Memory's Child

By Lynnette Spratley

First place winner of Authorlink's 2001 International New Author Awards Competition, Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror category.
Summary:
Global warming during the 20th and 21st centuries culminates in catastrophic changes to the planet as Nature declares war on man. Inches of polar ice cap melt, and evaporation bloats the atmosphere until finally, it begins to rain—and rain.
The planet grows soggy, suffering manifest changes in topography as the earth turns into a quagmire, slipping and sliding beneath the feet of the humans who live on its surface. Earthquakes and mega-storms become more frequent and deadly. Industries suffer, with agriculture taking the biggest hit, and the economy teeters, then collapses.
Physicist Noah Eastermann, determined to ensure a future beyond what others predict is the beginning of the end for the planet, builds a secret stronghold, dubbed Phoenix Nest. He smuggles in scientists and scholars until he has gathered a microcosm of world knowledge.
Unable to program intelligence itself, the scientists instead enhance the brain’s ability to absorb and retain knowledge. With the world’s brightest scientists, the latest technology and the freedom to experiment all they like, the scientists devise a way for this enhancement to pass from parent to child.
Long after mankind’s fall from grace sends him plummeting off the top of the heap to land face first in the mud, descendants of Phoenix Nest, known as Preservationists, are hidden among the uneducated Morons in what was once the United States.
Historian Shelana Thunderhorse is one of these “Presers.” To fulfill her duty, she must survive society’s prejudice—not against race, religion or means, but against intelligence. Feeding the fires of this prejudice, often literally, is a powerful, bloodthirsty group known as Myths. Vernon, leader of the Myths, intends to eradicate the Preservationists and gain control of man’s redevelopment.
Vernon has made one mistake that may ruin his plans and cost him his life, a mistake the Myth leader doesn't even remember. But Shelana does.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynnette Spratley
• Release date: Feb 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465793799

Lynnette Spratley

A voracious reader, Lynnette Spratley began writing fiction at an early age as a way to fill in the gaps between trips to the library. She enjoys speculating about the future of the human race and the planet. During breaks from writing the prequel to MEMORY'S CHILD, Lynnette is working on writing a mystery. Or two.

Book preview

Memory's Child

Lynnette Spratley

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Lynnette Spratley

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover Design Copyright © 2012

www.DigitalDonna.com

For my father, Albert William Spratley, who taught me the power of writing and the music of words; and for my grandfather, Albert Victor Spratley, who fostered and encouraged my insatiable love for reading.

For my husband, Randy Ikner, who unfailingly supports my need to write.

And for Groucho, the smartest dog who ever lived.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Chapter 1

Aberration!

The sound ringing through the night brought me bolt upright on my sleeping pallet, heart pounding beneath the palm I laid flat between my breasts. I tucked my long, cumbersome hair behind my ears with my left hand. The killing knife was already in my right. Breathing silently through my mouth, I turned my head one way and then the other, listening hard, every nerve focused on locating the source of the familiar, deadly refrain.

Aberration! Aberration!

The chant of at least half a hundred voices darkened the night and chilled my soul. I felt a fleeting, guilty relief that someone else was the object of ritual murder this night.

Aberration, Aberration, burn, Aberration!

The mantra came from a nearby box canyon. I did not want to go there, but I knew I would.

"Aberration!"

The bloodlust cry of the Myths reached a keening crescendo that made the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The change in pitch signaled that death was near for their victims. It could be me they were killing—would be me, had they stumbled upon my small encampment in the night.

My kind is never safe around Myths. Myths, with their trademark white hoods and their trademark intolerance have an uncanny knack for spotting the subtle differences that brand me and my kind Preservationists.

I snaked out of bed and stood up to sniff the warm night air. Since I am not a tall woman, the night and the long grass shielded me from casual sight. Not all Myth Assemblies post guards, and I neither heard nor saw any sign of guards nearby.

This Assembly’s Holy Ones apparently believed no one would dare harm them. They have not met me, yet.

Without starshine, the world was flat black, the surrounding curtain of murk so complete that to my straining eyes it seemed almost as solid as the earth itself.

Except for the ravine a short distance away. Flickering red and yellow light emanated from the tiny canyon as if angry hands ripped open the ground to free the flames of hell. Myths stoke their campfires along with their passions—the higher the flames, the more inflamed the Myths.

The cloying odor of sickly sweet herbs billowed from that unspeakable purgatory, their smell mingling with the scent of burning hair and flesh. Memories battered my heart as the stench and the chanting pierced my senses.

My fingers trembled as I yanked a cloth rag from my small haversack and tied it over my mouth and nose. The mask did little to filter out the heavy tang of fire and fear and death woven through the gloom like threads in an acrid tapestry, but it helped to calm me.

Only when they are killing do the Myths throw that noisome combination on their fires—garlic, sugar, rosemary, dandelions, and other plants I do not know. I believe they use the herbs to mask the odor of searing flesh so that no would-be rescuers will interrupt their fun. The Myths do not seem to find the mingled smell of burnt meat and charred plants objectionable. I loathe it.

The reeking smoke grew thicker, drifting toward me in the dank breeze. The humid air grew heavy, stifling. A soft pattering sound slowly closed in around me and I exhaled quietly with relief. The second dark rain was a blessing, for once, batting down the fetid smoke enough to clear the air slightly.

Unfortunately, this rain was too light to extinguish the Myths’ fires. More unfortunately, my strength alone was not enough to help the anonymous wretches whose screams sliced the night.

A lone Preservationist should never be about with Myths in the area. If they caught me, I would find myself roasting on their fire, too. Despite the danger, I ran naked and silent through the waist-high grass, the killing knife clenched in my hand.

The ebony sky bled into the white cotton clouds, wounded heavens bandaged by inexpert hands. The clouds moved like sluggish cattle overhead, so thick they blotted out all but an occasional glimpse of the endless twilight beyond as I sprinted through the dancing wet grass below them. No robed silhouettes loomed whiter than the night anywhere in the meadow, so I ventured farther, to the edge of the cliff forming one wall of the shallow canyon, and looked down into hell itself.

I saw dozens of white-robed Myths, most standing in a single group, swaying and bouncing like a clump of freshly hatched maggots. The central campfire was huge, almost as high as a man’s head. Lying on the ground, bound hand and foot facing the scorching heat of the fire were a woman and two small children. Sinners. Stripped of their clothes and their humanity, they struggled in vain to free themselves.

No telling where the Myths found this small family, but the meeting was going to prove fatal. Already a corpse curled in the flames, blackened back curving, fingers curling as if it were still alive and ready to fight.

Staked to the wall of the ravine, directly below where I lay on my belly peering down, was a man. The father, judging from his cries. He, too, would die this night, but not until he watched his mate and their small children burned alive.

When one of the handful of Myth Holy Ones bent over and picked up the youngest child, I slithered back, away from the canyon, away from the shrill shrieks stabbing the air. I knew too well how the Myths cleanse their victims and I could not bear to watch.

Knowing the screams of the dying child and its parents' anguished cries would drown out any small sounds I might make, I ran back to my shelter. I dared not try to leave the meadow. Moving the small plastic and fabric shelter might make too much noise if the Myths fell silent or sent out scouts, and I was not about to abandon all my worldly goods. Besides, bodies would need burying in the morning. The rains could not vanquish the killing fires, but the water would keep the temperature too low to reduce the bodies to ashes.

I huddled beneath my blankets, trying to concentrate on the steady plat-plat-plat of rain. The second-dark rain stopped abruptly, leaving the meadow silent and me able to hear every nuance of the Myth cleansing ceremony. The din cowed even the crickets to silence.

My unwilling ears sorted out the voices of the victims, the man's voice alternating between crying out to his ill-fated family and impotently swearing vengeance upon his tormentors, the woman's voice now and then overpowering his, begging for mercy for her babies. In counterpoint lay the high pitched screams of the dying children. Two voices briefly, then one, then two again, then none. The mother had finally joined her babies.

Along with leaving me something to bury in the morning, the rains made the process of burning to death slower and more painful.

The mother and children finally dead, the Myths amused themselves a bit longer by drawing out the father's torture. This one had lasted for hours already, bespeaking a strong heart, an angry heart. It would do him no good. No heart is strong enough to withstand a Myth cleansing even if the body housing it somehow survives.

By the mid night rain, the timbre of chanting voices was less frantic, the now infrequent howls of pain from the father signaling that the cleansing was nearing a close. He was, finally, releasing his hold on life.

I wanted to cry for the victims, but I cannot cry. Instead I rested, hoarding strength for the coming funerals.

The screaming stopped abruptly just before the first blue white flash of lightning lit up the ancient pine trees to herald the approach of the last night rains. The chanting wound down a few minutes later.

Chapter 2

By dawn, only white ashes and black corpses remained of the central bonfire that hosted the terrible ceremony. The Assembly decamped an hour or so before daylight, noisily wandering into the woods much too near where I lay hidden in the grass several yards from my goods.

Finally, with the shelter dismantled and my packs strapped on my bare back, I picked my way cautiously down the slippery wet rocks to the floor of the canyon-like ravine. This close to the carnage, the rag mask was useless for blocking odors. My mother taught me that corpses give off bad germs, so I wore the mask although I do not know what germs look like and cannot tell a good germ from a bad one.

I have witnessed enough of the Myths' handiwork not to vomit at the sight anymore. Still, by the time I checked the mother of the little family for signs of life, my stomach heaved like a butter churn. I stopped and patted my chest with the flat of my hand. I closed my eyes for a moment and willed my heart and lungs to calm. The interval restored my equilibrium and I went back to work.

From what remained recognizably human, I saw that the woman was smaller than me and very dead. I kept my platinum knife in hand, prepared to administer the final stroke, if necessary, to any survivors. An unpleasant kindness, at best. Cleansing victims are almost always long gone by the time I reach them, but I need to be certain. It is not in me to do less.

Painstakingly, ignoring the roiling in my belly, I examined the still smoldering bodies of two small boys and was relieved to find that they, too, had left this world, as had the first victim, an adult male. I sheathed my blade.

The father's body was unburned. More than likely, he died before the Myths could make up their feeble minds to toss him into the flames, too. I was glad he robbed them of some fun. It happened that way sometimes, especially with the strong-hearted victims, the ones who fought like mad to live until their great hearts exploded.

They had tied this man, spread-eagle and naked, to long stakes driven far enough into the soft facade of the canyon wall to implant in bedrock. His dull eyes stared at but no longer saw the grisly remains of his murdered family. His wrists were raw and still bleeding, evidence of a mighty struggle to free himself and defend his loved ones.

Lingering long in this awful place was dangerous. Prudence dictated that I move on, stay out of other peoples' business and take care of my own tasks. I am always smart, but as my mother often said, seldom circumspect. Would a person with any common sense hang around the site of yet another Myth massacre and risk discovery? Hell, no.

Naturally, I stayed to bury the victims.

The first cleansing I ever witnessed was presided over by Vernon, High Lord of the Council of the Imperial and Holy Order of the Myths. Vernon may be the Myths' Supreme Being, but to me he is nothing more than the embodiment of evil, a paradigm of all that is wrong with humankind.

The cleansing ceremony itself is not terribly complicated. It cannot be, given the intelligence level of its practitioners. All of the cleansings I've witnessed are as simple as the first one, when Vernon simply raised his hand and said, Cleanse them, and my mother and my baby brother died.

Vernon, garbed in a flowing, blood-red robe, stood watching his minions that day, his nasty eyes glittering like black ice. Curly spikes of white hair dangled across his forehead from beneath the loose red hood.

From my hiding place nearby, unable to tear my gaze from the dreadful spectacle I was helpless to stop, I memorized every aspect of the High Lord. I knew his height, his breadth, the way he walked. I learned his gestures and the odd little upward jerk of his left shoulder every couple of minutes. When the opportunity to kill him at last presented itself, I wanted to be certain I had the right man.

On that day long ago when Vernon made of me an orphan, I bowed to the mandates of my heritage and the demands of my mother and became a solitary nomad, never staying long with any group but always listening, watching, learning.

Like my mother before me and her father before her and generations before them, I am a Preservationist. More properly, I am called an Historian—but only in secret. The Myths are so dangerous to my people and to anyone who harbors us that we dare not display our intelligence openly.

Carried in the vast storehouse of my genetically enhanced brain are names and dates, places and people, war and peace, tragedy and triumph. Enough data to fill thousands of books, if books still existed. Enough reason for Myths to slaughter me.

Noah Eastermann, the leader of all Presers—Preservationists—perfected the process of genetic engineering and migration that produced me so many centuries later.

A Physicist of exceptional foresight, Eastermann collected many dozens of his fellow scientists into a secret hideaway near what was once a great city called Phoenix, and began working to save the future of mankind.

What the Phoenix Nest produced during the last years of what the Ancestors called civilization did not guarantee a future for humans. But it took us, their descendants, a giant step in the right direction.

The world the Ancestors handed down to me is composed of morons too dumb to understand how stupid they are, and by and large I detest my fellow humans. Idiots surround me, people with barely enough sense to walk around puddles rather than through them. They are the result of generations of exponentially pervasive ignorance.

Insufficiently educated teachers inevitably had some students who grew up to become teachers themselves. They were a fraction less educated and less able to instruct their students than the previous generation, yet they also had students who grew up to be teachers.

As successive generations became less capable, they lost the ability to teach their students how to think and how to learn, and many of the skills used for problem solving were lost.

To be civilized, a society requires constant problem solving. A percentage of the population must be bright and dedicated enough to seek and implement solutions to every crisis that technology and progress generate. Without such seekers, the weight of a civilization’s unanswered questions will inevitably crush it, as it inevitably and inexorably crushed the Ancestors.

Myths are even dumber than morons. Their brains are sufficiently powerful to instill in them an enduring hatred for anyone smarter, which is just about everyone else on earth. Ignorance is their god. Those of us with usable brains are anathema to them, demons to be rooted out and destroyed. It is an old, old story, oft repeated in History. Hate what you do not comprehend, wage war on what you fear, and destroy what you cannot have. Prejudice is as old as mankind.

Myths hate us because they fear us. We carry the future with us, a way to resurrect the glory of the Ancestors. Myths—Vernon in particular—believe resurrecting the technology and culture of the Ancestors will destroy the world.

I am the first of my family whose IQ measured below two hundred the last time my mother tested me. That was also the last time I cried, raging against my inadequacies. She explained the purpose of this generation-by-generation decline in intelligence, assuring me that Noah Eastermann and the scientists at Phoenix Nest planned things this way. That is why we breed with morons, mingling our migratory genes with their stagnant ones, and teaching our half-breed offspring how to learn.

Eventually, my mother said, the average intelligence of humanity will level out at an adequate 130 or so. At least, that was Noah Eastermann’s intention.

I did not want to be dumb. I wanted to be as bright as my beautiful mother, and for a long time I hated Noah Eastermann, though never dared to mention this to my parents.

Although no mental giant, my unenhanced father was a good and gentle man. He loved me, and because he loved me, my father never lost his patience with the snobbish, precocious daughter who learned, far too late, to respect him for what he was rather than scorn him for what he was not.

Listening to my mother teach me History bored him in the extreme. Nevertheless, he understood the importance of preserving knowledge until enough half-breeds were born to make wise use of it. He even learned a thing or two before a band of thieving Sackers murdered him during a raid on our camp.

I would give anything to have him back. Everything.

Preservationist. Historian. This is my identity, my primary reason for living on this waterlogged, godforsaken globe. All that is asked of a Preservationist is to learn all there is to know about one thing, to marry a moron and bring forth children, and to pass on to them the precious knowledge. My path, however, has also lain in another direction since the day my mother died.

Knowing me, knowing I would be nearby, my mother gave the last breath of her life to me. From my hiding place, I saw her inhale deeply the superheated air of the fire where she stood, clothes and hair aflame. She threw back her blistering head and cried out the words that changed my life forever:

Vengeance, Shelana!

I travel the muddy roads and fields of my world searching for knowledge—and for Vernon. And when at last I find him, I am going to kill him.

Slowly.

Chapter 3

For a fleeting moment while preparing the dead woman for burial, I longed for a god to pray to for her soul. Humans once had a god, but he must have grown weary of our insanity because he is scarcely mentioned in my History after the year 2175.

No formal church or organized religious body like those the Ancestors had exists—except the Myths, who do not count. I have no icons to petition for forgiveness or salvation or even for dry clothes.

A few families I encountered during my travels pray to god, insisting that he still rules the universe as he always has. They call themselves by various names, but I call them all Believers. Challenged to provide proof, none could show me the slightest evidence of a god. Apparently, Believers simply believe. I find this strange, but I am saving the concept for a more leisurely examination someday. Religion has no current facts for me to pass on to my progeny, but sometimes I wish I understood the concept of believing more.

Perhaps it is not quite logical to miss a god one has never known, but sometimes I find myself talking to this god who may still be foolish enough to care about our self-destructive population. Maybe he will become curious and begin listening, though what good a god can do now, I cannot imagine.

My mother told me, often and sometimes loudly, that a genius is not always smart. I have proven her correct on many occasions in my life, usually the hard way. Being smart also does not mean I am always logical. I have accepted this facet of myself and trust that with age and experience, I may overcome any lingering ignorance.

Very little blood stained the ground where the victims were tortured before the Assembly tossed them into the fire. The incessant rains tend to wash the area clean long before I get there.

When the rains come frequently, as they frequently do, the water dampens down the fires, preventing the bodies from charring to unrecognizable ash. The Myths actually prefer this. They want passersby to appreciate their handiwork. From long practice, the Myths know well enough how to time the incineration so that the rains do not extinguish the fires before the fires extinguish the victims.

Inured to the sight and the feel of the recently dead, tending to even long dead bodies causes me few qualms. It is a task, like vengeance, and I dedicate equal reverence to both burials and retribution.

Keeping a watchful eye on the open end of the box canyon in case the Myths decided to return, I carried the stiff, crackly bodies of the two little boys to their mother. Gently, I laid them, one about four years old and the other hardly more than an infant, in the cradle of her ruined arms. Burned bodies curl up as if sleeping in the cold, but with their teeth bared, arms bent at the elbow and fists raised as if to fight. These three bodies altogether made a pitifully small mound.

After burying the burned adult male, I wrapped the mother and babies together in a blanket from what was probably one of their packs. I pressed with my fingers, smoothing the scorched young faces as best I could. On the off chance that a god waits for them, it seems best their souls not meet him with distorted visage.

Damn you, Vernon, I whispered again and again, a litany for the dead. Damn you to hell.

The birds began to wake in the scrub trees above the canyon, but with only the malodorous smell of death to greet them, they flew away on hushed wings to sing their morning songs to fresher skies.

I tried again to cry for the children, for the pain and fear they endured for the entertainment of their captors, tried to weep for the lives cut short, but no water came from my eyes.

Just as well the babies died with their parents. Better for little ones to die than to be absorbed into the Myth Assembly. Conversion is worse than death.

The father was a large man, so I saved him for last. His body, suspended against the wall of the ravine, hung about a foot off the ground, making the muscles of his arms and legs stretch and stand out, swollen veins and tendons draped over the muscles like ropes across a log.

A thin layer of red clay mud had slipped from the wall to cover the hundreds of small, pinkish, oozing cuts crisscrossing his bare flesh. Neither the ugliness of the man’s still-strained limbs, nor the blood-soaked mud and weeping slashes concealed a physique of magnificent structure and proportion.

Were there fewer Myths, the family might have lived. Three Myths lay dead near the mouth of the canyon, and I surmised that the father had sent them ahead of him into the next life.

As I approached the man, I noticed another form lying not far away, covered with a light blanket and so close to the smoky embers of one of the satellite fires that I at first mistook it for an older child of the slain family. Glad that I had not yet pushed earth over the other bodies, I pulled back the blanket and found not a child but a full-grown man. My lips curved. It is rare for the Assembly to leave a Holy One behind when their killing orgy ends, but this one was apparently too drunk to move when they had.

Well, my friend, I said softly, straightening my right arm with a snap that launched the handle of the long, razor sharp killing knife into my palm, you simply will not believe how deadly a hangover can be.

I wagged the knife blade at him. Moderation in all things, remember.

I knelt, grasped a handful of greasy hair inside the shabby white hood, and yanked his head up. Hey. Hey, wake up. I don't want you to miss anything, here.

Bleary, bloodshot eyes peeped from under sleep swollen lids. He mumbled something unintelligible.

Wake up, unholy one.

The eyes widened at sight of the long platinum blade in my right hand. I swallowed a savage giggle of delight.

Was Vernon here last night, unholy one? I did not see a red robe the night before, but I needed to be sure.

Vernon is everywhere, the Myth said thickly, gaze fastened on the knife as though he had never seen one before. He is here, watching you—

Bull. Was he here? Tell me.

No.

Well, that is lovely to hear. Unfortunately, it will not save your miserable hide. This is for them, unholy one. I nodded at the bodies.

He struggled for a millisecond to rise and perhaps do something about the crazy woman with the knife. Too late.

I slit his throat and stepped nimbly away from the fountain of thick, coppery smelling blood, letting the Myth fall back to the ground to die writhing in the mud, where he belonged. Worse luck that the Myth was not Vernon, but the death satisfied my hatred for a moment.

For them, I said to the dying man. Not for me, not this time.

I turned my attention back to the father. Some of the cuts striping his flesh were deep enough to expose the thin layer of fat and penetrate into the bulging muscles below. He had bellowed like a wounded animal for hours the night before, and I could see knots in the thick arms and legs where the muscles, taunted by the Myth knives, bunched and seized up. The pain must have been excruciating.

Many cuts were mere nicks, designed to hurt and annoy rather than mutilate or kill. A couple of hundred tiny cuts seem inconsequential, but all the little pains together can drive a person crazy. I had seen it happen once before, the Myths robbing a man of his mind in that fashion until the novelty of it wore off and they began cutting deeper and deeper until, eventually, the man succumbed.

Although the fires were out, the noisome herbs still emitted their spicy stench. My stomach rolled unpleasantly as I approached the father. I sliced the leather thong holding his left leg to the stake and nearly vaulted clear of the canyon when he groaned.

Chapter 4

Though plentiful, none of the wounds turned out to be particularly hideous, so perhaps the Myths had erred, or simply chose to let the man die slowly. They’ve done that before. Twice I have found still-living victims and spared them the agony of lingering death. One was only a child, ten or twelve years old. His eyes wild and unfocused, his sanity gone forever....

Shaking myself free of the memory and severing the remaining straps, I caught the big man across my shoulders and staggered to my knees beneath his great bulk. I strained to lower him carefully to the ground, but my good intentions gave way, like my muscles, and I dropped him the last few inches, wincing at his pained moan upon impact.

Time weighed heavily on my mind. The Myths might realize one of their Holy Ones was absent and decide to come back and look for him. On the other hand, with their identical bulky robes and hoods, it might be hours before the idiots realized one was missing. I hoped so.

Can you hear me, mister? I asked softly, searching the father's body for major wounds. You are safe now, do you hear me? It's over, the long night is over and you can rest, okay?

He did not answer. I draped the Holy One's blanket over him and went back to the bodies of the injured man's family.

Grave digging is a difficult, tiring task, especially in our muddy climate, but I cannot bear to leave people for the scavengers. This, I suppose, is why the Ancestors performed this age-old ritual, as well, to keep their loved ones from becoming carrion. Dead Myths are different. I leave them to feed the buzzards and other wildlife. Everyone should have a purpose, in death if not in life.

With the family safely buried, I picked up a wad of muddy clothes that I guessed belonged to the man and crammed them into my pack. I hastily fashioned a travois with my quilt and two of my carved shelter poles, and began the slow, difficult climb out of the ravine with the man lying silent as death behind me. Not for the first time I longed for a horse, but horses are expensive and scarce, and I am but a poor traveler.

It took two rains and all of my strength to drag my passenger to safety. I hauled him along the bottom of the ravine to the lowest side, and then we went zigzagging along, slipping and sliding up the slick walls of red clay and patchy sawgrass to the broad plain above. Since I did not know where he was from, I could not take him to his own home. The Myth tracks led west, so I went east, though I did not know if the Myths were still heading away from us. The only thing I did know for certain was where I was going. My home.

Below us lay the Ladder, a treacherous tweed of mudslide-prone ravines and gullies descending to a narrow strip of land that forms a natural causeway between two inland seas.

These twin seas of my homeland are saline, like the ocean my mother took me to see when I was a child. The waters are bitterly cold and a deep, murky gray. Even under calm skies, the seas heave and churn. Huge breakers batter the causeway as if it separates the twins out of spite. Those giant, foaming waves sweep many an unwary traveler to a watery grave.

Sweat mingled with the latest rain, tickling my lashes and burning my eyes, and I cursed under my breath at each step. As I neared the bottom of the Ladder, a soft swishing sound froze me in my tracks. I waited, too terrified to move, as the sound grew louder. Mudslide. Without moving my body, I turned my head this way and that, searching for the source. A few yards away, a great wedge of earth slid away from the Ladder as if sliced by a giant knife. The thick slab of earth roared downslope, crashing into the sea with such force the resulting splash nearly sent me sprawling.

For a long time I stood as if rooted, dripping wet, catching my breath, waiting for my heart to slow its frantic, fearful pounding. Mudslides are common, but that makes them no less frightening and dangerous. I gazed at the place where once lay a small, lush ravine filled with trees, grass, and wiry bushes and saw nothing now but a brown, ugly scar glistening along the face of the Ladder.

I glanced at the man. Still unconscious. Bending over, I slipped a hand under the blanket and found his heartbeat steady and strong, the broad chest rising and falling shallowly but evenly. I looked at the weeping sky. The mid-day rain would be over soon, its winds already dying. This little trip was taking much too long for my taste.

Inhaling a deep lungful of salty air, I stumbled quickly down the last few ridges of the Ladder and struck out across the causeway. It would take most of the remaining hours of daylight to reach the other side, and every minute we were on the causeway we would be in the open, vulnerable to the crashing waves, visible to any Myths who might wander onto the Ladder or the plain above it.

I willed my feet to move faster than my burdened body had any right to go, eyes constantly moving to watch for killer waves, watch for Myths, watch for slippery spots. By the time I staggered up the long slope to higher ground at the end of the causeway, the surf seemed to pound inside my skull and my back felt permanently bowed.

Behind us, the narrow dirt-and-sawgrass bridge remained empty. That did not mean the Myths would not discover their slain Holy One and come looking for us here. I could not take the time to cover our tracks, not yet.

I kept going, driven to find a place to hide, only vaguely aware of the spectacular sunset to my right. I had no time for beauty this day, but I gave it a glance, anyway.