Alan Dean Foster - Catechist 1 - Carnivores Of Darkness & Light

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CARNIVORES of LIGHT and DARKNESS
Journeys of the Catechist Book 1
Alan Dean Foster
THE SKY BEGAN TO DARKEN AND A VOICE BOOMED BEHIND THEM It was the lament of
something that was less than a beast and more than a natural phenomenon, the unnaturally drawn-out
moan of a fiend most monstrous and uncommon. The fleeing travelers turned, and saw at last what had
tried to ambush them. It advanced not in the manner of a living creature but in the manner of sand. It had
no arms and then a hundred, no feet but one as wide as the base of the advancing dune itself.
Everywhere and all of it was dark red, like all the rust that had ever afflicted the metals of the world
squeezed into a swiftly shifting pyramid of rage. The dune howled and moaned and bellowed like some
sky-scraping banshee unwillingly fastened to the Earth. And in the midst of all that geologic fury, two-
thirds up the face of the oncoming mountain, were two eyes...
"This odd and engaging fantasy has an apparently African setting, but... owes far more to Grimm's fairy
tales....
It's a wondrous journey." -Locus
"Top-drawer Foster, featuring a fast-paced mix of wry humor, high fantasy, and amazing new places and
creatures." -Publishers Weekly
"Combines the flexibility of a picaresque adventure with the simplicity of a folktale.... This promising
series opener belongs in most libraries." -Library Journal
"Etjole's quest is reminiscent of The Odyssey." -VOYA
For Absalom... Who burned to know how to read.Cape Cross Station, Skeleton Coast, Namibia
November 1993
IT WAS THE MORNING AFTER THE SENSUOUS SECOND FULL MOON of Telengarra, which
heralds the coming of the spring rains, when little Colai came running into the village to cry that there
were dead people washing up on the beach. And not just dead people, but people of unnatural aspect
attired in strange clothes, whose pale faces were unmarked by ritual scars yet sometimes overgrown with
hair. Most of the village was not yet awake when the frantic boy came running and shrieking past the
houses. At first his mother thought it was a trick. She caught him and shook him, angry that he should
disturb everyone's morning for the sake of a joke. Then she saw something that, like a piece of grit, had
become caught at the bottom of his eyes, and stopped shaking him. Together they hurried to the house of
the chief. Asab was just emerging as they arrived. He fumbled to adjust his fine musa-skin cloak with
the impressive dark blue stripes and the phophilant headdress with its sweeping crest of intense red and
yellow feathers. He was clearly upset at having been rousted from his sleep before normal cockcrow.
Hastily donned, his headdress kept threatening to slip from his head. "I saw them, I saw them!" In
addition to Asab, a crowd had begun to gather around Colai and his mother as the boy declaimed
breathlessly. "Now, child," the chief intoned solemnly, "what is it you think you have seen?" Other men
and a few of the women clustered close, rubbing sleep from their eyes while fighting back the sour
morning taste of recent dreams. "Dead people, Chief Asab! Many of them, very different from us." The
boy barely paused for air as he turned and pointed. "On the beach. Above where the mussels and the
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tyrex shells grow!" Sleepy faces glistening with a reluctance to believe turned to the tall, lanky head of
the village. Asab briefly considered the child's harangue before finally frowning down at the anxious,
panting youth. "We will go and see. And for your sake, boy, there had better be something on the sand
besides shells and dried sea noodles!" While barren of all vegetation save a little grass and a few hardy
weeds, the beach was not devoid of wood. Gigantic logs cast ashore by the cold Samoria Current littered
the sand and protruded from rocky outcroppings where they had been hurled by violent storms.
Interspersed among the unbranched, well-traveled forest giants were the whitening bones of demised sea
creatures large and small: whales and serpents, birds and batwings, fish and stoneaters. From such
bountiful detritus did the villagers recycle useful materials for their homes and barns. "There!" Colai
pointed, but the gesture was unnecessary. Everyone saw the hungry dragonets circling over the spot.
There were a dozen or more of the little black scavengers. Wings folded, another four or five sat on the
sand picking at irregular lumps that on closer inspection resolved themselves into perhaps a dozen
human figures. Ululating and waving their spears as they approached, the villagers frightened the
carrion-eaters away. Hissing their displeasure, the raven dragonets rose into the transparent air on
noisome, membranous wings, content for now to circle slowly overhead. They would wait. Truth to tell,
if anything Colai had understated the matter. The bodies were more than passing strange. Just as he had
claimed, several showed faces matted with hair, mostly black or brown but some as yellow as the gold
that Morixis the Trader brought from the far southern mountains. The figures were clad in an excessive
amount of clothing, all of it dyed overbright and some fashioned of cloth so fine it was soft as a little
girl's tears. On top of this barbaric display of color most also wore armor of heavy cured leather of a type
unknown to Asab or any of the other village warriors. Scenes that showed men fighting with one another
and strange animals and buildings were deeply embossed on breastplates and leggings. With so much
weight to carry it was a wonder that any of them had been washed ashore. Asab and two of his best
warriors knelt beside one man. With one exception, all the bodies on the beach were shorter and stockier
than the average villager. They were also exclusively male. "See." Tucarak ran a finger along the dead
man's exposed cheek. It was cold with the damp of the sea and infused with death. "How smooth the
skin is. How untouched." With his other hand he traced the curving scar, a sign of manhood, that
decorated his own cheek. "And how pale," added a disapproving Houlamu as he rose. "Who are these
men, and where do they come from?" Raising his gaze, he squinted out to sea. Nothing was to be seen
save the dark, chill water, not even a lingering cloud. There were only the endlessly rolling waves and
the amazingly homogeneous deep blue of the morning sky. "Well, they are dead, and I am sure they
would not want their dying to be wasted." With that Asab ceremoniously began the salvaging of the
deceaseds' belongings, beginning with their curious apparel and assiduously examining every bulge and
pocket for anything, however foreign and exotic, that might prove useful to the village. "Can we safely
eat them, do you suppose?" Tucarak held a blood-and-salt-water-soaked shirt up to the sun. "They look
like men. So they should taste like men." "Ho-yah," agreed Asab. "We will let old Fhastal try a bit of
leg. She will eat anything." The chief chuckled softly. "If it does not kill her, we will know it is safe for
the rest of us." Houlamu contemplated the proposed dismemberment with distaste. "You can eat them if
you wish. I only eat what I know. Or who I know." He nudged another of the limp bodies roughly with
the butt of his spear. "These are plumper folk than the Koipi or the Nalamhat." As he spoke, Tucarak
was tugging hard on the corpse's unusual footgear. It was much too awkward and heavy to be worn on
Naumkib feet, of course, but cut into pieces it might provide the makings for a couple of pairs of
serviceable sandals. "If anything, I would think they would taste better than our neighbors." While the
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chief and his warriors debated the deceased visitants' suitability for the cooking pot, other members of
the tribe wandered up and down the waterline in search of other bodies. Among the searchers was a
particularly tall warrior, tall even for a Naumkib, whose somber aspect was the subject of much good-
natured gibing among his peers. In response to the frequent jokes made at his expense, Etjole would
always smile tolerantly and nod. He was not one to spoil the fun of his hunting companions even when
he was the butt of their entertainment. "Help... me..." The words were barely audible, and for a moment
Etjole Ehomba thought they were only subtle distortions of the surf-music, sprinkled upon his innocent
ears like wind-blown foam. Having paused momentarily, he started to resume his walk, convinced he
had heard nothing. "Please... by whatever god you pray to... help me..." Not foam, not wind, but the
dying utterances of a man very like himself. Halting, Ehomba looked northward along the shore with a
tracker's experienced eyes, sweeping the rocks and sand for signs of life. Eventually, he found it-or what
was left of it. The man was younger than himself, sturdily built, and clad in the most elaborate garments
anyone had yet seen on the bodies on the beach. His fine leather armor extended down to cover his
upper arms and legs, but it had not been enough to preserve him. There was a great hole in his right side,
through which glistening red flesh and pale white bone were clearly visible. Ehomba wondered how he
had survived even this long with so deep a wound. It was ragged around the edges, clear evidence of a
bite. Whatever had done it had bitten clean through the thick, tough armor. A big shark might have made
such a wound, he knew. There were many sharks in the waters offshore from the village. Yes, it might
have been a shark-or something else. The man's hair was straight, shoulder length, and golden. Very
different from the thick braids that were bound up in a tight bunch at the back of Ehomba's neck. He
marveled at the wispy strands. Leaning forward, he wiped sea slime and sand from the pallid face. At his
kindly touch, the other's eyes opened. They were a delicate, diluted blue, but not yet entirely dimmed,
and they focused immediately on him. "You... who are... ?" "I am Etjole Ehomba, of the tribe of
Naumkib. You and many others have been cast ashore on the beach below our village. Your companions
are all dead." His gaze flicked briefly over the cavity in the younger man's torso. "You are dying too. I
know a little medicine, but not enough to help you. Not even the old wise women of the village could
help what I see. It is too late." The stranger's reaction was not what Ehomba expected. The man's eyes
grew suddenly, shockingly wide. Reaching up, he clutched the taller man's wool overshirt and used it to
pull his ruined, bleeding upper body off the sand until his face was only a foot away from that of his
finder. In light of the terrible injury he had suffered, the effort of will required to accomplish this feat
was nothing short of astonishing.
Staring straight into Ehomba's eyes, he hissed in his odd, uneven accent, "You must save her!" "Save
her? Save who?" Ehomba's bewilderment was absolute. "Her! The Visioness Themaryl of Laconda!"
Remarkably, and with what invisible reserves of strength one could only imagine, the man was shaking
Ehomba by the front of his overshirt. "I do not know of what, or of whom, you speak," the herder
responded gently. Exhausted by this ultimate physical exertion, the wounded stranger collapsed back on
the sand. He was breathing more slowly now, and Ehomba could sense Death advancing fluidly across
the surf, choosing as its avenue of approach, as it so often did, its friend the sea. "Know that I am Tarin
Beckwith, son of Bewaryn Beckwith, Count of Laconda North. The Visioness Themaryl was my
countess, or my countess-to-be, until she was carried off by that pustulance that walks like a man and
calls itself Hymneth the Possessed. Many"-he coughed raggedly, and blood spilled from his lips as from
an overfull cup-"many of the sons and masters of the noble houses of Greater Laconda took a solemn
oath never to rest until she was returned to us and her abductor punished. To my knowledge, I and my
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men were the only ones to track the monster's ship this far." He paused, wheezing softly, praying for
breath enough to continue. "There was a battle this morning, on the sea. My men fought valiantly. But
Hymneth is in league with the evils of otherness. He cavorts with them, delights in their company, and
calls upon them to help defend his miserable self. Against such foulness and depravity even brave men
cannot always stand." Once more the watery blue eyes, the life fading from them, fastened on Ehomba's
own. "I pass on the covenant to you, whoever you are. I charge you, on the departure of my soul, to save
the innocent Themaryl and to restore her to the people of Laconda. With her abduction, the heart has
gone out of that land, and all who dwell within it. I, Tarin Beckwith, place this on you." Ehomba shook
his head slowly as he gazed down at the stranger. "I am but a simple herder of cattle and harvester of
fish, Tarin Beckwith." He gestured with the tip of his spear. "And this is a poor man's land, spare of
people and resources. Not a place in which to raise armies. I would not even know which way to begin
searching." Raising himself off the sand with a second tremendous effort, Beckwith turned slightly at the
waist and pointed. Sunlight glistened off his visible intestines. "To the northwest, across the sea. There!
Having defeated the only ones capable of following him, Hymneth the depraved will feel safe in
returning now to his home. I am told it lies in the fabled land of Ehl-Larimar, which is far to the west of
Laconda. Seek him there, or find another who will." Once more, clenching hands clawed at Ehomba's
simple attire. "You must do this, or the innocent Themaryl will be forever lost!" "You expect too much
of me, stranger Beckwith. I have a family, and cattle to watch over and protect, and-" Ehomba halted in
midsentence. His encumbrance delivered, the life force spent, the spirit of Tarin Beckwith of Laconda
had at last fled his body. Gently but firmly, Ehomba disengaged the insensible fingers from his shirt and
laid the upper part of the destroyed body down upon the cool sand. It lay there, teal blue eyes staring
blankly at the sky, as the herdsman rose. It would be a privilege, he knew, to consume a chop cut from
the flank of so brave and dedicated a man. When the time came for the sharing out of the food, he would
make a point of making this claim to Asab. As to the dead man's trust, there was nothing he could do
about it, of course. He had spoken him the truth. There were family and herd and village responsibilities
to look after. What matter to him the troubles and tribulations of a people from far away, or the carrying
off of one woman? Suarb and Deloog came running over. They were young men, not yet acknowledged
elders, and they nodded to him respectfully as they knelt by the now motionless form at his feet. There
was excitement in their voices, and their eyes were alight with the pleasure to be found in something
new. "Etjole, you found this one, but you do not take his belongings." Suarb eyed him uncertainly while
Deloog gazed at the heavily embossed leather armor, openly covetous. "No. I have no interest in such
things. They are yours if you want them." Elated at their good fortune, the two youths began to strip the
body of useful material. As he yanked on a pants leg, Deloog watched the taller, older man curiously.
"These are fine things, Etjole. Why do you not take them?" "I have been given something else, Deloog.
Something I did not ask for and do not want, and I am not sure what to do with it." The youths
exchanged a glance. Ehomba was known for sitting and saying nothing for long periods of time, even
when he was not guarding the herds. A peculiar man, for certain, but kindly and always helpful. The
boys and girls of the village, and not a few of their parents, thought him peculiar, but nice enough in his
own quiet fashion. So the two young men did not make fun of him behind his back as he walked away
from them, up the beach toward a point of rocks. Besides, they were too excited by their booty. Working
his way up into the rocks, Ehomba found a flat, dry place and sat down, positioning his spear in the
crook of his right arm and resting his chin on his crossed forearms. Small waves broke themselves
against the cool, gray stone. Farther up the coast, seals and merapes played in the surf, occasionally
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hauling out to dry themselves on the sun-warmed beach. The merapes would crack clams and abalone to
share with the seals, who did not have the benefit of hands with which to manipulate rocks. Out there,
somewhere, lay lands so distant he had never heard of them, exotic and alien. A place by the name of
Laconda, and another called Ehl-Larimar. A woman being taken from one to the other against her will.
A woman many men were willing to die for. Well, he already had a woman worth dying for, and two
children growing up strong and healthy. Also cattle, and a few sheep, and the respect of his
contemporaries. Who was he to go searching across half a world or more on behalf of people he did not
know and who would probably laugh at his untutored ways and plain clothes if they saw him? But a
brave and noble man had charged him with the duty as he lay dying. As it always did, the sight of the
sea and the waves soothed Etjole. Yet he remained much troubled in mind. Half the day was done when
finally he rose and started back to the village. All the bodies had been removed from the beach, leaving
only the dark stains of blood to show where they had lain. Come high tide, the sea would cleanse the
sand, as it cleansed everything else it touched. That night there was a solemn feast in honor of the
strangers who had died on the shore below the village. Everyone partook of the cooking, and it was
agreed without dispute that wherever they had come from, it was a land of plenty, for their flesh was
sweet and uncorrupted. As he ate of Tarin Beckwith, Ehomba pondered the unfortunate man's final
words until those around him could no longer ignore his deep concern. Not wishing to lay his
melancholy on them, he excused himself from the company of his wife and their friends, and sought out
old Fhastal. He found her by herself off to one side of the central firepit, sitting cross-legged against a
tired tree while chewing with some difficulty on the remnants of a calf. Though white as salt, her hair
was fastened in neat braids that spilled down her back, and she had decked herself out for the evening in
her finest beads and long strips of colored leather. She looked up at him out of her one good eye and
smiled crookedly. The other eye, blinded in youth, gleamed chalky as milk. Given her few remaining
teeth, it was no wonder she was finding the meat tough going. "Etjole! Come and sit with an old woman
and we'll give the young girls something to gossip about tomorrow!" Her grin fell away as she saw that
his expression was even more serious than usual. "You are troubled, boy. It clouds your face like
smoke." Crossing his own legs beneath him, he sat down beside her, waving off her offer of meat,
broiled squash, or bread. "I need your wisdom and your advice, Fhastal, not your food." Nodding
understandingly, she picked at a strip of gristle caught between her remaining back teeth as she listened
to him tell of his encounter with the dying stranger on the beach. When he had finished, she sat silent in
contemplation for a long moment. "The stranger placed this burden on you as he lay dying?" When
Ehomba nodded, she responded with a terse grunt. "Then you have no choice." Idly she fingered the
lightly browned slices of squash in her bowl. "Are you or are you not a man of conviction?" "You know
that I am, old woman." "Yes, I do. So we both know what this means. You must finish this man's work.
One who dies in another's arms is no longer a stranger. Like it or not, he bound himself to you, and in so
doing, his mission was bound to you as well." The man seated across from her sighed heavily. "That is
also how I interpreted what happened, and it is what I feared. But what can I do? I am only one. This
Tarin Beckwith had many warriors with him, and they were not enough to save him or allow him to
succeed." Fhastal sat a little straighter. "They were not Naumkib. They were from outside the stable
world." He was not persuaded. "They were still men. That is all that I am." "No it is not." A gnarled fist
the color of spoiled leather punched him several times in the upper arm. "You are Etjole Ehomba,
herder, fisherman, father, warrior, and tracker. The best tracker in the village. Can you not track that
which is not seen as well as that which is?" "That is not so great a skill. Tucarak can do it, and so can
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Jeloba." "But not as good as you, boy. You know that you must do this thing?" "Yes, yes. Because this
Tarin Beckwith, whom I do not know, put it on me as he died. This is not fair, Fhastal." She snorted, her
nose twitching. "Fate rarely is. If you want me to, I will explain it to Mirhanja." "No." He uncrossed his
legs preparatory to rising. "I am her husband, and it is my responsibility. I will tell her. She will not take
it well." "Mirhanja is a good woman. Give her more credit. She understands honor and obligation." She
fumbled a slice of fried pumpkin into her mouth. "How old is your boy?" "Daki will be fourteen years
next month." Fhastal nodded approvingly. "Old enough to do a turn or two looking after the herd in your
stead. Time he started doing something useful. The little girl will have a harder time accepting this, but
her tears will pass." Reaching down, she removed one of the many colorful fetishes that hung in bunches
around her neck. It was a fine carving of a woman, done in the shiny gray horn of a stelegath. As he
leaned forward, she slipped the cord from which it hung over his head. "There! Now I can go with you. I
have seen the Unstable Lands in my dreams, and now I can travel with you to see them in person."
He smiled fondly as he studied the figurine hanging from its cord of sisal fiber. "You mean that this
image can go with me." "Oh no, big handsome!" She cackled gleefully. "It is the image you are speaking
to right now, the image that the village children make fun of and call names behind my back." She
pointed to the necklace. "That is the real me." For just an instant, he thought he saw something in her
blind eye. Something flickering, and alive. But it was only a trick of the weak light, distorted by the
cook fire. "I will carry it as an amulet," he assured her, not wanting to hurt her feelings. Fhastal meant
well, but she was a little crazy. "So that it will bring me luck." "If you'd carry it somewhere else on your
body, it might bring me luck." She laughed madly again. "I hope that it will, Etjole." She made shooing
motions at him, like a mother hen guiding one of her brood of chicks. "Now then-go and see to your
wife, so that you may lie with her before you leave. Make your farewells to your children. And be sure
to stop by Likulu's house. She and the other women will gather some small things to give you to take on
your journey. Meet me tomorrow by the stone lightning and I will set you on your way. I can do no more
than that." He straightened. "Thank you, Fhastal. With luck, I may be able to return this woman to her
people and return home in a month or two." He did not believe it as he spoke it, but that did not matter.
Fhastal did not believe it either. Without discussion, they chose to connive in the illusion.
IIMIRHANJA TOOK IT HARD, AS ETJOLE HAD KNOWN SHE WOULD. He tried to explain
slowly and carefully, not forgetting to include the confirming conversation he'd had with Fhastal,
reminding his wife again and again why he had to go. "If I did not do this thing, then I would not be the
man you married." Lying next to him, she reached over and hit him hard on the chest, a blow arising out
of frustration as much as anger. "Better half a live man unconvicted than a whole one dead! I don't want
you to go!" She pressed tighter against him, her thigh curling over his flat stomach. She was nearly as
tall as he, but in this she was not exceptional. The women of the Naumkib were famed for their
statuesqueness. "I have to. He who betrays a dying man's obligation is himself dimmed forever in the
sight of the heavens." "But you don't want to go." She kissed him ferociously on the neck. "No," he
confessed as he turned to her in the bed, "I do not." "Tucarak would not go. Not even Asab." "I do not
know that, and neither do you. But you do know me." "Yes, damn you! Why must you be such a good
man? You are going to try and save a woman you have never met, of a tribe you do not know, from a
land no one has ever seen, for a man you knew only for a moment as he lay dying. I know the depth of a
warrior's obligations, but can you not be even a little bit of a knave just for me?" "You are so beautiful."
He was running his fingertips light as a summer breeze over her forehead and back down across her hair,
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smoothing out the curls, trying to smooth away her fears as well. But despite his best efforts, they kept
springing back up again, just like the curls. "And you are a fool!" She placed gentle fingers on his lower
lip. "And I am cursed because that makes me a fool's wife." "Well then, Mrs. Fool, at least we are well
matched."
"Promise me one thing, then." She looked over at him, her eyes moist. "Promise me you will not stay
away long." "No longer than is necessary-wife." "And that while you are gone, when the nights are cold
and lonely, you will not lie with the beautiful women of far-off lands, but will remember that I am here,
waiting for you." He smiled, and the love he felt for her poured out of him like water from a cistern. "No
live woman could compare with even the memory of you, Mirhanja." He covered her then, feeling the
warmth of her surge up and around him, and she sighed beneath him even as he wondered when next he
might feel a part of her again. * * * *Early the following morning Daki stood solemnly watching,
maturing in the moment, but Nelecha would not let go of the leather strips that hung down and over his
woolen kilt. For so slim a child she had a lot of energy, all of which she put into crying "No, no!" over
and over, until her eyes were red from the seeping and her throat was sore. Eventually, reluctantly,
hopelessly, she let herself be gathered up in her mother's arms. He and Mirhanja had made their own
farewell the previous night. Several of Ehomba's closest friends among the men of the village had come
to see him off. He did not tell them he was going to meet Fhastal or they would have laughed at him. As
it was, there was no laughter. Only firm handclasps and sympathetic waving of hands as he turned and
started off along the coast path. They understood why he was going, but he could tell that, tradition
notwithstanding, several among them disagreed with it. "Asab could make you an exception. As chief he
can do that," Houlamu had told him before he started on his way. "Yes, but I cannot make myself an
exception, and it is myself I have to live with the rest of my days," he had replied.
"A short life it's liable to be, too, in the Unstable Lands," his friend had muttered. "I will track my way
clear," he assured them. "In the Unstable Lands? Where people are swallowed up by unreality, by things
that should not exist?" Tucarak was dubious, his tone bordering on the spiteful. "Who comes back from
those places? No one goes there." "Then how can you say that no one can come back?" Ehomba
challenged them, but try as they might they could not think of anyone foolish enough to have attempted
such a journey. Not in recent memory. As he crossed the point of rocks that led to the seal and merape
beach, he paused to pick up a handful of the wave-washed thumb-sized gravel. The merapes preferred
the purchase the sandless beach gave their hands, and the seals, their friends, went along with this
choice. Carefully he dumped the handful in a small wool sack and put it into a pocket, then buttoned the
pocket shut. Homesick in some far land, he could pull out the pebbles and they would remind him of the
village, his friends, his family. Few of his fellow warriors would have understood. Already burdened
with sleeping roll and leather backpack, no one else would have chosen to add ordinary beach pebbles to
the load. He looked back. The village was already out of sight, but he could see the fires from individual
houses rising into the pellucid sky. Sight of his home, reduced to smoke. What would congeal out of the
smoke that lay ahead? He pushed on. * * * *No one knew when the bolt of lightning had turned to stone
and embedded itself in the bank of the creek, but there was no mistaking its shape, or the way it made
everyone's skin tingle and hair stand on end when walking over it. This phenomenon made it a favorite
haunt of the village children, but none were running back and forth along its tormented petrified length
today. It was too early for that kind of exploratory play. As promised, Fhastal was waiting for him in
front of the unnatural natural bridge. "Good morning, big handsome." She took notice of his pack, his
best overshirt and kilt, the necklace of colorful, hand-painted and -drilled beads strung on a leather thong
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around his throat, the elongated spear he was using for a walking stick. In leather sheaths slung across
his back were two additional weapons: the short sword fashioned from the scavenged jawbone of a
whale that had been carefully lined on both sides with the inch-long, razor-sharp teeth of a great white
shark, and the slightly shorter sword the village smithy, Otjihanja, had forged from one of the hundreds
of lumps of nickel-iron that had fallen from the sky in archaic times and now littered the plain to the
southeast of the village lands. "Ready to begin the thing, I see." "As I must. As the covenant binds me to
do." Despite his determination, he was already having second thoughts. The dying Beckwith's words
were fading. But try as the herdsman might to shut it out, the stranger's face would not. She grinned
knowingly, showing an alarming paucity of front teeth. "You don't have to do this thing, Etjole. No one
in the village will think the worse of you if you change your mind now." "I will," he replied laconically
as he looked past her. Beyond lay the barren north coast, and farther still the river Kohoboth, that
marked the southern edge of the Unstable Lands. "The warrior Tarin Beckwith said that the woman
Themaryl would be taken to a country far to the northwest, across the great ocean. How shall I cross it?"
"You must keep traveling north," the old woman told him. "Make your way through the Unstable Lands
until you come to a place where the making of large boats is a craft, and take passage on one of them
across the Semordria." He looked down at her. "Is there such a land?" "In my youth I heard tales of such
kingdoms. Places where people live by knowledge that is different from ours. Not greater, necessarily,
but different. It is likely you may find passage there. If not"-she shrugged-"you may freely return home
knowing that you tried your best." "Yes, that is fair enough," he admitted, content with her conclusion.
"Obligations do not wait. Best I be on my way." A gnarled hand grabbed his wrist. There was surprising
strength in that withered arm. The one good eye stared up at him while the other seemed to turn in upon
itself. "You must come back to us, Etjole Ehomba. Among the Naumkib, it is you who stands the tallest.
And I am not making a joke about your height." "I will come back, Fhastal. I have a family, and herds to
look after." Bending down to plant a kiss on the aged, parchmentlike cheek, he was startled when she
shifted her face so that her lips met his. Her tongue dived into his mouth like a wet snake and he felt half
the breath sucked out of him. As quickly as it had happened, she pulled away. "Don't look so surprised,
big handsome." The smile she gave him took forty years off her life. "I am old, not dead. Now then, be
off with you! Discharge your obligation as best you can, and may the spirit of this Tarin Beckwith count
itself supremely fortunate to have departed this world in your arms and not those of another." He left her
there, waving atop the little ridge of rocks among the ghost trees as merapes squabbled for seafruit on
the pebble beach below. He watched until she turned and disappeared, beginning the long hobble back
toward the village. It would have been interesting, he found himself thinking, to have known Fhastal in
her youth. Better to devote his thoughts to the journey ahead, he told himself. Resolutely, he turned
away from the ridge, the village, and the only life he had ever known, and set his gaze and his feet
firmly on the path ahead. He passed the rest of the sheltered cove with its barking seals and chittering
merapes lying on the glittering gravel just above the steep shore break. One of the merapes threw an
empty oyster shell at him, but it landed well short of his legs. Funny creatures, the merapes. They could
be playful or vicious, depending on their mood of the moment. Not unlike people. Beyond the village
lay untold stretches of empty coast, for his clan inhabited the last mapped settlement this far to the north.
Traveling to the south he would have been in familiar territory. Though Wallab and Askaskos lay a
goodly distance down the coast, their people and those of the village knew of one another, and engaged
in regular commerce and trade. Beyond those villages was the larger trading town of Narkarros, and still
farther the villages of Werseba, Lanos, and Ousuben. The farther south one journeyed, the more fertile
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