Peter Lerangis - The Select and The Orphan

Father eyed him warily. “Can you shoot? We have too few bullets to waste on revenge.”

“Marksman, highest level in the army,” Grendel replied. “And I ain’t planning to go far. Let me bring the boy. He’ll learn something. And I’ll return him safe and happy.”

Father gave a firm no, but I reminded him I was no longer a child. That I would need to hunt, gather, and trap while we were here. I promised I would graduate from spitballs.

He softened at that, and instructed Grendel to exercise exceeding caution.

Off we went.

The jungle was oddly dark, its dense tree canopies blocking the afternoon sun. Grendel proved to be an expert tracker, using a pocketknife to carve blazes on trees. Before long we came to a glade, festooned with wildflowers. Just beyond it was a clear lagoon that bubbled fresh water. As I got closer, I saw fat golden fish swimming. They were meaty and beautiful. “We need a spear, not a gun,” I said to Grendel, looking for a stick I could sharpen.

But Grendel’s response was a forceful shove. I fell beside a thick tree. He ducked behind another. “Be invisible!” he warned.

Within moments, the bushes on the other side of the glade began to rustle. I saw a blur of brown gray and heard a snuffling, piglike sound. Then the lapping of water. I peeked around the tree. The animal’s body was blocked by the brush, but its woolly haunches were enormous.

Grendel shot. I jumped away at the sound.

A bellowing cry rang out across the lagoon like nothing I’d ever heard—deep like an elephant’s bleat, coarse like a lion’s roar. “Blast it!” Grendel cried. “Shoddy firearms! He’s getting away!”

I followed as he ran toward the lagoon. But the animal was gone. Not a sign.

Grendel stooped over a dark pool of blood and dipped his left hand into it. His fingers came up dripping.

Green.

“What the—?” With an abrupt cry, he plunged his hand into the lagoon. The water let out a sharp sizzle. His face twisted in pain, he pulled out his fingers and examined them in astonishment.

The skin was burned.

Balling his left hand into a fist, he secured the gun in his belt and pulled me away from the pool of green blood with his good hand.

What had we just seen? I shook as we walked deeper into the jungle. “It will be angry,” I pointed out.

“That beast ain’t natural,” he said. “It could kill us all if we don’t get it first.”

Grendel stomped through the brush at a rapid clip, scowling. He had stopped marking blazes now. His injured hand was wrapped in his neckerchief, but I could tell from his grimace that it still hurt badly.

Through a break in the trees, I caught a glimpse of the black mountain. It was closer now, and taller than I’d thought.

Caws and screeches echoed in the thick foliage around us. Growing louder. The animals were warning one another, alarmed by the shot and the noise of our passage. I felt as if they were surrounding us, trying to scare us off.

But within that deafening din of alarm, I could hear another sound. Not an animal noise at all but a strange buzzing melody, made by instruments that sounded as if they used neither breath nor strings. It was barely audible, yet it cut through the wild animal cries as if plucking the very sinews of my body, vibrating the folds of my brain. “Do you hear that, Grendel?” I said. “The music?”

“Them beasts ain’t music to me!” he said.

After another few minutes, though, Grendel’s rage seemed to dim. The brush was too dense, and there was no sign of the injured beast. With a few choice curses, he announced we would return to camp. As we began to backtrack, Grendel held tightly to his burned hand. He wound through the jungle, pausing every few moments as if sniffing for a trail. His ways were a mystery to me, but within moments he was pointing to one of his earlier markings on a tree. “Blaze,” he said.

We picked up speed. Glancing skyward, I noted with some alarm that the sun was low in the west. Night would be upon us soon, and I had no desire to be in this maze when darkness came.

We quickly passed the lagoon again, steering wide of the toxic blood. But at the edge, Grendel dropped unexpectedly to his knees.

On the other side of the clearing, the one-eyed monkey was jeering at us, swinging the scrimshaw like a chalice. “Me mum gave me that,” Grendel growled.

He took aim and fired. I flinched. Grendel’s aim looked to be true, but the monkey jerked aside as if it had predicted the bullet’s path. It swung up into a tree and vanished into the darkness, jabbering.

Grendel ran after the creature. I scrambled to follow, but my foot caught on a root and I tumbled into a thicket of vines. I shouted Grendel’s name.

For a moment I heard nothing. Then, from the direction where Grendel had gone, came a savage, saliva-choked animal roar.

Another shot rang out. Followed by Grendel’s scream.

I ran to the sound. Vines tangled around me like witches’ fingers but I ripped my way through.

I emerged into a small clearing. At the far edge lay the revolver on a bed of vines. A thick smear of green liquid led into the surrounding jungle.

Mixed with red.

I reached camp, hobbling and scratched by thorns. Over the water, the sun touched the horizon.

Musa had built a fire and was roasting a rather meager bird he’d snared. He hurried toward me, summoning Father from his tent. Their faces were taut with concern upon seeing me alone.

I showed him the gun, which I’d tucked into my belt. I described what had happened in the jungle.

Father took the gun and looked into the jungle. “Two bullets left,” he said. “Let’s find Grendel.”

Musa began talking angrily, hands on hips. I translated for Father. “He says it will be dark in minutes. It would be suicide to go into the trees now.”

Father looked at me oddly. His face seemed to be glowing. I could not quite read the expression. “How do you know this?” he asked. “You are good with languages, but in this short time, with no studies, no time for comparison and context …?”

I shrugged, embarrassed to have my talents praised.

“I don’t know. I suppose my skills have rather improved.”

“Indeed they have.” Father cupped his hand affectionately on my shoulder. Then, placing the gun securely in his belt, he gazed over the treetops to the black mountain. “We will set off tomorrow at sunrise.”

We found a shoe. Just one.

In the clearing by the lagoon, the pool of blood had congealed and begun to flake. It was no longer green but black.

Musa had boldly led our morning trek, following Grendel’s blazes. He was an expert at animal noises, shouting back to the birds and monkeys and keeping our spirits up. Now his face was drawn. He said he had never seen blood like this. He was worried that we had only two bullets.

I translated as he spoke, but Father’s face was faraway, lost in thought. “We’ll head for the mountain,” he said.

Musa began to protest, but Father cut him off with a wave of the hand. “I know it’s risky,” he insisted, “but with Grendel gone we are in even greater danger. A signal sent from the top of the mountain will be seen much farther out to sea.”

As I translated for Musa, Father began trekking into the jungle. Musa looked at me pleadingly. Skeptically. Continuing to the mountain meant miles through the treacherous jungle, followed by a climb that would take hours. At the top it appeared to be solid rock. We had no climbing equipment. The plan, to Musa, seemed insane.