The Continent

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The Continent Page 8

by Keira Drake


  But I hear something—far off, to be sure, yet distinctive—a rhythmic hum, a steady whirring that I would recognize anywhere. There’s no mistaking it.

  It’s a heli-plane.

  CHAPTER 8

  I’M ON MY FEET IN AN INSTANT. THE FOREST IS dense here, and the tiny patch of sky visible through the treetops reveals nothing, but I can hear the heli-plane. I stand perfectly still and listen.

  The sound is coming from north of where I am now, I’m almost sure of it.

  I sprint through the woods, conifer branches scratching at my hands and face as I force my way through the trees. A furious hope burns in my breast, a need to escape this place, to go home. I feel fresh tears on my face, hot and desperate.

  Please, please, let them see me. Please let them take me away from here.

  In the distance, the woods give way at last to a vast white field—I should be able to see the plane from there. I push through the deepening snow, my feet like blocks of stone caught in the soft white powder. I’m moving as quickly as I can, but my pace feels maddeningly slow. By the time I reach the clearing, I’m gasping for breath, my sides aching from exertion. The chalky white sky is in plain view now. I can still hear the whir of the engines—closer now than before—but the plane is nowhere in sight. Confused, breathless, I lean against the trunk of a bristly evergreen and try to orient myself. Where is the heli-plane?

  A few feet into the clearing, just ahead of me, an Achelon is perched on a snow-dusted log; he tilts his head and sings his little birdsong: to-whill, to-whill. His eyes, black and shiny against his soft white face, are fixed on mine as he sings.

  I turn back to the sky, searching. With the steep face of the mountains bordering the opposite side of the clearing, the sound of the plane seems at once near and distant. I’m disoriented, and the Achelon’s endless song is not helping.

  “Hush!” I say irritably. “I can’t hear over your noise.”

  As if in answer, the bird bobs his head a few times and sings another chorus. I glare at him, and almost incidentally, my gaze is drawn to a dark shape beyond his snowy perch—to a subtle hint of movement where there ought to be none.

  I catch my breath, too frightened even to exhale.

  Not a hundred yards away, at the far edge of the field, is a Topi warrior.

  The man is crouched in the snow, his body angled away from me, the back of his dark coat sprinkled with snow. A steel hatchet lies beside him, along with a blue satchel and two or three dead animals—squirrels, I think. I cannot see what the Topi is doing, but his head is bent in concentration and he appears singularly focused on whatever silent task is at hand.

  He stiffens and turns to look beyond his right shoulder, a deep frown cast over his features; I stand frozen to the spot, certain that he has somehow sensed my presence. But it is not I that has drawn his attention—it is the heli-plane, cresting the mountains and moving gracefully into the sky above the valley.

  My heart lurches at the sight of it. The four-pointed star of the Spire, painted in bright yellow on the side of the fuselage, seems like something from a dream. The Topi watches the plane for a moment before resuming his previous position, his face once again turned toward the ground in front of him.

  I hesitate, unsure what to do. If I run out into the open, I might be able to attract the attention of those aboard the heli-plane. But if the Topi sees me first, I may not live long enough to be rescued. Perhaps I should quietly pick my way back to the escape pod—if it’s emitting a signal, they should find me quite readily, and at least then I could hide myself amongst the trees. But what if there is no signal? What if the light truly does indicate something else? And what if the plane has already flown over the pod—or worse, flown over and retrieved it, leaving me with no shelter whatsoever?

  I wish my father were here. He would know what to do. He always knew exactly what to do.

  The plane circles back, making another pass over the valley. It’s relatively close now; I can plainly see the tinted windows along the port side. I cannot wait. This could be my only chance to escape the Continent.

  Shaking, I move away from the concealment of the trees and swing my arms wide, criss-crossing them again and again in a furious attempt to draw the attention of my would-be-rescuers. After a long moment, the plane turns toward me, and I am filled with a hope so desperate I can hardly breathe. Emboldened, I move farther out into the clearing, flailing my arms wildly, willing someone to see me.

  And someone does. As the plane glides past, I look across the clearing to see a second Topi watching me intently from the rocks at the base of the mountain. He is impossibly tall, with broad shoulders and slashes of red and yellow paint angling from one side of his face to the other. Behind his right shoulder is a quiver full of darkly feathered arrows. The warrior’s expression is not fierce or savage as I might have expected, but curious—almost amused. For a moment, neither of us moves—we just stand there, locked in impasse. His eyes dart toward the sky; I imagine he can still see the heli-plane from his vantage point, although the trees behind me have obscured it from my view. He drops his gaze back to my face.

  I take a step backward, my limbs rigid with fear. He watches me, but does not move, nor does his countenance change. For one ridiculous moment, I wonder if he has no more interest in me than a shark might have for a tiny fish in the sea—perhaps I am too small, too insignificant for concern. But then his voice booms out across the vale, a deep, heavy sound, as he calls to the warrior in the clearing. “Amashiha! Laza ma opi!”

  The first man looks up in surprise and turns toward me.

  There is no more indecision. I turn at once and flee.

  I race through the trees, panic fueling my starving body. The skirts of my dress fly out behind me, snagging and tearing on the spindly tree branches that seem to reach for me with grasping fingers. I hear the men shouting behind me, getting closer with every step. The snow is thin here, and slippery, but I manage to keep my footing as I race through the wood. I’m veering to the southwest, toward the escape pod, toward my last hope of rescue.

  An arrow zips past my left shoulder and sticks firmly in one of the trees ahead of me, its shaft quivering. Terrified, I cut across to my right and then again to my left, trying to become as elusive a target as possible. One of the Topi calls out, his voice like thunder in the dense thicket; he is much closer now. Foolishly, I look over my shoulder to see how much space lies between us, and as I do, the uneven terrain rises before me. I lose my footing and go sprawling forward, the frozen ground scraping my arms as I try to stop myself.

  The Topi is on me in an instant. He puts one hand on my head, crushing the right side of my face against the snow. There is a terrible pressure between my shoulder blades—his knee, I think—and my hands are bound together. When the cord around my wrists has been pulled tight, the man rolls me onto my back.

  I look up at him, the edges of my vision dark with fear. It’s the tall warrior who spotted me across the clearing, the archer with the painted face. Beneath the splashes of color, his skin is a rich reddish-brown, his face broad with hard angles and myriad scars. He stares down at me, his mouth slightly open, the curious expression returned to his face.

  “Ama-zi?” he says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  He bends down, his face so close to mine that I can smell his breath—it reeks of fish and decay. “Ama-zi?” he repeats, more forcefully this time. He shakes me roughly by the shoulders, rattling the arrows in his quiver. “Mo zapi. Mo zapi!”

  “Please, I don’t understand,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. My vision doubles, and there are two of him for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re saying!”

  He sits back and stares at me. I lie helplessly on the ground, my hands burning with cold in the snow. The man reaches toward my face and I flinch, but he merely lifts a lock of my hair and rubs it between his fingers. “Ama shai maza-an Aven’ei.”

  Aven’ei. This word I know. “No,”
I say quickly. “No, I’m not Aven’ei! Is that what you’re asking? I’m not Aven’ei, I’m from the Spire, and—”

  “Aka on-api!” he shouts, startling me into silence.

  The other warrior appears behind him, looks down at me, and frowns. He says something I can’t understand, and the two men begin bickering back and forth. My shoulder aches and my hands have gone numb.

  The archer yanks me to my feet. I sway for a moment, then sag against the tree behind me while the two men continue to argue. The temptation to run is overwhelming. I stare over my shoulder, mentally forging an escape path between the trees. The man who bound my wrists looks at me sharply; I’ve given away my thoughts, and whether or not I would have acted upon them, the Topi is not amused.

  He glares at me, pulls an arrow from the sheath upon his back, and plunges it into my outer thigh. I scream, more stunned than hurt, for initially there is no pain—only heat, and pressure. I stumble to my knees, my wrists straining against the leather cord.

  The warrior grabs my chin and points my face toward his own. “Aka pa shinapi. Ama bei Topi!” he says, his lips curled with anger. In one horrible, smooth motion, he wrenches the arrow from my leg, and this—this hurts. I gasp, a shock of searing pain radiating outward from my thigh; the sensation is pure, prickling agony. I watch as my blood seeps through the fibers of my white trousers, soaking the fabric as it spreads. I am shaking, fixated, but look up just in time to see the Topi swing his fist toward my temple.

  All dissolves into blackness, and merciful unconsciousness overtakes me.

  CHAPTER 9

  I OPEN MY EYES AND BLINK AT THE BRIGHTNESS of the white sky, its light blinding beyond the trees. I am on the ground, on my back, aching everywhere. I stare numbly at the soft snowflakes drifting through the air, my mind as blank as a new canvas. It is the throbbing pain in my leg that brings me back to myself. I sit up quickly—a dreadful mistake—and feel unconsciousness reaching for me once again. I close my eyes and force myself to stay alert.

  When the dizziness ebbs, I take stock of my surroundings. I’m in some sort of campground; at least, that’s what it looks like to me: there is a crude tent pitched nearby, and one of the Topi—the shorter man, the one who was kneeling in the clearing—is sitting on the ground beside me, sharpening the edge of his hatchet upon a flat rock. He grins when I look at him, displaying a mouth full of teeth blackened by whatever root he is chewing, and says something I can’t understand. The other warrior is nowhere in sight.

  Someone has placed a thick fur blanket over me; it has a strange smell to it, a scent I don’t recognize. My hands are no longer bound, but my wrists are chafed and raw where the cord cut into my skin. I wince, then lift the blanket to see a bandage—more precisely, a long strip of grimy cloth—wrapped tightly around my thigh, atop my bloody, sticky trousers. I press the wound experimentally and am rewarded with a pain sharper and more intense than anything I’ve ever felt. I clench my teeth, willing the pain to pass. My head, too, is pounding, the side of my face tender where the Topi struck me. I breathe deeply as the pain recedes.

  There’s very little snow on the ground here, but considering how dense the trees are, I’m not surprised. The Topi beside me doesn’t seem at all worried that I might try to make a run for it; he probably assumes I learned my lesson when the archer wounded me with the arrowhead. If that is so, he is correct.

  The man smiles again and reaches behind him to produce a leather satchel, which he tosses to me.

  Tentatively, I loosen the cord and peek inside. It contains several strips of salted meat; I can’t be sure, but it smells like venison. Only for the briefest moment do I consider refusing the food. Thoughts of poison, of improper storage, of the filthy hands that prepared the meat—these notions carry very little weight right now. I’m famished. I shove an entire piece into my mouth, and the intense shock of salty, gamey flavor is astonishingly pleasurable.

  The Topi laughs and throws a second bag at me; a quick look tells me it’s full of either clayberries or snowthorns. I have no way to determine which they are, but it doesn’t seem likely that the warrior would choose to poison me in this way. In any event, they look delicious. I stuff a handful of them into my mouth and am rewarded with a burst of rich clayberry juice, sweet and only very slightly tart in the aftertaste.

  I eat every piece of meat and devour all of the berries. When I’ve finished, the warrior pulls a piece of cork from a large jug and passes the vessel to me. I drink straight from it without hesitation, dimly aware that this is probably the first time since infancy I’ve had anything to drink without a glass, aside from melted snow. The cold water, rich and earthy in its flavor, is more satisfying than any beverage I’ve had in my life.

  I had worried that eating so much might make me sick after three days without food, but in truth, I feel invigorated afterward, if not still a bit dizzy. I sneak a glance at the Topi beside me, who has returned to the task of sharpening his weapon. He has a wide face and enormous eyes that protrude from the sockets. His black hair is cropped short, its uneven pieces sticking out in jagged wisps. He’s the only Topi I’ve yet seen with short hair; all the other men seem to wear it long, either in thick plaits or bound with cloth and colored wool. Also unlike the others, this man has no paint on his face, and doesn’t seem to be well outfitted. Whereas his companion was equipped with thick, fortified leather garments that were clearly designed for protection, this Topi wears only plain woolen clothes and a long coat that has obviously been patched many times.

  He looks over at me and smiles again, but doesn’t speak. His expression is kind—genuinely friendly—and I find this perplexing. Outside the confines of war, are the Topi not as savage as they seem? Perhaps they only mistook me for an Aven’ei and now, realizing that I am not an enemy, intend me no further harm. Perhaps they can even help me get home.

  Home! I jerk my head skyward and strain my ears, listening for the heli-plane.

  There is no sound.

  * * *

  A short while later, the other warrior returns. He slides the quiver from his shoulder, drops it near the opening of the tent, and asks a question of the man beside me, who shrugs and gives a short reply.

  The archer comes over and squats down in front of me. He stares for a second, then yanks back the fur blanket and takes my leg in his hand. I try to squirm away, but the warning in his expression stops me immediately. He casts his eyes back to my thigh and presses lightly on the wound. I cry out, tears filling my eyes, but he ignores me. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he replaces the blanket and sits back on his feet.

  “Kema ia awapi ana?” he says.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  He pulls a knife from his boot and I recoil, but he merely leans forward and scratches something into the dirt. The picture is shaped like an oval, and he scratches a few carats into the top right-hand side.

  He taps a spot below the carats. “Aven’ei,” he says, and then taps a point at the top left of the circle. “Topi.” Then he points to me. “Ama?”

  It’s a map. He’s drawn the Continent and outlined the territories, and I’m fairly certain he wants to know where I fit into all this. I lean forward and draw another oval below his, then create a few squiggly waves between the two objects to denote the ocean.

  “Spire,” I say, pointing to my own circle.

  He gestures to the sky, then holds his knife flat and pretends to fly it through the air, like a child might do with a toy airplane. “Spi-er?”

  I nod eagerly. “Yes, that’s right!” I take a twig from the ground before me and pretend it is the heli-plane, gliding above the Continent. Then I mimic its crash. “I’m stranded here, you see?”

  He is quiet for a minute, his eyes on the map. And then, without another word, he stands and crosses to the other side of the campground, where he disappears into the empty tent.

  Night falls, and the archer builds a fire. For the better part of the evening, the two
warriors pass a jug back and forth, becoming increasingly boisterous. I sit on the opposite side of the campfire, wrapped in the stinking fur blanket, warily watching the men. They ignore me for the most part, content to chatter and drink and belch with great satisfaction. They throw dirt clods at one another and laugh like children. They are obviously, dangerously drunk.

  The archer takes a swig from the vessel and spits into the fire, eliciting a flash of bright yellow flame. He laughs and asks me a question, his words as slurred as they are incomprehensible. His eyes linger on my face for too long before he turns his attention back to his companion.

  Another hour passes, perhaps an hour and a half. I sit in silence, shattered by the pain in my leg, but too frightened to cry. The men grow quieter. It must be near midnight when the friendly one at last gives a great sigh and stretches out on the dirt beside the tent. He is asleep within seconds of pressing his face into the frozen earth.

  The archer is still, his shoulders swaying slightly, the firelight casting ghoulish shadows upon his face. I watch him as a mouse would watch a cat—unmoving, unblinking, measuring the distance between us.

  “Haja,” he says, so softly that I’m not sure whether he is speaking to himself or to me. “Taja in apa ei.”

  I say nothing, but fix my eyes on the fire.

  “Haja,” he says again, and gets to his feet. I feel his gaze as he lumbers over and stares down at me.

  He leans over, grips me by the arms, and pulls me to my feet, lifting me easily despite his intoxication; my thigh screams with the effort it takes to stand. He puts a sweaty hand on the back of my neck and angles my face toward his own. The liquor is pungent and sour on his breath. Trembling, I lift my eyes to meet his, and he smiles. Please, God, no. Please. No.

 

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