F. Wilson: The Tery

They hadn't left him for dead. They had to know he was still alive, had to see the shallow expansion and contraction of his blood-smeared rib cage as he lay on his face in the grass. But they had other stops to make and he took such a long time dying. A tery didn't merit a final stroke to end it all, so they left him to the scavengers.

Consciousness ebbed and flowed, and every time he opened his eyes he found the world filled with flies and gnats. He tried but could not lift his arms to brush them away. Each time he tried, the effort involved dropped him again into oblivion. Which wasn't a bad place to be. Dark and quiet, no pain there.

But he always came back. Soon, if he was lucky, he would remain sunken there forever. Why not stay there? Everyone who meant anything to him had been taken away.

The creak of a poorly lubricated wooden axle pulled him to consciousness again. He heard stealthy footsteps through the ground against his left ear and allowed himself to hope.

Maybe another tery…

Summoning whatever reserve was left in his body, he pushed against the ground with his right arm and tried to roll over. The daylight suddenly dimmed and he knew he was losing consciousness, but he held on and managed to get a little leverage from his left arm, which had been pinned under him. He moved. A shift in his shoulder girdle and suddenly he was rolling onto his back amid a cloud of angry flies.

The effort cost him another period of awareness. When he came to again, the creaking was gone. Despair crushed him. The furtiveness of the footsteps he had heard was proof enough that they belonged to another tery, for stealth simply was not the way of the human soldiers who trampled everything in their path. Now the footsteps were gone and with them his last hope of rescue.

He was dying and knew it. If the hot, drying sun and his festering wounds didn't kill him by nightfall, one of the big nocturnal predators would finish the task. He couldn't decide which he –

Footsteps again…

The same ones, light and stealthy, but much closer now. The passing creature must have seen some movement in the tall grass and come over to investigate. It had probably crouched at a cautious distance and watched.

The tery lay still and hoped. He could do no more.

The footsteps stopped by his head and a face looked down at him. A human face, bearded, with bright blue eyes. He lost all hope then. If he could have found his voice he would have screamed in anguish, frustration, and despair.

But the human neither ignored him nor further mistreated him. Instead, he squatted and inspected the near countless lacerations that covered his body. His face grew dark with…could it be anger? The tery was not adept at reading human expressions. The man muttered something unintelligible as his inspection progressed.

Shaking his head, the human rose and moved around to a position behind the tery's head. He bent and hooked a hand under each of the tery's arms, then tried to lift him. It didn't work. The human lacked the strength to move his considerable weight, and the slight change in position sent a white-hot jolt of pain through each wound. The tery wanted to scream at him to stop, but all he could manage was a low, agonized moan.

The human loosened his grip and stood up, apparently uncertain of this next step.

"Can you speak?" the man said.

The odd question startled the tery. Yes, he could speak. He tried but his tongue was too thick and dry and swollen for a single word.

"Can you understand?"

The tery closed his eyes. Why the questions? What did it matter, anyway? He was going to die here. Why didn't this strange human just go away and leave him in peace?

After a brief pause, the man tore a strip of cloth from the coarse shirt he wore and laid it over the tery's eyes. Then he strolled away. The sound of his retreating footsteps was soon joined by the creak of the wooden axle. Both eventually faded beyond perception.

It was a small act of kindness, that strip of cloth, and incomprehensible to the tery. Why a human should want to keep the flies off his eyes while the rest of him died was beyond him, but he appreciated the comfort it offered.

The sun blazed on him and he felt his tongue grow thicker and drier during the progressively shorter periods of consciousness. Soon one of those periods would be his last.

He was brought to again by minute vibrations in the ground at the back of his head. Trotting hooves, and something dragging. The soldiers were returning. He was almost glad. Perhaps they would trample him as they passed and quickly end it all.

But the hoofbeats stopped and footsteps approached — many feet. The cloth was pulled from his eyes with an abrupt motion and the faces that leaned over him were human but didn't belong to soldiers. The four of them glanced at each other and nodded silently. One with blond hair turned and moved from view while the others, much to the tery's surprise, bent over him and began to brush the flies and gnats from his wounds. All this without a single word.

The blond man returned with one of the mounts. From a harness around its neck, a long pole ran along each shaggy flank to end on the ground well beyond the hindquarters. Rope was basket-woven between the poles.

Still no word was spoken.

Their silence puzzled him, for they were obviously on their guard. What was there to fear in these woods besides Kitru's troops? And what had these humans to fear from Kitru, who slew only teries?

The appearance of a water jug halted further speculation. Its mouth was placed against his lips and a few drops allowed to trickle out. The tery tried to gulp but succeeded only in aspirating a few drops, which started him coughing. The jug was withdrawn, but at least his tongue no longer felt like dried leather.

With the utmost gentleness and an uncanny coordination of effort, the four men lifted the tery. The pain came again, but not as bad a when the first one had tried to lift him. They carried him and placed him across the webbing of the drag, then tied him down with cloth strips. All without speaking.

Perhaps they were outlaws. But even so, the tery began to think them overly cautious in their silence. The soldiers were long gone.

The humans mounted and ambled their steeds toward the deep forest. The uneven ground jostled the drag and caused a few of his barely clotted wounds to reopen, but the tery bore the pain in silence. He felt safe and secure, as if everything was going to be all right. And he hadn't the vaguest notion why he should feel that way.

The path they traveled was unknown to the tery, who had spent most of his life in the forest. They passed through dank grottos of huge, foul-hued fungi that grew together at their tops and nearly blocked out the sun, and skirted masses of writhing green tendrils all too willing to pull any hapless creature within reach toward a gaping central naw. After what seemed an interminable length of time, the group passed through a particularly dense thicket and came upon a clearing and a camp.

The tents were crude, all odd shapes and sizes, scattered here and there in no particular arrangement. The inhabitants, too, offered little uniformity of design, ranging from frail to obese. This was hardly what the tery had expected. He had envisioned a pack of lean and wolfish outlaws — they would have to be feral sorts to hold their own against Kitru's seasoned troops. But there were women and children here and a number of them took leave of their working and playing to stare at him as he passed. These people hardly looked like outlaws.

And the silence was oppressive.

His four rescuers stopped and untied the drag from the mount, then lowered it gently until the tery lay flat on the ground. One of them called out the first and only word spoken during the entire episode.