Fortunately, he didn’t have to listen to more. He was rescued by the sound of crashing surf and a salt water smell in the air. He plunged into the cold, bracing waters of an ocean like nothing he’d yet seen in the Land of the Seasons. Floundering around in the rolling waves was just what he needed to wash away dirt from his body and … his mind. He felt refreshed and clean.
An unintended gulp of sea water brought him up, coughing; and his eyes were smarting from the salt. He was grateful to be near a rocky coastline and swam for it, wishing he was as good at this as his sister. Not until he’d pulled himself on shore did he notice the big surprise.
It was late afternoon, sunlight making a million sparkling diamonds on the slowly rippling ocean. Sunlight. There was a gold-red sun, hanging low, streaking the sky with color. And if he was somewhere where there was a sun, did this mean he was back on earth?
Nearby there was one sickly tree, bereft of leaves, covered in leprous, black bark. All the naked branches were reaching to his right. The sea was to his left. The constant wind blowing in from the sea had swept across this tree every day until it grew at this angle. It seemed to be pointing in the direction he would inevitably take: there was only one path, one sign of human presence — what he hoped was a human presence.
An old woman was hobbling up the path. Perhaps she could help him. Taking a deep breath, Clive felt the brine penetrate to his sinuses. As she drew near, he noticed the spiderweb cracks that covered her face as if some old, oil painting had come to life, and opened a grinning, toothless mouth with which to speak.
“Hello,” said Clive.
“About time,” she said in a high pitched voice. Then the old crone laughed with a hideous cackle.
“Do I know you?” Clive asked, still rubbing ocean from his eyes.
“I should think you’d recognize your own sister,” spat the crone. “I’m Fay!”
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The Land Beyond Summer is posted for entertainment purposes only and no part of it may be crossposted to any other datafile base, conference, news group, email list, or website without written permission of Pulpless.Comtm.
Copyright © 1996 by Brad Linaweaver. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE SHUNNING
What a revoltin’ development! He didn’t remember where he’d heard that phrase but it came back to him now like a wet fish slapped across his face. “I don’t believe it,” he sputtered. “You’re not Fay.”
The old crone cackled again. “Oh, no? How about the time I put chocolate syrup in your underpants? Heh, heh, heh.”
He blinked. That’s about all he could manage. He blinked some more. Maybe, just maybe, this decrepit wreck of a human being was what Fay might become one day — if she never had the benefits of medical science, a good diet, shopping malls, air conditioning, makeup, facelifts, social security checks, greeting cards sent for every possible occasion, endless phone calls from friends and her children and grandchildren, a convenient husband somewhere along the way who could be put out to pasture or otherwise disposed of when the time was right, vitamins, supplements, subscriptions to Reader’s Digest, investments (especially mutual funds), mudpacks, beauty parlors, aerobics, courses in self-esteem, group therapy, sit coms, female hygiene products and a rewarding career. But despite all that, Clive had his doubts this was really Fay.
“Well, do you recognize me?” asked the old woman. “Your mind seemed to be wandering.”
“You leave my mind out of this,” he said defensively. “Anyone could have known about the chocolate syrup. Maybe you captured Fay and tortured secrets out of her.”
“Ha,” said the old woman with contempt.
“Or maybe you’re Malak in disguise, or Grandfather, that is. Yeah, that would make sense.”
“Who sent you here?” she asked.
“Er, the dragon.”
“Who sent you to the dragon?”
“Mrs. Norse.”
“The good guys, kiddo. The good guys!” She was most emphatic on that point. “Why would they send you into the arms of Malak?”
Trying to trip him up on logic, was she? More evidence this was Fay … but Grandfather was no slouch in noticing details about human beings caught in his net. Clive wanted proof.
“OK, you’re either Fay or one of Malak’s creatures….”
“Slaks,” she added helpfully.
“You’ve always had a better memory.”
“Come on Clive, I’m remembering this stuff from over seventy years ago and it’s just yesterday for you.”
He blinked again. She was good, awfully good. The perversity of the situation fit in with everything else that had started to go wrong ever since the fateful day Grandad had taken them out on his damned lake. Clive had asked to see Fay. And now he was seeing Fay … maybe.
“The last time I saw you,” he began, “was a drawing of you with some strange people in the Land of Spring. Mrs. Norse showed me the drawing in her special book. I’d asked to see you and then….”
“I was never in Spring,” she said. “The moment we were separated on the mountain of stone, Malak seizd me and brought me here.”
This was becoming complicated. Would Mrs. Norse have lied to him? Wouldn’t a Malakian trick be likelier? “Then what happened?” he asked, all attention.
“Malak said he’d make me one of his tax collectors,” said the crone. “He explained that magic could be broken down into small units and traded back and forth. He needed to collect a certain amount in order to perform a very powerful spell.” As she recounted her story, Clive remembered how Malak had made the same spiel to Wolf and himself but elected to keep this information a secret for the time being. “At first I resisted,” she concluded, “but when he put Mom and Dad’s lives in my hands, I gave in. This was many years ago. You’ve just traveled through time.”
“So they’re dead now,” he said, more to himself than to her.
She cackled again. He really hated that. “You’d think so,” she said, “but I saved them in more ways than one. Now they’re younger than I am, eternally young you might say. You can see for yourself!” Her claw-like hand reached out and took him by the arm. Her touch was loathsome but he didn’t resist. Worse than her touch was the sour odor rising from her rags, some unholy combination of rotting fish and grapes. She led him along the snaking path until they came upon a village of squat, grey cottages, worn from centuries of neglect. Although the denizens must take their life from the broad ocean, the cottages were turned away from the water, facing a barren cliffside. “This is the village, Il,” she said.
“But wait … ” He hesitated to call her Fay. “If this is not the Land of the Seasons, where are we?”
“Another world, not earth. A planet steeped in evil.” She made a terrible gesture at the equally terrible houses. “Mom and Dad are now lords of … this.”
He dared not pursue the matter further, not until he’d learned something. At the seaside, this new environment had seemed liberating, as the sun in the sky had been reassuring. As they walked along the rough path into the village, however, the atmosphere seemed to change; the air grew heavy and stagnant. He began to feel a fear unlike anything he’d yet experienced.
“You pull away, dear brother,” said the woman, digging her claws the more deeply into his arm. More and more he doubted her reality. But then two people emerged from the nearest cottage (a construction built so low that it seemed to be virtually part of the ground) whose identity he did not question.
“Mother?” he asked uncertainly. “Father?” he echoed himself. The duo were young and appeared healthy. Mom still had her raven dark hair and pale complexion. Dad was no longer balding but had regained his full head of sandy, blonde hair. They were dressed in black as though in mourning for themselves. Except that the plain, black garb was exotic and luxurious when viewed at close range, as Clive was in a position to see. He broke free from the withered hand holding
him and rushed forward to embrace his parents.
He hugged Mom and she didn’t resist. But he felt the coldness beneath her clothes, as if she’d been disinterred for this family reunion. As he pulled back he saw her immobile face, like a mask carved out of ice. He was still looking at her as he groped for his father, who pushed him away and held out his hand instead for a more formal exchange of greetings. Clive shuddered at the corpse-like coldness of that hand.
“Welcome home,” screamed the old woman who claimed to be his sister. “You’ve come at just the right time.”
Wondering how being nearly a century late could be considered punctual, Clive had to remind himself of the time frame described by old Fay. “Come with us, son,” said Dad. “Today you’ll be a man…”
“And do a man’s work,” Mom finished the thought. The crone cackled again and began shouting. She was surprisingly vocal for one of her advanced years. As she cried out, the doors to the cottages creaked open and the denizens of the Village Il emerged to greet the setting sun. The last cottage produced a little girl, all of nine years old.
“Oh, God,” said Clive as he recognized Anne Jeffries, Fay’s young friend who had been frightened so badly by the singing wallpaper. She had her hands tied in front of her and was being led by a man who looked like her father. “Anne!” he called out.
She didn’t recognize him at first, seeming to be in some kind of trance. Clive started toward her but Dad blocked him, arm held out straight against his son’s chest. “Listen to me, Clive,” he said. “You’ve been a disappointment up until now. This is your last chance to make me proud of you.” Dad could see the consternation and confusion playing tag across his son’s face and placed his other hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Don’t speak to that girl again, you hear me? If you do, you’re no son of mine.”
Clive’s mouth was open but absolutely nothing came out. Mom spoke for him: “She’s been chosen, son, and we don’t speak to those who are chosen.”
Naturally that’s when Anne noticed Clive and called out to him. But now old Fay’s claw hand was at his back, and her insistent whispering reminded him to mind his parents. Anne called out once more but gave up after that. Her small body sagged when it was obvious that he could do nothing for her.
When about one hundred people had gathered, Dad gestured for everyone to follow him. Clive stumbled along beside his parents. Anne was brought up near the head of the procession as well, but a sidelong glance showed him that she was staring straight ahead, oblivious to everyone. The sun was just above the water, making two perfect circles, one rippling and the other steadfast, beckoning the people of Il on their way until the mob reached a small beach of pebbles and stones.
There was an ominous cave looking out onto a pool of brackish water that was left by the tide. There was a terrible stink coming out of that cave of long dead rotten things from the bottom of the deepest possible oceans. Suddenly a small knife was in Mom’s hand and she went at Anne. Clive was about to lunge between his mother and the girl when he saw that all that was happening was the cutting of the child’s ropes. Then Dad placed a hand on Clive’s shoulder.
“Son, it’s time for you to do what a son’s gotta do.”
“Uh, what’s that, Pop?” asked Clive, casting furtive glances every which way. There must be some hope of escape for both Anne and himself.
“It’s your turn to collect the taxes,” said Mom. “This child has defied proper authority, so first she is shunned, and then she is expelled from the community in a manner that will benefit the community.”
“Uh huh,” said Clive, still looking wildly for anything that might help. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Feed her to the Maw,” said old Fay. “The friendly little critter inside that cave is one of Malak’s pets. He receives magical energy every time the Maw feeds, and he lets us have the surplus for our own requirements at the local level.”
Clive felt his head nodding and lips pulled back in a silly grin. These people couldn’t possibly be his family. There was no way he could believe it. But how would he get out of this one? “So what does he give you?” he asked, stalling for time.
“Life extension, for one,” said Dad.
“We can’t do it for ourselves,” said Mom, regretfully. “Only blood of our blood can provide us with the gift. But poor Fay is getting a bit old for the ritual.”
“You know how much I’ve always loved them,” said the old woman, cackling yet again. Clive kept on nodding. No doubt about it, these were not his family. Malak must be getting desperate if he thought Clive would fall for this song and dance.
“So what do I do?” asked Clive.
“Take this unwilling subject,” said Dad, “drag her to the cave, call out the Maw, and throw her in its mouth.”
“Oh, is that all?” asked Clive, but his hands were shaking. He hoped no one noticed. The eyes of the village Il were heavy upon him and he went to Anne who offered no resistance. Maybe the best strategy was to call out the monster and then not toss him the expected vittles. If he and the girl ran for it, the monster might be sufficiently peeved to attack the others.
Anne let him drag her to the edge of the cave, but then began struggling, albeit weakly, at the immediate prospect before her. “Yoo hoo,” Clive called out. “Oh, you in there, it’s dinnertime.” At first, there was nothing to see but white mist seeping out of the cave. Then it began to creep up Anne’s body, slowly, inexorably, until thin tendrils of whiteness were reaching for her throat. The stench of the sea bottom was overwhelming.
Clive began seeing fragmentary details within the mist: a fin, a claw, a large red, glistening something — all part of a shape that was constantly shifting. One moment he thought he saw a metal surface; then it was fresh, wet scales; then the mist was of a different density. There were many eyes and a glimpse of wings. Everything was dreadfully still with no hint of a breeze. The only sound, besides the quickened breathing of Anne and himself, was the eager murmuring of the crowd. He hated them more than he did the insubstantial horror curling around his feet. Before little Anne disappeared into that mist, he had to act. Grabbing her narrow shoulders, he yanked her back and fell into the tidepool. The sudden silence of the crowd was mute testimony to his recklessness.
“Help!” he shouted to no one in particular as the amorphous entity swirled over his head. Holding Anne by the hand, he pulled her sideways and got them both to their feet. “Run,” he told her.
“YOU SAID THE MAGIC WORD BUT YOU DON’T GET A RUBBER DUCK!” boomed the voice of the dragon from directly overhead.
“Huh, what?” he blubbered, still running past the people of Il who stood there as complacent as wax dummies, which characterization included his erstwhile family. “Magic word?”
“YOU CALLED FOR HELP.”
Clive stopped running so quickly that Anne went ahead of him and did a pratfall because he hadn’t let go of her hand. She lay there, unmoving. “You mean to say you would have let us die if I didn’t say HELP?”
“NAH, YOU SAVED YOURSELF THE MOMENT YOU REFUSED TO ACTUALLY PERFORM THE SACRIFICE. AND THERE’S NO ONE HERE TO DIE EXCEPT YOU!”
Clive scrutinized the little girl lying in the sand. Then he strolled over to the crowd and examined a few of them before he got really picky with Mom, Dad and one old crone whose family resemblance seemed considerably less convincing now. When the figures had been moving, they’d seemed genuine enough, just as the substitute Mom and Dad back on earth could have passed with most anyone who knew them. It was just that when they were immobile, as they were now, the bodies seemed to have a slight, waxy quality that gave them away. Or at least he thought he had detected something new.
He really hated Slaks. And something else was bothering him. “Are you always this loud?” he asked. “It hurts to listen.”
“ONLY WHEN I’M SENDING MESSAGES TO THE FAR REACHES OF THE SEASONS. THERE’S A LOT OF MALAK INTERFERENCE TO OVERCOME.”
“The Seasons? Isn’t this another
planet?” No sooner had Clive asked the question than twilight evaporated. The sun blinked and he was staring into a colossal eyeball attached to a pair of wings that flapped ponderously against the sky. As for the Maw, its misty substance was undergoing a remarkable transformation as it literally condensed.
The roaring of the surf was becoming louder as the mist turned into stinking rain that hissed into the sand.
At least the ocean remained unchanged. “The Land of the Seasons is an island, right?” asked Clive of the sky. “We couldn’t see this far from the mountain.” He received no answer. “Hey, how do I get back?”
“QUESTIONS ABOUT GEOGRAPHY ARE OUT OF BOUNDS, NO PUN INTENDED. THIS TIME I’LL GET YOU TO YOUR SISTER, BUT LET’S TAKE ONE SMALL PRECAUTION AGAINST ANY MORE OF MALAK’S DETOURS. I DIDN’T REALLY EXPECT HIM TO GO THIS FAR.”
The precaution consisted of Clive dipping his hands into the sand where the Maw had suffered dissolution, and then rubbing the damp and sticky grit on his face. He kept sand out of his eyes by holding them tightly shut. When this latest indignity was accomplished he felt himself being lifted again, up high where yellow fogs swam above a blue sky; strange mists that could not be seen from the ground. But he was in no mood to analyze such mysteries with his eyes clamped shut and head spinning from the speed with which he hurtled through space.
He kept his eyes closed as he slowed down and began to descend. There was a sound of splashing and laughing, with a fresh water smell in the air this time. There was something reassuring about not being dropped on the cold, hard ground. He plopped into a perfectly round little lake.
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