River’s End ch 7: Any Price

The pain stopped, abrupt as a door slamming. Yet, it was not like something had closed, not like turning a valve on a faucet where more water waited to be summoned. This was a cloud dissipating, rain ceasing because the ground had already drunk all the sky had to give.

I felt hollow, not a pouch that had been tipped over and its contents dumped, but a purse sundered by the sharp edge of a knife—not only empty, but injured and unable to hold anything ever again.

Fredo!

Nothing. Less than nothing. A void where he should have been in my mind.

Try imagining you have a sixth finger. It is a new and clumsy discovery. It should not be there. Do you accept it? Prick it, and it bleeds. You bleed. It hurts. Rip it off, and it leaves a hole in your hand.

I had a horrible thought Fredo was…

Fredo was…

I found him. Stumbling in the pounding rain amid a warren of luggage, I fell at Fredo’s side. My tears drowned in the downpour’s generosity, and watery blood pooled around him. Tugging on his shoulders, I gathered him to me.

“Fredo, please. Get up. Fredo!”

Not even a twitch. He hung limp in my arms, and there was so very much blood. His hair was sticky with it, red strands nearly black.

“No, Fredo,” I sobbed. He couldn’t be dead. Such a world made no sense, like a night with no moon or a storm with no rain. Grenswa was a world of beauty and color, of surviving against all odds. Fredo fit that description much better than I did. It could not have killed him.

I choked on a drenched breath, cascades streaming down my cheeks as I put my ear to Fredo’s chest, listening for a heartbeat, an inhale, anything. I heard nothing over the rain hammering my back like a stampede of tiny warriors. Whether these intended to shroud and protect me or keep me pinned, I didn’t care.

I held my cloak over Fredo’s head to shield his face from the torrent. How could they have left him here in the rain as if he were of no consequence, discarded him as if he had no worth?

Anger crackled within me like the thunder all around, flaring with the lighting that streaked between the raindrops. I would not leave him.

And I would not be caught.

Still holding Fredo, I got to my feet. I was strong here, able to carry him, not like on heavy Seallaii. I carried him, and I ran.

With Fredo’s weight added to mine, my legs bore a load closer to what they were accustomed, so at least I didn’t bounce like a broken-winged insect attempting to fly. Yet, Fredo was tall. Not letting his drooping limbs drag or knock against anything was difficult, like carrying an empty, floppy box as big as me and again by half.

I left the train and the luggage behind, once again racing along hedges. I followed the tracks, hastening back the way the train had come, back to Bongii’s ship. I would complete my mission, but I would do all I could for Fredo first.

My lungs burned. Running was not a regular habit of mine, and Grenswa’s air was both wet and oxygen-rich. Seallaii-na blood prevented chemical reactions with oxygen. Instead, our respiratory system required gaseous forms of nitrogen and hydrogen. Every gasping breath here contained plenty of the latter but precious little of the former. By the time I reached the vacant pad where Bongii’s ship should have been, my shaking knees could barely take another step.

I collapsed, staring up into the storm. Many species of senseless birds drowned doing exactly that, but I didn’t care how much I resembled them. I could not hope Bongii would return, that his ship would appear where I needed it to be, but I wished. If only that wish were a lasso, a signal that could touch his heart.

My wish would have reached Fredo.

Fredo. I held him closer, still so warm. He smelled burnt and wet and somehow faintly of home, the tangy scent of baffble wood, herby grasses, and chalky stone.

We can’t give up, I reminded myself, but sitting there, vision blurred by the deluge, I couldn’t find the right path, either physically or figuratively. Though I may have looked like one, I was not an eteriq.

I stood, drenched and miserable and lost. I didn’t know where I headed, but surely if I walked in one direction long enough, I would leave the shipyard behind and find something. Maybe inspiration would strike me before lightning did.

A silhouette appeared an arm’s length in front of me. My gasp sucked in more water than air, and I coughed, allowing the figure time to draw closer. Officer Serious.

I drew Fredo’s pistol from his belt and aimed it at the shadowy Grenswa-na. “Stop!”

He froze, but his dark eyes were calm and calculating. “Put down the weapon, Seallaii-na.”

“Why, so you can kill me?”

He was nothing like the bright, alacritous people I had imagined. His gracefulness was undeniable, but it had a sinister edge, distrust in every line. His willowy tail slowly swayed.

I did not see him move, but the pistol wrenched down. In my surprise, I fell with it. Kicking out, I hit nothing. My weapon landed with a splash beyond my sight, and Serious gripped my arm. I twisted free, soft skin stinging, scoured by his rough scales.

Though still unconscious, Fredo was between us, still my shield. As I slid two of his throwing knives into my hands, I shoved him at the Grenswa-na. Serious stumbled back, struggling under Fredo’s weight. Grenswa-na bones were more web than solid and allowed for extreme flexibility. My skeleton was a fifth of my total weight, theirs a twentieth. Fredo would have been an exceptionally heavy Grenswa-na.

I charged, but a flying kick met my sternum, and I dropped. The officer twisted into a backflip and landed in a crouch. It was simple physics. I weighed more, so he flew further, but still I couldn’t breathe. I heaved as if his foot were lodged in my chest, denying me another full inhale.

One of the knives escaped my grasp in the exchange. The other, I threw at Serious as he rushed toward me. It missed him by a wide margin as I scrambled back.

My hand landed on a cold, hard object. Fredo’s pistol.

Clutching it like a lifeline, I once again pointed the weapon at Serious. He paused, and in his narrowed eyes, I saw him trying to determine if I had better aim with a pistol than with a throwing knife.

In truth, I didn’t know. I had only held a pistol once before, and I had read several manuals since then.

“You will take us to a medical facility and treat him,” I ordered.

“I doubt he’s still alive, but just to make sure…” Serious knelt alongside Fredo, loosed a faintly glowing claw from his own belt, and placed its curved point against Fredo’s throat. “Now, drop that gun and come here.”

I let my aim lower but didn’t step closer, exhausted and terrified. “Don’t hurt him.”

I doubt he’s still alive.

The words ricocheted in my mind like bullets.

“I came here with a message, a warning—” I broke off as more figures appeared. Fear brought the pistol back up.

“No!” Serious snapped and leapt, calling my aim to him. I triggered the pistol, and he dropped. I turned and ran.

And ran.

And ran, the shipyard left behind, pursuers closing in.

A wide river cut across my path. I raced along its banks, but it turned sharply and enclosed me on three sides.

With one glance back at the silhouettes charging through the rain, I jumped.

* * *

Forgive me, Fredo.

I lay on a wooded bank. A thick bed of rotting foliage cushioned me, itchy and concealing jagged rocks. The ground smelled of water, pitch, and rubber, only faintly retaining the airy, menthol scent of the tall trees. These clothed themselves in shaggy, black bark and thick bunches of green needles.

The river had split in many streams, and the one that carried me gradually narrowed into this rocky creek. It gurgled and cackled as if trying to tell me something, but I was so tired.

I should not have survived my journey in the river. It played a wild tug-o-war over my limbs, denied me breath, and pummeled me more than an old rug. I bet I had more bruises than skin.

I needed to rest. Forests back home on Seallaii were deep, their darkest parts primarily uninhabited. Was it the same for Grenswa? Surely it would be safe to close my eyes here for a bit.

* * *

“You’re alright, Jnoino?”

My brows furrowed, and I did not open my eyes. The word stroked the back pages of my mental dictionary: an old Sapphire term of endearment for beloved children. No one ever called me that. Nor did I know this voice, creamy smooth and not quite deep, cadence slurred. Where was I? Fredo wouldn’t have let anyone near—

Fredo!

My eyes flew open to a sea of glittering blue.

“You’re alright?” a man said again, lightly tapping my cheek.

He was upside down, or rather, I lay flat, bare feet wrinkling in the creek, and he knelt by the top of my head. His eyes were mesmerizing, vivid as cobalt and swirling with life as if a school of fish waltzed just below the surface. The shimmering scales at his ears, wrists, and knuckles held that same brilliant blue.

He was a Grenswa-na of the Sapphire race. That explained the word, at least.

I sat up. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Timqé,” he offered with a grin. “Yours?”

Something tickled my elbow, and I flinched away. White birds, tiny and delicate, surrounded us, their soft cooing a quiet symphony. With a sweep of his arm, Timqé shooed them further off.

“Wansas,” I labeled them.

Timqé’s head tilted. “That’s what the River Guardians called them, but they’re actually tye.”

I nodded, watching the birds settle on rocks and roots. This was a canyon, dozens of waterfalls glinting white in the dimness. Had I fallen over one of those?

I sat, not on the riverbank, but on a slender bar of rock. Rapids chortled past other boulders and skirted deeper, darker pools. Though some trees braved standing in the water, most congregated behind me.

“Why are you here?”

Not to hunt down the Seallaii-na trespasser and kill me, I hoped.

He shrugged. “I’s runnin’ an errand and saw the tye sittin’ all over something. That something’s you, so I shooed them off. Why’re you here?”

“The river carried me.”

He raised his eyebrows, expecting more, but I didn’t elaborate.

“Okay.” He rose slowly.

I absently noted his shirt was the same aqua as mine, though his had a braided texture and a sparse scattering of silver threads running diagonally. These winked in the uncertain illumination.

Beyond the wide circle of light cast by a lamp he had set nearby, the forest and canyon loomed incredibly dark. Night must have fallen while I rested. I shivered twice: once at the thought of deep darkness in the absence of familiar moons, and again when I realized how long it would last.

Timqé plodded a dozen paces downstream, furry tail rippling with each step, and I watched him with interest. Granted a moment to observe a Grenswa-na without running for my life, I noted his odd gait. He had narrow feet and kept his slightly webbed toes spread. The ball of his foot touched the ground first, and his heel tapped last, if at all, giving his step a springy quality.

In the glow of the luminous rocks that filled his lamp, Timqé’s scales shone a vibrant blue even on his soiled feet, and my imitation scales were not nearly as brilliant. I buried my dull toes and fingers in the soft needles, wishing I could inconspicuously do the same to my face.

Near a wide log fallen across part of the creek, Timqé sunk to his knees and crawled inside.

“What are you doing?” I winced as I got to my feet and bounced after him, trying to copy his gait. My bruises had bruises.

“You expect people to answer your questions when you don’t answer theirs?”

My hands rested on my hips. “I answer questions, just you blurted out one I shouldn’t. Ask me something else.”

“Where’re you from?”

I puffed my cheeks, eyes narrowed. “You’re bad at picking questions.”

“Or you’re too picky.” Timqé backed out of the log, a glob of white slime clutched in his hand. He extended it for me to see. “I’m gatherin’ srymal.”

Upon closer inspection, I could distinguish the individual, slug-like creatures, each about the size of my thumb. They were known for their symbiotic relationship with many Grenswa-na plants.

“Did these guys help grow this forest?”

He laughed and dumped the handful into a cloth sack. “These ones’re only a day old.”

“Need some for your garden?”

“Nope. These ones’re for soup.”

“Soup?” My nose wrinkled as my imagination supplied a taste to match the disgusting picture in my head.

He gave me a knowing look. “Yes, it’s srymal hatchin’ season, so it’s technically illegal to gather them. That’s why the merchants’ren’t sellin’ them, so if you want srymal, you’ve to go illegally gather them yourself. And yes, srymal soup’s the most bitter, nastiest sludge ever concocted.”

“Then why—”

“My wife requested some.”

I looked around at the darkness. “Now?”

“Lucky for you. You seem to be in a bad way.”

Dare I tell him of my message? Would he help me reach the protective authorities? Would said authorities even listen to me?

My hand rose to my sodden plaits, fingering the datapin still securely lodged through one twisted twintail.

As I opened my mouth to spill my story, he turned and sat on the log, dumping another catch of srymal larva into his bag. The latter didn’t bother me much. What caught my eye and stilled my tongue was a dagger strapped to his right thigh.

Unornate and nearly camouflaged against his black pants, the weapon rested in a scabbard. I couldn’t see the blade, but its sheath implied a length equal to his forearm, and I imagined it as awfully sharp.

With the sight of that dagger, images flared in my mind: an unruly mob chasing us, a peace officer holding a curved knife to Fredo’s throat, Fredo unmoving.

I would not let that repeat again and again. I had to play a better Grenswa-na and be more circumspect with my true identity. Before mentioning anything about having an important message or associating myself in any way with Seallaii, I needed to find out how this Timqé would react.

“Before the river carried me here, I was in Tils.” I kept my gaze on my toes, which were once again buried in the mushy needles. “There was a disturbance. A pair of Seallaii-nas were chased down.”

I peeked at him. Timqé appeared neither surprised nor intrigued, as if such events were a common occurrence.

“One was killed.”

A slight flinch, maybe. “I may’ve heard somethin’ about that.”

“Do you think it was right?”

“The law’s the law.” His face was made of stone for all it moved. “It’s there for a reason.”

“But what if they had come to bear a message, a warning that would save millions?”

Timqé shook his head. “It’sn’t gone about the right way. Seallaii-nas’re curious creatures, always lookin’ for an excuse to go where they shouldn’t. Even if these ones’d been true messengers, they’d set a precedent, and all the other trespassers then’d claim they carried important messages. They’d spin elaborate tales, and truth’d become muddled.”

“What’s so wrong with sharing our world anyway? What if they brought a warning because they cared?”

Timqé’s eyebrows rose questioningly. “They mentioned somethin’ about a message?”

I shrank back. “Well, no, but—”

“Then this’s hypothetical. Why defend them?”

Because we did care. We were here to save them, and they wouldn’t listen.

Because Fredo. Should. Not. Be. Dead.

I couldn’t say this. My silence stretched out guiltily.

“If the message’s valuable enough,” Timqé reasoned, sounding much like one of my mentors, “then the messenger’s willin’ to pay any price to see it delivered. That’s how we know the message’s important.”

Was saving this cruel, beautiful world worth Fredo’s life? Anger sizzled in my veins, saying no. No matter how many this warning saved, would they remember him? Or would they dismiss his sacrifice as easily as Timqé shooed the birds? With his increased distance, they had decided I was a fair perch again.

“I’ve to get back to…where I’m from,” he said, sliding to his feet, “but somethin’ tells me I shouldn't walk away from you. Come with me. I’ll take you back to civilization.”

I shook my head, waterlogged pretzel bun swaying heavily. Timqé would be no friend if he knew what I was, and the longer I remained in his presence, the more likely he would discover me.

“Just tell me which direction Tils is in, please.”

He pointed. “Follow the river.”

I should have been able to figure that out. I really wasn’t an eteriq after all.

As I turned and climbed into a web of roots that would lead me to the actual shore, he called after me, “I don’t know your situation, but if you need help in Tils, ask for a place called The Azure Cascade. Friendly people there.”

Right, friendly. What was the definition of that word on a world of xenophobes?

Continued in chapter 8: I Just Wanted A Sandwich

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