Wild Born
Page 43
“I wonder if Essix will ever feel safe?” Rollan said.
“Give it time,” Abeke recommended.
“Where is she?” Conor asked.
Rollan squinted at the sky. “Where she always is — flying around. She likes it when I let her do her own thing. I can respect that.”
“She’s probably mad because you won’t become a Greencloak,” Conor said.
“No.” Rollan shook his head. “I think she understands. Don’t take it the wrong way. I respect you three for joining. I really do. Especially you, Abeke. You’ve been through so much. But I’m just not sure yet if it’s for me, taking official vows and all that. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still help out. And who knows, maybe eventually I’ll wear the costume.”
“Now that we made it back here, what comes next?” Meilin asked.
“I guess we train,” Conor said. “We try to be worthy of our animals. And we find the rest of the talismans. At least, that’s my plan.”
“Have you dreamed about any new animals lately?” Rollan asked lightly.
Glancing down at his mark, Conor turned away, gazing out at the countryside. “I think we’ve earned a break.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Rollan pointed out.
Conor looked down. “Fine. I haven’t mentioned this to Olvan yet, or Lenori either, although she gave me a funny look this morning. I don’t want to worry anybody, and I don’t want to mess up our time to relax, but starting a few days ago . . . I’ve had these nightmares about a boar.”
19 the return
OCEANS AWAY, ON THE FAR SIDE OF ERDAS, UNDER A BLACK, impenetrable sky, warm rain drenched a large earthen mound on a barren prairie. Blazing strands of lightning zigzagged across the night, offering brilliant glimpses of the cloud ceiling. In rolling bursts, the roar and crackle of thunder drowned out the patter of the raindrops.
The searing flashes of light revealed hundreds of wombats, perhaps thousands, digging along the edge of the muddy mound, like an army of ants working on their nest. Heedless of the tumultuous storm, they burrowed urgently, paws bleeding.
A lone figure strolled among them, watching them dig in the flickering glare of the lightning. They were close. He could sense it.
In one hand he held the crude key, heavy and carved with animal faces. As promised, it had finally been delivered to him. Years of work would culminate tonight.
The hair was standing up on his neck, on his arms. The air hummed. He took several shuffling steps, then crouched low, put down the key, and placed his hands over his ears.
The lightning struck a short stone’s throw away, blasting wombats into the air. The thunder was deafening even with his ears covered. He felt the shock through the ground. The muscles in his legs clenched painfully, but the jolt failed to knock him over.
The next electric flash revealed at least a dozen dead wombats off to his left. The others kept tunneling industriously. It wasn’t normal behavior for the animals, but these were not normal wombats. They were in thrall to the presence beneath the mound. He served the same presence, but his devotion was different. At least that’s what he told himself.
The figure picked up the key and stood up as the storm raged on. He paced around and around the embankment, the muddy ground sucking at his every step. Eventually, a flash revealed that the wombats had abandoned their duties and massed on one side of the mound.
The figure hastened to that side. As he drew closer, he didn’t need lightning to guide him. The key seemed magnetized, drawn toward its destination by an invisible force.
A sharp strobe of lightning revealed the gap in the side of the mound. The wombats hung back reverently. The figure entered the gap and splashed down to his knees as the rain poured down on him.
Holding his breath, the figure plunged the key into the freshly unearthed socket. There came a rumbling, but not of thunder. A tremor rattled from below. He felt it before he heard it, but soon it was as loud as a roar.
The next dazzling blaze of lightning showed the side of the hill tearing asunder. An immense, serpentine form arose, its hood spread, its tongue flicking into the air. Unsure whether he would live or die, the figure bowed down. If his time had come, at least he had accomplished his aim. He had served the presence well.
Gerathon was free.
“Give it time,” Abeke recommended.
“Where is she?” Conor asked.
Rollan squinted at the sky. “Where she always is — flying around. She likes it when I let her do her own thing. I can respect that.”
“She’s probably mad because you won’t become a Greencloak,” Conor said.
“No.” Rollan shook his head. “I think she understands. Don’t take it the wrong way. I respect you three for joining. I really do. Especially you, Abeke. You’ve been through so much. But I’m just not sure yet if it’s for me, taking official vows and all that. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still help out. And who knows, maybe eventually I’ll wear the costume.”
“Now that we made it back here, what comes next?” Meilin asked.
“I guess we train,” Conor said. “We try to be worthy of our animals. And we find the rest of the talismans. At least, that’s my plan.”
“Have you dreamed about any new animals lately?” Rollan asked lightly.
Glancing down at his mark, Conor turned away, gazing out at the countryside. “I think we’ve earned a break.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Rollan pointed out.
Conor looked down. “Fine. I haven’t mentioned this to Olvan yet, or Lenori either, although she gave me a funny look this morning. I don’t want to worry anybody, and I don’t want to mess up our time to relax, but starting a few days ago . . . I’ve had these nightmares about a boar.”
19 the return
OCEANS AWAY, ON THE FAR SIDE OF ERDAS, UNDER A BLACK, impenetrable sky, warm rain drenched a large earthen mound on a barren prairie. Blazing strands of lightning zigzagged across the night, offering brilliant glimpses of the cloud ceiling. In rolling bursts, the roar and crackle of thunder drowned out the patter of the raindrops.
The searing flashes of light revealed hundreds of wombats, perhaps thousands, digging along the edge of the muddy mound, like an army of ants working on their nest. Heedless of the tumultuous storm, they burrowed urgently, paws bleeding.
A lone figure strolled among them, watching them dig in the flickering glare of the lightning. They were close. He could sense it.
In one hand he held the crude key, heavy and carved with animal faces. As promised, it had finally been delivered to him. Years of work would culminate tonight.
The hair was standing up on his neck, on his arms. The air hummed. He took several shuffling steps, then crouched low, put down the key, and placed his hands over his ears.
The lightning struck a short stone’s throw away, blasting wombats into the air. The thunder was deafening even with his ears covered. He felt the shock through the ground. The muscles in his legs clenched painfully, but the jolt failed to knock him over.
The next electric flash revealed at least a dozen dead wombats off to his left. The others kept tunneling industriously. It wasn’t normal behavior for the animals, but these were not normal wombats. They were in thrall to the presence beneath the mound. He served the same presence, but his devotion was different. At least that’s what he told himself.
The figure picked up the key and stood up as the storm raged on. He paced around and around the embankment, the muddy ground sucking at his every step. Eventually, a flash revealed that the wombats had abandoned their duties and massed on one side of the mound.
The figure hastened to that side. As he drew closer, he didn’t need lightning to guide him. The key seemed magnetized, drawn toward its destination by an invisible force.
A sharp strobe of lightning revealed the gap in the side of the mound. The wombats hung back reverently. The figure entered the gap and splashed down to his knees as the rain poured down on him.
Holding his breath, the figure plunged the key into the freshly unearthed socket. There came a rumbling, but not of thunder. A tremor rattled from below. He felt it before he heard it, but soon it was as loud as a roar.
The next dazzling blaze of lightning showed the side of the hill tearing asunder. An immense, serpentine form arose, its hood spread, its tongue flicking into the air. Unsure whether he would live or die, the figure bowed down. If his time had come, at least he had accomplished his aim. He had served the presence well.
Gerathon was free.
