The Dig (23 page)

“Not really. I think just my sister. I don’t know, maybe my mom.”

“You mean you don’t love them at all?” she asked, looking a little shocked.

“No, no. It’s not that I don’t love them, but my feelings around them are all twisted up and ruined by other crap. My dad, for… well, I mean, it’s obvious how awful he was, and my mom, she didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“She didn’t protect you.”

“Not even a little—too busy being a good wife.”

Tuni looked at him and felt a touch of his sadness. She felt bad that she had brought the conversation there.

“I’m sorry, Matthew. I really am. That’s what mums are—”

“It’s all right,” he interrupted. “Let’s drop it. No big.”

She nodded, and in walked Peter and Dr. Rheese.

O
RIN’S FACE APPEARED IN FRONT OF
him, and she tilted her head to indicate that everyone was ready.

Irin walked around the tall rocks and climbed to the tallest one. From up high, he saw the glowing line of women, new, and k’yot-clad men, stretching from the Gathering Rocks all the way to the Center House and then disappearing along the paths toward his house and, eventually, the gate. Only the tips of lightsticks were visible over the houses.

Wil and Pwig had completed the final count, and Irin had been speechless at the increase. He scanned the line and saw all the fully packed n’wips. Their triangular frames of young trees, with cloth bundles suspended between, would be pulled by their two extended front poles. Most of the weight rested on the smooth, up-curved ends at the back of the n’wip, to minimize the strain on the puller’s back. Only having used n’wips in the food flats and over relatively short distances, everyone agreed they would alternate pullers along the way. Irin worried about fatigue during the initial ascent up the hillside, so he had instructed the men to take turns frequently and even double up to pull the same load when the going was especially steep.

All along the line, oldest and others who had decided to stay were saying their good-byes to the travelers and bringing them extra waterbags and clothes. Irin had waited a short while, but he knew they needed every bit of the dark hours to get through the mountains and then scout for a safe, suitable encampment. Climbing down from the rock, he made his way to the gate. He felt it deeply, in his throat and head, when nearly every person he passed thanked him or uttered words of confidence or support.

He had assigned three scouts and put them near the front of the line, behind those he called fighters. Not all the male old had k’yots, so those without were in the middle of the procession with the women and new. All men were given cutters, and many women carried them as well. At the front, nearly a full batch of fighters matched roughly the same number at the rear. Some had longer cutters, the length of a man’s arm from fingertip to elbow, curving slightly, with the sharp edge on the inside for harvesting k’yon stalks. Wil had thought they might prove useful should things turn bad.

Near the middle, where the women and new walked, Irin stopped with Orin, and they wrapped their arms around each other’s heads. She pulled his forehead to hers and looked deep in his eyes.

“I have no more doubts, Irin,” she whispered. “You’re doing this. And you’re my man.”

He felt the intensity from her for a moment, and then she turned his head, pulled his ear to her lips, and whispered, “You are
everyone’s
man now.”

She smiled at him, and he continued toward the gate while she remained at the front of the women and new. As he reached the front, the fighters all saw him, and some touched his head. He climbed atop the gatepost, where the screamers had come over two nights ago, and tried to think of something to make the people believe. All those in sight had hushed and looked up at him. He inhaled deeply and tried to imagine what they would want to hear. Another proclamation that they would be safe? A reminder that everyone must help one another or that they all must move quickly? A final good-bye to Pwin-T?

He reached to his waist and pulled out his two cutters, one long and one short, and raised them high over his head. The people stared at him in silence, each interpreting the gesture as they wished. He put the cutters away and climbed down, picking up the lightstick he had placed there.

He turned to find Wil, his cheeks—except for the spots—aglow from the lightstick.

“I must tell you something,” Wil said in a concerned voice.

“Of course,” Irin replied. “Let’s just get everyone moving. We’ll have plenty of time to speak on this journey.” He touched Wil’s head and nudged him to the gate handle.

Wil slid the gate all the way open, and the line began to move forward and stretch out. No one spoke, and he could hear only the tramp of shuffling feet and the scuff of n’wips dragging on the path stones. The n’wips quieted to a smooth swish once their skids reached the dirt beyond the gate. Irin watched his own foot coverings as he marched up the first hill, and realized he was stepping in screamer tracks. A deep breath and a long blink pushed the images from his head once more.

After a short while, the front of the line had reached the first peak, and it continued ahead while Irin trotted off to the side and climbed up a small outcropping of rocks. He peered down the hill and saw that the last of the convoy was just now passing the gate. It was an awe-inspiring sight: the plain of domes that he had seen but a few times from this vantage point. He watched the shifting, bouncing blue stream of lightsticks curving below him as if the Center House’s giant light tube had cracked and this were the leakage. The journey had truly begun.

Irin rejoined the line and walked quickly to the front. He could identify Wil’s back from the way he walked. Other than their gait, all the men at the front looked the same: all k’yot-clad and holding lightsticks.

As they approached the second peak, Irin felt the heat of the Melting Place. Few had ever seen it, and seeing the steam rising over the heads of the people beside him, he cut through the line to have a look. The crack in the ground extended to a narrow fissure in the mountain, and there the mist rose up as well. Both sides of the inner wall were soaked and gradually crumbling away, with little cobbles of smooth rock tumbling down into the boiling water. Irin imagined that the mountain grew bit by bit with everything that fell into its boiling center. His people had been feeding their dead to the mountain for generations, as long as they had lived in the valley.

He recalled, just a half batch of nights before, when they rolled Inni into this very crack. Inni would have been a good fighter to have along now; his strength and courage would be welcome. Irin had to wonder: if Inni still lived, would he not be leading this trek instead of Irin? Inni had always been the leader until he fell ill. It had only been a couple of weeks before the bloodless death took him. Aside from Inni, Irin hadn’t known of any other old, men or women, who had died in the manner of the oldest. No one had understood it. As he peered down into the crack where Inni’s body had fallen, he wished that his friend would rise from the steam and take this burden away from him.

He turned to see the women and new watching the steam rise behind him as they passed. Some had placed their newest on the n’wips. A good idea, he thought, for their arms were surely tiring by now. He looked at the passing faces, trying to measure their fatigue. Though he was not yet breathing heavily, he reminded himself that others would likely need to rest before he and the fighters might think to pause. For the moment, though, all seemed to be doing well. He would check again soon.

The front of the line had moved around the Last Turn. Irin had never seen beyond the Last Turn, and he knew only a few oldest who had. He trotted ahead, squeezing between the people on the left and the cliffs beside them, but finding more room on the right side of the trail, he cut back across the k’yotless men and women and hurried to the front.

He finally found Wil and Pwig in the lead and joined them there, walking along the narrow defile until the trail dipped and widened into a broad, diamond-shaped opening. Pwig glanced at Irin; all three were keen to see what lay ahead.

Irin inhaled a strange, bitter scent and looked all around. The sides of the gorge rose so high around them that the moon was no longer visible and only a thin strip of stars lit the blackness above them. This must be the Last Canyon that the oldest spoke of. But they had never mentioned the immense pile of rocks that now blocked the way forward. Irin looked up and saw where the rocks had come from. Far above the great blocks of talus, an overhanging buttress of stone suddenly ended—an arch that, before giving way, had once connected the two sides of the gorge.

“How do we get everyone past this?” Wil asked. “The n’wips and the new?”

Behind them the convoy slowed and stopped, and a murmur of voices wondered why.

Irin gestured for Wil, Pwig, and some of the fighters to come with them down the short hill to the rock pile. As they approached, a fighter named Nitt said from behind them, “Screamer tracks.”

They stopped and looked where he held his lightstick to the dirt.

“I know,” Irin replied. “And their scat—don’t you smell it?”

The men all shot looks where Irin had pointed. The big, globular droppings lay all about them. The men all peered into the darkness, trying to see everywhere at once. Would the creatures leap from above? This would be a good spot for an ambush, coming from both sides. Irin moved toward the rocks to have a closer look. With every step, the smell grew more acrid—it must be their urine, too.

Approaching the largest rock he could find, Irin kicked the sticky droppings off it, then worked his fingers under one side of it. He looked back at the other men for help.

Nitt noticed first and jogged to him, grabbing hold of the other side of the rock. They lifted it and shuffled up the hill sideways, heaving it away from the path. Wil and Pwig followed their lead and rolled another block, too heavy to lift, off to the side. Others joined in, and soon they had cleared away the stones down to a layer of mud that reeked of screamer scat and urine. After moving the stones, the men had to take great care not to wipe the sweat from their brow with an unclean hand, for as Nitt discovered, the rank liquid burned the eyes like fire.

Wil thought of using dirtpulls to bring down fresh soil and gravel from the sides of the bowl so that the others would not have to track through the foul mud or soil the n’wips. Soon they had a dry, firm trail.

Irin gazed back at the waiting throng and then ahead just as the scouts reappeared. This territory was unknown to all, he realized. Even the oldest knew of nothing that lay beyond the Last Turn or even the whereabouts of the old city. Some called it Pwin; others called it Kytin Gyor. It was where their people had lived thousands of moon cycles before the trees ceased to grow there.

“The trail continues the distance of three k’yon furrows,” the scout known as Woggir panted, “and then dips down before another steep rise.” Both men wheezed and sipped water from their bags.

“Will the women and n’wips make it up this rise?” Wil asked.

“It is no steeper than the rise to the first peak from Pwin-T,” Woggir replied, still breathing heavily.

Irin let the two scouts return to the front and waved for the march to begin again. The first rise had not been too arduous, but everyone was much more fatigued now. He posted fighters at both sides of the diamond-shaped opening as a precaution. Screamers clearly frequented this spot, and no one could climb the steep, scree-covered walls to see what lay beyond. He waited until perhaps a hundred people had crossed the cleared and filled area safely, then returned to the front.

Trudging along, the fighters in front found themselves walking into a dark and progressively narrower canyon, whose walls closed in until finally joining overhead, so that the taller men had to duck to get through. Irin wondered, could a screamer fit through an opening this size? It would have to crouch down low, and even then it would not be easy. He stepped through the narrows, and a while later the canyon walls opened wide once again. The trail was not as clearly defined by the surrounding terrain, but the stars shone in a clear sky, and the light of the rising moon glowed above the far ridgeline.

Irin turned and let the men by as he waited to see the first n’wip clear the opening. Below him, the men at the bottom of the ravine were pulling off their foot coverings and shaking out the gravel after sliding down another long, scree slope.

After telling those behind him to wait, Irin began to work his way carefully down the slide. Despite his caution, he lost his footing twice, sliding and nearly sprawling headlong before he reached the bottom. The scouts had failed to mention this part—he would have to send the others the longer but gentler way around the side.

“Irin,” Wil called out, pointing to a fighter who waved from the path above.

Irin raised his arms in response.

The man kept his arms up but spread his fingers and made clawing motions. Screamer? Irin and the others at the bottom reached for their cutters, but the man waved no, then pointed at his own backside. Irin understood at once: he meant they had encountered more droppings.

Irin gestured for those above to hurry up. He understood why everyone was so uneasy, but it was well known that the creatures had never once shown themselves at this time of night. Still, they must move along—no one wanted to discover just how early the killers rose from their slumbers.