Элизабет Мун - Moon Flights

Dall stood up, his heart pounding. He could see nothing across the field but a blurred line where he had come from, his body pushing the grass and flowers aside, but nothing ahead. Yet now he knew the footpath was perilous, he could not go back to it. He did not know what those beings were. He never wanted to see them again.

From the line of his passage the day before, he struck out at an angle, pushing his way through the waist-high growth. As anyone who has ever tried it, he found walking in the dark more difficult than he expected. Where the surface of the flowers seemed level, the land below dipped and rose beneath his feet, here a hummock like a miniature hill just high enough to catch his toe, and there a hollow deep enough to jar his teeth when he staggered into it. He pushed on, careless of the noise he made and any hazards he might wake, until—witless with fatigue—he caught his foot on yet another hummock and measured his length in the tall growth, falling hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. And there he slept, overcome by all that had happened, until the sun rose and an early bee buzzed past his ear.

In the morning, he could scarcely understand his panic of the night. He stood, stretched, and looked around him. His backward path was clear, a trampled line that twisted and turned like that of a fleeing rabbit. He thought he had gone straight, but by day he could see that he had not come half so far from the… the highway… as he hoped.

Remembering that, he looked again at his sisters gift. Clearly wood, carved to the likeness of a knife, and polished. In the low slanting light, he could see the incised design he’d felt before. He ran his forefinger over it, but nothing happened, and the lines themselves meant nothing to him. Whatever it was, it had driven away those… whatever they were.

He was hungry, but he often woke hungry at home, and nothing to eat until chores were done. He was thirsty, but he would come to water soon; all he had to do was go on. He looked around at the wide, green, flower-spangled world, and saw nothing he knew. He told himself he was happy about that. No father and brothers to bully him; no sisters to scold and laugh.

As morning wore on, hunger and thirst vied for his attention. Thirst won; by afternoon, he could think of nothing but water… and no water could he see, or sign of it. No friendly line of trees beside a brook or river… all around the grass lifted and flattened in the wind, billowing… the hills as distant as ever, flat and shimmery against the pale sky. He went on, into the lowering sun, hoping to get to the hills… surely he would find trees and water there.

Instead, he trod on something that yielded beneath his foot, and sharp pain stabbed his leg. With a gasp and cry, he threw himself away from whatever it was, and caught a glimpse of a long, sinuous body, checkered brown and yellow, as he landed hard on his side. He scrambled to his feet, but whatever it had been did not follow him. His leg burned and throbbed; the pain ran up and down his leg like scalding water. Groaning, he sat down again, and pulled up his trews. Two tiny dark holes a thumbwidth apart, and a rapidly purpling bruise around them. He felt sick and shaky. It must have been a serpent, but the little grass and water snakes near home had been smaller. They never bit anyone—of course he’d never stepped on one…

Suddenly his mouth was full of sour mucus; he spat, and blinked away tears. Poison. It was some kind of poison. His mother’s mother, before she died, had said something about poison from evil creatures. Cut it out, she’d said, or cut it off. The wooden knife could not be sharp or strong enough, but it was all he had.

He touched the point of it to one of the fang-marks, but he could not make himself push it in… the pain was already beyond bearing, and how could he cause more. Thick yellow ooze came from the wound, running down over his leg like honey. He stared, blinked, and realized he felt better. The flow of liquid stopped. He moved the knife point to the other fang-mark, holding his breath… and again, the thick yellow oozed out, ran down his leg. His belly steadied back to the simple ache of hunger; his mouth was dry again. As he watched, the fang-mark closed over, leaving a dry pale dimple. The other one still gaped; he moved the knife tip back to it, and it too closed over.

Grass rustled; he jerked up, stared. Unwinking eyes stared at him from a narrow head on a long, coiled body. Another serpent, this one much larger. A pink forked tongue flickered out; he flinched, scooting backward, and held the knife forward. The serpent’s head lowered.

Slowly, trembling, he clambered to his feet. He wanted to back away but what if there was another one…? Holding the knife toward the serpent, he dared a quick glance behind him.

At his back stood someone he had never seen, someone who had appeared… he almost forgot the serpent, in that astonishment, but the serpent moved, and that caught his eye. Slowly, without appearing to move at all, it lowered its coils until it lay flat to the ground, and then, too fast to follow, whipped about and vanished into the grass.

“You’re very lucky,” the person said.

Dall could say nothing. He shook his head a little in his confusion. How could a full-grown man, dressed in fine leathers and a shirt with a lace collar, and boots to the thigh, have walked up on him without making a noise?

“I surprised you,” the person said. “As you surprised the serpent’s child.”

“I don’t know you,” Dall said. He could think of nothing else to say.

“Nor I you,” the stranger said. “But it needs no names to befriend someone, does it?”

“I—I’m Dall,” Dall said. He almost added Gory the Tail’s third son, but didn’t because he had left home and could no longer claim his father’s name.

“And I am Verthan,” the stranger said. “You’re a long way from a village, Dall. Gone hunting a lost sheep?”

“No… I left home,” Dall said.

“You travel light,” the stranger—Verthan—said. “Most men setting out would take at least a waterskin.”

“Didn’t have one,” Dall muttered.

“Then you’re thirsty, surely,” Verthan said. “Have a drink of mine.” He unhooked from his belt a skin dyed scarlet, bound in brown.

Dall reached for it, his mouth suddenly dryer than ever, but then pulled his hand back. He had nothing to trade, nothing at all, and the deepest rule he knew was hearth-sharing. He shook his head and shrugged.

“Nothing to share? You must have left in a hurry.” Verthan shook his head. “You’ve set yourself a hard road, lad. But you’ll not go much farther without water—water you must have.”

Dall felt the words as if they were a hot summer wind in the hayfield; he felt dryness reach down his throat to his very marrow.

“I’ll tell you what,” Verthan said. “Why not trade your knife? Come evening, if you’ll travel with me, we’ll come to a place where you can gather early fruits, and we can trade it back to you. How’s that?” He held out the waterskin. Dall could see the damp surface of it; he could almost smell the water inside it; he could certainly hear it as the man shook it.

His hand jerked, as if someone had caught it from behind, and he felt the edges of the knife against the insides of his clenched fingers. The memory of the snake venom oozing out, and the sickness leaving… the memory of Julya’s face, as she handed him the knife… He shook his head, mute because his mouth was too dry to speak.

Verthan’s expression sharpened into anger, then relaxed again into humor. “You are not as stupid as you look,” he said. Then, as wind blows a column of smoke, he blew away, and where he had stood a rustle in the grass moved off downslope.