Midworld (11 page)

She moved around the fire on hands and knees, to sidle close and put one hand on his shoulder. “For me, Born, don’t go with the giants.”

Looking at her, he started to lean close, started to agree, started to give in. Then the thing that drove him to lie in wait for grazers and to go down into the depths of wells reached out, interceded, crossed him up. Instead of saying, “I’ll do whatever you desire, Brightly Go, for the love of you,” he whispered huskily, “I’ve given my word and said before the whole tribe I will go. And even had I not, I will do this thing.”

Her hand slid from his shoulder. She half-mumbled, “Born, I don’t want you to,” then bent over and kissed him before he could draw away. Then she was on her feet and out the door before he could react. The night-rain swallowed her up.

He was silent a long time, thinking, as the fire consumed itself and the tepid drops trickled off leaf-leather roof. Then he mumbled something there was no one to hear, rolled back onto his sleeping fur, and drifted off to a troubled, dream-filled slumber.

Ruumahum’s left eye opened halfway, cocked sideways. A dark bulk stood on the branch by his resting crevice. He coughed, shook droplets from his muzzle, and snorted in the sibilant rumbling way of the furcot.

“Where is your person, cub?”

Muf jerked his head, in imitation of the human gesture, down toward the cluster of enclosed branches below. “Somewhere there, asleep.”

“As you should be, nuisance.” The eye closed, and Ruumahum rearranged his massive head on his fore-paws.

Muf hesitated before blurting out, “Old one, please?”

Ruumahum let out a furcot sigh and lifted his head slightly to face the cub, all three eyes open this time.

The cub dropped his head and eyed the village sleeping below.

“My person, the boy Din, is troubled.”

“All persons are troubled,” Ruumahum replied. “Go to sleep.”

“He fears for his half-father, the person Born. Your person.”

“There is no blood attachment,” the big furcot mumbled, dropping his head down again. “The cub-person’s emotional reaction is unreasonable.”

“All cub-persons’ reactions are unreasonable. I fear this time my person’s reaction is reasonable.”

Ruumahum’s eyebrows rose.

“Offspring of an accident, can it be that you enter into wisdom?”

“I fear,” the cub continued, “the boycub-person will do something rash.”

“His elders will restrain him, as I would restrain you. I will do worse if you don’t leave me to my rest.”

Muf turned to go, looked back over a shoulder, and grumbled defiantly, “Don’t say I didn’t tell you of it, old one.”

Ruumahum shook his head, wondered why it was that cubs were so questing and inquiring, so disrespectful of an elder’s rest. They rose with questions at all hours and times. The drive to dispel ignorance—a drive, he reminded himself, he also had been subject to—the drive was still there, but mellowed by experience. Mellowed also by the quiet assurance that death explained everything.

He snugged his head back into his crossed paws, ignored the steadily dripping rain, and was instantly asleep again.

BORN ANGRILY BROKE OFF
another of the dead branches from the trunk of a tertiary parasite, careful despite his rage not to harm any of the healthy, living shoots.

They were four days linear march out from the Home, and his anger at the now distant group of sullen hunters had hot abated. But some of the anger was directed inward at himself for locking himself into this crazy expedition.

Ruumahum patrolled the hylaea off to Born’s left. He sensed his person’s discomfort and kept his distance. A person made blind by anger was as unpredictable as any of the forest denizens, and one furious at himself the most unpredictable of all.

Adding to Born’s discomfort was the total incompetence of the giants. They seemed to know nothing of normal walking or climbing. A child held better footing than they. Had he not been close at hand, there would already have been some serious falls. What would they do if a brown many-legs or a Buna floater charged them? Ruumahum moved below them when they came to a more difficult place, but even the furcot’s superfast reflexes might not be enough to stay a fall of several levels. It would take only one such fall to end the expedition.

He broke off the last branch, gathered up the wood in his arms, and started back toward the wide section of cubble he had chosen for this evening’s camp. Today it appeared the giants were doing a little better, moving a little less hesitantly through the trees. Cohoma no longer showed the same tendency to slip every time he jumped for the next vine, or to overextend his grasp for same.

Logan had finally been convinced it was dangerous to reach for each new bloom and plant they passed. Born did not smile as he recalled the incident two days past, when she had sought a drink from the gobletlike vermilliot. Only a quick step and a crisp blow on the forearm had kept her from touching it. She had glared angrily at him until he had shown her the minute differences in the vermilliot and the surrounding Vermillion plants: the vermilliot had two extra petals, an unusual thickening of the base, a darker red color, and telltale spottings near the lip of the cylinder—all flaws in otherwise perfect mimicry.

Finally he had used the bone knife. Making sure both giants were well clear, he moved above the plant. With the point of the blade he had tipped the green cylinder so that the clear liquid inside spilled free. The vermilliot’s water was clear, but rainwater it was not. The stream struck the meter-thick liana below, splashed, and sizzled, forming a dense cloud that rose into the air. When the mist finally faded, he beckoned them nearer. Cautioning them not to step on the lingering dampness, he showed them the hole the clear liquid had made through a meter of wood and into the depths beyond.

Lastly, he had carefully tapped the green wall of the false bromeliad. They heard the deep, almost metallic bong, utterly unlike the soft tap when he struck one of the true vermillions.

From that point on neither of the giants so much as brought a finger close to a new growth without first consulting Born. That made him only slightly happier, for innumerable questions slowed them down as effectively as a wound or a broken limb. They moved at perhaps a third of the speed he would have managed alone.

With a short jump he dropped down to the huge cubble selected for camp. From the first day, deciding on a camp had proved a problem. It seemed the giants could not tolerate many evenings without shelter from the night-rain. They insisted on protection despite the time and effort it cost, and Born had grudgingly complied. Their excuse was that constant exposure would engender a strange sickness in them, which they called a cold.

Born failed to understand. No person could be so fragile. Indigestion was the only illness he was familiar with, and that occurred only when he ate food other than the fruit of the Home tree. But the descriptions and assurances of sickness the giants gave him were so horrid he could hardly deny them their necessary protection.

“There he is,” he heard Logan say to her companion as he approached. He wondered why they lowered their voices so often, speaking at a less than normal volume. The thought that they might be trying to keep something from him never occurred to him. Anyway, he could hear them clearly enough, even when they conversed in what was called a whisper. Who was he to question the peculiarities of those who could fly through the sky?

They might have spent more time, he mused as he dumped the load of wood on the main branch, improving and perfecting their own bodies instead of constructing new artificial ones to shield them from the world.

“We were getting a little nervous, Born,” Logan explained with a broad smile. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

He shrugged, set about constructing a crude lean-to from the accumulation of dead branches and extraneous leaves. “It is difficult to find adequate materials for a dry shelter,” he told her. “Most dead-wood and old leaves fall to Hell to be eaten, like all else that falls.”

“Eaten’s the word, I’ll bet,” Cohoma agreed, peeling the skin from a large purple spiral. “There should be bacteria down there big as your freckles, Kimi. The amount of dead vegetable matter that must fall to the ground here each day—”

There was a crash of leaves, and he jumped to his feet. Logan hurried to ready the bone spear she had been provided with. It was only Ruumahum. Born smiled as he studied the giants’ expressions. Despite protestations to the contrary, it was clear they would never quite get used to the big furcot’s presence.

“Person and furcot come,” the emerald hexapod declared.

“Stranger or—?” Born stopped as a tall figure stepped into the light, and his hand moved instinctively for his knife. A second furcot, not quite as big as Ruumahum, was at the man’s side.

Losting.

The big hunter did not smile as he met Born’s gaze. Logan eyed Born questioningly. He ignored her. Nor did he move his hand from the hilt of his knife. The two furcots exchanged soft growls and moved off to converse on a nearby limb. Losting took a couple of steps forward.

“When two lone hunters meet on the trail,” the bigger man said, taking his gaze from Born long enough to study the giants, “it is meet that the one who has made camp invite the latecomer to share with him.”

“How come you here, now?” Born asked sharply, ignoring ritual courtesy for the moment. He looked groundward so Losting could not see the anger in his eyes. “I saw you last standing with Brightly Go as we left the Home.”

“That is so,” Losting admitted without gloating. “I think now, as I have these past days, that I should have stayed with her, as she will need someone to comfort her and make a life with her when you are dead.”

“You did not follow alone for four days to taunt me,” Born noted tensely. His anger was melting under the illogic of the situation. “Why then did you follow?”

Now it was Losting’s turn to look away. Walking past the two giants, he squatted and rested chin on forearm as he examined the shelter being built. “I tried to forget what you said that night in council. I could not. Nor could I forget that you alone had gone down into the well in the world, to discover that the blue thing was not a demon, but a thing of axe metal. To discover them.” He nodded at a curiously watching Logan and Cohoma. “I was ashamed I had been afraid, even though the others of our party who had returned are not. They excused themselves by saying you were mad. I could not so excuse myself.” He looked back at Born. “Then when you said you would try to go with these giants to their Home, I too thought you mad, Born. And when you left, I was happy, for I had Brightly Go in my arms.” Born tensed, but Losting put up a restraining hand. “I thought how good it would be now, with Brightly Go to myself. How good not to have you around, Born, always to come back with another, greater kill. How good not to have to compete for her with a madman. How good not to fumble with hard words while you always said the soft, proper ones.”

The last of Born’s anger vanished. An astonishing thought occurred to him. Could it be that Losting—massive, muscular Losting, mighty hunter and warrior Losting—could it be that he was jealous of Born?

“I stayed while you left,” the other hunter continued, “but I stayed troubled. When Brightly Go left me, I went to the edge of the Home and sat there, staring into the world where you had disappeared. Thinking. Ashamed. For, I thought to myself, what if you should reach the giant’s station-Home as you had reached their skyboat? What if you should come back with this success on your shoulders? What then would Brightly Go think of me? And what, what would I think of myself?” Losting’s face was twisted.

“You persecute me, Born, whether you are near or not. So I found myself thinking, maybe you are mad, but mad and skilled, even still you are no braver than Losting. None is braver than Losting! So I followed. I will follow to the giants’ home or to the death. You will not have this triumph over me, you will not!”

“Born, what’s this all about?” Cohoma asked.

Logan shushed him. “Can’t you see it’s personal, Jan? Something deep between these two. Let’s not intrude.”

“As long as it doesn’t affect our return.” Cohoma said.

“What of this, then?” Born queried, relaxing a little. “Why do you not continue to follow as before? Clearly it was the better course of plan.”

“And would keep me from your eyes,” Losting finished, without anger. “And you from mine. But we cannot go on.”

“You’ll not discourage me with—”

“No, not I, Born.” Losting’s tone was conciliatory. “Not having to pause to construct shelters for the giants, I’ve traveled a little ahead of you each day, not behind. I’ve only just now come from,” and he named a modest figure, “ahead. What I’ve seen prompts me to make contact.”

“And what have you seen?”

“Akadi.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then keep on this path, and be food for busy mouths. I’ve seen the column.”

Born considered. Losting would not jest about something so serious—not even to embarrass Born before Brightly Go.

“What’s going on?” Cohoma finally asked impatiently. “What’s this talk about not going on? What’s this acoti … whatever?”

“Akadi,” Bora corrected heavily. “We must go back.”

“Now look—” Cohoma began, getting to his feet. Logan restrained him, but this time he shook her off. “No, I’m going to tell these regressives what I think of ’em. First they make a big show of helping us. Then they get a little ways away from the home fires, and they have second thoughts.” He turned to Born. “Or maybe you’re getting close to that five-day limit nobody’s ever exceeded and—” Suddenly aware he was overdoing his frustration, Cohoma stopped.

“You do not know of the Akadi,” Born murmured with quiet fury. “Or you would say only, when do we run.”

“Born,” Logan began, “I don’t think that’s—”

“You talk of delays, and bravery, and intentions. Do you think I’m risking my life out of the goodness of my heart? Do you think I’m doing it for either of you? I care nothing for the both of you, you great, cold people!” He calmed slightly and turned his attention to Cohoma. “You are different in size and color and mind. You come to us in a sky-boat of axe metal. I went down the well you made in the world not to save you, but to see what your boat was. To find out things. To please myself. I go to your station for the same reason—not to save your lives, but for me,
me!
And it is for me that we turn back, for myself and Losting and our people, not for you. You can go on and die, or hide and rot before the column catalogs your scent. It is nothing to me. But we cannot go on. We may never go on again. We must return to the Home.”