Hugh Howey - Molly Fyde and the Land of Light

Walter staggered backwards and fell, the top of his head landing out in the direct sunlight, a sizzling sound coming from the back of his hood where it touched the rock. He screamed and rolled to the side, his scalp seared with pain, a brief glimpse of Drenard’s twin suns burned into his vision.

The frightened portion of him longed to huddle in the shade, to cower and shield himself. But a different part, something from his father, rose up inside. It was angry at being hurt. It was the boiling rage his uncle had been known to stoke up, use for nefarious means, then beat back down after it bubbled over.

He looked at his fingers—two of them were streaked with blood. Walter felt an overwhelming urge to inflict damage in return. To lash out.

Grabbing his lance off the rock, he stood up and shoved it deep inside the offending hole. Rattling it in all directions, he pushed in and out and found enough mad wetness in his throat to toss threats in after whatever had done this to him.

Something within shrieked back. A wail—pitched high and piercing—shot out of the hole like a bullet. The noise put a shiver up Walter’s spine, but he shoved the lance in further, feeling something softer than rock under one of his stabs.

The blare from within the hole went up even higher and louder—then fell silent.

Walter leaned on the rock, panting furiously. He could feel the wind fluttering his hood, the material pulling on his scalp where the two had melted together. His head pounded with the heat and the danger, his hand tingling from what must be a toxin of some sort. He wanted to cry or scream, but had the moisture for neither.

He looked at the hole, the lance still sticking out of it. Grabbing the lance, he lifted it up to the center of the tunnel and pushed it in as far as he could. When he brought it down, he could feel it rest on something soft. He pulled the lance back, scraping the thing across the bottom of the hole and out where he could reach it.

He grabbed the Wadi Thooo and brought it into the shade. The thing was still alive. Four legs, terminating in sharp claws, twitched slightly. A long, scaly tail with a sharp tip spun in a feeble circle every now and then. Its tapered head lolled to one side, two tongues hanging out past rows of overlapping teeth. The thing’s back was covered with iridescent hues that shimmered like the Drenard sunset, especially across two bony stumps that rose up from its shoulder blades.

Walter could feel a pulse of life in the creature, its round and white belly expanding and contracting in his hand. The thing was no more than eight inches long, from tip to tail. He felt sorry for the Wadi as it seemed to weaken in his hand, its pale life barely distinguishable within.

Then he saw the blood trickling from his fingers and across the lizard’s belly. His knees felt weak from the strain of his battle. Looking at the Wadi’s rows of teeth, seeing his own blood on them, drained whatever empathy Walter had for the damn thing.

He made a fist, tightening his fingers around the soft underbelly, and squeezed the life out of the small beast. A raspy croak came out of the creature’s mouth, fading into a sigh.

The small noise was carried off in the wind, drowned out by the howling of the canyons.

Satisfied—gloriously so—Walter turned to the narrow path and began retracing his shadowy steps. He marched toward the night side of the planet, back in the direction of the shelter, his head held high.

He was a Drenard now.

Cole crossed over the third bridge slowly; he’d had quite a scare on the last one after the first bridge lulled him into a false sense of windless security. He quickly learned to drag the hooked end of his lance across the ground, helping him brace for the gusts.

As he approached the other side of the canyon, he noticed the strange holes in the side of the cliff had grown to nearly the size of his head. He still couldn’t see inside of them or puzzle out their geological origin; he figured he’d keep going until the holes were big enough to explore, if they even increased to such a size. Surely the lizards they were looking for would choose to live in these natural caves rather than scurry across the baking stone.

Tracing the cliff wall with one hand, Cole stumbled upon a remarkable sight: the remains of a tree frozen in the face of the canyon. Split open and petrified, its pulpy interior had long ago been replaced with solid rock. He rubbed the grainy surface, the texture reminding him of his sink counter and the frigid, refreshing water that flowed from it. He wondered how long it had been since the planet was in motion and covered with life.

He was so focused on the beautiful patterns in the shaded rock, he didn’t see the glistening eyes that appeared in the hole above him. They sparkled in the ambient light reflecting off his suit. Wrapping two sets of claws over the lip of the hole, the creature tensed itself up, prepared to defend its lair.

But Cole turned and surveyed the heated rock to his left. He looked at his map again and saw how a few other canyons would merge with his own a few kilometers ahead. He gripped his lance and set off deeper into the lighted land, desperate to find a Wadi Thooo.

Molly knelt down in front of one of the holes and peered inside. She leaned close, but the light on the shaded side of the canyon only filtered in a few decimeters. Beyond that, it was just mysterious blackness emanating a weak moan. She considered reaching in to her shoulder and groping past the darkness for an egg-filled nest, but the thought of sticking her hand that deep sent a shiver up her spine.

The wind abated for a moment, pitching the moaning even lower. The sound made the deeper parts of the canyon creepier, the small caves more ominous. Molly felt a twinge of fear before kicking herself for being such a wimp. She felt positive Cole and Walter weren’t having any problems with their hunt, so she needed to soldier up. If Drenard youth could do this, so could she. In fact, she didn’t want to come out of this with any old Wadi—she needed to make sure hers was bigger than Cole’s. She’d never hear the end of it otherwise.

She moved on, keeping an eye out for any movement up and down the canyon. At the next bridge, she sat down in the shade to adjust her boots, a loose lace nearly tripping her up during her last crossing.

She pulled her hood back a little and secured a double knot in the laces, then noticed her reflection in the side of her boot, her face smudged with sweat and dust, the skin beneath pink and sunburned, even though she hadn’t left the shade. She checked her reflection, turning her head side to side—then got an idea.

Pulling off her boot, she rested her lance in her lap and began weaving the laces around the hooked end. She tied them off around the shaft and cinched them tight, adjusting the angle a little.

Molly stood and walked back the way she’d come, to a hole about the height of her eyes and a little larger than the others. She peered into the darkness, her nose almost inside the lip.

“Hello?” she called into it, her voice ringing metallic as it reverberated in the cylinder of stone.

She heard no response over the wind and the groaning canyon.

Stepping back, she wiggled the boot on the lance one more time to make sure it was secure, then extended it into the sunlight.

The flash nearly blinded her. She’d naturally been looking right at the boot as she reached it beyond the shade, and the thing just happened to be angled right at her face. She turned her head away from the blinding light and nearly dropped the lance, cursing herself for not moving it out at a safer angle. Gradually reopening her eyes, Molly saw an image of the boot everywhere she looked—a white shape dancing in the center of her vision.