Zonaton (19 page)

            The backpack.

            Untying it, she slipped it off her shoulders and shoved it ahead of her, then scrambled to fit herself in the remaining narrow space. Once inside, she gazed out at the carnage occurring around her through the thin cracks between the stacked rocks.

            Gradually, the noise began to lessen. A geron passed almost directly above her, but she shielded her thoughts the way Zonaton had taught her so the creature could not hone in on her.

            She saw no other people for the longest time. Eventually, exhaustion overtook her, and, unaware, she fell asleep, clutching the backpack to her chest.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Result

            When she awoke, dawn was starting to break. There was absolutely no sound.

            Emmala crawled out from underneath the platform, to gaze out over a landscape of nearly total destruction. Here and there, some homes remained standing. A few continued to burn, but the majority had been razed.

            She could see a few bodies scattered along the road. There were probably more she couldn't see. People who had been trapped inside their houses. People who had been caught in the crosshairs between the gerons and aliens.

            The sky was still cloaked in a grayish haze. Not a puff of wind dared to disturb the carnage. Cautiously, she lowered her makeshift mask and breathed. The air was tolerable, but the stench was horrendous.

            A tightening in her belly reminded her she hadn't eaten in several hours. Opening her backpack, she pulled out a container of food she'd confiscated from her father's house, and ate it cold, dipping her fingers inside the mixture and bringing it to her mouth. Once it was gone, she tossed the container away and wiped her hand on a tuft of nearby grass.

            Having eaten, her head felt clearer, and she could already tell she was getting some strength back. Hoisting the pouch back over her shoulders, she retied the straps and took a good look around.

           
Papa. Markeem.
She at least needed to see if they had survived, but her hopes weren't set on it.

            She could vaguely figure out which way her father had taken her, and took off in that direction at a steady pace. It was difficult to avoid looking at the remains of people and things as she ventured down the street. The shops and markets which ringed the village center had not been spared either fire or explosion, yet a few buildings still stood, most of them gutted.

            As she continued down the street which stemmed from the center, she was aware that she could be the only living being left in Genesis. Unless there were other survivors who remained in hiding. If there were, no one called out to her, or made themselves known.

            She finally found the correct street, marked by the large rock at the corner with the name carved in it. Nearly twenty meters away, the remains of an alien craft sat haphazardly at an angle. A glance upward showed an empty sky. Nothing flew overhead, and that was fine with her.

            She was a few houses away from her father's home when she caught sight of it. One side of the building was gone. The rest continued to smoke. Walking inside the structure, she could see the dining table looked exactly as she had seen it last. One cabinet door she'd forgotten to close in her haste to leave was still open. Dirt and debris littered the interior. No one had returned since last night.

            "But that doesn't mean they're not alive," she told herself.

            In the event they should return, she wiped a finger over a piece of charred furniture and wrote a brief message on one of the remaining walls.

            I'M ALIVE. EMMALA.

            Maybe they would see it when they returned. If they returned. At least, they would know she had survived.

            Going back outside, she was surprised to see a dark brown geron flying over the roofs of the houses across the street. The creature skimmed so close to the buildings, he almost touched them with the tips of his wings. He must have sensed her standing there, as he suddenly circled around and aimed directly for her. Emmala walked out into the street to confront him, no longer afraid.

            "The alien miners?" she asked as the geron landed a few meters away.

            Startled, the creature gazed at her.
They are dead. All dead. How are you here?

           
"I hid during the battle." She would not tell him where she hid, and tried to block the image of the podium from her mind. "Are there any others who survived? Any other settlers?" she hurried to clarify.

           
Here, no, although I am looking for any who may have stayed behind and might still be alive. Many villagers fled past the boundary. Many more made it through to the next village.

           
Exodus. Her father and brother may have gone to Exodus. Emmala smiled to herself. Odd how apropos the name of the neighboring village had become.

           
Who are you?

           
"I am Emmala. I was Paired with Zonaton. Who are you?"

           
Akrim. I have not met you, but I know about you. I am happy to learn of your survival. Zonaton was a true friend of mine.

           
The geron's admission brought tears to her eyes. Tears which stung. She hastily wiped her eyes with her tunic.

           
Are you looking for something?

           
"My father and brother. I hope they're alive. They may be in the next village."

            The creature cocked his head.
Would you like I take you to the next village to continue looking for your family?

            Did she want to continue her search? Admittedly, she didn't, and she shook her head. "No, but thank you for the offer. If they're alive, so be it. If they're not..." She gave a half-hearted shrug. "Either way, I no longer care to have anything to do with them. I am simply curious to know if they lived through the attack."

           
Are you staying here?

           
Truthfully, she hadn't thought about it. But now that she'd been asked the question, the answer was clear.

            "No. I'm going home."

           
Home?

           
Yes, home. To the only real home she'd ever known. To the only place where she felt safe, and loved, and happy. "I'm going back to the mountains," she told the geron.

           
It will be a long, hard trek.

           
"I know, but I have some food, and I know how to hunt. I also know of a small trail leading up to the cave where Zonaton and I lived." She smiled at the memory. "He made it for me so I could go down and sit on the boulders, and watch the village from a distance."

           
I wish you well.

           
"The settlers who escaped over the boundary, will they be punished?"

           
No. They will be allowed to take up residence in one of the other villages. Or, if they wish, they may return here until they determine what they want to do next.

           
"Do they know the gerons are responsible for destroying the alien ships? And saving the rest of the villages on the planet?"

            She sensed amusement from the creature.

           
It is highly possible they recognize the errors of their ways. Perhaps they have learned that cooperation between our species is in the best interest for both humans and gerons.
       

            Emmala glanced around at the village that was no more than rubble in most areas. "Think they'll come back to rebuild?"

           
If they so wish, they may. This is their land, to use as they choose.

            "What if they don't? What if they decide to leave this place as it is?

           
Your species will want to bury their dead. If afterward they choose to leave this village as it is, that is also their right. We will not reclaim it.

           
She adjusted the pouch on her back and turned to gaze at the distant mountains, barely visible through the haze.

           
Are you leaving now? May I give you a lift?

           
"How about to the base of the mountain?"

           
Why not to the cave?

           
She shook her head. "No, thank you. I feel like climbing." The climb would give her time to think. Time to gather her thoughts and wits together, and try to come to a decision about what she would do for the rest of her life. One thing was clear. She couldn't stay here. Not with her father and brother, and definitely not with her mother. That Emmala, that life, was over as surely as if she had died during The Walk when she was five years old.

           
Or maybe it would have been better if I had died during the alien attack. At least that way I wouldn't be able to  think any more about Zonaton. I wouldn't miss him. And I wouldn't have to go on living without him.

            The geron bowed his head, and she wondered if she had inadvertently made her thoughts audible to him. Regardless, it no longer mattered. Emmala took her seat across his shoulders. Without another word, the immense creature took to the air, circling over what was left of Genesis before heading for the peaks. She gazed in silent awe at the destruction below, seeing for the first and only time how much ruin had been brought to the village.

            She continued to stare over her shoulder as the town grew smaller and smaller. And when the clouds finally obscured all sight of it, she turned around and never looked back again.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Return

            Getting to the small ledge where the flatter boulders lay in a jumbled pile was the hardest part of the trail. The climb up was steep, and she lost her grip several times. Thankfully, she didn't fall, or else she could have ended up seriously injured.

            Once she reached the ledge, she paused to catch her breath. The trail was there, visible albeit narrow. With renewed purpose, she hurried up the twisting path, remembering every berry bush, split stone, and totem she'd scraped onto the rock wall as she got nearer and nearer to the cave. With each step, the tension dripped out of her. But she was also aware of the sadness that gradually crept back into her soul.

            Zonaton would not be there, waiting for her when she returned. He would not swoop down with a fresh morsel of meat he wanted to share with her. Or surprise her with a new change of clothes. Or urge her to hurry and climb onto his back because there was something he wanted to show her.

            Overwhelming sorrow suddenly stole her breath and burned her eyes with tears. Her legs gave way, and Emmala slumped to the ground. Bent over at the waist, she wept. Wracking sobs shook her body as she finally let herself mourn her loss. The loss of all warmth, security, and comfort. The loss of a friend, confidant, and truest love. A love that she knew was returned the only way a geron could love. A love that had saved her life fifteen years ago.

            Pounding the ground with her fist, she screamed at the heavens as the dirt beneath her face turned to mud. She cursed the people in the village for their ignorance and refusal to see the truth, but she cursed her mother more. The woman hadn't been able to let her go, so she'd turned her venom on Zonaton. Her mother was solely responsible for preying on the villagers' fear of gerons, making him wide open to attack. Regardless of everything else, Emmala blamed the woman for his death. Not the people who had fired their weapons. They had been her mother's pawns, so the woman could declare herself innocent. The way she'd always blamed Emmala for all the beatings and punishments she'd had to inflict upon a five-year-old child, claiming disobedience and disrespect as the reason for the punishments. When, in truth, Emmala could not remember a single incident where she had defied her parent. Not until she went to live with Zonaton, and the geron had shown her how to cope, did she learn what had actually occurred.

            "I hope you died in the attack," Emmala muttered darkly, her words coming in starts and stops as she gasped for breath. "I hope you're gone forever. I never want to see or hear of you again." Having made the confession, she felt as if her soul had been cleansed. As if she had broken that one remaining bond between her and her family. Whether her mother survived or not no longer mattered. Same as with her father and brother. She was free of them. Free of being oppressed. Free from any further abuse.

            But she was also alone

           
It doesn't matter. I can live alone. I can live with myself. I no longer have anything to fear.

            Taking a deep breath, she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her tunic, then blew and wiped her nose on the hem. The cold wind blowing over the ridge felt good on her hot face.

            Getting to her feet, she looked behind her at the distant remains of the village. From where she stood, she could see the fires that continued to burn, throwing dark gray smoke into the wind. She sniffed, but barely detected the smell. A couple of gerons flew over the destruction, probably searching for survivors. She turned her back on the sight and continued up the path.

            Emmala paused as she rounded the last turn, and stared at the wide crack in the side of the mountain that was, that had been and would always be, the only place she would ever call home. It was now an empty cave. A dark and sometimes damp place to live. Prone to drafts when the wind came over the peaks. But still a home, which always offered a breath-taking view of the stars on cloudless nights.