The Hundred: Fall of the Wents (24 page)

Remembering this, Hatch had the gut-wrenching sensation that he would have to eat again. The little Louse was his only recourse, if they did not find other creatures soon. Despite his antagonism toward Fangor, he dreaded what would happen. The tiny creature would no doubt perish. Hatch could not help who he was, but he was shamed by it.

After some struggles through the snow, Hatch took off the pack and rooted through it for a heat-candle, which he held near his face so that Fangor could receive some of the glow. The Sand Louse was appreciative. This Shrike was not so bad. Fangor pulled a bit of fluff from the base of a feather and gnawed it thoughtfully. It tasted of mushrooms and grass, with a bit of a moldy flavor—likely caused by the lack of sunlight in the Shrike stronghold.

After some time they finally reached the river. It announced itself by a wild and turbulent rumbling, from far off, which Fangor at first assumed was the Shrike’s stomach growling in hunger.

“Hey, why don’t you eat?” he said merrily. “What did you bring in that pack of yours? Is it enough for two? I don’t eat much, mind you, but I do enjoy a tasty bit of flavor now and again.” Fangor smacked his tiny jaws together appreciatively at the thought of a sweet or tasty bit, which would be a welcome respite from the feathers.

Hatch seemed to recoil at the suggestion. “Not hungry,” he said shortly.

In another few minutes they were at the water’s edge, looking down at a narrow gorge where the water seemed to fight angrily against itself in its southward progression. Great peaks shot up from the surface of the water where rocks were hidden in the depths. There was no way down to the water, and no way across.

“We will have to go upstream until we find a bridge or passage,” said Hatch. “I hear tell the river is not so wild further north.”

“If only you could fly,” mused Fangor. “Have you ever tried?”

“Certainly not,” said Hatch. “No Shrike can fly.”

“Then what are these for?” said Fangor, bouncing down from Hatch’s head to land on his lanky forearms, which were covered in stubby feathers and fur. “Feathers, eh! Put there for a reason, no doubt.”

“No reason,” said Hatch sourly. “My feathers are useless.”

“Ah!” said Fangor. “You are being hard on yourself. You wouldn’t think that a tiny Sand Louse could do anything worthwhile, but this isn’t true! Let me share with you a song I wrote while I was a prisoner of your people, forgotten and ignored. It is called
The Four Brave Companions.
”

Hatch shuddered, but Fangor began to sing:

First there was a group of three:

Copernicus, Aarvord, and Tull-eee!

Then they became a fearsome four,

With the addition of mighty Fangor!

Fangor, with tooth and claw of red,

Fangor fills all enemies with dread.

He’s the pride of the lice, his heart fair and true,

In trouble? Call on Fangor! He’ll know what to do.

“Stop!” said Hatch. “That song is reprehensible. It doesn’t have a good tune.” As a matter of fact, Hatch had rarely heard music before, except for the songs of a few woebegotten prisoners. Fangor’s little song made his skin twitch.

Fangor, offended, fell into silence. But he could not be silent for very long.

“Did my song teach you anything?” he asked in a wee voice. Hatch either had not heard or was ignoring him. “Perhaps, yes, you could fly? If you only tried?”

“To humor you,” said Hatch, “I will try.” He set down the rucksack in the snow. Fangor peered at it, wondering about the sweets and tasty bits that might be hidden inside. Hatch seemed relieved to have dropped it, which made Fangor think that it was heavy.

Hatch made a muttering noise and then flapped his puny wings maniacally in the air. Nothing happened.

“Oh good!” said Fangor. “Just the beginning! Flap harder.”

Hatch snorted with derision, but did as the louse had asked. His wings became a small blur, but Hatch did not rise from the ground even an inch.

“So you see,” said the Shrike sourly. “I cannot fly.”

Fangor, however, was thinking hard.

“You are trying it as Ells try it,” said Fangor. “They can lift straight up from the ground, with almost no effort at all! But you are not an Ell. I think your way to fly would be to
glide.
You must start from a high place and go down. Then, yes, you will be able to fly. For example, down over the river.
”

“Nonsense!” said Hatch. “No Shrike has ever been able to do this. It would be suicide.”

“No Shrike has tried!” shouted Fangor. He was inordinately excited by the thought of coaxing the Shrike into flight. How his name would be known in song then! How famous he would be! He thought of composing a song about it right then and there. It would begin:
The Shrike was earthbound ‘til the day, when Fangor spoke—they flew away!

Hatch looked out over the river
and Fangor could feel a twitch of excitement in the Shrike’s skin. Then Hatch turned to look at the rucksack and slumped a bit with disappointment.

“I cannot leave our supplies,” he said. “Not even for this death mission that you propose.”

“We will eat the supplies!” said Fangor excitedly. “What do you have in the pack, eh?” Fangor hopped down off Hatch’s head and onto the pack. The opening gaped wide, with plenty of space for a louse to slip in and take a peek.

“Stop!” said Hatch. “You can’t look at that!”

It was too late. Fangor had bounced right inside the pack, sniffing for tasty treats. It did not smell of anything good in here at all. In fact, it smelled of nothing. Fangor pushed past a stack of heat-candles and encountered something hard and cold. Hard as stone. It
was
a stone. Nothing but a big, ordinary rock! Its coldness seemed to reach out and touch him in his very core. He felt violently cold. He backed out of the pack as quickly as he could and gazed up at the Shrike with an expression of distaste.

“You brought a
rock
for our supplies? A rock and no food? A worthless old stone?” Clearly this Shrike was as stupid as he was ugly.

“The rock, as you call it, is very important to my comrades back at the stronghold. So I stole it,” said Hatch simply.

“Let’s see here,” mused Fangor. “They are all after you for your traitorous release of my friends. So you stole something that was very important to them, so that they would have yet another reason to come after you and find you! And that something was a
rock
.” Fangor spluttered with rage as he completed his sentence. He hopped back up Hatch’s arm and nestled into his neck feathers, for he had become very cold. Now there would be nothing to eat—nothing tasty, anyway. Stupid, stupid Shrike!

“It’s not just any rock,” muttered Hatch. “It is not really rock at all, but perhaps some type of metal. It may have the power to save life, bring immortality. To eat it would bring you eternal life.”

“Faugh, it would make my teeth hurt!” retorted Fangor, tearing off a bit of feather in a rough way so that Hatch winced and made as if to slap him. “I’m sure your rock is very special,” the Louse sniffed.

As Fangor chewed the feather, he happened to glance back in the direction from which they had come. He saw them, then. Two large Veldstack
s—horrifyingly huge beasts—pulling a sledge on which were a bevy of Shrikes. They had followed the progress of Hatch easily through the snow, and were drawing ever closer. The Shrikes had a catapult fixed to the sledge, and from it they flung hot, fiery missiles.

“Take your rock and throw it into the river,” said Fangor, hopping to Hatch’s ear to make sure the Shrike did not miss a word. “We have been followed. If there is any time to learn you can fly, it is now!”

Hatch turned and saw the Veldstacks approach. One of the missiles from the catapult burst in the snow very near them and began to give off an awful fume. The fiery odor made Fangor feel faint.

“Hurry!” he shouted.

Hatch did exactly as suggested. He picked up the rucksack and with one mighty heave tossed it over the cliff into the river below. Fangor could see it fall and tumble, and disappear beneath the water. At least that worthless piece of baggage had been discarded. Maybe some fool would eat it, but it wouldn’t be him. Immortality from a rock!

Hatch strode up to the edge of the ravine. With one panicked, desperate look behind him, he realized that there was no other choice now. He would have to fly or die trying.

Fangor whispered into his ear: “Do not hesitate! Spread your wings and fly!”

Hatch drew his scrubby wings out to their full length. He tucked his head down, waiting for the awful plummet to the river, and dove from the cliff.

They descended at an almost impossible rate and Fangor thought that surely they would be dashed on the rocks below. Then, without warning, a pouch of furry skin beneath the armpits of the Shrike opened and ballooned, bearing them aloft. Fangor could feel the wind sing in his ears. And then they were gliding, impossibly, over the river’s course. Caught in a gust of snowy wind, they flew outward and onward. Hatch held his wings stiff and straight, and did not flap them as an Ell would have. He sailed on the wind, just as Fangor had suggested.

The Sand Louse looked back and could see the Veldstack
s reach the edge of the cliff, and draw up, disconcerted by the drop. He could almost hear the babbling of the angry Shrikes left behind on the sledge, but the wind was too strong for that. He could, however, hear Hatch’s screeching and jubilant laugh:

“
Haw haw haw
!” laughed the Shrike, as he turned and banked into the wind. They were sailing high above the waters, and had cleared the far edge of the river. His laugh, for the first time, had a pleasing enough ring to it. Fangor supposed that this was the very best moment of the Shrike’s meager life, and he was proud that he, Fangor, had been the genesis of it.

A burst of sound exploded in the air about them and Fangor could again smell the stink of whatever weapons the enemy Shrikes were using. Hatch could only go as far as the wind would take them, but they were quickly drawing out of range. As the air currents faltered, Hatch sank a bit toward the earth. No matter; they were safely past the water. However, landing on the ground was rapidly becoming their only option. Hatch stretched it out as far as he could, eager not to lose the experience of flight. He landed masterfully on a flat patch of snow, but too late realized that the fluffy groundcover veiled a sheet of hidden black ice. Flapping and shrieking, Hatch slipped and skidded over the ground, tumbled end over end, and wound up neck-deep in a snow bank.

For a moment Fangor could not breathe. He was safe in a pocket of air, concealed within the feathers, but everything was white. It reminded him of the dreadful fall into the Shrike’s stronghold, which had led to the capture and disappearance of his friends. He screamed piteously, not knowing which way was up. But Hatch quickly plucked his head from the snow bank and began to dance about, in a manner that was unknown to any other Shrike. Shrikes did not dance, or sing, or make merry in any way. But Hatch was exultant.

“I flew!” he crowed. “I flew!” His voice had the tone of what a Shrike child might sound like, if such children were allowed to play and grow in a normal environment. In the Shrike pods, such joyfulness was never shown much less encouraged. Fangor shared in his excitement. A song was coming to his mind.

Hatch suddenly seemed to sway unsteadily on his feet and clutched at his own shaggy head with a feathered limb.

“I am weak,” he said. “I have not eaten.”

“We will find food!” crowed Fangor. “What do you Shrikes eat?”

Hatch was entirely silent. Fangor began to worry. Surely the Shrikes did not eat something that could not be found in nature? Suppose the Shrikes ate only some special substance that was prepared for them in the stronghold? Would his savior collapse in the snow, and die?

“Come on, then!” said Fangor. “We must get you something to eat, yes?”

Hatch ducked his head down and stared at the snow. “I fear that my eating will be the death of you,” he said.

Fangor felt an icy fear. Shrikes ate Sand Lice? But why, how? He would provide the merest scrap of calories for the creature and then he would be gone. It was hardly worth it.

“I’m not very tasty,” he laughed nervously. “Open the maw, down the craw, and I’m gone, quick as a wink. Better with butter of course, but we have no butter.”

“Not what I meant,” said Hatch, depressed. “It is hard to explain. I will need to…trouble your thoughts for a time.” He sighed. “It is the fate of the Shrikes. Unhappiness is our food. Could you bear to be unhappy for very long?”

“Me?!” squeaked Fangor, amazed. “I’m never unhappy. I was trapped inside a gor-awful bottle for days, and what did I do? I sang! I was jubilant! Triumphant!” He did remember some feelings of doubt when he was inside the bottle, but they were a small bother.

“Then perhaps I shall starve,” said Hatch grimly. “The time has come. Brace yourself. It will not be pleasant.” He reached into his head feathers, plucked Fangor out, and stared at him. Fangor sat on the Shrike’s furry palm, shivering in the wind. All of a sudden he felt the most terrible force steal over him.