by Rob Rowntree
“It all seems rather simplistic.”
“Need more time. I’ve only been talking to them for an hour or so; I’ll be able to refine things later.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Alan gazed off into the distance, beyond the wagons and the road, across the dour land beyond that and on to the horizon where the bright sky bit sharply into the curve of the small world. There, the sky shifted and churned, clouds merged and dissipated as he watched.
From the corner of his eye he saw the alien gesticulating at Pickering.” What’s he saying?”
Pickering held a hand up for Alan, a gesture he should wait while he fired back a question at the creature. It replied with gusto putting meaning into his gestures.
“Well?”
“He says, the Breath of Heaven is coming. Soon there will be much hunting and feeding. That’s all. Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
“Oh well not much makes sense out here. Why don’t you find out how long we’re staying here, where our destination is, and for fun, try and discover how he learnt sign language. And if he knows of any materials hanging around from the Peterson that we might possibly get a look at. You never know, something useful might turn up.”
Pickering set to work, and drifted away gesticulating madly.
Alan returned his gaze to the wagons pulling along the road slowly. Ghost-like in the bright night light, Alan again considered whether he should really leave the others behind. Woodland would accuse him of infatuation or worse, but ultimately the reasons behind decisions became meaningless over time. It was the action that counted. In that brief moment Alan suddenly knew what to do.
He’d need the help of his new found allies and eventually they would have to get back to the shuttle. For now they could hide, they could all hide.
***
As Alan returned to camp, Woodland and Stowe sat close to Pickering who continued his conversation with the native. “Excuse me Pickering, but could I butt in and ask some questions of our friend here?”
“I suppose. But he’s just telling me of a place not too far from here where there is a small craft from the Peterson and a number of graves. I should press on and ascertain what’s there.”
Alan found Pickering’s enthusiasm engaging but said, “We can ask that later. If I can make my idea work there’ll be plenty of time for it. Please ask our alien patron how far he and his buddies can push this ignoring their presence thing. Could they take the wagons?”
***
Dawn hung over the horizon like a mountain defined by cloud. Reminiscent of Earth the pre-morning held a subtle silence, punctuated by the odd ‘morrland’ creature’s call, the muted stir of breeze ruffling grass.
During the night Alan had convinced the group to match pace and move parallel to the wagon train’s route. They’d made several kilometres and the ground, though uneven and peppered with many rocky outcroppings, hadn’t proved too much of an obstacle. Alan worried about Pickering’s fitness levels, but the issue never became a problem. Perhaps the easy ground helped, but what was it Conway had said, ‘He’s been around, but not as much as you.’ Chances were Pickering may surprise him yet.
Cresting a rise Alan saw that the ground dipped down into a small shallow valley that ran all the way to the road. “Stop. This looks to be a good place.” The road appeared deserted and Alan hoped the wagons hadn’t arrived yet. “Hey, Woodland. Can you scramble up those rocks and scan the road? See where the wagons are? Be a bitch if we’ve let them get ahead.”
The rocks weren’t particularly tall. Rounded, they possessed multitudes of parallel grooves that made their climb easy. As he watched Woodland haul himself up, Alan considered if the marks were the result of Woodland’s Aeolian weathering. Whatever, it gave a rather attractive layering effect to the rock, the morning light casting fine shadows across the surface.
Stowe, accompanied by Pickering and his translator, came over, eager to hear any news.
Woodland, standing tall, shaded his eyes against the rising sun and scanned the near and middle distance. After a moment he turned, cupped his hands to his mouth and called, “They’re back there, moving slowly, maybe a kilometre or more.”
Alan beckoned Woodland down, as Pickering gestured at the alien.
Gathering the group together, Alan smiled and said, “Time for coffee and doughnuts then.” The others didn’t laugh. He continued: “Right, I know it’s a long-shot but if we can rescue our three crewmates and acquire transportation during the process we should.”
Stowe nodded, “But I don’t get it. If our friends here can walk right in and just drive away with the wagon why didn’t they do that in the first place?”
Alan looked from Stowe to Pickering, “That’s a fair question. Pickering?”
Pickering faced the native translator, waved his hands about, observed the response and turned back to Alan. “He says that taking the wagon never occurred to him. He thought we’d all be glad to leave and once a person’s dead, or dying, like Gibson, why burden yourself with his weight?” The alien again gestured. Pickering took up the translation, “He says none of his people understand why humans want to hide their dead under the ground. How would the Free be able to judge their lives, their worth?”
Alan wondered about this worship of sky gods. How on the one hand could this native abhor the mutilations carried out in their god’s name and yet be worried about the rituals of burial his religion bore? Religion always confused him and even here it possessed similar contradictions to those he found in earthly worships.
Interrupting his musings he said, “Thank him for agreeing to try it now and we’ll see what happens.” He surveyed the others, hoping he saw eagerness in their faces. “Okay then,” he urged, “let’s get started.”
Pickering stood and motioned for the natives to rise. Alan watched them walk away and moments later the native and three of his friends marched off into the valley, angling towards the road. Alan moved into the shade of the rocks. Picking a dry patch of soil he sat and readied himself. Whatever the outcome, at least he would have tried. That must count for something.
Stowe came over and sat next to him. “Wind’s getting frisky. Hope it doesn’t rain I haven’t brought my brolly.”
Alan couldn’t resist laughing; at least it broke the tensions surely experienced by all. He looked towards the far side of the valley and the slopes dotted with tall grassy humps. “You see those grasses?” he asked Stowe. “See how the foliage all bends in one direction. Prevailing winds maybe, the same way that Weeping Willows back home grow out on the lee side of the tree. Have you noticed the wind-related observations we’ve made, forested hills with foliage dragged in one direction, the Aeolian rock formations, the grasses and the windmills at the settlement. This is one hell of a wind-friendly place.”
“The Breath of Heaven.” Stowe grinned like a little girl that had said a naughty word.
“Natives have wings too. Let’s not forget them.”
“So, what’s the problem? It’s windy.”
Alan hesitated, then said, “No, not just windy. Impossibly windy, for such a small body that is. Wind production takes energy and sure enough this little world is warm and relatively stable. We’re on a body hugging the goldilocks zone and there are tidal forces at play so close to a gas giant, but I can’t help feeling I’m missing something. Aeolian rocks take eons to form and back home there are some fine examples, but nothing like the canyons Maslov showed us. Either that canyon has been exposed to a much longer period of erosion than the examples back home or there are stronger winds.”
“Even so, what does it matter?”
Rather than answer Stowe, Alan called out to Pickering, “Did your new best friend elaborate on the Breath of Heaven thing he mentioned?”
“No, not really.”
“Anything at all?”
Pickering stroked his chin, then said, “All he said was that the Breath of Heaven comes with the light. Does that help?”
“It mig
ht. It just might.”
Alan turned back to Stowe, “If there are really strong winds here and they pick up sand and grit it’s going to be a problem for us. It’ll hurt like hell.”
“Right, I see.”
“Might not happen,” Alan hoped to quell any mounting fear. “It’s just something that’s been puzzling me ever since I saw those mounds of wind-borne sand behind the settlement building. Even those buildings seemed designed to withstand high winds.”
Down in the valley Pickering’s natives reached the road. Alan assumed they’d conceal themselves and when they sat in the middle of the road his surprise escaped as a gasp. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this.”
“What’s that?” Woodland said as he joined them.
Alan pointed, “Those guys. Their behaviour. It’s all so unreal.”
Woodland shrugged and cocked his head to one side, “They’re kind of repugnant, admittedly cute-repugnant with that crazy ‘we’re invisible shit’. But it just might work. So, what have you two love-birds been yakking about? Saw you hard at it from over there.”
“Weather. Specifically wind,” Stowe said.
Woodland looked about the sky, “I hear you, it’s an odd one, the wind.” Suddenly more animated went on, “How would you paint the wind Stowe? You can’t see it or feel it in a painting.”
A quizzical look on her face Stowe replied, “Well, you paint the effects the wind creates, hats blowing off, waves white-capped, flags fluttering, hair billowing, trees bending, swaying, clouds...”
Alan saw the moment of Stowe’s understanding even as she noticed Woodland’s all-encompassing sweeping arms. “It’s right here before you,” he said. “And like the artist you are, there’s a hand at work here too. Not the hand of a sentient being but something a lot more insubstantial on the surface. But like the hand of an artist, the revealing of that hand will contain its magic too.”
Alan burst out laughing again. “Woodland, the air here must have a strikingly unusual mix to enable your mouth to run free like that. Nice though. So, are you going to announce the culprit?”
Pickering shouted across from his vantage point over the valley, “The wagons are here.”
Scrambling to his feet, Alan helped Stowe up and they quickly made their way over to Pickering.
The first hand drawn carts drifted into view. They held their slow, but steady pace and approached the waiting natives. Soon more home-spun carts arrived with the larger wagons trundling behind.
Alan wondered how this all worked. Obviously the two sets of natives saw each other and therefore by definition interacted, and yet the religious natives adopted this dismissal stance, this denial of existence for their non-religious brothers. If you took that to its logical conclusion the non-believers had a free hand. Alan guessed this type of banishment came at a price. The loss of any benefits and protection the religious leaders may bestow. Perhaps it was worth it.
The wagon holding Conway, Gibson and Kiki reached their allies and stopped. The translator and his buddies stood in a line across the road. For a moment nothing happened. Then slowly and deliberately the driver tried to manoeuvre the vehicle around the road block.
Would they do it? Had Pickering’s explanations and persuasion paid off?
It happened fast. From high on the hillside Alan gasped at the sudden shift in pace.
“Did you see that?” Woodland said. “The buggers can shift if they want to.”
“They’ve been keeping that quiet.” Stowe seemed amused in some way.
The hurtling natives swarmed over the wagon, two onto the seated area for the driver; once there the surprised driver got bundled unceremoniously to the ground. At the rear, four other natives crashed through the curtained doorway. Seconds later, two natives hurtled out, the perched guards Alan presumed.
The whole operation had taken mere seconds and as the wagon steered off the road, Alan felt an easing of his guilt; he’d done what he could and he had a reunited crew.
Woodland drew alongside, “Seems like your plan is underway without incident. That’s got to be a relief. I’ll give credit where it’s due, but—”
“We’ve been through this.” Alan’s annoyance at Woodland’s negativity surged beneath his calm expression. “Why do you have to play Devil’s Advocate all the time? I’m doing my best with what we’ve got. You agreed to this and if I remember we left issues of resources and a long term objectives for another time. We just needed to get away and Woodland, aren’t we doing that?”
Woodland took a deep breath and said, “No, I was only going to point out that the wagon is leaving deep tracks in the valley floor; easy to spot, especially from the air. We need Pickering to explain to our native guide that we’d be better finding harder ground to travel on. That’s all.”
Perhaps Alan’s remarks had been a little hasty. Woodland’s point held merit and they were trying to hide. Then again maybe his plan held little substance, but Alan felt there was an outside chance that there may be some salvageable equipment buried, or left in or near the Peterson’s crew graves. If they could reach it before discovery... Who was he kidding? Their chances were next to non-existent; but he had to keep trying.
Chapter Twenty Three
Wind and Wagons
In the hard confined flatbed of the wagon, sweat and fear mixed with the scent of dried blood and urine. Kiki retched again and this time brought something up.
After the rescue, Alan had Pickering direct the natives to find a more solid route to their destination. After much consternation and arm waving the natives agreed. One drawback on top of all the others, served to dull expectations - the route meandered, adding a day to their journey.
In the afternoon of the first day the wind picked up considerably, swirling, peppering the wagon and passengers with fine sand particles.
Much to Alan’s relief freshening breezes appeared to blow away the threatening sandstorm. The confines of the wagon’s covered area proved stifling, so he moved up front, telling himself he should get a better idea of the lay of the countryside.
Alan rode on the flatbed seat alongside Pickering and his new native friend, who drove.
The cool fresher air felt invigorating, tousled his hair and slapped his face, refreshing, like a splash of cold water. In the distance clouds raced and a flock of birds darted and fought against the stiffening winds. For a moment Alan allowed himself to enjoy the touch of the wind, the call to his more basic senses. A moment’s relaxation did wonders.
Shit! Reaching up to his face and touching his cheek he felt wetness. His hand came away blooded.
A scratch, nothing to get excited about. The wind moaned and howled, then Alan felt another sting as the air began to roughen and scrape. There’s grit or sand in it. Scrunching his eyes tight he hauled up his collar against biting sand. The journey became unpleasant. Consolation: the high winds might keep prying eyes at bay.
An hour later the fast moving air contained a red tinge and the sky had vanished behind a diffuse pink-gauze. The native translator gestured at Alan without result. Leaning back towards the wagon’s awning Alan shouted above the screaming air, “Pickering get out here. Your pal has something on his mind.”
Moments later, Pickering, head swathed in a wrapped shirt, crawled from under a small opening behind the driver’s seat.
“What’s up?”
“Mr Versatile here has something to say.” Alan jerked his thumb at the native.
Several minutes and much gesturing passed before Pickering finally conveyed the message.
“Alan, he says the storm is going to intensify and that we should find shelter. He knows of a place not far from here; a leeward overhang that shields a nice spot, a cave of sorts, where we can rest up.”
“Then instruct him to head for it. If this is going to get worse, he’s right about finding shelter.”
As the wagon turned, Alan clambered back into the flatbed. The travellers were subdued, tired and ill; if they could reach shelt
er soon they might fare better.
***
Smoke curled up and away from their small fire. Pooling on the overhang’s ceiling it searched for an exit from the stone grasp in which it swirled. Tricky air-currents flitted about the cavernous hole they’d sought sheltered in, Alan was mesmerised by the smoke as it tugged this way and that: perhaps, Alan wondered, it didn’t know which route to take.
How ironic, I am lying here watching a small cloud of smoke re-enact my life story; the smoke tried and failed, tried again to find a way forward, and be free of the oppressive stone above. He recognised it for what it was, a mere reflection of his worries and watched a final finger of smoke catch a stray gust of sand-tinged air and drift towards the exit taking the rest of the smoke with it.
At least they were safe from the ravages of the storm here. Outside the wind screamed past the overhang, clouds of sand scratching and slamming into walls and rock, persuading them to move farther in to set up camp.
Alan halted his musings and looked to find Woodland. “Hey, Woodland. A while ago you were going to provide your great theory on how this little world produces such powerful winds. Now seems a good opportunity. We won’t be going anywhere for some time.”
“You sure you want to hear it? Can’t we play checkers or I-Spy or something?”
Smiling Alan said, “Ha-ha.”
Stowe jumped in, “Yeah, come on. It’s all interesting stuff.”
“Dull. Not interesting. Just dull. But hey, if you guys want it. Woodland chuckled. “Here goes.” He lounged against the rock wall. “This world’s small, it may not have been a moon of this gas giant but it could have been. Small worlds lose atmosphere quickly, a combination of lower gravity and less atmosphere to begin with. This world’s gravity is particularly high for a planet of this size so it gets to keep some of its air. But the evidence we’ve already seen highlights many of the effects caused by massive winds and these have either been occurring over millennia, or are simply the result of very strong winds.”