Walls of Wind I

by J. A. McLachlan

  “I lost the prey,” he said.

  I wanted to touch him, draw him against me. I wanted to fall to my knees and weep. I wanted to praise him for his courage and shake him and shake him for the risk he had taken.

  “Two dead hunters will not feed our people,” I said.

  *

  Dawn was breaking as we returned to camp. Only one group of young hunters had brought down their prey. Another triad had wounded theirs. They’d started to follow its trail but their parents called them back.

  “Let it try to keep up with the herd,” a parent was explaining when we arrived, “until it falls from blood loss. If you pursue it now, it’ll run for denser cover, and be that much harder to kill. In a few days we’ll catch up with it.”

  We congratulated the successful triad, rolling up our sleeping mats while they skinned and butchered their kill to carry back to the city. We ate together the wild, juicy meat, cooking extra to take with us. The hot scent of harrunt’h blood and the savory odor of its flesh stayed with us long after we left the camp behind.

  There were only twelve of us now, two triads of younglings with their parents. The triad that was tracking their wounded prey had followed the harrunt’h herd, but we continued traveling north. Better to find a new herd that wasn’t spooked.

  The next day I heard the Symamt’h River, which began in the distant mountains and ran southward through the grasslands. At the edge of the forest it curved east between the tree line and the grasses, then twisted back southward, skirted the edge of the eastern wetlands, and continued flowing south all the way down to the sea. By late afternoon, we were walking close to a section of it that veered in toward us. I was near the head of our group when I heard Timb’il cry out, pointing.

  “There can’t be liapt’hs here,” Cann’an snapped in disgust as he climbed the slight knoll to where Timb’il stood staring at the Symamt’h through a break in the trees. The river ran fast and cold, five times as wide as its tributary, the Symba, which flowed into our peninsula. In the middle of the vast river, I was shocked to see the long, sinuous shape of a liapt’h, twisting through the water. Cann’an was silent as the rest of us gathered around. The mud-green lizard opened wide its long jaws to snap at a passing bird and the sun glinted off double rows of wicked, knife-sharp teeth.

  “We should go back,” Timb’il said. When no one answered, he continued, “There’s something wrong and we all know it: the forest so silent, the game so scarce and now a liapt’h leaving the wetlands to swim in the Symamt’h!”

  “So we won’t go swimming,” I said quickly, before his fear affected the others. I had never returned empty-handed from a hunt. I caught Heckt’er looking at me and I grinned to reassure him. He would have his hunt. “I’ve hunted the wetlands before. Liapt’hs don’t frighten me.”

  Cann’an looked at me darkly and rose to the bait. “No one is frightened!” he snapped. “We’ll continue.”

  “It isn’t just the liapt’hs,” Timb’il protested, “it’s the whole forest. Listen!” he paused, looking around uneasily. “Not a single bird is singing.”

  For a moment my own scales tingled, then I laughed. It came out somewhat forced but broke the tension.

  “You have too much imagination, Timb’il,” I said. “We’re on a youth hunt, don’t forget. You can’t expect youngsters to be as quiet as experienced trackers. Our noisy passage frightens the birds to silence and then their timid silence frightens you.”

  Timb’il flushed. The others looked away, turning to Prakt’um as leader of the expedition. He hesitated, looking at the liapt’h, then down at the hopeful youths.

  “Timb’il is right, the birds are too quiet,” he said, “but it may be because of us, as Mant’er says. We’ll continue with caution.”

  He wants to leave, I realized, and felt again that ominous tingle down the long ridge of my spine. Something was wrong in the forest and in the river. I knew it. But I told myself, we are above it. We are outside the circle of prey and predator. We are Ghen. Prakt’um had deferred to my argument, for I was the better hunter, but he sensed that Timb’il was right.

  There were no sadu’hs to be seen at all, now. It was good that we’d brought harrunt’h meat with us. Nor was there any birdsong to cheer us. The only sound was the rustle of mangarr’hs in the trees above. We’d grown accustomed to it and ignored them as we marched. Heckt’er walked beside Bab’in as though guarding the smaller youth. Dur’um walked with them, still limping from his fall. Bab’in’s enthusiasm made him impulsive and Heckt’er saw that he stayed with the group.

  Why would Heckt’er befriend such a scatterbrain? Despite his eagerness, Bab’in would never make a good hunter. His parent, Mart’in, was too good-natured to discipline him properly.

  The sun was already setting when we stopped to make camp. Bab’in scampered up a tall ugappa for the evening look-out. We were stretching after our day’s trek, laying out our sleeping mats. Several of the youths were gathering twigs and branches for our fire. Mart’in waited near the tree his youngling had ascended.

  He had just bent down to open his pack when we heard a savage growling and Bab’in’s scream, sudden and full of terror, and just as suddenly ended. We stood shock-still, unbreathing for one instant, listening to the snarl and whine of feeding mangarr’hs and the savage movement of branches high above us. With a cry, Mart’in sprang up the tree, climbing frantically, while the rest of us rushed over.

  Prakt’um was already climbing after him. I ordered the youths to stay together at a distance and had Timb’il guard them. Already the sway and slap of branches in the treetops overhead was spreading out. I directed the other adults up into a wide circle of trees, wishing I could see through the thick covering of leaves, wishing that Bab’in would call out again. A shot rang out above me as I climbed and I saw a mangarr’h fall to the ground.

  “Knives!” I screamed. We were all in the treetops now, hidden from each other, following the growls of feeding beasts. I could hardly believe we were fighting mangarr’hs! Even when I myself saw several tearing into Bab’in’s severed hand, even as I swung my knife and watched them drop it and fall upon their wounded kin instead, even while I slashed at them again and again, I couldn’t believe it was real.

  We killed at least two dozen. If they had been less desperate in their feeding, most would have escaped. They were dark in the dark treetops and we were in the grip of a nightmare, slowed by disbelief. When we climbed down, the sight of Bab’in’s small body torn apart, half-eaten, was unbearable. We wrapped him in his sleeping mat and built the fire high, cremating him at once.

  No words were spoken. We were all in shock, shivering despite the mild evening and the blazing fire. When it burned down, we gathered his bones and ashes and presented them to Mart’in, bowing low with our claws retracted and our backs to the darkness beyond.

  We did not bow long, baring our backs. Mangarr’h hunt in pairs, never in packs. Mangarr’h do not attack Ghen. Mangarr’h don’t fight unless they are trapped. Their strange compulsion might be explained by the scarcity of birds and sadu’hs, but even so we were shaken as much by the manner of Bab’in’s death as by its occurrence.

  Death, from creatures no bigger than my arm! Creatures we considered pests, dangerous only to fish and birds and sadu’hs! The rhythm of the hunt was shattered, altered beyond recognition. The rules had shifted and all our acumen seemed suddenly uncertain.

  *

  “I’m taking him back,” Mart’in said as we lay unsleeping in the darkness. He hadn’t spoken all evening and his voice was scarcely recognizable.

  “Of course,” Prakt’um said after a moment. “Dur’um and I will accompany you.” Dur’um’s blanket twitched in protest.

  “We should all go,” Timb’il’s voice was high, nervous. I waited for Prakt’um to reply.

  “We can’t,” I said finally.

  “You’re crazy!” Timb’il cried. “I don’t care if we go back without a harrunt’h. You’re going to get us all—
” he broke off. Timb’il was a pathetic creature. I had to breathe deeply to keep the disgust from my voice when I answered him.

  “We don’t have enough provisions to get us all back home. We have to hunt.”

  “We could eat berries and cappa fruit.”

  I was speechless. Ghen travel hungry through the forest? Scrounging to keep from starving in our own forest? Why didn’t Prakt’um speak up? I reminded myself that Timb’il was in shock, that we all were. I could hear the sound of muffled weeping from one of the youths.

  “What happened to Bab’in is terrible.” I paused at the inadequacy of the word, and took a breath. “But it won’t happen again. We’re not going home to say we’re afraid of mangarr’hs!”

  “Who’s afraid of mangarr’hs?” Cann’an demanded.

  “You are, if you go back before your youngling’s a hunter.”

  “You’re saying I’m a coward?”

  “He’s saying we all are,” Timb’il cried. “I tell you, I’m not staying to satisfy his ego!”

  “Timb’il, you take Sark’il and go with Mart’in,” Prakt’um said, trying to calm us.

  “No, Prakt’um,” Piet’er’s voice was firm. “You want to go because of Dur’um. And you’re right.”

  “I’m okay. I want to stay,” Dur’um mumbled.

  “You’ve been limping ever since you fell from the harrunt’h’s back. You can’t hunt like that, it puts the rest of your triad in danger.”

  “Then we should all go,” Timb’il repeated stubbornly.

  “Only Prakt’um and Dur’um should go,” I said. “The rest of us are needed for the hunt.”

  “Who made you the leader of this hunt?” Cann’an demanded.

  “I do,” said Prakt’um. “Mant’er’s the leader when I go. We’ve argued enough. I’ve decided.”

  *

  Two days after they left, Dam’an found signs of a herd of harrunt’hs. Cann’an was mollified and Timb’il had no one left to grumble to. I suspected that once again Heckt’er had seen the trail first, for he stepped aside and let Dam’an go ahead just before Dam’an called out. But this time I was glad that Heckt’er had remained silent. Or I would have been, except that he was too quiet. We were all subdued, but Heckt’er most of all.

  “I should have known what the mangarr’hs would do,” he said when I questioned him.

  “How could you have known? Mangarr’hs don’t behave that way!” I replied.

  “I should have been able to make myself think like a mangarr’h. Even like one of these.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him that that was impossible, and then I remembered finding him deep in the river on the Bria farm. It occurred to me that I’d never heard Heckt’er overstate his abilities.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I said at last, looking at my youngling as though for the first time.

  *

  We spent seven days tracking the harrunt’hs, although their trail as we followed it was only a few days old. They were moving fast, almost as fast as we pursued.

  What’s making them hurry? I wondered uneasily, but for all my skill, I could detect nothing that would alarm a harrunt’h. Except for us, but we were downwind of them and too far behind. They were heading out of the forest toward the grasslands, long before stillseason was due. Already we were almost at the edge of the woods. I pushed us to greater speed, wanting to finish the hunt quickly and get home.

  “No youth hunt has ever come this far,” Piet’er said to me quietly, watching his youngling collect twigs for our evening fire. “And yet we’ve seen only one small herd of harrunt’hs.”

  “They’ve gone to the grasslands,” I said, deliberately keeping my voice casual, “as the sadu’hs went early to their burrows. Stillseason will be early this year.”

  “No.” Cann’an had come over in time to hear my reply. “Something is driving the game from our forests.”

  “I see no evidence of that.”

  “Something dangerous is hunting our forests,” Timb’il broke in.

  “That’s absurd,” I said coldly. “What signs have you found of this ‘something’? What scent have you smelled? What sounds have you heard?” When they were silent I said, “Do you think if there were anything here, I wouldn’t know of it?”

  “Perhaps we haven’t crossed its trail.”

  “An early stillseason doesn’t leave a trail, except in the behavior of birds and beasts.”

  “Stillseason is no time for youth hunts,” Piet’er said, seeking a compromise.

  “You’re right.” I touched my breath in agreement. “We’ll hunt the herd we’re following, then return home at once.”

  “What if our younglings miss?” Timb’il asked.

  “We should hunt also,” Piet’er said. “We can carry two carcasses easily, and that way be sure of one to feed our trip home.”

  To calm them I agreed. “But let the youths make their move first,” I suggested. The others nodded. We were, after all, all parents. We wanted to see our offspring become hunters.

  The ugappas thinned to clusters of cappas and finally to grasses. The wide Symamt’h twisted back across our path and on its distant shore the grasslands stretched away to the horizon where we could just make out the peaks of the mountains, gray blue against sky blue.

  The grasses were tall, reaching as high as our chests. They were green and gold in the sun, but something in their sinuous movement, in their sly rustle, struck me as threatening, malevolent. I shook off the feeling, angry with Timb’il for filling me with his phantoms. It was only the wind that moved these grasses, only the wind that shook a sound like moaning out of them.

  The wind blew away from us, carrying our scent toward the distant mountains. Again I shivered, as though there were something out there that should not know of us. Dyit’er pointed westward across the curving Symamt’h and there was the herd we’d been tracking, feeding peacefully upon the grasses perhaps three days away. The sight calmed us all, and I was disgusted with my earlier misgivings. Too much imagination, distracting me from the hunt. A mere youth had sighted our game ahead of me.

  The youngsters cut down a number of nearby cappas, lashing them together with the long grasses that grew beside the river. By evening they’d made three good-sized rafts and a number of limbs, widened at one end with their branches webbed by grass, to paddle us across. The youths went to fish while we made camp. It took them a long time to catch enough to feed us, but our meal that night was fresh and flavorful.

  During my watch I heard the Symamt’h roiling with the sound of fish feeding on small night-fliers. The noise echoed in the dark over the water. I saw Heckt’er staring at the river.

  “Stillseason’s coming,” I said. “The fish are beginning to hide from the sun. Already they only rise to feed at night.”

  Despite my explanation he looked uneasy. Most of the fish we had eaten had come from his line. Once again, I remembered his episode on the farm. Had he sensed something I’d missed?

  The Symamt’h was quiet in the morning, with only the cool breeze rippling its surface. We lashed our packs to the rafts and set off. I had knotted all our ropes together and tied one end to the trunk of a cappa near the shore, playing it out as we crossed. The current was strong and the rope would speed our return.

  We traveled three to a raft. Dyit’er came with Heckt’er and me while his parent, Piet’er, rode with Cann’an and Dam’an. Timb’il and Sark’il were on the final raft with two extra packs and the last of our provisions.

  When we reached the middle of the river we paused to rest. I felt a bump against the bottom of my raft. A boulder or the upper branches of a fallen tree, I thought, though the river should have been too deep at this point for either to reach the surface. The bumping increased and, startled, I remembered the liapt’h. Could it possibly have come this far? I reached for my pack. Heckt’er was already scanning the water.

  “There!” he cried.

  A huge liapt’h broke the surface thrusting itself up onto the
third raft. Its wide, elongated jaws reached for the packs of provisions, snapping eagerly while its short, clawed front legs scrambled for purchase. Green scales glistened as it pulled itself higher onto the raft.

  Then another appeared beside it, and another!

  Before we could reach our firearms the weight of their bodies had capsized the raft. Timb’il and Sark’il plunged screaming into the water, which was now alive with frenzied liapt’hs. I loaded my firearm while Heckt’er and Dyit’er beat at the shapes in the water around our own raft with their paddles. One monster tried to mount our raft but Heckt’er thrust his knife into its protruding eye and it lashed backward, almost pulling him with it, for he refused to surrender his weapon.

  I shot one of the liapt’hs attacking Timb’il and Sark’il, but already several long jaws had clamped round their limbs and I could do nothing more as they were pulled under. Then I had all I could handle keeping the liapt’hs from toppling our own raft, as did those on the raft beside us.

  Heckt’er and Dyit’er stabbed at one trying to reach us and I shot it. They pulled it aboard and crouched behind its lifeless form. The Symamt’h ran yellow with liapt’h blood before the others were satisfied to leave us and feast upon their own dead. We paddled in haste to the shore.

  We dragged our rafts high into the grasslands, for the only way home lay once again over the river. I sank one of the paddles into the dirt and attached the end of the rope to it, so that it stretched across the water. We would want to cross back with all the speed we could manage. Then I leaned on the stick and closed my eyes. Breath of Wind, what was happening? Three dead on a youth hunt?

  I heard the sound of sobbing and turned, sinking on wobbly knees to the grass. Piet’er and Cann’an tried to comfort their weeping younglings, while shivering with horror themselves. Heckt’er sat apart, pale but dry-eyed, staring at the river. Surely he didn’t blame himself as he had when Bab’in died?

  The thought made me wonder whether I had failed them. Timb’il had wanted to take Sark’il home, and I had stopped them. They would never go home now. Did Heckt’er blame me?