Piers Anthony: Sos the Rope

"We'd better pick up bows and tents, then," Sol said.

They left Sola to watch Sol's barrow while they backtracked three miles to the last hostel. They entered its heatpump interior comfort and selected two sturdy bows and arrow-packs from its armory. They donned camping gear: light plastic leggings, helmets and traveling packs. Each man placed three swift shots in the standing target near the battle circle, feeling out the instruments, then shouldered them and returned to the trail.

Sola was asleep against a tree, hiking skirt hitched up indecorously. Sos looked away; the sight of her body stirred him in spite of what he knew of her bad temper. He had always taken his women as they came and formed no lasting relationships; this continued proximity to another man's wife acted upon him in a way he did not like.

Sol kicked her. "Is this the way you guard my weapons, woman?"

She jumped up, embarrassed and angry. "It's the same way you take care of mine!" she retorted. Then, afraid, she bit her lip.

Sol ignored her. "Let's find a place quickly," he said, glancing at the nearest marker. Sos gave the woman the leggings and helmet he had brought for her; Sol hadn't thought of it. Sos wondered why they stayed together, when they evidently didn't get along. Could sex mean so much?

He forced his eyes away from her again, afraid to answer that.

They stepped across the line and moved slowly into the badlands. Sos repressed the nervous twinge he felt at the action, knowing that if he felt it, the others were struck much more forcefully. He was supposed to know; he had, to prove he was right. Three lives depended on his alertness now.

Even so, the personal problem preoccupied him. Sol had said at the outset that he needed no woman. This had sounded like a courteous deferral to the other man, since no second woman was available. But then he had given the girl his bracelet, signifying their marriage. They had slept together two weeks, yet she now dared to express open dissatisfaction. Sos did not like the look of it

The leaves and underbrush of the forest and field seemed healthy, but the rustle of wildlife faded out as they penetrated deeper. There were birds and numerous flying insects, but no deer, groundhogs or bear. Sos watched for the traces and found none. They would have trouble locating game for their arrows if this were typical. At least the presence of the birds seemed to indicate that the area was safe, so far; he did not know their tolerance, but assumed that one warm-blooded creature should be able to stand about as much as another. The birds would have to stay put while nesting, and would certainly have developed sickness if they were going to.

The trees, gave way to a wide-open field leading down to a meandering stream. They stopped to drink. Sos hesitated until he saw small fish in the water, quick to flee his descending hand. What fish could thrive in, man could drink.

Two birds shot across the field in a silent dance. Up and around they spun, the large one following' the small. It was a hawk running down some kind of sparrow, and the chase was near its end. Obviously exhausted, the small bird barely avoided the outstretched claws and powerful beak. The men watched indifferently.

Suddenly the sparrow fluttered directly at them, as though imploring their protection. The hawk hovered uncertainly, then winged after it.

"Stop it!" Sola cried, moved by the fancied appeal. Surprised, Sol looked at her, then held up his hand to block off the hawk.

The predator sheered off, while the sparrow flopped to the ground almost at Sola's feet and hunched there, unable or afraid to rise again. Sos suspected that it was as much afraid of the people as the enemy. The hawk circled at a distance, then made up its mind. It was hungry.

Sot reached inside his barrow so quickly that his hand was a blur and whipped out a singlestick. As the hawk swooped low, intent on the grounded bird, he swung. Sos knew that the predator was out of reach and far too swift for such antics . . . but it gave a single sharp cry as the stick knocked it out of the air and hurled its broken body into the river.

Sos stared. It had been the quickest, most accurate motion with a weapon he had ever seen, yet the man had done it casually, in a fit of pique at a creature who disobeyed his warning. He had thought that it was merely the luck of the battle that had given Sol the 'victory in the circle, though the man was certainly able. Now he understood that there had been no luck about it; Sol had simply toyed with him until wounded, then finished it off quickly.

The little bird hopped on the ground, fluttering ineffectively. Sola retreated from it, perversely alarmed now that the action was over. Sos donned a gauntlet from his camping pack and reached down carefully to pinion the flapping wings and pick up the frightened creature.

It was not a sparrow after all, but some similar bird. There were flecks of yellow and orange in the brown wings, and the bill was large and blunt. "Must be a mutant," he said. "I've never spotted one like this before."

Sol shrugged, not interested, and fished the body of the hawk out of the water. It would do for meat if they found nothing better.

Sos opened his glove and freed the bird. It lay in his palm, looking at him but too terrified to move. "Take off, stupid," he hid, shaking it gently.

Its little claws found his thumb and clenched upon it.

He reached slowly with his bare hand, satisfied that the creature was not vicious, and pulled at a wing to see if it were broken. The feathers spread apart evenly. He checked the other wing, keeping his touch 'light so that the bird could slip free harmlessly if it decided to fly. Neither was damaged as far as he could tell. "Take off," he urged it again, flipping his hand in the air.

The bird hung tight, only spreading its wings momentarily to preserve its equilibrium.

"As you wish," he said, He brought the glove to the strap over his shoulder and jostled until the bird transferred its perch to the nylon. "Stupid," he repeated, not unkindly.

They resumed the march. Fields and brush alternated with islands of trees, and as dusk came the shrilling of insects became amplified, always loudest just a little distance away, but never from the ground. They crossed the spoor of no larger animals. At length they camped by the bank of the stream and netted several small fish. Sos struck a fire while Sola cleaned and prepared the flesh. The woman appeared to have had a good education; she could do things.

As the night advanced they opened the packs and set up the two nylon-mesh tents. Sos dug a pit downstream for offal while Sol did isometric exercises. Sola gathered a stock of dry branches for the fire, whose blaze seemed to give her comfort.

The bird remained with Sos all this time, moving from his shoulder when he had to get at the pack, but never straying far. It did not eat. "You can't live long that way, stupid," he reminded it affectionately. And that became its name: Stupid.

A white shape rose before him as he returned from the pit, spookily silent. One of the great hawk moths, he decided, and stepped toward it.

Stupid squawked unmelodiously and flew at it. There was a brief struggle in the air-the insect seemed as large as the bird, in this light-then the white collapsed and disappeared into the outsize avian mouth. Sos understood: his bird was a night feeder, at a disadvantage in full daylight. Probably the hawk had surprised it sleeping and run it down while in a befuddled state. All Stupid wanted was a safe place to perch and snooze by day.

In the morning they struck camp and advanced farther into the forbidden area. Still there was no animal life on the ground, mammal, reptile or amphibian, nor, be realized was there insect life there. Butterflies, bees, flies, winged beetles and the large nocturnal moths abounded but the ground itself was clean. It was ordinarily the richest of nature's spawning habitats.