The Land's Whisper

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  The sickening sounds choked Brenol’s breath. His heart pounded, hunter, hunter, hunter, and blood pumped in a rush to his temples. He was paralyzed, but suddenly the terror reached an apex, and his body revolted in a spasm. Adrenaline flowed fast through him, acting as a slap, and his mind jolted into clarity as he perceived the whole of the moment. His jaw clenched, but yes, he could move his muscles again.

  Move, Bren! Move, his mind shouted. Move! it roared to his body.

  He scrambled about in the underbrush, fumbling for a few loose branches to conceal Darse. It was not pristine work, but the footfalls were nearing, and his fingers trembled without mercy.

  Hunter, hunter, hunter.

  The balls of Brenol’s feet sped him to a tree, where he crouched and entered into the cover of some underbrush. He was not more than ten strides from the limp body, a few more to the path. Now that he was still, he had a view of the lane, entirely free of fog.

  Clear?

  “Hmmmmm. Bom, de de dooo. De dummmm, do do dooo.” The steps halted. A gargantuan figure bent down to examine something at his feet. He chuckled grotesquely, smacking his lips with gusto. “A pet has been here today. A pet! He cannot be far… Oh pe-et!” The latter he yelled out histrionically into the woods.

  “Have you tasted my sleepy time drink? Are you sleepy? So, so, so sleepy?” he mocked into the trees. His deep voice was terrifyingly childish.

  He blundered his way through, awkwardly maneuvering his hefty torso past bough and bush. “How’d you make it out?” he called. He wrinkled his face in consternation but soon the frown was replaced with an uncanny smear of a smile. “You’re my new pet! Come pet! Where are yooooou?”

  Brenol fought against the impulse to wretch. Now that the man was close, he could see—and smell—the slovenly brown suit, the doughy potbelly, the pug-like physiognomy, the infant-soft cheeks and chin. His jowls swayed as he scooted about, his fingers hungry and moving as though playing a silent piano always a step in front of him.

  “Pet. Pet. Pet,” he smacked, turning around and around, relishing the moment.

  Brenol’s mind continued to echo: hunter, hunter, hunter.

  The man then chuckled in glee and Brenol’s hope ruptured. “Oh, my pet. You did try. Oh, you did.” He lifted Darse’s pack from the bushes and shook it happily until the contents spilled out to the soil.

  Darse stirred, rustling the branch atop him just enough to be heard.

  The man smiled, licking lips again as he formed the detestable words in the soft of his mouth, “Pet, pet, pet.”

  He heaved back up to the path, returning with a wooden cart that rose to the height of Brenol’s shoulders on all sides. The stranger set to dismantling the contraption, until the base was flat and flush with the ground below. He wheezed in effort as he rolled Darse upon it, and smiled as the sides flashed violently back into place. There was a harrowing sound of bone cracking; any piece of flesh that had not been moved securely into the center of the base was at the mercy of the snapping sides.

  It took all of Brenol’s will not to scream.

  ~

  Darse awoke but could not raise his eyelids or push back the grogginess that hung upon his mind. What was it? There was something that I was trying to tell Bren. Something… The drugs closed back around him and all fell into darkness.

  ~

  Brenol followed from a distance, but it did not take much skill to shadow the man; he was both enormous and deafening, blight to land and creature alike. Brenol was grateful at least in this regard, for his nerves had turned his limbs to soft gelatin. He had no stealth in him. Twice already he had stopped to vomit behind a bush, emerging with wet chin and reeling head. He longed for dusk and its shadowy, concealing cloak, yet the afternoon sun still wore on. No fog, no clouds. Just sun. He trembled thinking about the sausage-like fingers that had caressed their find with trembling joy.

  Yet the stranger never spotted Brenol. He was either overconfident or simple—or more likely, both. After about two matroles, the man entered a clearing where he approached and sauntered into a barn, with cart a-creak before his hands. The door closed, and Brenol was left alone.

  ~

  “My pet, oh pet! Wake up, little pet!” the man chimed, lips and saliva smacking together.

  His hungry fingers tapped Darse’s skin with their tips, and the man jolted awake in alarm. The abrupt movement wracked Darse with violent pain, and lights danced before his eyes, which then caught a glimpse of bone protruding from his left thigh in a merciless white on crimson. He had never before known this much pain. He was bound tightly, but he would not have dared twitch even a digit anyway lest the lightning blaze up his nerves again. He could scarcely think, but his utter terror soon pressed his attention beyond bone and sensation.

  “Oh, pet! You’re awake! Don’t you worry my little pet. You’re home now. Home, home, home.”

  The wiggling fingers were no longer upon him, but they danced unnervingly a hand span in front of Darse’s bloodied face. Darse cowered instinctively, crying out as the movement stoked the pain to a blaze in both leg and side. He steadied himself to a still, and his eyes darted around the room and the menace before him.

  His skull pounded with a jolt of memory: Bren!

  Where was he? Did he escape? Is he dead? Captured?

  Blood flushed hot in Darse’s veins and fury focused his mind. “Who are you?” he growled.

  “Hua!” the man laughed, face pink in delight. Both rounded palms rested against his chubby chin, with fingers waving and gliding together as smoothly as sea life in the tide. “Hua!” he chuckled again.

  “Why am I here? Why?” Darse shouted.

  I will not speak of Bren until I know he has him. I will not, he ordered himself.

  Giggles ensued. “Oh, pet. It’s been so long. My old pet has been with me for so long, so long.” His face contorted in disgust and, if possible, grew uglier. “I’m tired of his memories. He’s got so few left. So few.” His voice rang in a childlike whine as he trailed into a reverie, but within seconds his head snapped back up as he remembered the lovely package before him.

  “I promised him he could go once I got a new pet. And here you are! My own pet! My own! Pet, pet, pet!” Lips smacked, fingers waved.

  Make sense of this. Do it, old man.

  Darse sought to control his voice, but he could not prevent his teeth from grinding as he spoke. “What is it you want?”

  A smile played upon the smooth, baby face. His features glowed. He chuckled again. “My pet! My own new little pet.”

  He stood up from his crouched position, not bothering to brush off the straw and dirt that clung to his squalid clothing. The smile remained a sick curve upon his face as he retreated out the door. He left humming his inane tune, and, after a final thunk of the door being secured from the outside, Darse heard it slowly recede.

  The rib, the leg, the bindings, the darkness, the locked door, Brenol’s absence—they all poured overwhelmingly upon Darse. He was a pet.

  His heart shriveled in hopelessness. And he wept.

  ~

  Brenol’s imagination ran wild. His short and shallow breaths were deafening, his heart became an unstoppable drum. He stood and squatted, sweated, heaved, and paced outside the little shed.

  It was a diminutive building, seemingly well-crafted but fallen into neglect. It showed signs of once being a dark shade of green, but after orbits of sun and weather was mostly now a mixture of olive and citrine. It reminded him of infection.

  What do I do? What? What, his mind repeated.

  He choked in a sudden gulp of air as his eyes filled with the bulk of the man exiting the little building. The humming was the same lip-curling melody from before, but it thankfully drifted northbound into the trees, opposite of where Brenol crouched. He assumed the captor’s house must be in the vicinity, although he had been loath to leave Darse for any length to explore. He shuddered to think what this creature’s home could be.

  Brenol did not del
iberate. His instincts pushed him forward as he stole across the clearing. The peeling door was belted with a rudimentary wooden bar, and Brenol slipped it up soundlessly. He pressed the door open, and his heart gushed in gratitude over the creak-less entry. He stood blinking for what felt like hours as his eyes groped for sense in the musty black.

  “Bren?” The word was weak, disbelieving. It came from the far, right corner.

  “Darse?” Brenol swallowed hard.

  “Close the door! Don’t let him see you… I thought you were dead. I thought I…” His voice was broken, desperate.

  “None of that. No time,” Brenol said, brushing the damp from his cheeks so Darse would not see. He left the door slightly ajar to provide light and swiftly advanced to kneel and examine his friend. Even as his eyes were adjusting, the state of Darse’s body shocked him. The man was mangled, utterly mangled. Bone was exposed, blood everywhere, and the gaunt terror of Darse’s face gripped Brenol’s ribs in a crushing hold.

  We’re done, the boy thought. There’s no way we can escape with him like this.

  Fear clamped down on Brenol’s spine and slithered down to his gut. The youth hovered over the twisted form of a man, darting his eyes between it and the doorway, unable to stop. He kept expecting to see the stranger towering over him, humming idiotically.

  “I’m worse than a sheep,” Darse said. Somehow he had captured an element of calm, now that Brenol’s safety was no longer a mystery.

  “Huh?” Brenol’s attention snapped back to the situation.

  “Untie me,” Darse directed. “We’ll figure it out step by step… A sheep. You know. Walking, mindlessly, falls right off the cliff or into a pit, whatever.”

  “Your boots are missing,” Brenol said, staring at his bare feet.

  “I’ll buy us both new ones if you get us out of this place,” Darse replied evenly. “Bren?”

  Brenol blinked, suddenly realizing action was required, and hovered to work. He strained against the knots. They were tied in an unfamiliar fashion, and the cord itself was difficult to maneuver, especially with trembling fingers. It took many long minutes before the bonds were eased from Darse’s hands and feet. With the release of the cords, Darse sighed.

  “Can you move your leg?” Brenol asked.

  Darse grimaced. There was no need for an answer. Work your mind, Darse! This leg cannot be the death of you both. Work your mind!

  Finally, Darse asked, “Where did Master Fingers go?”

  Brenol choked out a laugh at the name. “I don’t know. Off in the trees somewhere. I think he’s got a house out there.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of the man’s last heading. “Fingers. Ha,” he said again softly to himself.

  Darse pondered, but finally realized there were no options. He sighed decisively. “Tie me back up. But loosely.” His voice was uncompromising.

  “No,” Brenol protested. “There’s no way I’m leaving you. Forget it.” Yet, the creeping feeling behind the boy’s back kept him turning incessantly to the door. Any minute and he’ll come in. Any minute. Brenol shook under the compulsion to run and never look back, but leaving Darse was not an option.

  “Not really suggesting that. But we need time. And I don’t know if we have it right now… Look around, see if there are any weapons or tools. We might have to wait ’til dark.”

  Brenol groped around in the black shed. It was not a large building, and the search was short-lived. The space was empty save the cart that had carried Darse, resting upon the back wall, as filthy as the barn itself.

  “That’s ok. Get out of here before he comes back… Wait ’til it gets dark and he’s clearly down for the night. We’ll get out of here.”

  Brenol thought a minute while fumbling through retying Darse. “Here, at least take my penknife from the visnati. It’s only good for whittling, but better than nothing.” He slid the cool blade into his friend’s bound hand. Darse looked up with grateful blue eyes and a small, forced smile.

  “I’ll be back,” Brenol promised. He tried to sound reassuring, but there was only so much assurance possible. He crept out into the blinding light, closing the door on the two shining eyes staring out in the darkness.

  CHAPTER 16

  The land is alive. It is a perilous fact to forget.

  -Genesifin

  Beads of sweat emerged on Brenol’s hot forehead. Fingers had been in the shed with Darse for over an hour. It had only been moments after Brenol had secured the door and fallen back into the cover of the trees that the stranger had sauntered back, humming dumbly and smacking his fleshy lips.

  What’s happening in there? What? What?

  Screams emerged and flew out above the forest, but the trees did not bend, they did not react. It was as though the whole forest had heard this sound before and the novelty was lost.

  Brenol glanced down to find tufts of red in his clenched fists. He opened his fingers and let the hair slide to the earth. As he inhaled shakily, another wave of shrieking filled the wood.

  The eye of the land peered at him in entertained speculation. It hovered and fell on Brenol’s shoulders and sent his insides squirming.

  No more, he thought. No more.

  He shot out of his hiding place and began to move hard toward the residence—or what he assumed was the residence—of Fingers, determined to find a weapon. A good one.

  Yet something stopped him in his stride, and he skidded briefly across the loose dirt. There, atop the pine-needled floor, shuffled a man, bent and dirty. He was tall compared to the average Massadan, but barely seemed it because he carried his frame in a sloppy hunch. His spindly figure was strangely arachnid and his cheeks were grossly gaunt. The man was dressed in mismatched clothes that sagged in some places and were tight in others, and an unsightly beard sprouted upon his face. A strange line cuffed his ankle and extended out like a leash. It was so long that Brenol did not know where the end rested. The eyes, though, were the most unusual feature on the man. The irises were entirely yellow, glinting with bitterness and hungry hatred.

  Brenol shook with adrenaline and could barely think, so he merely stared and took in the haggard, golden-eyed man.

  “You,” the man said with a pointed finger. His features were contorted and hideous in rage. “Who are you?”

  “Bren,” the boy said slowly. He did not know what else to do.

  “And in the shed?” His eyes narrowed down onto Brenol like a sunburn. “His name?”

  Brenol was silent.

  “His name!” he spat through clenched, broken teeth.

  “Darse.”

  “I’m free?” The man said to himself in disbelief.

  Screams again echoed out against the silent wood. The stranger tilted his head to listen.

  “Wh-what is he doing to him?” Tears fell hotly down his cheeks, but Brenol swiftly wiped them away. He refused to give this ferret-man any additional satisfaction.

  The man’s face transformed. It was no longer harsh, but questioning. “You cry?”

  Brenol scowled. Suddenly hatred and wrath flared, and he felt the power of it in his fists. He stoppered up any remaining tears and pushed out his lips in defiance.

  Yet the man was not so easily deterred. He was both fleeter and stronger than his appearance had led the boy to believe, and his arm shot forward like a lizard tongue to pull Brenol to him. The stranger’s jaw clicked back and forth as he held the youth’s damp jacket at the nape with tight fist. His golden irises scanned Brenol’s features with a crude, childlike curiosity.

  “Wh-who are you?” Brenol finally stammered.

  “Crayton? I think…” His voice trailed off. It was the first time the man had sounded human.

  As Crayton eased his grip, Brenol attempted to twist his way from the grasping hold. “What do you want from me? Let me go!”

  As commanded, Crayton released him, and Brenol’s tailbone made impact with the hard earth. He blinked in pain, but also in astonishment at the immediate acquiescence. He eyed Crayton as he mad
ly scurried back like a crab and scrambled to his feet.

  Brenol’s freedom lasted but a moment. Crayton’s mind awoke from whatever spell it lay under, and the man leaped out toward him, limbs splayed like a frog in flight. His face was angry and fierce. He gripped the loose fabric on Brenol’s pants as the boy turned to run, and the youth collapsed backward in a hard crash.

  Brenol wrestled desperately with extended arms and body in a twist while Crayton sought with greedy hands. His grip was tight and vicious and became firmer with each resisting motion. Brenol gagged as he inhaled the sharp odors of the man and felt the press of his perspiration-drenched shirt. Crayton’s nostrils flared, and his eyes glinted in satisfied exertion.

  Brenol yelped in sudden pain, the bones of his leg burning as they bent abnormally under Crayton’s hand. The boy reacted with a remarkably swift and powerful kick, booting Crayton firmly in the chest before hastily yanking his leg back. Somehow, Brenol was rewarded with a free limb, but without its accompanying boot.

  Crayton hardly paused as he flung the unwanted article behind him into the trees, lunging yet again to grapple for possession of the squirming boy. Brenol’s hands dug desperately through the mulch until they wrapped around something hard. A stone. His mind was blank as he swung the cold rock. The weight drove his fist into a powerful blow, cuffing the temple of that terrible skull. Crayton howled, and Brenol flashed his fist forward again until the man released him, as soft as a sigh.

  Keeping hold of the stone, he leaned over the figure. The pungent smell of onion was still hot on Crayton’s lips, but the man was unconscious. Brenol let the bloodied rock fall in a thud, and ran—single booted—from the scene.

  ~

  The house was almost invisible. Brenol nearly passed it without a second glance. It had the quality of a prism rainbow: there only when light fell from a certain angle. The place was as dilapidated as the shed, but the stench of sweat and excrement strongly suggested it housed more permanent residents. The reek was what had halted Brenol’s steps long enough for him to dart his dark eyes through the trees. Just as his lips were drawing back in revulsion, he spied the house.