The Land's Whisper (37 page)

He did not stop—and it was clear he never
would. Never. Not until all that was left was a lifeless stump.
Laughter rolled from his hidden lips as he scourged the object of
beauty.

Darse could not muster a movement, but his
eyes streamed. The loss of something so lovely—it made him wonder
if his soul might break apart in sorrow.

With a gasping inhale, Darse awoke to the
early morning. His face was damp and his insides rent. The
devastation of the dream left him somber and silent. He had no
desire to move and allowed dawn to pour over their party as he drew
in careful breaths behind closed lids. He did not even stir until
his companions had roused themselves fully.

Brenol chattered away, but Darse did not
hear. He collected his things and held his silence painfully. It
made little sense to him, and he was loathe to articulate the awful
images to the others, however vividly they remained before his
eyes.

Darse chided himself for allowing such
foolishness to mar his morning.
A tree? A mysterious figure?
The entire episode seemed ridiculous; the piercing pain he
continued to experience, childish.

He told himself again that it was but a
dream, swallowed his ache, and forced himself onward to Callup.

~

The spirit snarled, and the growl
reverberated like an echo in its thin throat. It bit the sleeping
child again and lapped up the resulting rush of blood. It was warm
and delicious, but the spirit’s gnawing impatience left the present
amusement vapid and pointless.

They are so slow to move. So slow.

How long must I work before they flush into
war? How long?

All its efforts toward sabotage had met
little notice, as if this world were mindless in its tendency
toward peace. It stretched out its black veined wings as it
returned to the window sill and flapped into flight, feeling the
cool air hug its tiny body. It rose up as if it might seek the
moons themselves but then grew weary of the effort and lowered,
finally settling itself with a clapping flutter against the face of
the cliff.

On my world, they would have discovered
me long ago.
The thought gave it pause—and a surprising sense
of freedom. It was even more powerful here than it had originally
thought.
I come from a hard world. And they are but soft
bugs.

They cannot stop me. They never can.

It might take longer, but I will destroy
them. They will know the bitter taste of ruin. They will.

It laughed with a screeching belt, and the
Chiropteran shrill carried out into the thin air.

Those who were awake below shivered and
glanced to the night skies. When the silence resumed, each
successively shook his head and smiled at himself and his
imagination. In less than a breath, they forgot the terrible
vulnerability that had stretched down into their navels and
returned to their tasks and lives.

There will come a cartontz, strong in his power from
infancy. He, most of all, must not fail; he cannot, for the fate of
the world will rest upon his shoulders.

-Genesifin

Arman, Darse, and Brenol were pressed with
haste, and they skidded over the land like skipping stones across a
still lake. Conch and Callup had met the boy with narrowed glances
and silence but in the end had simply observed their progress.

They neared their destination, and after a
brief discussion, Arman descended invisibly into the valley to
stealthily approach Jerem’s house. Brenol’s thoughts were consumed
with much, yet he held his silence beside the quiet figure of
Darse.

Darse breathed slowly, trying to balance
himself. The dream tree still clung to his mind’s eye.
Why does
this dream mar my waking so much? What about it? It is merely a
dream…
He could not shake the terrible images, even after
several days, and he had been quietly consumed with them every step
toward Callup.

Brenol glanced at Darse and followed the
man’s gaze to the house below. It was a sturdy, single-story
trabeated building in a rusty red. It lay within a grassy field
with only a few trees growing beside it, and those relatively
young. The place was attractive, clean, inviting. It was hard to
imagine somewhere so pleasant housing a kidnapper.

The dark tapestries, clothing both windows
and doors, suddenly began to fall in dramatic swoops. Had they been
closer, the resounding thuds would have been startling after the
tense and rigid silence. Light streamed in and filled the space.
One could see through the house to the opposite side as all the
large windows and doors now lay clear.

Darse stood, brushing the soil from his
hands and pants. “Must be the signal. Let’s go.”

The two trotted quickly down the hill. They
found Arman—or more appropriately, heard him—within Jerem’s house,
carefully pilfering the place for clues.

“Jerem?” Darse said.

“There is no hint of him being here. Not
one.”

“Have you found anything helpful?”

“Nothing yet, unless you count our lunch.”
Several jars slid precariously across the smooth plank table in
their direction.

Brenol grinned. “Well, that’s not a bad
start.”

~

As they dined, the three found themselves
disheartened. Hours of scouring had amounted to nothing. The place
was immaculate, save a soft layer of dust, and held no trace of any
inhabitant or even indication that Jerem had passed through
recently. Arman guessed it had been vacant at least a season, but
likely longer.

Brenol kicked at the auburn table leg,
stumped. “What do we know about Jerem, again?” he asked.

“Ordah’s brother. Intelligent, quick. Moved
from northern Callup orbits and orbits ago. Not really close with
Ordah, but no one willingly is. Does not carry the gift of sight as
far as we know.”

Thump, thump,
Brenol kicked. “When
did Ordah say he’d get here?” he asked, although he already knew
the answer.

“Two days, maybe three.”

“What do we do ’til then?”

“Consume jars of pickled fish.”

“Ugh.”

Brenol stood, stretched, and walked out the
open entryway. The fresh air suggested rain, but the sun on the
porch drenched him with delicious warmth. He glanced across at the
sloping hills and the lovely land that could make a thriving
homestead and more. It drew his mind back to Alatrice and the
hardships of daily living.

Brenol tilted his neck sideways and crinkled
his eyes in concentration. “Well, huh.”

Darse raised his eyes to scrutinize the boy;
he knew that tone. “What is it, Bren?”

“Well…what did the guy do?”

Darse and Arman rose and joined him on the
porch. Brenol pointed to the wood pile stacked high beside the
house, easily the height of a man. “Chop wood all day? The land
isn’t being farmed. He doesn’t raise animals here. So what does he
do? You said he was smart. I don’t see books, any kind of job here.
What did he
do
?”

Arman’s footsteps retreated back into the
house, then returned. “You are right, Bren. This place is staged.
Perhaps he isn’t such a smart man.”

Brenol felt the movement of Arman as he
passed by, and heard the soft swish as his robes swept around the
yard. Darse and Brenol shrugged and began to amble around the
grounds, searching now for anything unusual. Soon, a laugh issued
out from the juile, a robust and mocking sound, and the two panted
across the lawn to discover what had elicited it. Brenol squinted
down at the seemingly ordinary grass, glancing sideways to see if
Darse was as clueless as he.

They did not have to puzzle long. Within
seconds, the sod began to be ripped and lifted. It came up in clods
at first, but then pulled back smoothly like the lid on a tin can.
Brenol gasped, wide-eyed at the revealed oval door. It was about a
stride wide in diameter and wooden. With invisible hands, the juile
brushed away much of the remaining soil and heaved it open with a
grunt.

Ajar, it was faintly reminiscent of a boat
hatch, but the gaping hole it guarded was anything but benign.

The boy peered into the black void. Its dark
throat swallowed every trickle of light. His own intestines
quivered.

The rich odors of deep soil swelled from the
cavity, and Brenol cowered back. He breathed, hoping sense would
relieve him from the cold terror that cinched his wits. Arman’s
soft whisper shocked him to life. “Follow in just a moment, Bren.
Wait for my cue. Darse, you stay up top to guard against any
traps.”

The juile lowered himself down in hushed,
adept motions, and soon even the sound of his breath ceased as the
darkness swallowed him.

Although the biting silence never wavered,
the blackness lessened as a gentle light suddenly glowed up from
the hole. The step ladder was now visible. It was wooden and had
begun to soften and rot from the moist earth and pitch. Brenol
swallowed, steeled the deep hollow that had become his gut, and
worked his way down carefully toward Arman’s call.

Once Brenol reached the black soil, he
widened his eyes exaggeratedly in an attempt to adjust his vision.
It took several minutes before the glare of midday was reduced to
memory.

The room was small, likely six strides in
both directions, and dank as a boathouse. Shelves lined the moist
walls, lanterns dangled from mounted metal hooks, potions of aqua
and chartreuse swam in jars, and vials and needles stared up from
the work table.

“He has been a busy little spider. I think
we may have more than we anticipated in this kidnapping.”

“What’d you find?” Brenol asked.

Something nudged him. He grasped hold of the
item, and it took visual form as it left Arman’s hand. It was a
journal, a very meticulous one. Brenol leafed the pages and tried
to make sense of the cluttered logs and words. Much of it was in a
kind of shorthand, but there were also detailed descriptions in a
neat pen. He moved closer to Arman’s lamp.

“I don’t know what all—”

“Do you not see the experiments, Bren?”

He squinted again through the sheets, and a
picture began taking shape. One entry left his chest cold and
hard.

Arman did not wait for Brenol to speak. “His
mind is poison. He has been collecting nuresti. He thinks he can
acquire their connection somehow.
Utter poison.
There are
likely fifty of these logs.” He smacked his palm loudly against a
tidy shelf laden with identical black notebooks. Dust rose and
filled their nostrils in a putrid bouquet.

“Where is he?” Brenol asked. His neck
tingled like it had in Fingers’s barn.
Collecting nuresti.
Collecting me.

“I don’t know. Help me carry the last of his
logs up. We will see if they reveal anything more.”

“Wait.” Brenol’s heart raced, but his mind
was seemingly unclouded. “Did you look for any kind of secret
place?”

“Bren, we are
in
it.”

“No. If this guy really is that smart
and
that crazy, he would’ve hidden anything leading to his
next place. And maybe left a false trail too.”

“Hmmmm.” Sounds of movement ensued. Brenol
joined him in scouring, but he need not have: Arman was exceptional
at this type of work. Within minutes, he was chuckling. “You were
right, Bren. Here.”

The table was thrown on its side, and glass
shattered upon the wall and soil. Something foamed in the corner,
but Arman remained unconcerned. He flipped up a tab on the heel of
the table leg. It gave a light snap, and the papers within soon
disappeared into the juile’s possession.

“Let’s get out of this hole.”

“Let’s,” Brenol agreed, clambering up.

The sun and scents of day had never been
more welcome. Brenol, blinded, squinted and breathed deeply of the
freshness. The boy’s first instinct was to embrace Darse, but he
refrained, feeling sheepish. “Next time, you go down to the den,
and I’ll stand guard.”

Darse did not respond. His yellow eyes were
sober, and his fists were white at his sides.

“Come. Let’s move inside,” said Arman. The
tone of his voice reminded Brenol of all that had ossified him
minutes previously:
Jerem collected nuresti.

In the house, Arman spread the mess of items
upon the table and pilfered through them, absently clicking his
thoughts out in code. Brenol deciphered snippets without thinking:
“
Water, water, water,” “neutral soil,” “where did he hide her,”
“where,”
and random juile curses.

Darse delved into the journals as well and
soon was equally appalled by the nuresti collector. Jerem had
captured at least four nuresti, from what the journals revealed.
Two had been terminated. There was no indication of Colette and her
status, but the trend of nuresti capture-and-kill was more telling
than the absence of information. It would be a miracle if she were
not dead.

“How did no one notice the nuresti
disappearances?” Darse asked.

“It
was
noticed,” Arman said. “At
least by a few. Ordah, myself, Grantella, Weasten, the maralane.
And caused no small anxiety at that… It has been a mystery for at
least twelve orbits.”

“
Twelve
? How many have gone
missing?”

“It is difficult to know exactly… The time
gap between the death of the old and the birth and coming of age of
a new nurest can be a significant period. Orbits. Plus, the nuresti
are mysterious. They have been known to disappear for moons,
seasons even. They travel frequently. And the wider community often
does not expend effort in the nurest’s protection. If a cartontz
were to disappear with his nurest, it could easily go unnoticed for
seasons, even orbits.”

“What?” Brenol asked.

“Cartontz. They’re the select few who
protect the nuresti. One usually travels and resides with each
nurest. Sometimes the nurest chooses the cartontz, sometimes the
cartontz chooses the nurest. It is a system of survival, perhaps
even instituted by the terrisdan itself. It has been so since the
nurest population dwindled.”