Joshua grinned. Every few days he had come clambering up the trail to this battered clearing, to see again what they had done to the sky seed.
The seed was safe here. The feeble muscles of the Zealots would never succeed in hauling this prize up from such a place — and the Nutcracker-folk, though good climbers, were surely too stupid even to envisage such a thing. Only the People of the Grey Earth, with their brains and powerful bodies, could retrieve the sky seed from where it rested, pinned against the cliff’s grey breast -
Voices screamed, all around them.
They whirled, shocked.
There were only trees and bushes and leaves, some of them shaking violently, as if in a wind, though there was no wind.
From nowhere a spear flew. It lanced into Joshua’s shoulder, neatly puncturing it through.
He was knocked back. He fell on the spear. It twisted, and there was savage pain.
And now something new descended over him, a thing of ropes and threads knotted together, that tangled up his legs and arms and head.
Leaves and twigs fell away, and suddenly there were people: men, all around them. They were Skinnies. They carried spears and knives that glinted. Still screaming, they threw themselves forward. It had all happened in a heartbeat, overwhelming, bewildering. The Zealots had just melted out of the trees: one instant they were not there, the next they were there, an overwhelming magic beyond Joshua’s experience.
Their blows and kicks were feeble, but there were many of them, and they clung to Joshua’s limbs while punching his stomach and chest and head. He heard Mary cry out, an angry, fearful roar.
“…Looks like Tobias was right. A fine old pair we trapped here!”
“Wrap up yon buck and give us a hand with the maid, will you? She’s struggling like a bear…”
Joshua lay passively, defeated by shock as much as the spear, peering up at the indifferent sun. He saw that the men had got Mary on the ground, and had ripped open her skins.
“By the tears of the Lord—”
“Get her legs. Get her legs.”
“The buck is for the minister. This one’s for us, eh, lads?”
“Face like a bear but the tits of an angel. She’s going to take a bit of stilling, though…”
Joshua came to himself. With a bellow he wrenched himself over, rolling onto his belly. Zealots, yelling, went flying. For a moment he was free of their weight and their blows. But the spear ground into the dirt, opening his wound wider, and he cried out.
But Joshua’s struggle had distracted Mary’s attackers, and she had got one arm loose. With a fist more massive than any Skinny’s, she pounded at the temple of one of her assailants. Joshua heard the crunch of bone; a Zealot went down.
“God’s wounds. Peter — Peter!”
“Get her, lads!—”
Mary struggled to her feet, her ripped skins swinging, her small breasts glistening with blood. She had her back to the forest. The men, all save the fallen one, made a half-circle to face her, wielding their weapons. Their lust had been replaced by caution, Joshua saw, for even a half-mature Ham girl, if free, was more than a match for any one of the Skinnies.
But she could not defeat them all.
With a last, regretful glance at Joshua, she turned and crashed into the trees. Though she made an immense racket, she had soon disappeared, and Joshua knew that the Zealots could not follow her.
He let his head slump to the blood-soaked ground beneath his face.
A shadow crossed him. “This is for Peter.”
A boot hurtled at his face.
Reid Malenfant:
The morning after their capture, Malenfant and McCann found their door was not barred, no guard posted.
They crept out into light still tinged grey with dawn.
Already the business of the day was starting. Runners and Hams were working silently to sweep the ground clear of yesterday’s debris, and to fill the water casks that sat outside each hut. It was strange to see specimens of Homo neandertalensis and Erectus dressed in crudely sewn parodies of clothing, their heads and bodies strikingly misshapen in the uncertain dawn light, coming and going as they pursued their chores. It was like a mockery of a human township.
Away from the Zealots, neither Hams nor Runners made any attempt to use human language; they simply got through their work with steady dullness, united in blank misery.
There was a specialized group of Runners who were used solely to carry passengers. Some of them wore primitive harnesses. But these unfortunates were stooped, with over-developed shoulders and necks, and what looked like permanent curves to their backs. Their shoulders and thighs bore bright red weals.
Malenfant said, “Look at those scars. These Zealot jockeys don’t spare the whip.”
McCann grunted, impatient. “Have you much experience in the husbandry of animals, Malenfant? None of them look terribly old, do they? — I would wager that under excessive loading their bodies break down rather rapidly once the flush of youth is over.
“But the whip is surely necessary. In Africa I knew a man who tried to train elephants. You may know that while your Indian elephant has been tamed by the locals for centuries, your African runs wild. My acquaintance struggled to master his elephants, even though he imported experienced mahouts from India; freedom runs in the blood of those African tuskers, and they are far more intelligent than, say, a horse.”
“Hence the whip.”
“Yes. For it is only by severe and strict punishment that such intelligent beasts can be controlled. Even then, of course, you can never be sure; even in India the tamest-looking elephant with a grudge against his mahout may wait years, decades — but he will take his one chance and gore or trample his tormentor, careless of his fate.
“Now your Runner, who is after all a man, if a different stripe of man, is surely more intelligent than an elephant. Hence, as you say, the whip. And perhaps other practices have been developed. See there — that grizzled, rather bent old chap is tied up to the boy.” The old man and the boy, sitting in the dirt, listless and naked, were attached by tight bonds around their ankles. “If you want to break an animal you will sometimes put him in with an older beast. The tamed creature may prove an example in the work to be done, and so forth. But in addition the young perceives there is no hope, you see, and quits his rebelliousness sooner.”
Malenfant said, “I don’t understand why these Runners don’t just up and get out of here.”
McCann pulled his walrus moustache. “These boys have probably been in captivity since they were very young — either born here, or wrest from their dead mothers” arms in the wild. They know nothing else; they cannot imagine freedom. And these wretches could not run off if you turned them free tomorrow. See how they limp the scars on the backs of their ankles? Hamstrung. Perhaps that explains their demeanour of defeat. They are creatures evolved, surely, for one thing above all else — running — and if they cannot run any more, they have no aspiration. Perhaps it is humane to excise the very possibility of escape; believe me, hope harms a creature far more than despair ever did…”
Praisegod Michael emerged from his chapel-like residence. His black robe flapped about his ankles, heavy, as he walked. He threw his arms wide, loudly sniffing the air. Then he fell to his knees, bowed his head, and began to pray.
Praisegod’s hunting party formed up rapidly. There were to be five humans (or near-humans) — Praisegod, his man Sprigge and one Other Zealot, and Malenfant and McCann — along with four Hams, and ten Runner bearers.
One of the Hams was just a child, about the size of a human ten-year-old. This boy seemed dressed in clothing of a somewhat finer cut than most of the Zealots. Praisegod kept him close by, sometimes resting his hand on the boy’s flattened skull, or cupping him under his chinless jaw. The boy submitted to this, and ran small errands for Praisegod.
Five of the Runners were to carry equipment — home-made spears and crossbows. The rest were there to carry the humans.
Malenfant’s mount was to be one of the older, more broken-down specimens he had observed that morning. The hominid stood before him, as tall as Malenfant despite his stoop, his very human eyes empty of expression.
Malenfant flatly refused to climb aboard his shoulders.
McCann leaned towards him. “For God’s sake, Malenfant,” he hissed.
Praisegod Michael watched this with a thin amusement. “Do you imagine you spare this stooped one discomfort or indignity? There is no soul behind those deceptive eyes, sir, to experience such complicated passions. I trust your compassion will not pour away when your bare feet are bleeding and sore… But perhaps you are right; he is rather worn down.” He nodded to Sprigge.
Sprigge tapped the old Runner’s elbow, and he obediently knelt on the ground. Sprigge stepped behind him and drew a knife from his belt — metal, very old, sharpened and polished until the blade was a thin, fragile remnant.
“Shit.” Malenfant lunged forward, but McCann grabbed his arm.
Distracted by the commotion, the Runner saw the knife. His battered face twisted in animal rage. He started to rise, perhaps for the first time in his life defying those who used him.
But Sprigge wrestled him to the ground and knelt on his back. He sliced the knife through the old Runner’s throat. Blood spurted, a brighter red shining in the crimson dirt. Still the Runner fought; he didn’t stop struggling until his head had been all but sawn off his body.
McCann released Malenfant. “The rogue elephant and the mahout, Malenfant,” he whispered grimly. “And if you defy, you will only make matters worse for the creatures here.”
“Thank you, sir,” Praisegod said to Malenfant, his look calculating, mocking. “You perceived a lack which I have been remiss in correcting. Well, it is done, and the sun is already high. Come now.” And he slapped the face of his own mount, who trotted away to the west, away from the rising sun.
The others hastily mounted, and the hunting party proceeded at a steady jog after Praisegod, the Runners” bare feet thumping into the earth, the Hams following the graceful Runners as best they could with their awkward, bow-legged style.
They reached the fringe of the forest, and moved out onto the plain.
The forest floor hadn’t been so bad for Malenfant’s bare feet, save for bites, for which he’d no doubt suffer later. But after a half-mile of desert his feet were aching and bloody. And as the miles wore away he began to dig deep into his already shallow reserves of energy. Malenfant knew they had had no choice but to go along with Praisegod Michael’s invitation to join his hunt, which was obviously some kind of bullshit character test. He tried to see it as an opportunity. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
He found his thoughts dissolving, his purpose reducing merely to a determination to keep one foot moving in front of the others, to show no weakness.
The weather fell apart. A lid of boiling cloud settled over the sky, making the small world seem flat and enclosed, washing the colours out of everything. And then the rain came, a ferocious storm that stippled the crimson sand with miniature craters. Much of the water drained quickly into the dry soil, but soon rivulets were running over the ground, and the sand turned into clinging mud.
Praisegod called a halt. The humans dismounted. Malenfant rested, hands on his knees, breathing deep of the thin air.
