Six Moon Dance (26 page)

As though he felt her stare, he looked up, returning her measuring look with an almost sneering arrogance. He was large and well built and handsome. She liked the cock of his head, that nervy, totally disrespectful stance she found appealing. She went home thinking of him.

She thought of him often over the next few days, scouring recollection as she tried to think who he resembled, happening upon long-repressed memories of her parents, as the child Marool had understood them through fourteen years of covert, obsessive observation. One memory jostled another, which bumped another yet, and she began waking in the night, heart pounding, gasping for breath, pursued by nightmare terrors which, except for a horrific vision of her father’s dead face, vanished before she was even awake. “Marool,” he said. “It wasn’t an accident….”

Finally, after waking three times in one night, she decided to put an end to it by finding out for herself how it was that her parents and sister had died. Everyone had said it was an accident. Her dream vision cast doubt upon that, ripping away almost two decades of complacency to reveal something horrid. If her family’s deaths had been purposeful, she needed to know who had done it, and why.

 The mountains of Newholme were not what one thought of as mountains in an Earthian sense: wrinkled, rocky land which, aside from being wrinkled and rocky, was not much unlike other land, that is, solid. The mountains of Newholme were not solid. Every prominence was drilled through with holes, bubbles, passageways, pits, and caverns. Every range was a speleological nightmare of twisting ducts, narrow channels, and precipitous galleries, most identifiable as volcanic in origin. No effort had been made to map the ramified and interpenetrating layers.

Only a few features of the wilderland attracted casual visitors: the Glittering Caves near Naibah; the Cavern of the Sea east of Nehbe; and the Combers, northwest of Sendoph, where an enormous set of lava tubes lay parallel, their southeastern sides eaten away by continual, grit-bearing winds to leave curling waves of rock, an eternal surf intent upon an unseen shore.

Water had penetrated into the Combers and eaten holes into the unseen tunnels below. Winds blew through the holes to make music that trembled up through the feet and could be sensed as a vibration in the bones of the leg or a shivering in the groin. Strange, pallid growths filled in the tunnels, expanding upward and sideways, some of them with tentacles and solar collector leaves and hollow stalks through which the fluids of the world could be seen pulsing.

On the surface, each comber was a linear world, un-crossable by anything without sticky feet to crawl on the underside of a vaulted overhang. If one climbed up the closed side, one could cross to the hp that curved to slick knife edges hanging twenty or thirty meters above the razor-edged fragments below. One could walk along the inside of a comber or clamber about in the soil-filled area between combers, and while doing so, one could fall through into any number of pits and deadfalls. For these and other reasons, people rarely found cause to go to the Combers.

Marool Mantelby’s family had met their deaths among the Combers, and Marool decided to go see for herself. No matter what people said, Marool’s parents would not have gone on a picnic, they would not have gone anywhere together without some strong and so far unfathomable motivation.

The Man of Business who had attended to the affair at the time accompanied her in the light carriage that jolted along a woodcutters’ rutted road as it wound back and forth among the stinks and steams of hot springs toward the wilderland. In addition to the Man of Business, Marool had hired a bulky guard from the post in Sendoph, and a driver, a wiry individual who had agreed to use his carriage only after she signed a release that allowed him to unveil once they were in the hills.

“I don’t drive on those roads ‘less I can see,” he said, rather too truculently for Marool’s taste. “There’s things in those hills, and I sure can’t outrun ‘em if I don’t see ‘em coming.”

“Things?” Marool inquired, in the voice she had been cultivating since leaving the Wasters, one that disguised her malice with a gloss of amiability. “What things are those, driver?”

“Things,” he repeated, rather less belligerently, mistaking her nature as she had intended. “People go missing with no sign how or where, so it has to be things. Stands to reason!”

“Ah,” she murmured. “Well, then, I will give you permission to go unveiled. Once we are in the hills.”

The guard required no such variation from custom. Guards wore tinted visors that covered their faces, allowing them to see out but others not to see in, and this one perched beside the driver, head swiveling alertly from side to side while Marool, seated behind them, contented herself with a view of backs and heads between which scraps of scenery were sometimes discernable.

“I can see no reason whatsoever that my parents would have come here,” she muttered.

“Nor I,” replied Carpon, the Man of Business. “Your father ordered a team hitched to a carriage, then he took it from the carriage yard himself, collected your mother and sister at the front steps and went off. The only servants who knew anything were the stableman and the cook, for your father had asked him to prepare a basket luncheon.”

“And who was it found them?”

“When they did not return by evening, their majordomo reported their absence to the guard post, and at first light dogs were fetched and the carriage was tracked—or more properly, perhaps, the horses were tracked—to the place they were found unharmed and still hitched. The luncheon, though much disarrayed by small creatures during the intervening hours, had obviously been laid nearby, some way back from the comber edge. I was with the group who found the bodies of your family members in a sink at the bottom. We recovered them for burial only with great difficulty.”

They continued on their way for some time while Marool digested this. “The driver,” she murmured, “mentioned
things
. Could they have been driven over the edge by
things?”‘

Carpon shifted uncomfortably on the seat. “One hears such stories, of course. One has never seen a
thing
, however, nor has one talked to anyone who has actually seen one. There are always subterranean noises in the mountains, and rumor makes more of them than is probably warranted.”

Marool was not inclined to believe in
things
, but as she and the Man of Business fell silent, they were uneasily aware that the only noises in these mountains were the ones made by themselves. Aside from the plopping hooves of the horse and the rattle of the wheels, the world was incredibly still. Even the steams that came from hidden vents to curtain the surrounding forest were silent.

“Just around the next bend,” said Carpon in too loud a voice.

They came around the bend into a clearing that spanned the tops of several of the great tubes running from southwest to northeast, the nearer ones to their left curling toward the southeast. To their right the tubes were buried, visible only at their centers as parallel trails of bare, wind-polished stone. Forest enclosed them on north and west. South, where the combers might otherwise have blocked their view of the valley, several of them had collapsed to leave receding jaws of jagged teeth framing a view of Sendoph, far below, like a square of patterned carpet: streets and buildings, plazas and parks, all hazed and faded by distance.

Marool climbed from the carriage, the Man of Business close behind her.

“Your father’s carriage was tied there,” he said, gesturing toward a copse of lacy trees at the edge of the clearing. “The trees were smaller then. Their luncheon was laid out there,” indicating a table-sized chunk of ancient, lichen-spotted lava standing some distance back from the edge with lower chunks around it that could serve as seats.

His voice was overly loud, Marool thought, and she raised a hand to her lips, shushing him and herself into the profound silence of the place. No bird song. No wind sound. No flutter of leaf. Only the breathing of the horses, the jingle and creak of their harness and the stamping of their restless feet.

She moved toward the edge of the comber. When the rock began to curve downward, she dropped to her knees to edge a bit farther. Before her, the stone was bare and wind-polished, curling into a razor edge above a litter of rock shards.

Marool crept backward, rising awkwardly beside the stone table. If Margon and Stella and Mayelany had been sitting here—which was in and of itself ridiculous—and if some creature had crept out of the dark woods that confronted her, might they have been frightened over the drop?

“Are there any people out here?” she asked Carpon.

“Wilderneers,” he said, in a tone that told her he smiled behind his veil.

“You think there are Wilderneers? Here or anywhere?” she demanded.

“Men disappear,” he replied. “All the time. Su-pernumes, seamen, Consorts. Even sometimes a Family Man. These lands are wide, there are innumerable places to hide, so I suppose there could be Wilderneers.”

Marool was unimpressed by disappearances. She herself knew how a good many had disappeared, and it had nothing to do with Wilderneers.

“Wait here,” she told him, lifting a finger to summon the guard and moving off among the trees as he trotted to join her. Behind her the driver and the Man of Business exchanged looks, eloquent in the cock of head and shrug of shoulder, though the one’s face was hidden. Together they sat down by the stone table to await her return.

Marool strolled in the profound shade of the trees, sniffing the air like a hound though she could smell nothing at all, staring at this thing and that though she had no idea what she was looking for, stopping short in the realization she was seeing something very strange.

On either side was a straight and rounded ridge of soil, the two ridges perhaps three meters apart, as though something huge and heavy had been dragged along here, pushing the dirt up at the sides. The ridges were overgrown with herbage and wild flowers, so whatever had made them hadn’t been here lately. She moved to the ridge at her right and walked along it, kicking at it aimlessly, stopping when an object caught her eye, near her feet. It was a piece of something, like shell.

She bent over and picked it up, turned it in her fingers, a piece as large as her two hands set together, slightly oily, knife edged, oval in shape, smooth on one edge, rough on the other, like a gigantic fingernail jerked from some enormous finger. It had gooey stains along one edge.

She held it out to the guard, who started to take it, then gasped as though it had bitten him. The warmth of her hand had brought an odor from that dry substance, a rank and feculent stink that was suddenly all around them, floating on the wind, moving the leaves of the trees.

Marool noticed nothing.

“Throw it away,” he muttered. “It stinks!”

She made a face at him, wrapped the thing in her scarf and put it in the reticule she carried at her belt, ignoring him as he turned aside, retching.

“You have a weak stomach for one in your occupation,” she said angrily, walking on only to encounter another track that had crossed the first one. On these ridges nothing grew. The soil was crumbly, newly thrust aside. Beside her, the guard stopped short, as though frozen in place.

“Chuh?” asked the world. “Chuh?”

It was a grunt, a growl, a chuffing interrogation, perhaps an expression of surprise, maybe of annoyance. It was loud enough to make the ground tremble, to shiver the leaves on the trees and to start little falls of dust from the sides of long buried rocks. It was echoed by a huffing shudder that repeated a guttural
uh, uh, uh, uh
as it faded toward the east. All this, Marool had time to notice before the sound, or another such sound came from another direction, a distance to the right, possibly … very possibly behind her.

“More than one,” she said not quite aloud, turning to lead the way out of the woods, hurrying, just short of running. “More than one.” Unless that last sound had been an echo. She did not think it had been an echo.

The guard followed silently, his head turning to look over one shoulder, then the other. He had not realized how far they had come among the trees. He had not realized what a time it would take them to get out again, to rejoin the others….

Who were not there. The carriage was there, and the horses, seemingly frozen into immobility, eyes wide, whites showing, nostrils flared, skin shivering, but making not a sound. When Marool got herself sufficiently under control to issue a command, the guard reluctantly fetched a rope from the carriage, tied himself to the stone table and let himself far enough down to look over the edge while she scanned the forest, seeing nothing. Then the rope trembled, and she turned to find the guard scrambling away from the edge on hands and knees.

They were there, he said, his voice cracking. They were there, far below. He could barely see their bodies among the broken rock. Marool chose not to look for herself. If someone wanted to retrieve the driver and the Man of Business, they would have to come out from town to do so.

She turned to go back to the carriage, stumbling a little, out of either haste or terror, admitting with a hysterical little laugh of self-discovery that it could have been either, as she stooped across a sudden pang, breathing deeply, deciding not to swoon away, not here, not in the company of this anonymous and uncaring guard.

“Throw it away,” cried the guard.

“What?” she demanded.

“That thing you picked up. Can’t you smell it?” he cried. “Don’t try to bring it with you. It will terrify the horses!”

“I need it,” she said. “I need it for something.”

The horses seemed more stunned than nervous, so he did not argue. Within moments the carriage was headed back down the road. Once in movement, the horses could be kept in check only with difficulty, and their panic did not cease until they were almost at the Mantelby gates.

S
omewhere between Newholme and whatever place it had been before, the Questioner’s ship swam in wavering nacreous lights that alternately flared and ebbed as the ship slid toward the end of a wormhole connecting with several other such through a brief real-space nexus. Questioner, who had been brooding about Newholme, paying little attention to the journey, was alerted by a blare from the ship’s annunciator, a Gablian voice: “Hold fast, hold fast, hold fast, wormhole ending, wormhole ending, worm hole ending … now.”