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The Land Beyond Summer
The Land Beyond Summer is posted for entertainment purposes only and no part of it may be crossposted to any other datafile base, conference, news group, email list, or website without written permission of Pulpless.Comtm.
Copyright © 1996 by Brad Linaweaver. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE SHUNNING
What a revoltin' development! He didn't remember where
he'd heard that phrase but it came back to him now like a wet
fish slapped across his face. "I don't believe it," he
sputtered. "You're not Fay."
The old crone cackled again. "Oh, no? How about the time I
put chocolate syrup in your underpants? Heh, heh, heh."
He blinked. That's about all he could manage. He blinked
some more. Maybe, just maybe, this decrepit wreck of a human
being was what Fay might become one day -- if she never had the
benefits of medical science, a good diet, shopping malls, air
conditioning, makeup, facelifts, social security checks, greeting
cards sent for every possible occasion, endless phone calls from
friends and her children and grandchildren, a convenient husband
somewhere along the way who could be put out to pasture or
otherwise disposed of when the time was right, vitamins,
supplements, subscriptions to Reader's Digest, investments
(especially mutual funds), mudpacks, beauty parlors, aerobics,
courses in self-esteem, group therapy, sit coms, female hygiene
products and a rewarding career. But despite all that, Clive had
his doubts this was really Fay.
"Well, do you recognize me?" asked the old woman. "Your
mind seemed to be wandering."
"You leave my mind out of this," he said defensively.
"Anyone could have known about the chocolate syrup. Maybe you
captured Fay and tortured secrets out of her."
"Ha," said the old woman with contempt.
"Or maybe you're Malak in disguise, or Grandfather, that is.
Yeah, that would make sense."
"Who sent you here?" she asked.
"Er, the dragon."
"Who sent you to the dragon?"
"Mrs. Norse."
"The good guys, kiddo. The good guys!" She was most
emphatic on that point. "Why would they send you into the arms
of Malak?"
Trying to trip him up on logic, was she? More evidence this
was Fay ... but Grandfather was no slouch in noticing details
about human beings caught in his net. Clive wanted proof.
"OK, you're either Fay or one of Malak's creatures...."
"Slaks," she added helpfully.
"You've always had a better memory."
"Come on Clive, I'm remembering this stuff from over seventy
years ago and it's just yesterday for you."
He blinked again. She was good, awfully good. The
perversity of the situation fit in with everything else that had
started to go wrong ever since the fateful day Grandad had taken
them out on his damned lake. Clive had asked to see Fay. And
now he was seeing Fay ... maybe.
"The last time I saw you," he began, "was a drawing of you
with some strange people in the Land of Spring. Mrs. Norse
showed me the drawing in her special book. I'd asked to see you
and then...."
"I was never in Spring," she said. "The moment we were
separated on the mountain of stone, Malak seizd me and brought me
here."
This was becoming complicated. Would Mrs. Norse have lied
to him? Wouldn't a Malakian trick be likelier? "Then what
happened?" he asked, all attention.
"Malak said he'd make me one of his tax collectors," said
the crone. "He explained that magic could be broken down into
small units and traded back and forth. He needed to collect a
certain amount in order to perform a very powerful spell." As
she recounted her story, Clive remembered how Malak had made the
same spiel to Wolf and himself but elected to keep this
information a secret for the time being. "At first I resisted,"
she concluded, "but when he put Mom and Dad's lives in my hands,
I gave in. This was many years ago. You've just traveled
through time."
"So they're dead now," he said, more to himself than to her.
She cackled again. He really hated that. "You'd think so,"
she said, "but I saved them in more ways than one. Now they're
younger than I am, eternally young you might say. You can see
for yourself!" Her claw-like hand reached out and took him by
the arm. Her touch was loathsome but he didn't resist. Worse
than her touch was the sour odor rising from her rags, some
unholy combination of rotting fish and grapes.
She led him along the snaking path until they came upon a
village of squat, grey cottages, worn from centuries of neglect.
Although the denizens must take their life from the broad ocean,
the cottages were turned away from the water, facing a barren
cliffside. "This is the village, Il," she said.
"But wait ... " He hesitated to call her Fay. "If this is
not the Land of the Seasons, where are we?"
"Another world, not earth. A planet steeped in evil." She
made a terrible gesture at the equally terrible houses. "Mom and
Dad are now lords of ... this."
He dared not pursue the matter further, not until he'd
learned something. At the seaside, this new environment had
seemed liberating, as the sun in the sky had been reassuring. As
they walked along the rough path into the village, however, the
atmosphere seemed to change; the air grew heavy and stagnant. He
began to feel a fear unlike anything he'd yet experienced.
"You pull away, dear brother," said the woman, digging her
claws the more deeply into his arm. More and more he doubted her
reality. But then two people emerged from the nearest cottage (a
construction built so low that it seemed to be virtually part of
the ground) whose identity he did not question.
"Mother?" he asked uncertainly. "Father?" he echoed
himself. The duo were young and appeared healthy. Mom still had
her raven dark hair and pale complexion. Dad was no longer
balding but had regained his full head of sandy, blonde hair.
They were dressed in black as though in mourning for themselves.
Except that the plain, black garb was exotic and luxurious when
viewed at close range, as Clive was in a position to see. He
broke free from the withered hand holding him and rushed forward
to embrace his parents.
He hugged Mom and she didn't resist. But he felt the
coldness beneath her clothes, as if she'd been disinterred for
this family reunion. As he pulled back he saw her immobile face,
like a mask carved out of ice. He was still looking at her as he
groped for his father, who pushed him away and held out his hand
instead for a more formal exchange of greetings. Clive shuddered
at the corpse-like coldness of that hand.
"Welcome home," screamed the old woman who claimed to be his
sister. "You've come at just the right time."
Wondering how being nearly a century late could be
considered punctual, Clive had to remind himself of the time
frame described by old Fay. "Come with us, son," said Dad.
"Today you'll be a man..."
"And do a man's work," Mom finished the thought. The crone
cackled again and began shouting. She was surprisingly vocal for
one of her advanced years. As she cried out, the doors to the
cottages creaked open and the denizens of the Village Il emerged
to greet the setting sun. The last cottage produced a little
girl, all of nine years old.
"Oh, God," said Clive as he recognized Anne Jeffries, Fay's
young friend who had been frightened so badly by the singing
wallpaper. She had her hands tied in front of her and was being
led by a man who looked like her father. "Anne!" he called out.
She didn't recognize him at first, seeming to be in some
kind of trance. Clive started toward her but Dad blocked him,
arm held out straight against his son's chest. "Listen to me,
Clive," he said. "You've been a disappointment up until now.
This is your last chance to make me proud of you." Dad could see
the consternation and confusion playing tag across his son's face
and placed his other hand on the young man's shoulder. "Don't
speak to that girl again, you hear me? If you do, you're no son
of mine."
Clive's mouth was open but absolutely nothing came out. Mom
spoke for him: "She's been chosen, son, and we don't speak to
those who are chosen."
Naturally that's when Anne noticed Clive and called out to
him. But now old Fay's claw hand was at his back, and her
insistent whispering reminded him to mind his parents. Anne
called out once more but gave up after that. Her small body
sagged when it was obvious that he could do nothing for her.
When about one hundred people had gathered, Dad gestured for
everyone to follow him. Clive stumbled along beside his parents.
Anne was brought up near the head of the procession as well, but
a sidelong glance showed him that she was staring straight ahead,
oblivious to everyone. The sun was just above the water, making
two perfect circles, one rippling and the other steadfast,
beckoning the people of Il on their way until the mob reached a
small beach of pebbles and stones.
There was an ominous cave looking out onto a pool of
brackish water that was left by the tide. There was a terrible
stink coming out of that cave of long dead rotten things from the
bottom of the deepest possible oceans. Suddenly a small knife
was in Mom's hand and she went at Anne. Clive was about to lunge
between his mother and the girl when he saw that all that was
happening was the cutting of the child's ropes. Then Dad placed
a hand on Clive's shoulder.
"Son, it's time for you to do what a son's gotta do."
"Uh, what's that, Pop?" asked Clive, casting furtive glances
every which way. There must be some hope of escape for both Anne
and himself.
"It's your turn to collect the taxes," said Mom. "This
child has defied proper authority, so first she is shunned, and
then she is expelled from the community in a manner that will
benefit the community."
"Uh huh," said Clive, still looking wildly for anything that
might help. "So what do you want me to do?"
"Feed her to the Maw," said old Fay. "The friendly little
critter inside that cave is one of Malak's pets. He receives
magical energy every time the Maw feeds, and he lets us have the
surplus for our own requirements at the local level."
Clive felt his head nodding and lips pulled back in a silly
grin. These people couldn't possibly be his family. There was
no way he could believe it. But how would he get out of this
one? "So what does he give you?" he asked, stalling for time.
"Life extension, for one," said Dad.
"We can't do it for ourselves," said Mom, regretfully.
"Only blood of our blood can provide us with the gift. But poor
Fay is getting a bit old for the ritual."
"You know how much I've always loved them," said the old
woman, cackling yet again. Clive kept on nodding. No doubt
about it, these were not his family. Malak must be getting
desperate if he thought Clive would fall for this song and dance.
"So what do I do?" asked Clive.
"Take this unwilling subject," said Dad, "drag her to the
cave, call out the Maw, and throw her in its mouth."
"Oh, is that all?" asked Clive, but his hands were shaking.
He hoped no one noticed. The eyes of the village Il were heavy
upon him and he went to Anne who offered no resistance. Maybe
the best strategy was to call out the monster and then not toss
him the expected vittles. If he and the girl ran for it, the
monster might be sufficiently peeved to attack the others.
Anne let him drag her to the edge of the cave, but then
began struggling, albeit weakly, at the immediate prospect before
her. "Yoo hoo," Clive called out. "Oh, you in there, it's
dinnertime." At first, there was nothing to see but white mist
seeping out of the cave. Then it began to creep up Anne's body,
slowly, inexorably, until thin tendrils of whiteness were
reaching for her throat. The stench of the sea bottom was
overwhelming.
Clive began seeing fragmentary details within the mist: a
fin, a claw, a large red, glistening something -- all part of a
shape that was constantly shifting. One moment he thought he saw
a metal surface; then it was fresh, wet scales; then the mist was
of a different density. There were many eyes and a glimpse of
wings.
Everything was dreadfully still with no hint of a breeze.
The only sound, besides the quickened breathing of Anne and
himself, was the eager murmuring of the crowd. He hated them
more than he did the insubstantial horror curling around his
feet. Before little Anne disappeared into that mist, he had to
act. Grabbing her narrow shoulders, he yanked her back and fell
into the tidepool. The sudden silence of the crowd was mute
testimony to his recklessness.
"Help!" he shouted to no one in particular as the amorphous
entity swirled over his head. Holding Anne by the hand, he
pulled her sideways and got them both to their feet. "Run," he
told her.
"YOU SAID THE MAGIC WORD BUT YOU DON'T GET A RUBBER
DUCK!"
boomed the voice of the dragon from directly overhead.
"Huh, what?" he blubbered, still running past the people of
Il who stood there as complacent as wax dummies, which
characterization included his erstwhile family. "Magic word?"
"YOU CALLED FOR HELP."
Clive stopped running so quickly that Anne went ahead of him
and did a pratfall because he hadn't let go of her hand. She lay
there, unmoving. "You mean to say you would have let us die if I
didn't say HELP?"
"NAH, YOU SAVED YOURSELF THE MOMENT YOU REFUSED TO
ACTUALLY PERFORM THE SACRIFICE. AND THERE'S NO ONE HERE TO DIE
EXCEPT YOU!"
Clive scrutinized the little girl lying in the sand. Then
he strolled over to the crowd and examined a few of them before
he got really picky with Mom, Dad and one old crone whose family
resemblance seemed considerably less convincing now. When the
figures had been moving, they'd seemed genuine enough, just as
the substitute Mom and Dad back on earth could have passed with
most anyone who knew them. It was just that when they were
immobile, as they were now, the bodies seemed to have a slight,
waxy quality that gave them away. Or at least he thought he had
detected something new.
He really hated Slaks. And something else was bothering
him. "Are you always this loud?" he asked. "It hurts to
listen."
"ONLY WHEN I'M SENDING MESSAGES TO THE FAR REACHES OF THE
SEASONS. THERE'S A LOT OF MALAK INTERFERENCE TO OVERCOME."
"The Seasons? Isn't this another planet?" No sooner had
Clive asked the question than twilight evaporated. The sun
blinked and he was staring into a colossal eyeball attached to a
pair of wings that flapped ponderously against the sky. As for
the Maw, its misty substance was undergoing a remarkable
transformation as it literally condensed.
The roaring of the surf was becoming louder as the mist turned
into stinking rain that hissed into the sand.
At least the ocean remained unchanged. "The Land of the
Seasons is an island, right?" asked Clive of the sky. "We
couldn't see this far from the mountain." He received no answer.
"Hey, how do I get back?"
"QUESTIONS ABOUT GEOGRAPHY ARE OUT OF BOUNDS, NO PUN
INTENDED. THIS TIME I'LL GET YOU TO YOUR SISTER, BUT LET'S TAKE
ONE SMALL PRECAUTION AGAINST ANY MORE OF MALAK'S DETOURS. I
DIDN'T REALLY EXPECT HIM TO GO THIS FAR."
The precaution consisted of Clive dipping his hands into the
sand where the Maw had suffered dissolution, and then rubbing the
damp and sticky grit on his face. He kept sand out of his eyes
by holding them tightly shut. When this latest indignity was
accomplished he felt himself being lifted again, up high where
yellow fogs swam above a blue sky; strange mists that could not
be seen from the ground. But he was in no mood to analyze such
mysteries with his eyes clamped shut and head spinning from the
speed with which he hurtled through space.
He kept his eyes closed as he slowed down and began to
descend. There was a sound of splashing and laughing, with a
fresh water smell in the air this time. There was something
reassuring about not being dropped on the cold, hard ground. He
plopped into a perfectly round little lake.
Fay was never louder than when she was happy. She turned
Clive's name into a shout of pure joy and began swimming toward
him as he had landed further out than where she and Jennifer had
been cavorting. As the sticky gunk washed off his face, Clive
opened his eyes to the most welcome sight he could imagine: the
real Fay. Or was she?
No one could go through what he had just suffered without
the transformation of a perfectly natural wariness into full-
blown paranoia. But the delightful vision swimming in his
direction sure looked like Fay. And as they made contact, she
sure felt like Fay as she put an arm around him and started into
her lifesaver act. He felt capable of making it to shore
unassisted but did not feel inclined to tell her so. Yes, by the
time they came out onto dry land he was sure this was his real
sister.
He even allowed himself to notice the obvious. "Fay," he
spluttered, "you don't have any clothes on."
"A regular Sherlock Holmes," said Kitnip from her perch atop
what had been one of the spider-fish's legs. Clive was glad to
see the cat but less so to notice more evidence that the Land of
the Seasons was suffering from severe monster infestation.
Fay stuck to the point by refusing to let her brother get
away with being more of a prude than she was herself. "Clive
Gurney," she said, hands on hips, "we haven't seen each other
since we fell off that stupid mountain and this is all you can
say!"
Jennifer emerged from the water next. Clive's eyes were as
fishy as the carcass on the beach in that they almost popped out
of his head. Jennifer was quite a beauty and in the same state
as his sister. "Would you like to swim with us?" she asked.
Before he could put either soggy foot any deeper in his
mouth, he was rescued by another large splash in the center of
the lake. The dragon had prevented another of Malak's
kidnappings but there had been nothing said about whether Clive
would be followed.
They watched a small boat rowing toward them with a loan
figure hunched over the oars. The dinghy, putting Fay in mind of
the one Grandfather had owned, came to rest on the shore.
Standing up, the rower revealed himself as another odd character.
He was a tall man with a bald head -- a football shape rising
from the folds of his green cloak, with two little eyes burning
in the center. His mouth was a long, jagged scar that was so
wide it almost seemed to bisect his face.
"Look, he has safe passage," said Mr. Wynot, cowering in the
shallows.
The boatman displayed a white arm band as he came ashore and
started walking. There was something wrong about the man's
movements, as if he were a machine, a giant wind-up doll. Each
time a leg came up, it jerked so violently that it looked to be
in danger of coming off. Not until the leg was almost parallel
to the ground did it deign to come back down and the other leg
perform the same operation.
Clive was all set to run from the marching, robot feet.
He'd had enough of the Slaks for one day, although he wasn't sure
this was another brand of the same demonic product. But as he
could tell from the monstrous remains on the beach, he was hardly
alone in facing danger. The others were holding their ground; he
would hold his.
The man stopped right in front of Clive and spoke with words
like spiders crawling into the ear: "You and your friends are
invited to Lord Malak's picnic to celebrate the Seasons." The
head turned mechanically, and the sneering mouth added: "Attire
will be required."
The Land Beyond Summer
The Land Beyond Summer is posted for entertainment purposes only and no part of it may be crossposted to any other datafile base, conference, news group, email list, or website without written permission of Pulpless.Comtm.
Copyright © 1996 by Brad Linaweaver. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE SHUNNING
What a revoltin' development! He didn't remember where
he'd heard that phrase but it came back to him now like a wet
fish slapped across his face. "I don't believe it," he
sputtered. "You're not Fay."
The old crone cackled again. "Oh, no? How about the time I
put chocolate syrup in your underpants? Heh, heh, heh."
He blinked. That's about all he could manage. He blinked
some more. Maybe, just maybe, this decrepit wreck of a human
being was what Fay might become one day -- if she never had the
benefits of medical science, a good diet, shopping malls, air
conditioning, makeup, facelifts, social security checks, greeting
cards sent for every possible occasion, endless phone calls from
friends and her children and grandchildren, a convenient husband
somewhere along the way who could be put out to pasture or
otherwise disposed of when the time was right, vitamins,
supplements, subscriptions to Reader's Digest, investments
(especially mutual funds), mudpacks, beauty parlors, aerobics,
courses in self-esteem, group therapy, sit coms, female hygiene
products and a rewarding career. But despite all that, Clive had
his doubts this was really Fay.
"Well, do you recognize me?" asked the old woman. "Your
mind seemed to be wandering."
"You leave my mind out of this," he said defensively.
"Anyone could have known about the chocolate syrup. Maybe you
captured Fay and tortured secrets out of her."
"Ha," said the old woman with contempt.
"Or maybe you're Malak in disguise, or Grandfather, that is.
Yeah, that would make sense."
"Who sent you here?" she asked.
"Er, the dragon."
"Who sent you to the dragon?"
"Mrs. Norse."
"The good guys, kiddo. The good guys!" She was most
emphatic on that point. "Why would they send you into the arms
of Malak?"
Trying to trip him up on logic, was she? More evidence this
was Fay ... but Grandfather was no slouch in noticing details
about human beings caught in his net. Clive wanted proof.
"OK, you're either Fay or one of Malak's creatures...."
"Slaks," she added helpfully.
"You've always had a better memory."
"Come on Clive, I'm remembering this stuff from over seventy
years ago and it's just yesterday for you."
He blinked again. She was good, awfully good. The
perversity of the situation fit in with everything else that had
started to go wrong ever since the fateful day Grandad had taken
them out on his damned lake. Clive had asked to see Fay. And
now he was seeing Fay ... maybe.
"The last time I saw you," he began, "was a drawing of you
with some strange people in the Land of Spring. Mrs. Norse
showed me the drawing in her special book. I'd asked to see you
and then...."
"I was never in Spring," she said. "The moment we were
separated on the mountain of stone, Malak seizd me and brought me
here."
This was becoming complicated. Would Mrs. Norse have lied
to him? Wouldn't a Malakian trick be likelier? "Then what
happened?" he asked, all attention.
"Malak said he'd make me one of his tax collectors," said
the crone. "He explained that magic could be broken down into
small units and traded back and forth. He needed to collect a
certain amount in order to perform a very powerful spell." As
she recounted her story, Clive remembered how Malak had made the
same spiel to Wolf and himself but elected to keep this
information a secret for the time being. "At first I resisted,"
she concluded, "but when he put Mom and Dad's lives in my hands,
I gave in. This was many years ago. You've just traveled
through time."
"So they're dead now," he said, more to himself than to her.
She cackled again. He really hated that. "You'd think so,"
she said, "but I saved them in more ways than one. Now they're
younger than I am, eternally young you might say. You can see
for yourself!" Her claw-like hand reached out and took him by
the arm. Her touch was loathsome but he didn't resist. Worse
than her touch was the sour odor rising from her rags, some
unholy combination of rotting fish and grapes.
She led him along the snaking path until they came upon a
village of squat, grey cottages, worn from centuries of neglect.
Although the denizens must take their life from the broad ocean,
the cottages were turned away from the water, facing a barren
cliffside. "This is the village, Il," she said.
"But wait ... " He hesitated to call her Fay. "If this is
not the Land of the Seasons, where are we?"
"Another world, not earth. A planet steeped in evil." She
made a terrible gesture at the equally terrible houses. "Mom and
Dad are now lords of ... this."
He dared not pursue the matter further, not until he'd
learned something. At the seaside, this new environment had
seemed liberating, as the sun in the sky had been reassuring. As
they walked along the rough path into the village, however, the
atmosphere seemed to change; the air grew heavy and stagnant. He
began to feel a fear unlike anything he'd yet experienced.
"You pull away, dear brother," said the woman, digging her
claws the more deeply into his arm. More and more he doubted her
reality. But then two people emerged from the nearest cottage (a
construction built so low that it seemed to be virtually part of
the ground) whose identity he did not question.
"Mother?" he asked uncertainly. "Father?" he echoed
himself. The duo were young and appeared healthy. Mom still had
her raven dark hair and pale complexion. Dad was no longer
balding but had regained his full head of sandy, blonde hair.
They were dressed in black as though in mourning for themselves.
Except that the plain, black garb was exotic and luxurious when
viewed at close range, as Clive was in a position to see. He
broke free from the withered hand holding him and rushed forward
to embrace his parents.
He hugged Mom and she didn't resist. But he felt the
coldness beneath her clothes, as if she'd been disinterred for
this family reunion. As he pulled back he saw her immobile face,
like a mask carved out of ice. He was still looking at her as he
groped for his father, who pushed him away and held out his hand
instead for a more formal exchange of greetings. Clive shuddered
at the corpse-like coldness of that hand.
"Welcome home," screamed the old woman who claimed to be his
sister. "You've come at just the right time."
Wondering how being nearly a century late could be
considered punctual, Clive had to remind himself of the time
frame described by old Fay. "Come with us, son," said Dad.
"Today you'll be a man..."
"And do a man's work," Mom finished the thought. The crone
cackled again and began shouting. She was surprisingly vocal for
one of her advanced years. As she cried out, the doors to the
cottages creaked open and the denizens of the Village Il emerged
to greet the setting sun. The last cottage produced a little
girl, all of nine years old.
"Oh, God," said Clive as he recognized Anne Jeffries, Fay's
young friend who had been frightened so badly by the singing
wallpaper. She had her hands tied in front of her and was being
led by a man who looked like her father. "Anne!" he called out.
She didn't recognize him at first, seeming to be in some
kind of trance. Clive started toward her but Dad blocked him,
arm held out straight against his son's chest. "Listen to me,
Clive," he said. "You've been a disappointment up until now.
This is your last chance to make me proud of you." Dad could see
the consternation and confusion playing tag across his son's face
and placed his other hand on the young man's shoulder. "Don't
speak to that girl again, you hear me? If you do, you're no son
of mine."
Clive's mouth was open but absolutely nothing came out. Mom
spoke for him: "She's been chosen, son, and we don't speak to
those who are chosen."
Naturally that's when Anne noticed Clive and called out to
him. But now old Fay's claw hand was at his back, and her
insistent whispering reminded him to mind his parents. Anne
called out once more but gave up after that. Her small body
sagged when it was obvious that he could do nothing for her.
When about one hundred people had gathered, Dad gestured for
everyone to follow him. Clive stumbled along beside his parents.
Anne was brought up near the head of the procession as well, but
a sidelong glance showed him that she was staring straight ahead,
oblivious to everyone. The sun was just above the water, making
two perfect circles, one rippling and the other steadfast,
beckoning the people of Il on their way until the mob reached a
small beach of pebbles and stones.
There was an ominous cave looking out onto a pool of
brackish water that was left by the tide. There was a terrible
stink coming out of that cave of long dead rotten things from the
bottom of the deepest possible oceans. Suddenly a small knife
was in Mom's hand and she went at Anne. Clive was about to lunge
between his mother and the girl when he saw that all that was
happening was the cutting of the child's ropes. Then Dad placed
a hand on Clive's shoulder.
"Son, it's time for you to do what a son's gotta do."
"Uh, what's that, Pop?" asked Clive, casting furtive glances
every which way. There must be some hope of escape for both Anne
and himself.
"It's your turn to collect the taxes," said Mom. "This
child has defied proper authority, so first she is shunned, and
then she is expelled from the community in a manner that will
benefit the community."
"Uh huh," said Clive, still looking wildly for anything that
might help. "So what do you want me to do?"
"Feed her to the Maw," said old Fay. "The friendly little
critter inside that cave is one of Malak's pets. He receives
magical energy every time the Maw feeds, and he lets us have the
surplus for our own requirements at the local level."
Clive felt his head nodding and lips pulled back in a silly
grin. These people couldn't possibly be his family. There was
no way he could believe it. But how would he get out of this
one? "So what does he give you?" he asked, stalling for time.
"Life extension, for one," said Dad.
"We can't do it for ourselves," said Mom, regretfully.
"Only blood of our blood can provide us with the gift. But poor
Fay is getting a bit old for the ritual."
"You know how much I've always loved them," said the old
woman, cackling yet again. Clive kept on nodding. No doubt
about it, these were not his family. Malak must be getting
desperate if he thought Clive would fall for this song and dance.
"So what do I do?" asked Clive.
"Take this unwilling subject," said Dad, "drag her to the
cave, call out the Maw, and throw her in its mouth."
"Oh, is that all?" asked Clive, but his hands were shaking.
He hoped no one noticed. The eyes of the village Il were heavy
upon him and he went to Anne who offered no resistance. Maybe
the best strategy was to call out the monster and then not toss
him the expected vittles. If he and the girl ran for it, the
monster might be sufficiently peeved to attack the others.
Anne let him drag her to the edge of the cave, but then
began struggling, albeit weakly, at the immediate prospect before
her. "Yoo hoo," Clive called out. "Oh, you in there, it's
dinnertime." At first, there was nothing to see but white mist
seeping out of the cave. Then it began to creep up Anne's body,
slowly, inexorably, until thin tendrils of whiteness were
reaching for her throat. The stench of the sea bottom was
overwhelming.
Clive began seeing fragmentary details within the mist: a
fin, a claw, a large red, glistening something -- all part of a
shape that was constantly shifting. One moment he thought he saw
a metal surface; then it was fresh, wet scales; then the mist was
of a different density. There were many eyes and a glimpse of
wings.
Everything was dreadfully still with no hint of a breeze.
The only sound, besides the quickened breathing of Anne and
himself, was the eager murmuring of the crowd. He hated them
more than he did the insubstantial horror curling around his
feet. Before little Anne disappeared into that mist, he had to
act. Grabbing her narrow shoulders, he yanked her back and fell
into the tidepool. The sudden silence of the crowd was mute
testimony to his recklessness.
"Help!" he shouted to no one in particular as the amorphous
entity swirled over his head. Holding Anne by the hand, he
pulled her sideways and got them both to their feet. "Run," he
told her.
"YOU SAID THE MAGIC WORD BUT YOU DON'T GET A RUBBER
DUCK!"
boomed the voice of the dragon from directly overhead.
"Huh, what?" he blubbered, still running past the people of
Il who stood there as complacent as wax dummies, which
characterization included his erstwhile family. "Magic word?"
"YOU CALLED FOR HELP."
Clive stopped running so quickly that Anne went ahead of him
and did a pratfall because he hadn't let go of her hand. She lay
there, unmoving. "You mean to say you would have let us die if I
didn't say HELP?"
"NAH, YOU SAVED YOURSELF THE MOMENT YOU REFUSED TO
ACTUALLY PERFORM THE SACRIFICE. AND THERE'S NO ONE HERE TO DIE
EXCEPT YOU!"
Clive scrutinized the little girl lying in the sand. Then
he strolled over to the crowd and examined a few of them before
he got really picky with Mom, Dad and one old crone whose family
resemblance seemed considerably less convincing now. When the
figures had been moving, they'd seemed genuine enough, just as
the substitute Mom and Dad back on earth could have passed with
most anyone who knew them. It was just that when they were
immobile, as they were now, the bodies seemed to have a slight,
waxy quality that gave them away. Or at least he thought he had
detected something new.
He really hated Slaks. And something else was bothering
him. "Are you always this loud?" he asked. "It hurts to
listen."
"ONLY WHEN I'M SENDING MESSAGES TO THE FAR REACHES OF THE
SEASONS. THERE'S A LOT OF MALAK INTERFERENCE TO OVERCOME."
"The Seasons? Isn't this another planet?" No sooner had
Clive asked the question than twilight evaporated. The sun
blinked and he was staring into a colossal eyeball attached to a
pair of wings that flapped ponderously against the sky. As for
the Maw, its misty substance was undergoing a remarkable
transformation as it literally condensed.
The roaring of the surf was becoming louder as the mist turned
into stinking rain that hissed into the sand.
At least the ocean remained unchanged. "The Land of the
Seasons is an island, right?" asked Clive of the sky. "We
couldn't see this far from the mountain." He received no answer.
"Hey, how do I get back?"
"QUESTIONS ABOUT GEOGRAPHY ARE OUT OF BOUNDS, NO PUN
INTENDED. THIS TIME I'LL GET YOU TO YOUR SISTER, BUT LET'S TAKE
ONE SMALL PRECAUTION AGAINST ANY MORE OF MALAK'S DETOURS. I
DIDN'T REALLY EXPECT HIM TO GO THIS FAR."
The precaution consisted of Clive dipping his hands into the
sand where the Maw had suffered dissolution, and then rubbing the
damp and sticky grit on his face. He kept sand out of his eyes
by holding them tightly shut. When this latest indignity was
accomplished he felt himself being lifted again, up high where
yellow fogs swam above a blue sky; strange mists that could not
be seen from the ground. But he was in no mood to analyze such
mysteries with his eyes clamped shut and head spinning from the
speed with which he hurtled through space.
He kept his eyes closed as he slowed down and began to
descend. There was a sound of splashing and laughing, with a
fresh water smell in the air this time. There was something
reassuring about not being dropped on the cold, hard ground. He
plopped into a perfectly round little lake.
Fay was never louder than when she was happy. She turned
Clive's name into a shout of pure joy and began swimming toward
him as he had landed further out than where she and Jennifer had
been cavorting. As the sticky gunk washed off his face, Clive
opened his eyes to the most welcome sight he could imagine: the
real Fay. Or was she?
No one could go through what he had just suffered without
the transformation of a perfectly natural wariness into full-
blown paranoia. But the delightful vision swimming in his
direction sure looked like Fay. And as they made contact, she
sure felt like Fay as she put an arm around him and started into
her lifesaver act. He felt capable of making it to shore
unassisted but did not feel inclined to tell her so. Yes, by the
time they came out onto dry land he was sure this was his real
sister.
He even allowed himself to notice the obvious. "Fay," he
spluttered, "you don't have any clothes on."
"A regular Sherlock Holmes," said Kitnip from her perch atop
what had been one of the spider-fish's legs. Clive was glad to
see the cat but less so to notice more evidence that the Land of
the Seasons was suffering from severe monster infestation.
Fay stuck to the point by refusing to let her brother get
away with being more of a prude than she was herself. "Clive
Gurney," she said, hands on hips, "we haven't seen each other
since we fell off that stupid mountain and this is all you can
say!"
Jennifer emerged from the water next. Clive's eyes were as
fishy as the carcass on the beach in that they almost popped out
of his head. Jennifer was quite a beauty and in the same state
as his sister. "Would you like to swim with us?" she asked.
Before he could put either soggy foot any deeper in his
mouth, he was rescued by another large splash in the center of
the lake. The dragon had prevented another of Malak's
kidnappings but there had been nothing said about whether Clive
would be followed.
They watched a small boat rowing toward them with a loan
figure hunched over the oars. The dinghy, putting Fay in mind of
the one Grandfather had owned, came to rest on the shore.
Standing up, the rower revealed himself as another odd character.
He was a tall man with a bald head -- a football shape rising
from the folds of his green cloak, with two little eyes burning
in the center. His mouth was a long, jagged scar that was so
wide it almost seemed to bisect his face.
"Look, he has safe passage," said Mr. Wynot, cowering in the
shallows.
The boatman displayed a white arm band as he came ashore and
started walking. There was something wrong about the man's
movements, as if he were a machine, a giant wind-up doll. Each
time a leg came up, it jerked so violently that it looked to be
in danger of coming off. Not until the leg was almost parallel
to the ground did it deign to come back down and the other leg
perform the same operation.
Clive was all set to run from the marching, robot feet.
He'd had enough of the Slaks for one day, although he wasn't sure
this was another brand of the same demonic product. But as he
could tell from the monstrous remains on the beach, he was hardly
alone in facing danger. The others were holding their ground; he
would hold his.
The man stopped right in front of Clive and spoke with words
like spiders crawling into the ear: "You and your friends are
invited to Lord Malak's picnic to celebrate the Seasons." The
head turned mechanically, and the sneering mouth added: "Attire
will be required."
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