, his exhalations forming puffs of steam in the cold air. Eventually the water infiltrated their haven, lifted the scattered eggshells, and washed them away.
A fierce gale whipped around outside, tugging at the vines, and one by one the demon-horn pegs shot up out of the ground with the sound of buttons popping. The willow-sapling frame snapped and buckled in a dozen places. The deerskin cover flapped against the travelers like a giant wing closing over them, and then it was gone. Cley looked up and, in the sudden brightness of a flash of lightning, saw the tent being carried away like a sheet of brown paper on the wind. He acted quickly to save his hat from the same fate.
He stood, dripping wet, and surveyed the situation. The plain was clearly sinking beneath a lake of rainwater. On closer inspection, he saw it was not a lake but an immense shallow river. Now that the water was ankle-deep everywhere, he noticed that there was a slight current to it. He watched as the bush whose branches he hacked off to make the fire gained buoyancy and began moving, along with sticks and loose blades of grass, off toward the north.
It was with great distress that he left the sled behind. He knew it would put a strain on Wood, constantly bogging down and getting stuck in the deepening water. There was also the absurd consideration that eventually they might have to swim, and then it would put the dog in serious jeopardy. All he salvaged from it was the rifle. With the pack and bow slung on his back, he carried the gun, and they started slogging through the sinking landscape.
The drag of the water made every step like the weighted plodding of a nightmare. Cley thought the idea of drowning out on the flat-land totally insane, but as the hours and the miles passed by it seemed to become more and more a real possibility. In those instances when the lightning flashed, he searched desperately ahead of them for some kind of shelter, some sign that the plain had a boundary. They continued, mindlessly, the persistence of the rain drilling their reason until they proceeded in a state bordering on the unconscious.
Cley looked up and realized that they had walked all night and into the next day. He was shivering so badly, he had to stop for a moment, maneuver the gun into the crook of his arm, and put his hands under his armpits for warmth. The hat brim had wilted and hung low, almost covering his eyes. He turned and looked for Wood, but the rain was falling so heavily he couldn’t see two arm lengths in front of him. Then he heard the dog bark and staggered forward a few feet to find him sunk three-quarters of the way to his neck.
Somewhere in the day, they stopped to rest. There was nothing else to do but sit down in the flow. Cley found a small rock under the water and perched on it, with the ever-growing, lethargic river reaching to just beneath his chest. He positioned the gun across the back of his neck and slung his arms up over each end. Wood sat next to him, the water passing around his shoulders. Cley tried to think of a good excuse to continue, and did not move for a very long time.
The second night came on early since the day had been little more than a bright smudge on the horizon. The rain had slightly abated to what might be considered, in the realm south of the Beyond, merely an incredible downpour. It seemed as if they had been traveling through the sunken world for years. Cley wondered if he and the dog had wandered blindly into some quadrant of Purgatory. The only things that convinced him otherwise were the hunger and the fierce burning of every muscle in his body.
It didn’t seem possible that the sky could hold so much water and not, itself, fall from the sheer weight. Wood was swimming, and the waterline was nearing Cley’s
waist. The hunter had a mad vision of them two days hence still traipsing slowly along the bottom of an ocean, a school of sea horses passing above in the lime-green water.
He stopped and peered into the dark. The lightning came again, but this time, a few hundred yards ahead, he saw, in the split second of diminishing brightness, a formation of boulders. The current had grown stronger, and it helped them along in their frantic charge for the safety of the granite island.
When they reached the rocks, Cley wasted no time, but threw the rifle, bow, quiver, and pack up onto the lowest one. Then he bent over and helped Wood scrabble up out of the water. The dog reached the top of the low, flat boulder. He did not stop there but jumped to the next highest one and then on to the most immense one in the clutch of six.
Cley reached his hands up and tried to hoist himself out of the water, but found that with the added drag of his wet clothes his arms didn’t have the strength. Wood barked again and again, and with the dog’s encouragement, the hunter took one last leap and barely managed to get his upper body high enough above the surface of the rock to lock his elbows beneath its weight. He grunted and struggled and kicked his feet, and, after a long battle against gravity, rolled forward onto the flat surface of stone.
Now, out of the water, he was energized enough to move the equipment to the next highest rock. From there, he reached each item up to where Wood was waiting for him. When he began to climb onto it himself, he slipped on the slick surface and hit his head. The concussion left him dizzy and nauseous, but he finally succeeded in scaling the boulder. Once there, he fell to his knees, then forward to lie flat against the cold surface. The sound of water falling, running, rushing was everywhere, and the world was spinning.
“All is lost,” he whispered to the dog.
Wood moved closer and watched as Cley’s eyelids fluttered and closed.
It was still raining, though less fiercely, when the hunter woke, shivering. He reached over to where Wood lay and put his hand on the dog’s back. The wind had shifted and now came from the south, blowing steadily but warmer than before. His dreams had him trudging through deep water, but his head was clearer now. The blood had dried from the gash. He sat up and tried to look through the dark.
He and Wood were stranded more thoroughly than if they had been shipwrecked on a desert island. He had never conceived of the journey ending in this manner. Maybe one day, in a hundred years, a traveler might discover their skeletons perched atop the boulder and wonder as Cley had when finding the remains of Sirimon. Even in the demon forest, when things were most grim, he had managed to reserve a place in his thoughts for his success. Now, in searching his memory, he could no longer find the image of his being reunited with Arla and Ea in the true village of Wenau. His hope of handing the green veil to Arla Beaton had been dissolved by the rain.
He reached into his shirt pocket and took the veil in his hand. Laying it on the rock in front of him, he smoothed it out flat. Since there was little chance now of his ever delivering it, he decided to send it on alone. He stood and held the piece of green material by one threadbare corner above his head. The wind lifted it, and it fluttered as if eager to be released. He cursed once, then opened his fingers, and it was gone, soaring upward on the warm southern current.
For the remainder of the night, he sat recalling the long chain of events, like an enormous coiled serpent, that had brought him to this rock. He no longer noticed the wind or rain, and near dawn, as the clouds broke and the moon became partially visible, he paid no attention. “The shortcut to Paradise,” he murmured. By the time the eastern sky began to lighten, he had come to the end of his own story and fallen asleep sitting up, his arms locked around his bent knees.
With great care for the slipperiness of the boulder and his still-aching joints, he stood in order to view their situation. The sun felt wonderfully warm upon his skin, and before looking out over the water, he turned his face to stare straight into the burning disk. When the orange spots cleared from his eyes, he noticed that it was perhaps the clearest day he had yet spent in the Beyond. The sky was cloudless, and all around them flowed the transparent, jade-green river, carrying in its slow current, bushes and sticks, wild-flowers and grass.
Measuring the height of the water against the base of their boulder island (the one he had hoisted himself onto was now completely submerged), he estimated that the depth must be a uniform seven feet. He wondered if it was possible that so much rain could have fallen in two days. It was a certainty that to the south, at higher elevations, rivers had breached their banks and emptied into the flatland. It was all heading somewhere, and he tried to picture its destination—an immense whirlpool, a limitless ocean, or perhaps Paradise, which would accept all the Beyond had to offer.
He removed his shirt and pants and set them out on the rock to dry in the sun. Wearing only his underwear, he lifted the rifle and began to explore the confines of his tiny kingdom. Each step had to be planned and executed with care, for to slip and fall could easily have been fatal.
“We are in the Country of Six Boulders,” he told Wood, whose toenails tapped against the rock with every step.
Down the other side of the tallest boulder, there were three more of decreasing size. The entire half-dozen set was not arranged in a straight line but in a clutch and closely enough together that moving from one to another did not require leaping. The reconnoitering of the new country took all of five minutes. There was nothing remarkable to report from any of the provinces—all hard rock and water.
When they reached the last one (the second lowest of the six that had not been submerged), Cley stopped and peered out toward the horizon. He thought he had caught something on the very boundary of his sight out to the northeast. Using his hand as a shade, he looked more intently. At first, he was unsure if what he was seeing was a mirage, the reflection of the light on the water mixed with his own desire, but he swore there was the very faint trace of a tree line.
“Land ho,” he said.
Cley sat on the highest of the boulders, trying to think of ways to gain sustenance enough to survive until the flood receded to a depth that would allow them to escape. Nothing came to him, and eventually, all of the thoughts of filling his stomach made him ravenously hungry. He left his perch and retrieved the copper pot from his pack. With Wood at his side, he descended to the lowest boulder that had not been submerged. Kneeling, he reached out over the rushing water and scooped up a good measure. Although the sudden river was a deep green, he was pleased to see that the portion of it he had taken appeared to be clear. He sniffed at it and found it had no foul odor. Then he put the pot to his mouth and drank deeply. The water was cool and refreshing, and it served to fill his stomach for the time being. After he had his fill, he again leaned out and brought in a potful for Wood.
Cley’s clothes dried quickly in the heat of the bright sun. He dressed, put on his hat, and sat down on a lower boulder with his back against the tallest one, waiting for whatever might happen next. The Beyond was in complete control, and he knew it would do no good to struggle against it. Either it would destroy him or send him an opportunity for survival. It took Wood longer to come to the same conclusion, for he moved restlessly from one province of the Country of Six Boulders to another and back again.
The sun grew more intense as it reached its apex, and Cley could feel himself baking on the hot surface of the rocks. He considered a swim but feared the current might snatch him away from his island nation and drown him. Wood nosed through the pack in search of the book, but the hunter told him, “No.” He motioned for the dog to come and sit beside him. His companion uttered something like a sigh before giving in. The two of them did all that was left to them. In sleep, Cley dreamt of the green veil, flying high over the wilderness of the Beyond.
He was awake and staring up into the bottomless blue sky of late afternoon before he even realized it. The heat had diminished somewhat, and there was a slight breeze. He could hear the water moving and the black do
g breathing. Something sailed through the sky, crossing his line of sight. At first, he thought it was the veil, having flown out of his dream. When he squinted, he saw it was instead a bird—a large one at that. “A crow?” he wondered. The bird circled back into his field of vision, and he squinted again. He determined it was not a crow by the fact that, even at the great height at which it flew, he could see it was not black but a deep scarlet color. “The wings are too large,” he said to the dog, who was still asleep.
It was a beautiful sight the way it spiraled down and then upward with an absolute minimum of wing thrust. The knot in his stomach then tightened a notch, and he came completely awake to the possibility. Nudging the dog in the ribs with his boot, he whispered, “Wood, time to hunt.” In an instant, he scrabbled up to the highest rock and grabbed the rifle. Making sure the chamber was loaded with two shells, he pushed off his hat and brought the gun to his shoulder. Before he could sight the bird, the black dog was next to him. He prayed the rain had not ruined the weapon or bullets.
He followed the progress of the elegant creature as it slowly spiraled above them. The task was to shoot when the bird was at its lowest point and also off to the south of the island so that if he managed to fell it the current might sweep it past them. He waited for it to break from its course and fly off, out of range of the rifle, but it never did. As he continued to aim, he gave a grim laugh, realizing that the target might be a species of carrion bird, like a vulture. It could very well have had him and the dog in its own sight as two likely prospects for a future meal.
“The hunter is hunted,” he said to Wood as he watched the large, red figure swing southward in its orbit of the island. He pulled the trigger and the report of the gun was startling. The bird neither dropped nor fled. It didn’t change its course in the least.