Moonscatter (36 page)

“Uh-huh. So?” He pushed away from the bank, his eyes on her hand.

“I don't want to take chances. I forgot before. She took her boot from under her belt and slipped the silver box from the pocket, glancing at him as she did so, surprised to see him frowning thoughtfully at the crystal glowing in the nest of the pouch. “Things
are
different up here.” She shut the tajicho in the box, put the box in the pouch and pulled the neck shut. “You aren't supposed to notice the tajicho.”

“Ah.” He settled back against the washwall, yawned sleepily. “Thought it was something serious.” He grinned at her indignant snort. “Where you think the fliers went?”

“No idea.” She slipped the thong over her head, sat silent one hand clutched about the pouch feeling the corners of the box hard against her palm. Afraid—a little. An oddly distant fear as if something about the plateau put a barrier between her and him who she feared. With a hissing intake of air between stiffened lips, she uncurled her fingers and dropped her hand on her thigh. She felt suddenly naked without the tajicho touching her, bereft, aching as if she'd been beaten on every limb. She rubbed her thumb across her lips.
Addiction
, she thought. She laughed but the laughter trailed off as she began to wonder just how true that was.

A peremptory call brought her eyes up. Pa'psa hovered above her, clutching in small three-fingered hands the skinny neck of a fat tan gourd. Soug'ha was behind him with a second gourd. The darker male descended until he was just out of reach. Serroi sat very still, wondering what was about to happen.

Soug'ha giggled suddenly, dived past Pa'psa, skimmed past Serroi's head, the tip of one wing brushing her nose. As he scooted over her lap, he dropped the gourd. With more giggles he climbed at a steep angle, his wings biting deep into the air. Pa'psa snapped with rage at this presumption. He dropped his gourd beside the other and went whipping after Soug'ha. With a hard kick he sent the younger male tumbling, wings working frantically to recover his hold on the air. Leaving Soug'ha temporarily chastened, he came back to Serroi, hovered close in front of her, eyes like black beads moving over her face. He reached out and touched her cheek, his tiny nails moving across her skin in scratchy lines, not hurting her though she was aware of their sharpness. For an instant only he touched down on her knee (and she was very glad she'd thought to tuck the tajicho away, though perhaps up here nothing much would have happened), his hard talons pricking through the fine wool of her borrowed trousers, then he shot up and away until he was some distance over her head. He circled up there, a look of intense satisfaction on his small round face. Soug'ha flitted about behind him, a small drooping image of chagrin, his daring far outplayed by his elder.

Serroi rubbed her stomach as it grumbled again.

“Shiapp-shap,” Pa'psa cried. “Shiapp.” He swooped down, zipped across Serroi's lap, climbed again and mimed drinking.

Serroi lifted one of the gourds. By the weight of it there was something inside, probably a liquid of some kind. She looked up. Pa'psa looped over and over, threw his head back and once again mimed glugging from a bottle. He straightened himself, his black eyes shining. “Shiapp,” he said.

“Shiapp,” Serroi said. She lifted the gourd, touched the stopper to her lips.

The little man nodded his head and darted off downstream, Soug'ha trailing less enthusiastically behind.

Serroi turned the gourd around in her hands. It had a light-tan ground speckled with orange and ocher. The outside was smooth with small smooth lumps scattered lavishly over the swelling belly. The stopper was a chunk of pithy vine. She worked it loose and laid it on her thigh, tilted the gourd over her palm. A thick, flower-scented liquid crept out, oozing into an amber pool that caught the light and glowed with it. She touched her tongue to the liquid. It was sweet-tart, not so cloying as she feared. She let the viscous liquid roll off her palm and into her mouth. Her lips and tongue tingled. Her mouth tingled, went numb, then was flooded with sensation, a dozen different tingles and tastes at once.

She felt Hern's worry. “Isn't that taking a chance?” he said.

She shook her head, frowned as she touched her tongue to her lips, moved it slowly along her lower lip trying to isolate the tastes, giving that up when they faded too quickly. A slow explosion warmed her middle. “Good. Have some.” She reached the second gourd around to Hern.

Pa'psa came back, several smaller pale brown females trailing after him, brushing wingtip against wingtip for reassurance. Shyly they circled over Hern and Serroi, then retreated to cling to the far side of the wash, watching and whispering rapid syllables to each other.

Serroi laughed, Hern laughed. Serroi lifted the gourd to her lips and sucked the rest of the liquid out of it, Hern lifted the gourd to his lips and sucked the fluid out of it. Serroi felt the double swallowing, the double explosion in two mouths, turned her head slightly and saw she was feeling the movements of Hern's throat and her throat in tandem. She turned back, blinked up at Pa'psa. The hair on the tiny man's body was outlined in light. For an instant, like the fleeting touch of the flier's talons on her knee, she felt tied to him as strongly as to Hern, sharing and passing on his delight—then it was gone, though the link to Hern still lingered. Well-being flowed through her-Hern. She laughed, Hern laughed, Pa'psa went tumbling over and over in soundless aerial laughter.

The glow gradually muted into a calmness that left her tired but happy. Pa'psa continued to circle over them for a while, then grew bored and went soaring off. Leaning comfortably against Hern she watched more of the fliers as they flitted past, carrying webbed loads to the section of cliff where others of their clan were gouging out shallow holes in the crumbly earth. The amber fluid sitting warm in her stomach, in Hern's stomach, they watched a vee of tiny kits fly about, chattering, wheeling away before they got too close, not daring to come really close, squeaking challenges at each other, prodding each other into darting swoops above her head. She laughed, Hern laughed. The kits went climbing frantically up the air, wings clawing for height, a little uncoordinated, lacking the smooth bite of the adults. For a moment she was annoyed at herself, at Hern, for scaring them, then she realized it was simply their flight-reflex, sighed, relaxed, felt Hern relax. The kits climbed high enough to feel safe then they were playing over Hern and Serroi, throwing loops and chasing each other with noisy exuberance.

“Setting up house.” Hern's voice was low and amused. He straightened his legs carefully, moving his calves up and down to ease out cramps from sitting so long in one position. Serroi moved her legs to ease cramps she hadn't noticed before. As she continued to watch the antics of the kits, her vision doubled. She saw the kits, saw the adults working away at the wash bank, the second image alternately background and foreground. She pushed slowly away from Hern, lurched up onto her knees and worked herself around until she was facing him. He jammed the heels of his hands onto the sand, pushed himself up to face her.

She looks at him, sees herself staring at him, him staring at her, him seeing himself looking at her, the seeing and the see-ers replicated into infinity as if she and Hern, he and Serroi, crouched between parallel mirrors. Outside that pairing both hear the whiffle of the fliers' wings, both feel their bounding curiosity and their fizzing excitement. Serroi is distracted, Hern is distracted by the high singing chatter flung between them. Hern and Serroi break apart, blink, are dazed and bereft.

Serroi stretched out her hand, Hern took it. “You all right?”

She nodded. “You?”

He laughed, the sound a bit shaky. “Shaky,” he said.

“Me too,” she said. She pulled her hand loose, got to her feet, looked around for her spear. “Want something else in my stomach.” She glanced at the busy fliers. “Better lay off meat for a while.”

Hern grunted up, using the two spears to help him push onto his feet. “You're being right again.” He handed her the spear. “Watch it, little bit.”

the tenth day

They were moving more slowly, inadequate diet putting some strain on their strength, the continual need to hunt for food slowing them more than either liked. Hern ate the tubers she baked, the sweet fruits of the vines, the tulpa stems, the nut-flavored grains they stripped from small patches of grass, shared the meatless diet. Slow progress, meals that for the most part didn't end, a continual eating as they walked, a continual digging and collecting. Still, they kept going. The days were warm and cloudless, the night clear, cool, brilliant.

The fliers traveled with them. After a few days the shy females gathered courage enough to fly close and pat her cheek, pat her hair. They were fascinated by the springy sorrel curls.

The plateau stretched out nearly flat to a distant horizon with wide expanses of grass breaking up the expanses of brush. It was a gently monotonous landscape dominated by pale browns and dusty muted greens. There was an inconspicuous abundance of vegetation, much of it smaller than the palm of her hand. A rather pleasant biting odor clung to everything growing and blew in the air they breathed and was concentrated in the honey drink the fliers kept feeding them.

They slowly grew accustomed to living in two bodies. It made walking difficult and nights interesting. It was sometimes confusing when, for an instant at first, for expanding snatches of time, they couldn't be sure which pair of eyes they were looking through or who was really doing the talking no matter which voice sounded. They touched a lot, walked when they could hand in hand, they came back together often just to touch hands. They slept curled up together, body pressing against body with not the slightest hint of sexual desire.

On the tenth night they first shared dreams:

HERN'S DREAM: “Fat boy. Greedy little fat boy. Why am I cursed with such a lump of lard?” His father's back. His father walking away. His father ignoring him. The room is huge. There are cobwebs of shadow in the distant corners and cobwebs of shadow layer on layer brushed across the ceiling. His father's footsteps boom even after he is no longer in sight, having passed through the door, a gaping hole in one wall.

The boy stands up, the room echoes with every move, the sound buffetting him. He is a round little boy nearly as wide as he is tall but he moves with a quick grace that he knows nothing of. His father is tall and lean, one of the bony Heslins, and continually berates him for greed, his father has been disappointed in him almost since he was born. The boy's footsteps echo as he crosses to the gap in the wall, following his father though he is cold and sad and knows his father doesn't want him around.

The hallway outside the room constricts about the boy. Sweating, gritting his teeth he forces himself into the darkness. The air is lifeless and chill, there is a threatening feel to the passage. The walls come in closer and closer until he is terrified of getting stuck, but he won't stop or go back, his urgency drives him on in spite of his fear. The passage opens with shocking suddenness and he is in his father's office before he can stop and he bumps into a one-legged table with an oil lamp on it. The hot oil splashes over everything, sets the rug and some papers on fire. His father stands over him, his face contorted with rage, purple with fury, his chin beard waggling furiously as he shouts curses at the cowering boy, kicks at him, growing larger and uglier by the minute. The boy shrinks back, literally shrinks, getting smaller and smaller until he is rat-sized and his father's huge foot is poised over him about to step on him.

He is cowering on his bed, trying to strangle his sobs before they can sneak out of his throat. A young woman comes in, one of his nursemaids, charming and neat in her crisp white blouse and pleated black skirt. The skirt whispering about her quick little ankles, she hurries to him, exclaiming with distress. Gathering him in soft herb-scented arms, she murmurs soft affectionate coos. She is warm and soft. She reminds him of when he has just taken a bath and dried off and it is just a little cool and he has on a clean crisp sleep smock and is crawling in between sweet-scented sheets. He leans against her, smelling her, revelling in the feel of her, revelling in the warmth and affection pouring out of her. She pats him a few times more, tucks him into bed, leaves the room.

In a blink she is back. Others are with her. A half dozen nursemaids laughing and teasing him, kissing him and fondling him, feeding him cakes and tartlets and hot, spiced cider. Then they tuck him back into bed and go out with subdued giggling and gossiping.

He is sneaking out with his nursemaid early in the morning. She lets him trail her like a friendly pup. She pats him like a pup, ignores him like a pup. She is sneaking down to the guard barracks to see her “friend,” taking the boy with her, knowing he won't tell on her, knowing he'd lie like anything to protect her. She has done this before. He watches her cuddle in the bushes with her guard; he is jealous and unhappy, fidgeting from foot to foot, trying to whistle, producing a few abortive notes. The guard scowls at him over the nursemaid's shoulder—and it is his father's face scowling at him. He screams. The nursemaid ignores him, it always happens when his father is with a woman, even his mother, no matter how close the woman has been to him. They pet and spoil him and forget him when his father is there. He runs off into the bushes, shrunk to rat size again, bumping from trunk to trunk in his blind frightened scurry.

A large man with dark pewter hair is sitting on the barracks steps. He looks ancient to the boy. The boy halts, sucks on his lip, watches the old man draw a piece of soft leather along a shining blade. The old man frowns at him but says nothing. The boy sees that the old man knows him and disapproves of his wandering about by himself. The old man slides the sword into its sheath and sets it down beside him, leaning along the steps. Ignoring the boy, he picks up a piece of wood carved into a knife shape, a twisted hilt and a long hooked blade, blunt along the inner curve. He slices off shaving after shaving with slow patient care, putting the finishing touches on the carving. The boy sits down some distance from the man, watches him, fascinated. The carving goes on and on. The old man works with patient care, the boy watches with the same patience. No one else comes, there is, as far as the boy is concerned, no one else in the world.