The Snowy

by Dave Schneider

  The Trappid chief was livid. He had been tricked. The priceless humancs had escaped, along with two valuable altivaulters. All he had left was a mangy leopard and a lame Snoflian. His income had taken a big hit. So had his ego. He formed a posse.

  His bumbling, tipsy nephew, whom he now called Spearfoot, was assigned the punishing task of hauling a huge equipment bag at the rear of the group.

  His good-for-nothing son, whom he called Wimp, was assigned the embarrassing task of carrying a heavy coil of capture rope at the head of the column.

  They moved rapidly.

  CHAPTER 34

  Cat and Mouse

  “CUT YOUR LOSSES, GRELL,” spat Sandy, as Grell led the Lowconz refugees away. Digging with the disc, Sandy glanced at Grell’s back and muttered angrily, “Leave the wounded? No way! Our warriors never do that!”

  “Say something...please,” she shouted into the snow pack. She glanced at the cleft in the cliff and the snow boulder she had used to mark the spot. “I know this is it,” she puffed, digging harder. “Make a noise...if you can.” She stopped to listen.

  Nothing.

  She dug again.

  Then she heard, “Mmph.” It came from slightly to her right.

  She moved over and dug madly.

  The refugee’s chest appeared. It began to heave.

  Needs air! Sandy found the face. She wiped the snow from the nose and mouth and gently brushed it from the eyes. “You’re going to be okay,” she panted, staring into the face.

  “You...you’re human?” croaked the face.

  “You speak English?” she asked.

  The refugee had a salt and pepper beard, brown skin and dark eyes! “You’re...human too?” she said.

  “Yes. I’m human.” Tears welled in the corners of his crinkled eyes.

  I don’t believe this. A human, here? “I’ll get you out,” she said, digging again, her mind reeling. She glanced back at the avalanche pile blocking the narrow passage. A small hole appeared at the top of the pile. She dug, then looked again. The hole was growing. She dug harder. She looked again. Something was wriggling through. Lowconz warrior? She looked into the refugee’s eyes. “They’re coming!” she said, desperate. “I have to cover you. I’ll come back.” But where will I go?

  “I understand,” the face whispered, suddenly sad.

  “They’ll come this way. Be very quiet.” She put the disc in her backpack, gently placed the pack over the refugee’s face and covered it with snow, leaving a small breathing hole. She stepped into her skiyaks, snoothed out the snow and made her tracks look like she had stopped to glance back. She saw the warrior at the bottom of the pile, putting on skis. He was alone. Only one? Did Sorzz and Snezz get the others?

  Sandy poled toward a knoll to the right of Grell’s track. She scrambled to the top and glanced back.

  The Lowconz was coming.

  She looked down the slope beyond the knoll. A forest! She headed for it. Partway down, she slowed and looked back. Nothing. Did he find the refugee? Did he follow me? She spotted an opening into the forest, then looked again.

  The Lowconz was on the knoll, a bow slung over one shoulder, a quiver over the other. He dropped his poles. He was going to use the bow. But then he reached into a pack on his hip and pulled out a long strap.

  “A sling,” cried Sandy. She had a flashback. She had seen slingers at a sheriff’s convention with her dad. The slingers could hit small targets further away than she was. Their stones made holes like pistol bullets.

  “No!” she shouted. She pointed her skiyaks downhill, pushed off hard with both poles, skated twice, then cut across the hill to the left.

  A stone whizzed in front of her. She veered right then cut left again. A stone just missed her right ear. He expects me to go left. She turned right, cut behind a boulder and ducked. Ricochet.

  The Lowconz stuffed away his sling, grabbed his poles and began to slide.

  Sandy peeked around the boulder. He’s coming. She pushed off again, dropped into a tuck and shot toward the opening in the trees. She ducked through, then turned and sideslipped toward a tangled wall of gnarly trees, their twisted limbs bulging from thick, knobby trunks. Huge pods swung lazily from the limbs. They look like altivaulter skis. Don’t look at them. Look for the open spaces. He’ll follow my tracks forever. I’ll never get away. Don’t think about that. Just go! She’d have to use everything she knew about skiing in the woods.

  A low tunnel appeared beneath the swinging pods. She glanced back. A shadow was moving into the trees. Just go! She bent into the tunnel. Pods struck her helmet, her shoulders, her arms.

  She came to a ledge over a steep pitch. The trees down the steep were taller, more widely spaced, the pods larger. She looked back. The Lowconz was bending through the low hanging pods. He’s closer.

  A wave of fear engulfed her. She jumped from the ledge, landed sideways, then wove down through the taller trees.

  Where’ll I go? Where’ll I go? She spotted a thicket of small trees to her right. She turned toward them, glancing back. The Lowconz was already on the ledge. He looked huge.

  He leapt off.

  Sandy poled desperately for the thicket. She ducked into the small trees and glanced again. The Lowconz was pulling the bow from his shoulder.

  “No. No. Nooo,” she cried. She smashed down through the branches. An arrow whipped past her, glanced off a tree, and stuck into the snow in front of her. She ran over it. She squinted ahead.

  He can’t use his bow in here. He’ll have to catch me. Or try. He’s faster in the open. But maybe not in here. Please....

  She twisted down through the branches. She had seen his face. It gave her a jolt. Blue. Stomach churning, heart pounding, hands shaking, she searched the trees below her. They were bigger, more widespread. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. It’s time.

  She waited, knees flexed, poles planted. She had played cat and mouse in the woods with her friends growing up. But it was never like this.

  The Lowconz slipped around a tree above her, leering. He uttered, “Humanc? Ahh!” in a raspy voice. He leaned the bow against the tree and placed the quiver beside it. He pulled a curved knife from a sheath on his belt and put it between his yellowed teeth.

  He knows what I am. Sandy slipped slowly down through the trees.

  The Lowconz slipped toward her, slowly closing in.

  She headed to the right. He went right. She turned and cut to the left below a large tree. The Lowconz cut left above the tree, and lunged, expecting to tackle her as she emerged from the other side. But she had stopped behind the tree. He fell past, grabbing her left wrist. His momentum pulled her around to the right. Her shoulder slammed into the tree. His hand pulled away. He landed on his back then scrambled to his feet, the knife still in his mouth.

  Sandy jumped up and air-twisted her skiyaks to the right.

  The Trappid reached for her left arm.

  She raised her left pole in defense and swung the butt of her right pole handle at his face. The handle slammed into his cheek and pushed the knife from his mouth. He grabbed for it. It fell to the snow.

  Blood. Sandy poled away.

  The Lowconz, livid, bent for the knife, but then saw Sandy moving away slowly, her skiyaks in a wedge. He left the knife and came after her.

  She heard him panting and could almost feel his breath, when she brought her skiyaks together, planted her poles, and pushed off hard, straight toward a huge tree. The Lowconz plunged after her, eyes on her back, tasting blood.

  Now! Just above the tree, she faked a turn to the left, flipped the skiyaks to the right, pulled up her toes, dropped her hips and made the tightest right turn she ever made. Her skiyaks scraped across the trunk. Her knees and body absorbed the hit. She shot ahead.

  The Lowconz, tricked by her feint to the left, tried to twist to the rig
ht. He went headfirst into the tree. And crumpled. “Unnhh.”

  Sandy looked back. The Lowconz lay still, legs folded, chest and head twisted sideways against the trunk, forehead, nose and mouth bleeding, blue face fading to gray.

  Is he dead? Or playing possum? Sandy climbed toward him, warily. I didn’t want this. But he tried to get me. I can’t help him. I have to get back to that poor man. Be careful, Sandy. She tapped the Lowconz’s arm with the tip of her pole. He didn’t move.

  She came closer. Is he breathing? She put the tips of both poles against his back and shoved. He fell headfirst around the tree. His waist pack flew open. He didn’t tie it. Using the tip of her pole, she pulled the sling from the pack and wrapped it around her waist. She looked at the Lowconz’s skis. Pods. Like the altivaulters’.

  Still eyeing the Lowconz, she sidestepped up to the knife, wiped it in the snow and slipped it into the sling at her waist. Then she climbed up to the bow and quiver.

  She put the quiver over her shoulder and looked again at the Lowconz. He moved slightly. She put an arrow in the bow and pointed it at him. He gasped, groaned then lay still again. She put the arrow back in the quiver and slung the bow over her shoulder. She put the skiyaks in climbing mode and poled up through the trees.

  Every once in a while, she looked back.

  There was no Lowconz.

  The snow fall thickened.

  Got to get that poor man.

  CHAPTER 35

  Chasm

  NEFF, BRUISED AND BUSHED, climbed the mountain path behind the female altivaulter. Dawn was breaking. The three spires rose overhead, backlit by a faint, peach-colored glow. Wispy white clouds flowed from the tips of the spires, fading into thin air. So beautiful. A ragged, snow-covered ridge ran between the dagger-like peaks. How will we ever get over that?

  The altivaulters abruptly stopped. They were at the edge of a chasm. A rope stretched from one side to the other, both ends tied to trees. A stone statue squatted on the far side, like Buddha, staring back across.

  “Is that supposed to be the Trappid chief?” asked Neff.

  “Looks like him,” replied Notch. “Check out the truncheon.”

  “The rope must be his,” said Sparky. He peered into the abyss. Whoah. He stepped back.

  Jung studied both sides of the gap for a moment, then backed down the trail.

  “Where’s he going?” asked Notch.

  Suddenly, Jung spun and ran toward the edge. He planted his vaulters on the lip and sailed across, arms, vaulters and legs pumping like a long jumper.

  Neff gasped.

  Notch gaped.

  Sparky blurted, “Go!”

  Jung’s vaulters hit first and flipped him forward. He rolled to a stop. A moment later, the young male followed, nearly hitting the statue as he landed. Jung watched him get up, shook his head, then took hold of the rope and nodded to Sparky.

  “Got to use the rope,” said Sparky. He looked at Neff. “Go first?”

  “I don’t...know how,” she said, hesitantly.

  “Get on your back and pull across. You can do it.” He glanced back at the trail, “You have to.”

  Neff got the message. “I hate this!” she said, donning her helmet. “Hold still, Mollie,” she said, hugging the pack to her chest. She got on her back, grabbed the rope, crossed her legs over it, took a deep breath and pulled out over the chasm. When she reached the sag in the middle and began to drag herself upward, she cried, “My arms. I can’t....”

  “Hold on. I’ll help,” said Sparky. He dropped down and went hand over hand feet first to Neff. He placed a foot on her bottom.

  She flinched, then croaked, “Okay.”

  Sparky pushed.

  Neff inched upward. The pack slipped from her chest. She released her hand to catch it, but quickly grabbed the rope again. The pack hung beside her. “Oh, Mollie,” she cried.

  “You can do it, Neff,” said Sparky, shoving again. Neff struggled upward. Jung waited until she was close, then quickly pulled her and the pack over the rim. Sparky clambered up after her.

  “Thanks,” she said softly, moving away.

  It was Notch’s turn. He grabbed the rope, lay on his backpack, crossed his legs and pulled out over the abyss. “Not so bad,” he breathed. But, as he passed the middle and began to pull upward, he felt a searing pain in his shoulder—the same pain he had felt when the Trappid had yanked him from under the net. Notch dropped his hand. Really hurts. He inhaled, lifted his hand and pulled again.

  Suddenly the female altivaulter screeched. A Trappid was sprinting up the trail. She crouched, ready to kick. But the Trappid ducked past her and dove for the rope. In a flash, he rolled to his back, threw his legs over and pulled across hand over hand.

  “He’s fast!” said Sparky.

  “He’ll get Notch!” cried Neff. “Notch, hurry. He’s coming.”

  “Who?” shouted Notch glancing back. In a rush of adrenaline, he pulled against the pain.

  The female altivaulter threw a rock. It hit the Trappid’s leg. She picked up another, but Jung held up his hands. The Trappid was too close to Notch. The Trappid grabbed Notch’s foot. Notch kicked. The Trappid let go and grabbed again. He held Notch’s foot for a moment, then pushed it forward.

  Notch pulled ahead.

  “He’s helping!” said Neff.

  Sparky dragged Notch over the rim by his collar.

  “It’s him,” blurted Neff. “The chief’s son. He wants to come with us.”

  “Come with us?” asked Sparky. He reached out. The Trappid took his hand and scrambled over the rim. He nodded to Sparky, glanced briefly at Neff and looked across the chasm.

  The female was untying the rope.

  The chief’s son pointed past her.

  “Trappids!” shouted Sparky, grabbing the rope. “Need some help.” Notch took hold with him.

  The female freed the rope. Sparky and Notch reeled it in as fast as they could. The female ran and vaulted across, just ahead of three Trappids who had sprinted into the clearing. The three spotted the end of the rope skittering toward the edge. They dove on it, dug in their heels and pulled.

  Jung, the altivaulters and the chief’s son grabbed the rope and pulled with Sparky and Notch, outpulling the three Trappids and dragging them toward the chasm. Then more Trappids came and began pulling back. The chief finally caught up and started whacking them with his truncheon, screaming, “Pull. Pull. You weaklings.”

  “Tug...of...war,” Notch grunted through his teeth.

  “Keep pulling,” shouted Sparky. He let go, ran to the tree and untied the rope.

  “Good thinking,” said Notch.

  “Don’t let go,” shouted Sparky.

  “Why not?” yelled Notch, slipping toward the edge. “We don’t need it.”

  “They’ll use it,” shouted Sparky, running to the statue with the end of the rope.

  Aha, the art of war. Notch got it. Use their energy against them.

  Sparky wrapped the rope around the neck of the statue and shouted, “Okay guys. Let go!”

  They did. The Trappids rapidly took up the slack. The statue began to slide.

  The chief saw what was about to happen and yelled, “No, no, no, no!” his face turning from red to purple.

  But the Trappids, thinking he meant they weren’t pulling hard enough, pulled even harder.

  Sparky got behind the statue and pushed. The others joined him.

  “One, two, three, pusshh!” puffed Notch.

  The statue skidded to the edge, where it teetered. The chief’s son came up and gave it one shove. It careened into space. The Trappids let go of the rope. It whipped through their midst and writhed into the chasm.

  The chief stomped close to the rim—but not too close—and looked down. Then he glared across at his son, tapping his truncheon on hi
s leg. A moment later, he raised it in the air, bellowed a bunch of angry words and tromped away.

  The seven tired beings trudged single-file up a rock-strewn trail towards the snow line.

  It got colder. The humans put on their warm-ups and parkas. The altivaulters fluffed their fur.

  Sparky looked at the Trappid. He wore extra clothes. He planned this.

  The Trappid cupped his hands over his ears.

  Ah, but he forgot a hat.

  “I have another hat,” said Neff, “just in case.” She pulled a knit hat from her pocket and handed it to the Trappid.

  It was white with a pink and green floral design. His eyes lit up. He put it on and sidled up to Neff.

  Neff looked at Notch and mouthed, “Help.”

  Notch nodded. He pulled the Trappid aside….

  Further up the trail, Notch said to Neff, “He and I had a talk. We used a kind of sign language. I said it seemed he had a special interest in Neff, a humanc. I asked why that was.”

  “You asked him that?” said Neff.

  “Sure. So he pointed to his head, then to yours and pretended to put them together. I guess he meant you two think alike. I hope. He realizes you and he are different species, but he thinks that’s no reason not to be friends.”

  “So I told him, just keep in mind our females are special. You must at all times show Neff great respect. And give her some distance.”

  “You said that?” asked Neff.

  “Of course,” continued Notch. “He looked at me for a moment then nodded. I patted him on the shoulder and started to go. He grabbed my arm, pointed over the mountains and said, ‘Snofliana.’

  “Snofliana? I asked.

  “Seems he had gone to the trading point once with his glorious father. I detected some sarcasm. It was there, he learned about Snofliana. He wanted to go there. We were his chance. What about leaving his family, I asked. He circled his finger by his ear. I guess that’s intergalactic for ‘They’re nuts’.