Sheri Tepper - Grass

A troubled sound from the trees.

“Now they’re upset,” said Brother Mainoa, rubbing his head. “They’re angry. The foxen have never carried anyone anywhere until they carried you and your companions. Rillibee. The foxen thought the town was safe. They had encouraged men to build the port there, where the Hippae couldn’t get at it.”

“Encouraged?” asked Marjorie.

“You know.” Brother Mainoa sighed. “Encouraged. Influenced. As they do.”

She felt the foxen retreating. “Where are they going?”

“They’ve gone to look for the way Rillibee says must be there. As they went they were thinking of migerers.”

“Diggers? They suspect a tunnel, then.”

“Something like that.” Mainoa gave a weary shudder, putting his head into his hands. “Marjorie, at this moment, I’m a tired old man. I’m incapable of helping to look for tunnels.”

Rillibee put his arms around the old man. “I’m a very tired young one, Brother. If the foxen are searching, let’s let them do it. I need a little rest. Unless you think they need our help…”

“They’ll do it,” Brother Mainoa said. Whether they would or not, he could do no more. Marjorie crept back to her bed, feeling the pain ebb once more as she fell into sleep, empty this time of all foxen dreams. Rillibee lay sprawled like a child. Mainoa huddled into himself, snoring slightly. Father James sat by the railing, wondering what had really happened to Marjorie, what she had really seen or dreamed. Long Bridge and Steeplehands sulked and muttered to one another, chafing at their bonds.

Even before First returned late in the afternoon, they knew the way into Commons had been found. When He was yet some distance off, horses and riders swam into their minds, and they knew what He intended. Mounted once more, they were led in a circuitous route as they crossed quiet pools, forded dark streams, and rode down long, splashing alleys. Without a guide, it would have been impossible to find their way. Some pools were shallow water over sucking sands. Some were full of deadly sharp root knees. They knew, because the foxen showed them.

They came out onto the grass near the pool where they had found Stella. Near where she had lain, great sheaves of grass had been torn up, turf had been ripped away to expose a gaping tunnel mouth, wide and dug deep and mortared up as the Hippae caverns were. The grass had hidden it. When they had found Stella, all of them had been within yards of it without seeing it.

“Migerer work,” said Brother Mainoa.

Somewhere a foxen cried out, a great, world-freezing cry.

“Devil’s work,” Mainoa amended. “So say our guides. This tunnel goes deep beneath the swamp. One of the foxen has been through it, all the way to the port.”

It was not necessary to ask who had used it before The tripartite hoofprints of the Hippae were everywhere inside it, everywhere except where the trickle of water had washed them away. “In,” they were urged “Through! Quickly!”

Marjorie, leading Don Quixote, went into the opening and was immediately soaked by the drip of murky water seeping through the soft stone above. The others trailed behind her, swearing softly at the dank air, the stench of droppings, the sog of the surface beneath their feet. The prisoners cursed and dragged at the ropes that held them. The tunnel top was not high enough for any of them to ride sitting up. It was barely high enough for Irish Lass to walk with her head down, her ears brushing the end of muddy roots which straggled through from above. The lights they carried lit their way, though inadequately. Horse and human feet splashed and sucked at the half-muck, half-rock beneath them.

“Foxen coming behind us,” called Rillibee from his position at the rear. “I think. I feel them there. This tunnel isn’t even tall enough for Hippae.”

“High enough if they stalk,” said Brother Mainoa. “Like great lions. One at a time. Slowly. But it was not made for them.”

Within yards of the entrance the tunnel began to slope steeply down. The trickle of water, which had been running outward, reversed itself and began to flow in the direction of their travel The horses sat back upon their haunches as the steep slope continued, whickering in protest. Something told them to go on, trilling at them, a summoning noise. The floor leveled and the water became deeper. They went on into darkness, water falling, water splashing, the darkness above them seeming to enfold them.

Marjorie flicked her light along the tunnel walls, finding numerous small holes where the walls met the water. “What are those?” she asked.

“I should think drain holes,” replied Father James. “All this water has to go somewhere.”

“Where? It can’t run uphill!”

“We’re actually in a hill,” Brother Mainoa said, coughing. “All of Commons, including the swamp forest, lies in a rocky basin higher than the surrounding prairie. It’s like a bowl on a table. If one drills holes in the bowl, the water will drain away.”

“Do you think migerers dug all this?” she asked.

He coughed again, wrackingly. “I think so, yes. I think the Hippae told them to do it.”

“Through rock?”

“Partly through rock. This looks like a fairly soft stratum. They can dig in soft stone. I’ve seen them.”

“How much farther?” she wondered aloud.

After a time Brother Mainoa responded. “There’s something just ahead.”

What was just ahead was a side chamber of the tunnel, one made tight and dry and furnished with a pile of grasses. Marjorie used her light to examine the chamber. The floor was littered with scraps of underclothing, with two left boots, with a much-tattered Hunt jacket. “She was here,” Marjorie said, “Janetta.”

“And someone else.” Brother Mainoa sighed, pointing at the boots. “Two left feet worth of someone. Janetta and Dimity bon Damfels, perhaps.”

The tunnel was full of sound, trills and snarls and demands.

“He wants us to go on,” said Brother Mainoa. “There is danger behind us.”

They resumed to their splashing journey, fear lending speed to all of them. Marjorie looked at Don Quixote and wondered if he might not understand the foxen far better than she herself did. He moved alertly, as though summoned. Al! the horses did.

Far back in the tunnel, something screamed. The echoes went by them — ee-yah, ee~yah, ee-yah — ricocheting along the walls, fading into quiet.

“Hurry,” something said in their minds. The Terran word pulsated at them, black letters on orange, large, plain capital letters, underlined, with an exclamation point. “HURRY!”

“What?” Marjorie whoofed. “What was that?”

“He does that sometimes,” Mainoa breathed. “He’s not much interested in written words, but sometimes he picks one up from me and broadcasts it.”

Another picture, this one of all of them mounted and running. It had scarcely faded before they were all on horseback, lying flat while the horses trotted rapidly through the water, blindly moving into darkness as though moving in accordance with some guidance system known only to themselves. The prisoners, hastily thrown across Irish Lass, snarled and complained.

“Shut up, or we’ll leave you for the Hippae,” Rillibee commanded. The climbers fell silent.

Then there was rosy light, slightly above them and far ahead. The way sloped upward. The horses dug in with their rear legs, pushing. A foxen was silhouetted against the light, then gone. Then they too were out in the world once more. The tunnel emerged on a tiny island. Pools of water surrounded them. Ahead, the trees stopped and the land sloped up toward a red-flushed sunset. Illusory shapes prowled out of the tunnel behind them and took to the trees. “Go,” the word said, red on white, imperative. “Go!” They went. The horses walked-swam to the edge of the trees and lunged up onto the long slope. The riders stared back, expecting horror to erupt behind them. Nothing. No sound. Perhaps the foxen had bought them time.