by Zach Hughes
"They are of the earth and for the earth," his grandmother said. "And of a blood to us, the Drinkers." She removed her hands from his arm. "It is up to you to believe or not to believe. Better for your mother that you disbelieve, for since we have lived in the valley no one has returned from the south."
"They were burned in the land of the fires," Duwan said.
"There is a way through the fires."
He wanted to believe. The mere possibility of belief had a perverse effect on him, bringing home to him the extent of his disaster. To lose Alning, that was certain, in spite of her protestations that nothing had changed. She would change when she saw him carrying, with his one arm, the nutrient containers for the young, when she saw him mucking in the soil, cleaning the insentient sprouts, when she came to him to find him reeking of bird droppings. Not that it was a job beneath his abilities, for he had, by choice, participated, as did most, and a few had the calling and were proud of their sure touch with the sprouts, but his calling was to arms.
"Have you seen this thing with your own eyes?" he asked. The old one shook her head. "Nor have I seen the old take root and become one with the earth. Here, where Du is weak, we see the wasting disease, and I, myself, feel it. But, nevertheless, in the south the old do not die, and in the south new limbs grow to replace those lost, unless the buds are damaged, and your bud is intact. In fact, even in this place where Du is weak and there is not the power, it has started." She lifted his arm, traced the cone-shaped protrusion that had accumulated on the stump. He felt the touch, felt a peculiar, stretching feeling in the skin of the stump, and he almost believed.
"The way through the fires," he said.
The old one closed her eyes, as if that aided memory, and in a sing-song chant said, "Between two smoking mountains Du shows his face at evening over a lake of fire, but one mountain is broken, and the fires drain not on the eastern slope, for there the smoking rock is cooled by springs. A layering of the skin of the needled brother smokes, but prevents the burning of the feet. A dash, a rest beside a spring, new layers of the skin of the needled brother brings one to the lake of fire where the skin pains and shrivels, but a turn to the west leads past the lake of fire into fields of cool, hardened ash."
"So it was said of old?" Duwan asked.
"So it was passed on, for your father's father, five times removed, planned to return once the Drinkers had rested, and had reinforced themselves by sprout with many warriors. He did not know the enervating effect of life without the full strength of Du, and that the dims and darks would limit sprouting, so that five generations have not replaced the losses in one."
"The ancient ones planned to return to the Land of Many Brothers?"
"So it was told, so it is prophesied, even now, among those who remember."
"I have not heard this prophecy," Duwan said.
"No, because it is safe here," his grandmother said. "Because there is no war. Females hold the tales of old. Females prophesy. And it is females who weep when their sons die in war. We choose to forget."
"And when I am through the land of the fires?"
"The time of the long light has just begun. You are strong. You will be in the land of snows while Du is long, but you must hasten until the small, scattered brothers become a great congregation, and even then you must not pause for rest, for the cold will be on your heels, chasing you from the north to bury you in snow. You will pass through a land of many waters, and if your pace has been swift, you will swim the iceless waters of the smaller waters, skirt the larger. Through dims and darks you will pass the congregated brothers, and there will be days shorter than the nights in the land of many waters. There you will first encounter the Enemy, but, perhaps, he has forgotten. You must remember that it is our difference that he hates and fears, and you must hide your abilities. When Du is just to the south of the zenith, and his rays are stronger than you have ever felt before, in a safe place, concealed from the Enemy, become one with the soil and let Du's power restore your limb."
"I will consider," Duwan said.
"Yes," the old one said. "Now I faint, I tire."
"I will help you to your house."
"Thank you, my son, but I am not yet helpless," she said stoutly, as she tottered toward the door.
"Mother, is it true?" Duwan asked, when the old one was gone.
"So it is said."
"Counsel me, Mother. You have always been wise." There were tears in her eyes when she spoke. "I can offer only mixed counsel. My heart says stay, my son. My love for you, and my best wishes for you say go, and return to us whole with news of what has happened in the Land of Many Brothers during our exile."
He had never heard their condition called exile. He looked at her, wanting to ask questions. He was still, however, trying to digest the information he'd received from his grandmother. He knew that the old one and his mother were direct descendants of Alon, who had led the Drinkers to the valley, a man of renown, a leader of leaders.
"Exile?" he was forced to ask.
"A term," she said, waving it away.
"Exile, mother?"
Her eyes hardened. "Once we were a great and populous people, living in prosperity and peace. The Land of Many Brothers was ours, and we became lax, became soft in our life of plenty. The Enemy from the south struck us a mighty blow before we could prepare, before we even suspected his existence. It was too late. Our warriors regained their old skills in defeat after defeat as we were gradually pushed to the north. For generations we fought, and grew weaker, and less numerous, until only a few thousand remained, pushed into the lands north of the waters into seasons of deep snows and bitter cold, and even then the Enemy was to be satisfied only by our total extermination, for he had found that we were different, that we could drink of Du, and communicate with our fixed brothers. It was your ancestor, the Great Alon, who explored to the east and the west and the north to find a great sea and the Enemy spread from coast to mountains and to find a hope, a small hope, here in the valley. The Enemy had not the secret of the way through the land of eternal fire, and presumed that we had been consumed."
"I will see this Enemy," Duwan said.
"I fear so," his mother said, with resignation.
"Perhaps, now, he has grown fat and weak."
"There is much preparation to be done," she said, "and each moment counts if you are to be south of the killing cold and impassable snows before the end of the long light."
"Guide me," he said.
Chapter Three
Having fed and drunk until every cell of his body seemed ready to burst with stored nutrition, Duwan inspected the travel kit prepared for him by his mother and his grandmother. A pack, woven of feathers and fibers, rested snugly on his back, secured by woven belts around chest and shoulders. The pack bulged with the skillfully designed, padded, insulated clothing that would be vital to survival once the long light had passed and the ice sent its frigid breath southward. There was little space for food. A hollowed nut sealed with wax held an emergency supply of water. Dried tubers filled any small available space in the pack. At his left side rode the shortsword, at his belt his knife, and over his left shoulder the longsword. He would have no need for his bow, but aside from that, and his supply of arrows, he carried his total life possessions as he stood in the square and let his orange eyes appreciate the faces and the forms of his friends, his family. Alning was not immediately visible, but, at last, he saw her, back at the edge of the crowd of villagers who had gathered to wish him well. Duwan the Elder, his father, came to stand before him, extended both arms. The entwining was incomplete, for the son had no left forearm, but it was warm and lasting, limbs twisted together in the age-old symbol of regard, loyalty, brotherhood. Then, one by one, he entwined with the warriors and the old ones and brushed his one hand against both hands of the females, except for Alning, who had disappeared.
"Hear me," said Duwan the Elder, when the ceremony of parting had been completed. "The way is long and harsh. To outdistanc
e the wings of the great cold will test you to the utmost. Strong warriors died during our journey to the north, their cells crystalized and ruptured by the ice. You must never rest, my son, not when the cold of the north is upon you, for to rest, although it seems sweet at the time, is death. If the brothers are in retreat, if there are no life organs visible, cold is there or will come. Move onward, onward, until tender life organs are green with health, and then rest."
"I hear," Duwan said.
"Flee the Enemy," The Elder intoned, his pale eyes, dimmed to weak yellow, fixed on Duwan's own. Duwan felt himself stiffen. "Yes, flee, until you have been restored, and even then remember that you are only one Drinker amid hosts of the Enemy and govern your decisions with wisdom, not rashness, no matter how great the temptation, how hot the blood. For your journey is more than a personal seeking for renewal and restoration, my son, it is for the Drinkers. The information you bring us will be of vital import, and will have a decided effect on the future of the ones in the valley. That is your primary mission. Your mission is not to kill one, or a dozen, or a score of the Enemy, but to observe, to learn, to accumulate wisdom and live to impart it to your valley."
"I hear, father," Duwan said, bowing his head.
Duwan's mother stepped forward, two pairs of sandals fashioned from the skin of the needled brother in her hands. She lashed them to Duwan's pack and pressed her petal fresh lips to his cheek before stepping back.
"Soak the sandals well," said his grandmother, in her aged, croaking voice. "Remember, soak them well."
"I hear, Grandmother," Duwan said.
The minstrel had written a new verse to the Song Of Duwan The Drinker. His resonant instrument rang out, and his voice began to sing as Duwan, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of Alning, turned his back to the gathering in the square and paced away toward the southeast and the far tip of the valley. He felt swollen with his intake of nutrients, and his spirit was heavy, for he was aware of the dangers that lay ahead, and sore in the heart in his loss of Alning. He did not turn, nor did he look over his shoulder. He adjusted his pack for comfort and took long strides and the song of the minstrel faded, leaving echoes of the words in his mind, words telling of the courage of Duwan, words of the long way ahead. He was young, and he was hopeful. His heart could not stay heavy long. The time of the long light was too glorious, the birds too colorful, all the brothers of the valley too lush and green in their long light flush of health and growth. Alning was waiting for him, half hidden in the heated, soft steam of a spring. At first he wasn't sure his eyes were being true, afraid that his desire to see her gave rise to visions, and then she stepped toward him, black eyes bright, hair moistened by the steams, her yellow green skin dripping attractively with moisture. He halted, and could find no words.
"You have not spoken," she said softly.
"No," he said.
"Nor will I, not until you return."
He felt a flush of happiness, and then reason regained its rule. "And if I do not come back?"
She looked away, black eyes misting.
"I cannot, in all conscience, ask you to wait for me," he said softly.
"Is it your desire to ask?" She locked her black eyes on his.
"I must consider you, Alning," he said.
"Be considerate, then," she said, moving toward him. His loins tightened as his eyes saw the swift change of color in her exposed torso, a flowering, a glowing, and he had difficulty swallowing. She thrust her body to his and he felt her warmth.
"Be considerate," she said. "Tell me that you want me to wait."
"Ah, Alning," he moaned, in an agony of indecision, wanting to do the honorable thing, knowing that it was very unfair to her to be left with any expectations.
"It is what I want," she hissed fiercely, and for delicious, long, heated moments he felt an almost painful heat on his graft bud as she pressed hard to him, her own bud swelling, softening. He leaned, drank the condensation of the steams from her smooth, heated skin, moaned in pleasure as she put her arms around him and pressed him tightly.
"I named you Alning, Beautiful One," he whispered. "I saw you as a sprout, and watched you grow, freed you from mother earth, laughed as you fell, and rose swiftly to fall and rise again. I have had eyes for no other. I will never have eyes for another, my Alning."
"There," she whispered, "was that so difficult?"
"But you will be alone, for Du knows how long, and—"
"Hush," she said.
His eyes went wide, for he felt a change in the contact of their graft buds, jerked away, looked down to see a scarlet ripeness at her waist. Indeed, from waist to loin she had seemed to swell, and he was thrilled as he'd never been thrilled in his life. She tried to push herself back to him.
"No," he said, holding her off with his good hand.
"Stay with me," she hissed, with an intensity that raised his temperature.
"I would, I would," he said, still holding her away.
"No," she whispered, as her color faded, and she seemed to regain some control. "I will not ask that of you, for, although I would accept you as you are, I want life to be full for you, and you must do this thing. Have no fear, Duwan, I will wait."
"When the ripeness is fully upon you—"
"I will burn," she whispered, "but I will endure, until you return."
"I, too, will burn, each time I feel the ripeness, each time I think of you." He put his hand on her cheek, lifted her eyes to his. "Hear me, Beautiful One. If, when the time of the long light comes and goes for the second time following this long light of my departure, I have not returned, you are to speak. You are to speak for another."
"No," she said heatedly.
"Do this," he said harshly, "or I will retract my words and give you a never word and that will end it."
She went pale.
"To think of you wasted would be a great sadness for me in Du's paradise," he said. "I would be handicapped, weighed down by this sadness. You must promise. At the first dim following the second coming and going of the long light following this long light of my departure, you will speak for another Promise me this."
"At your insistence," she said, her voice very faint.
"Say it."
"I promise."
"Then entwine with me, Beautiful One," he said, extending his arms, feeling her smooth, rich softness as she wound her arms with his and then he pushed her away and ran, not looking back lest her beauty be a fatal attraction for him, lest he lose all his resolve and stay, a one-armed one, to tend the young and bask in her beauty and regard until she, after the initial intoxicating ripeness and grafting, came to hate him for his handicap.
He ran hard, slowing only to greet the Elder of each of the villages through which he passed, reached the narrow, always guarded cleft that gave access to the cliff-bound valley, saluted the warriors on guard and climbed the steep, narrow trail through a cleft in the rocks to feel the invigorating fullness of Du on his face. Du was to the south, at evening, and he ran at a steady, ground covering warrior's pace as the source made its great circle, swinging away to the west and moving behind his back only to appear in the east and swing gradually into another evening in the south. For a full long circle of Du he had kept the pace, and he felt lighter. Moisture respired outward to his skin, and was evaporated by the heat of the source and the dry, invigorating chill of the barrens through which he ran.
The only life within days of swift marching lay behind him in the valley. He ran over sterile rock, through swales of pebbles moistened by the unevaporated remnants of the snows that covered the barrens when Du disappeared over the southern horizon at the end of the time of the long light, up and over ridges where the forces of freezing and thawing had split away boulders, some as tall as the cliffs of the valley. Now and then he would rest, sucking the moisture from the pebbles in the damp low areas, once chewing long and satisfyingly on a dried tuber. He slept after a respectable warrior's run of two full circles of Du. His pace was slowing only slightly
after two more double circle warrior's runs and a sleep. He felt lean and fit, no longer heavy, and his pauses were more frequent as he sucked moisture. Ahead of him there was a change in the sky, a layer of what seemed to be cloud far away on the horizon. At times, now, his feet were padded by soft layers of fine sand in the swales. When he saw—as Du made circle after circle, the circles becoming a bit lopsided, with the great source sinking lower and lower on the southern horizon—the first of the spiked brothers clinging to a dry pile of sand, he was heartened. The cloud formation now rose high in the southern sky, hiding Du in the evenings, bringing the gloom of twilight to the barrens. There were times when he smelled the smoke of the land of fires. He had thinned down to his best fighting weight and his movements were effortless, strong, tireless. He added the soft, juicy pulp of the spiked brothers to his meager diet, being careful to separate a small finger carefully from the parent brother and, although the spiked brothers were far down the scale of development and dumb, politely thanking the brother for his contribution.
He was, because of his use of the warrior's pace, well ahead of his projected schedule. He slowed his pace, for now he moved through areas of fine ash which, if he ran, billowed up into clouds to coat the fine tendrils protecting his nostrils. He rarely saw the source now because of the billowing clouds of smoke, clouds that ranged in color from the blackest of blacks through grays and dirty yellows to odd, metallic greens and reds near the earth. Fitful winds began to blow, often bringing the smoke over him. Underfoot, the rocks had taken on a sharpness that tested even his hardened pads. The first steam vent he passed spewed forth boiling water rich in minerals, strong tasting, but quite satisfying after it had cooled in the runoff from the vent. There he slept, warmed by the heat, soaking up liquid into every cell until, once again, he felt heavy. He had to wait for food until he had penetrated a deep valley of boiling vents and the spear canes began to grow. The tender shoots of the cane made delicious munching, and he carried a handful of green canes with him for sucking and chewing along the way as he climbed to the top of a ridge and saw, spread before him, the awesome land of eternal fires. Fortunately, fire activity was at a low. Thermal currents caused winds to gust and eddy, sometimes lifting the smokes so that he could see, across a great rift, the outlines of the mountains of fire. Only once, as he crossed the rift and began to climb the cinders of the mountain slopes, did the earth shift under his feet, and then not too severely. However, he was beginning to feel the heat even before he reached the ash-covered saddle between two mountains of fire and saw, to both his left and his right, steams of molten rock pouring from the peaks. Although the ash-covered rock underfoot was warm to the pads of his tough feet, it was not yet time to put on the sandals. Both pairs of the sandals were well soaked, having been left in the runoff of a boiling vent during his last sleep. Ahead of him a mountain belched and rumbled and fresh pillars of smoke rose into the sky. As he moved forward, he seemed to become surrounded by a ring of fiery mountains. Once before he had penetrated this far into the land of fires, and there had seemed to be no way open to the south. He remembered his grandmother's chanted instructions.