The Snowy

by Dave Schneider

  Sandy opened the bag. She was dressed a few minutes later.

  “Everything fits,” she said quietly. She put on the backpack, wondering what to do with the two long straps hanging in front.

  Grell returned.

  Perfect timing...again.

  Grell crossed the two straps over Sandy’s chest, clipped a binocular pack to them and cinched them tight.

  Sandy followed Grell out into a brisk, pink morning. They strode to the equipment pod. As they got to the door, the mountain rumbled.

  “Earthquake?” asked Sandy.

  “Volcanoo,” said Grell opening the door for Sandy and motioning to the two Snoflians inside, waiting. “Sorzz, Snezz,” she said.

  “Yes, we’ve met,” said Sandy, nodding.

  Sorzz grinned broadly. Snezz nodded back. Each had a narrow, black tube slung over one shoulder.

  Guns?

  Grell selected skiyaks and poles for Sandy.

  Sandy took them, followed Grell outside, and stepped into the skiyaks. A lot smaller than the ones I came down on. She glanced up.

  The three Snoflians looked formidable: Tight round helmets, snug goggles with dark lenses, form-fitting coveralls, utility belts, crossed chest straps and chest packs.

  I look like them. Except for my face. And those things. She eyed the two flat, round packs attached to each of the Snoflians’ utility belts. What are they?

  She pulled her goggles down, grabbed her poles, and followed Grell, turn for turn, down through the fresh powder. I can do this.

  She decided to test the skiyaks. She cut left across the slope and pulled her toes up as hard as she could. The skiyaks sliced sharply uphill and flew into the air. “Whoohoo!” She tilted downhill and landed, the bent tips driving the skiyaks into a sharp turn to the right. “Wow.” She relaxed her toes. The skiyaks shot across the slope. “So...fun.”

  Suddenly, she was surrounded. A pack of furry, sliding creatures had joined them. Grell waved to them and kept going.

  “What are they?” whispered Sandy. She slowed to watch one. Two arms. Four legs? Weird skis. Not skiyaks. More like big nut shells. Long shells on its short hind legs, short shells on its…really long middle legs! Awesome.

  The creature slid with its two long middle legs extended out to the sides, like outriggers. In the turns, it flexed its short back legs and braced its long legs against the pull of centrifugal force and gravity. Between turns, it relaxed all its legs, seeming to float.

  She giggled. “I’m skiing with animals on another planet. Who will believe it?” A twinge of sadness came over her. Will they ever know?

  The pack peeled off and vanished into a gully. The slope soon leveled off. Grell slowed to a stop.

  “What were they,” asked Sandy, joining her.

  “Altivaulters,” said Grell, preoccupied. She pointed ahead to a muffin-like hill. “We go there.”

  Sandy, her thoughts still on the altivaulters, scanned the hill and the long line of jagged peaks fading into the distance beyond it. She looked back at Grell.

  “Do same, me,” said Grell.

  Copying Grell, Sandy stuck the tips of her poles into the slots behind her feet, and pressed.

  Her heels came free. Touring position.

  Grell poled away. Sandy, Snezz and Sorzz followed. At the base of the muffin hill, again copying Grell, Sandy pressed twice. Her boot soles tilted forward. Climbing position? All I need is skins.

  Grell pressed three times and began to climb.

  Built in skins? Sandy did the same and followed. Just before the top, the four pushed once in the slots, putting their skiyaks back into downhill mode. They dropped to their stomachs and salamandered upward on knees and elbows, skiyaks dragging. At the knoll, still prone, they pulled out their binoculars.

  Grell pointed. Sandy spotted a group of seven skiers coming down the valley. The leader was pulling a small one with a rope. A kid? Two more were behind them pulling a fifth on a sled. A sixth limped after, helped by a seventh.

  “Not warriors,” whispered Sandy with a sigh of relief.

  “We hep,” said Grell. Then Grell pointed further up the valley.

  Sandy focused there. A line of eight skiers was moving quickly, all poling in unison, all with bows slung over their shoulders. Scary. It wouldn’t be long before they caught up with the seven.

  “Warriors?” asked Sandy, her heart beating faster.

  “Lowconz,” replied Grell. “We stop.” She dropped behind the knoll and sketched a map of the terrain with a finger.

  Sandy watched. Eight Lowconz warriors after seven weak refugees? What can three Snoflian warriors do?

  Done with the map, Grell described her plan. Not understanding Snoflian, Sandy watched. Grell pointed to Sorzz and Snezz, then pointed beyond the muffin hill. She pointed to Sandy and herself, then pointed down the pitch to their left.

  Sandy’s heart pounded. She’s including me. She’s drawing moves for four of us, not three. They think I’m a warrior. Butterflies began to swarm in the pit of her stomach, the same ones she always felt before a big race, but worse. This is life and death!

  Sorzz and Snezz each pulled a disc from one of the two round packs on their belts and placed them, edges in the snow, on the knoll facing the valley. Grell did the same with both her discs. Four discs now faced the valley.

  Grell nodded. Sorzz and Snezz rose, poled over the peak and slid down the far side, in full view of the eight warriors. Grell and Sandy watched from the knoll.

  The lead Lowconz warrior stopped. He pointed at Sorzz and Snezz. Then at the knoll. They see us. Sandy felt another rush of adrenaline. She ducked, but Grell stopped her. The Lowconz leader gestured rapidly and began skiing again.

  Suddenly, Sandy got it. The Lowconz think there are six of us watching from here and two coming toward them. That makes eight. Even odds.

  Abruptly, two Lowconz warriors split from the group and angled up the mountain. Going after Sorzz and Snezz. The other six continued along the valley floor, glancing up.

  Grell smiled, then dropped out of view and put her two discs back in her packs. She pointed to the discs Sorzz and Snezz had planted.

  Sandy brought them to Grell who put one disc into her own backpack and the other into Sandy’s. What are they for?

  Grell sideslipped down the side of the muffin hill toward the refugees, Sandy just behind her. Getting the refugees? Or stopping the warriors?

  Grell stopped where the pitch dropped away. It was so steep, Sandy could barely see the bottom. She looked across at a cliff. She could hit it with a snowball. She looked down again. Between the base of the cliff and the bottom of the pitch sat a narrow passage.

  I could fall here and not stop until I hit it. Buried under a ton of snow.

  Grell pulled Snezz’s disc from her backpack. Sandy started to pull Sorzz’s from her own backpack, but Grell shook her head, No.

  Sandy watched. Grell flipped open a small, round cover on top of the disc, slipped her fingertips into the space beneath the cover and twisted clockwise until she heard a soft click. Then Grell looked down at the narrow passage, and waited, disc in hand.

  Shortly, the leader of the Lowconz refugees came through the passage, towing the small Lowconz. The bedraggled band followed, one after another, until the last one slid valiantly through the passage, using only a single pole, his other arm held by a helper.

  Sandy watched them plod away. Their skis are like the ones the altivaulters were on. Poor creatures. Suddenly, a movement drew her eyes into the air over the pitch. Grell’s disc. It was floating slowly downward, spinning. Like a Frisbee. Why? Sandy watched the disc settle softly in the snow. Then there was a thud.

  Sandy jumped. The snow below her broke away and rumbled downward.

  She took two steps back uphill and stared through the avalanche cloud.

  The r
efugees were poling away fast. The tumbling mass hit the valley floor, ran partway up the opposite cliff and curled back on itself, filling the passage, and spreading toward the fleeing refugees.

  Sandy heard another thud from the far side of the muffin hill. Sorzz and Snezz?

  Grell tapped Sandy’s arm and angled down the pitch after the refugees.

  Sandy started to follow, then stopped cold.

  The last refugee, hobbling courageously, couldn’t keep up with the others. The avalanche was catching up to him. He fell. His helper tried to lift him. The refugee frantically motioned to the helper to go. The helper hesitated, then poled away. The avalanche tumbled over the refugee and came to a stop.

  Sandy marked the spot—a cleft in the cliff above the refugee, a snow boulder just beyond him. She dove into the valley and poled feverishly over the avalanche pile to where she last saw the refugee. She popped out of her skiyaks, dropped her poles and began to dig. But her hands were useless in the hardened snow.

  She heard Grell shout and looked up. Grell was waving.

  Sandy shook her head, shouting, “No!”

  Grell hesitated a moment, then spread her arms, as if asking, “Why?”

  Sandy shook her head again, pointed into the snow and pulled out the disc.

  Grell stared for a moment, looked away, looked back again, hesitated, then threw up her hands and turned away. The refugees followed her.

  CHAPTER 31

  Collection Camp

  THE TRAPPIDS DRAGGED Neff and Notch from the boat to the river bank and shoved them to their knees.

  Neff shivered uncontrollably. What are they going to do? I want to be home!

  Notch, kneeling beside her, hissed, “When my dad finds out, they’re toast.”

  One Trappid took Notch and Neff’s backpacks. Another tied their hands behind their backs. A third tied a long rope around Neff’s neck, looped it around Notch’s, then stood, waiting.

  They’re going to hang us! Neff, suddenly weak, sagged.

  A Trappid pulled her to her feet by her elbows.

  “Ow,” she cried. She took a step back to catch her balance, tightening the rope, choking Notch.

  “Achh,” he croaked.

  The Trappid stepped past Neff, kicked Notch in the thigh, and jerked him to his feet.

  “Creep!” said Notch.

  The Trappid with the rope began to walk. Notch followed.

  Neff followed Notch. Maybe they’re not going to hang us. Maybe they’re going to sell us. I don’t want to be a slave! Where are Sparky and Jung? Will I ever see Mom again, and Dad? She glanced back. She was in the middle of a column of Trappids.

  After walking in silence for a while, she decided to try talking to Notch. “Do you think these are the ones who got Snowy?”

  “Maybe,” he shrugged, glancing over his shoulder. If they’ve got Snowy, they’ll sell him back to the Snoflians. Then maybe the Snoflians won’t care as much about us. But the Lowconz will. They’ll want us. And Trappids won’t cross the Lowconz. So even if the Trappids could sell us for more to the Snoflians, they’ll still sell us to the Lowconz. He frowned. We’re in deep doo-doo.

  “We can’t let them separate us,” said Neff, rolling her head to relieve the chafing from the rope. “I’m scared. Really scared.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Upset with the chatter behind him, the handler jerked the rope.

  Notch stumbled.

  Neff gagged. “Cut it out,” she coughed.

  The handler looked back.

  She glared, “Do not do that again!”

  His eyes fell. He turned away and let the rope slacken.

  Notch looked back and raised his eyebrows. “You go, girl,” he whispered.

  She smiled slightly.

  They plodded for what seemed like hours.

  Neff’s neck burned from the rope. Her feet were sore, her wrists, arms and shoulders ached. She needed water. The sun was getting low. The jungle path darkened. The night noises grew. “How long will this go on?” she cried.

  “Not long now, I think,” replied Notch. Lights had begun to sparkle through the trees ahead. The path soon opened into a clearing bordered by dozens of huts—log-framed structures, the sides enclosed by vertical saplings, the tops covered by woven leaves.

  Small fires flickered in front of the huts. A bonfire blazed in the center of the clearing.

  “What, no cauldron?” muttered Notch.

  A crowd of females gathered, hooting in shrill voices. A few glowered silently, fascinated. One of them ran forward, slapped Neff’s arm then ran back into the crowd. Neff stared ahead grimly, tears forming. I’m as weird to them as they are to me.

  Another female ran out and pinched Notch’s leg.

  “I’m poisonous,” he hissed, baring his teeth at her.

  She pulled back, hands to her mouth.

  “That’s right,” he said, moving on.

  The females jabbered excitedly among themselves.

  The leader of the column came back and snatched the rope from the handler. He towed Notch and Neff past the bonfire toward three large, fort-like sheds in the gloom ahead. The buildings consisted of logs, set vertically into the ground, a door in front of each. Their massive, thatched roofs were held down by layers of thick, heavily woven, rope netting.

  Partway to the buildings, the Trappid dropped the rope on the ground. “Sit,” he ordered.

  Notch looked at him, not understanding. The Trappid swung his hand at Notch’s face. Notch ducked away. The Trappid’s nails raked Notch’s cheek. Blood oozed.

  Another Trappid pushed Notch and Neff down. Notch sat. Neff fell to her side. The Trappid kicked her in the ribs.

  “Stop,” she pleaded. She struggled to a sitting position, muttering, “Sneerface!”

  A young Trappid dumped both backpacks in front of Notch and picked up the end of the rope. Notch stretched out his foot tentatively. No one stopped him. He pushed Neff’s backpack toward her.

  She pulled it closer with her feet. “Now what?” she whispered, staring at it.

  “We’re about to find out,” said Notch, “Look.”

  A huge Trappid bent through the doorway of the largest hut and ambled toward Neff and Notch, followed by an entourage of six.

  “Big chief, I bet,” whispered Notch, watching them approach.

  Two of the six were clothed in black leather and armed with spears, bows, and quivers filled with arrows. Curved scabbards hung from their waists. Body guards. Three of the six looked like advisors. Sycophants. One walked regally in the rear, like a queen. His wife?

  The Chief’s face was red, his eyes ringed with black circles, his hair in spikes. On his chest hung a small, square cage covering a necklace of fangs. He wore a purple leather shirt, and baggy, black leather pants laced with red leather thongs. He carried a large truncheon.

  Right out of central casting. Notch was mesmerized. Only this is not a movie.

  What’s in the cage? Neff stared. Wooden panels covered all sides, except for the front gate, which was criss-crossed with iron bars. Inside, nearly invisible in the shadow, a small shadow crouched.

  The youth tugged on the rope as the chief arrived.

  “He wants us to get up,” muttered Notch. Hands still tied, he and Neff struggled slowly to their feet.

  The chief waited, tapping the truncheon on his thigh. Suddenly he swung it at Notch who lurched away. The chief smirked. He turned to the youth with the rope and hissed, “Who boss? Them? Or you?”

  The youth looked away.

  Neff, not understanding the words, but sensing the insult, mumbled, “Scowl-faced meany.”

  The chief slowly turned. He examined Neff from head to toe.

  She cringed.

  He spat at her and then looked back at Notch.

  “W
hat you?” he asked, head cocked, pushing Notch’s chin up with the tip of the truncheon.

  Guessing the question, Notch replied, “Humans, er humancs...if I interpret your question correctly.”

  Neff saw into the cage. A mulgny! “Mulgny? Is that you?” she blurted. “Did you get caught again?” The mulgny scampered to the front and grabbed the door.

  The chief glanced at Neff, steadied the box, then looked back at Notch, smiling, “Hoomangs? Ahh.”

  Notch shrugged.

  The chief continued, “Lowconz want hoomangs. Pay big.” He smirked, anticipating a huge reward, a small portion of which he would share with his tribe.

  He flicked the truncheon at the backpacks. The youth put down the rope, stepped forward, dumped the contents, stepped back and picked up the rope again. The chief poked through the contents with his truncheon. He lifted the corner of a folded lam leaf and scratched his head. He picked up Neff’s pink goggles, put them on and turned to his followers. They smiled. He frowned. They grimaced. He flung them off.

  He motioned to the youth and waited, tapping his truncheon. The youth put down the rope again, slowly crammed everything into the backpacks, and picked up the rope. Then the chief grabbed his arm.

  They look alike. Neff studied the two. The chief is really impatient with him. Is he the chief’s son?

  “Teach you be man,” said the chief, lifting the cage and dropping it over the youth’s head. The youth stood stock still, eyes wide. The chief’s wife, standing behind, reached out briefly, brought her hands to her mouth, and tilted her head sadly.

  Yes, that’s his son. Neff eyed the wife. And his mother.

  The chief jerked his head toward the sheds, again tapping the truncheon. Holding the cage steady with one hand and the rope with the other, his son led Neff and Notch to the enclosures. A guard followed with their backpacks.

  As they neared the structures, Neff whispered, “Hey.”

  The chief’s son paused and turned.

  “I know,” she said, “you had to make it look good in front of your father.” She twisted her head back toward the chief and rolled her eyes. “Thanks for not being too rough with us.” She smiled.