Olan Thorensen - Cast Under an Alien Sun

“Kort,” she whispered, so to not wake the baby or their five-year-old son, Allyr. Kort didn’t respond. She put a hand on his shoulder and rocked him. “Kort,” she repeated, louder. He grunted. She shook him hard with both hands and yelled, “Kort! Wake up! Something’s happening in the village!”

“Wha . . . ?” her husband croaked.

“KORT!! SOMETHINGS HAPPENING IN THE VILLAGE!”

Kort’s eyes flashed open with her fourth and loudest prompt. He sat up, listened for a moment, threw off the covers, and ran to the main door. “I’ll see what’s happening.” He could hear yelling and other noises, even through their walls. His first thought was a fire, the only occasion in his lifetime he’d experienced similar turmoil.

Senwina remained sitting up in bed, watching through the bedroom door into the main room and a view to her husband opening the outer door. Instead of the darkness expected, she could see reflections of fire on the door and the jamb. The faint noise changed to ferocious pandemonium when the door opened. Yelling in Caedelli and some other language, screams, cries, clashes, animals joining in. Kort stood frozen for several seconds, then slammed the door shut, jammed the wooden locking arm into its brackets, and turned toward the bedroom. Even in the low light, she could see the fear in his eyes.

“Get the children and go out the back door!”

She stared, frozen, as he ran into Allyr’s bedroom. Then she threw off the covers, jumped to her feet, and grabbed Onyla from her cradle.

A moment later, he appeared in the bedroom doorway, carrying their son in his arms. He ran to her, grabbed an arm, and pulled her out of the bedroom, dragging them toward the back door.

“People are attacking the village!” he choked out. “Many of them. They’re everywhere!”

Someone tried to open the front door and then pounded on the heavy wood—the sound of an ax. They could hear wood splitting.

“Go!” he yelled to her, setting Allyr down and shoving him into her. “Run into the woods and keep running! Don’t look back! Run for your lives!”

“Kort! You’re coming, too?” she cried, the baby in her left arm, her right hand gripping Allyr’s small one.

“I’ll be right behind you, now run !!” He opened the back door and looked out into the darkness. Their house was on the edge of the village, so there were no more structures between them and the woods fifty yards away. He pushed her out the door. She stumbled toward the darkness of the woods, when she thought she heard Kort say, “Take care of the children.” She turned in time to see Kort close the door. In that last moment, her mind noted that he appeared to be holding his fisherman’s knife. Then she ran, barefoot, clad in only her nightshirt, clutching Onyla and pulling Allyr behind her. She was too afraid to cry or feel the rocks bruising and cutting her feet, focusing only on the woods and holding her children. She was within a few yards of the first trees when a hand shoved her in the back. She lost hold of Allyr, as she fell and twisted to avoid landing on the baby.

Flames covered the entire village, reaching thirty feet above the main buildings, illuminating everything within the line of sight for a mile in all directions, including the smoke billowing upward and drifting from the onshore breeze. Musfar Adalan waited on the main dock. He hadn’t led the assault and wouldn’t come ashore on subsequent raids, but for this first one he wanted to get a feel for the island and its peoples. His men had rowed straight to the dock from their ships anchored offshore. There had been no watch by the villagers, no one to alert what was to come, no defensive positions, no general alarm, no organized resistance once his men burst into the village itself. Only the cries from the Caedelli met his men, as they plundered from structure to structure. Adalan was pleased it had gone quickly, but not pleased with the disorder of his men once they realized they faced little opposition. It wouldn’t always be this easy. There would be measures taken to ensure discipline was maintained.

Still, he had to admit the Narthani information was accurate. He watched as the four wounded and one dead of his men were loaded on a longboat and rowed to a waiting ship. One of the wounded told Adalan he had been injured by a single villager, who had also injured a second raider and killed a third. The wounded man begrudgingly admitted that the villager, wielding a wicked fisherman’s knife, had put up a ferocious fight in a house’s darkness before dying of a dozen wounds. Adalan took the account to heart. This village may have fallen easily, but that didn’t mean the islanders couldn’t fight.

His men set fire to the buildings nearest the dock, having saved those for last. Several longboats of booty had already been to the ships and returned to shore. Now it was time for the last of the captives and his men. A line of the former were led to the boats, a dozen at a time, linked to thirty-foot sections of rope by nooses tightened around their necks. They were females and boys of three to seven years—the age limit for male captives. Some of the captives were too shocked to show expressions; others were crying, all stumbling along. At the end of this rope was a woman holding a baby and a small boy clinging to her leg. She would bring a good price. Still young, comely enough, and obviously fertile. If she were lucky, a buyer would take all three. Otherwise, she might never see the children again after the auction, especially the boy.

Yes, it had gone well enough, Adalan thought, but they’d need to go over the raid in detail before the next one. They wouldn’t all be this easy.

The summer moved toward fall. The contrasting green of Earth and the darker foliage of Anyar became more distinct, as leaves turned shades anticipating colors to come. Scattered yellows to reds of Earth and blues and purples of Anyar already graced the higher elevations.

Yozef nestled under several blankets, out of which poked his face to take in the cool air coming from the open window. One eye opened to note the morning light, then closed again. He turned and stretched under the covers, feeling . . . good. He drifted in and out of sleep for the next hour, coming awake enough to know he was too comfortable to get up yet and then drifting under again. He had to get up. There were things to do. Things he wanted to do. Things he was eager to do, which was . . . odd, he thought. He couldn’t remember ever being this eager at Berkeley. The effort pulled up other memories of his previous life. He could picture Julie’s voice, her face, her body, her smell. Her favorite stuffed animal—a bear, saved from childhood—was named . . . what? He couldn’t recall the name. His forehead wrinkled.

Why can’t I remember the damn name? I saw the bear every day, and we joked about a third tenant in our apartment. We carried on conversations with it, as if it were another person. What was its name?

He searched other memories: family, school, television, Berkeley, books. English! It had been an Anyar year since he’d heard anyone speak English, except for talking to himself. He still carried on audible English conversations with himself but found speaking Caedelli easier and easier. The initial need to translate everything through English was fading. The periods of remembering were also less frequent. Snuggled under the covers, he realized he hadn’t thought about Earth for several days.

Earth? Why did I think “Earth” instead of “home?” I should have thought, “Thinking about home.”

He mulled this for several minutes. Earth. Anyar. Home.