Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories (50 page)

He caught leg-fish in a pool near the river, slurping the little soft-scaled bodies down whole while keeping a wary eye out for the giant lizards. He could hear the monsters lowing to one another in the distance. Out of impulse, Kaainka sang the Song of Mourning for Frog. Finally, restored by the warmth of the fire and a full belly, he slept.

Kaainka could feel the desert stalking him, though he walked through green grass. He could taste the sting of its dust when the wind blew from the west. Sometimes he could see its barren hills in the distance, beyond the trees. His new waterskin, tucked beneath his wing, comforted him a little. It wasn’t as nice as the one he’d lost, but it would do.

Kaainka’s last landmark rose above the horizon, and he knew it was time to return to the desert. Twin mountains stood on a plateau above the river: The nesting-mounds of the Sun and the Moon. It was time to turn west, onto an ancient road of black stone that threaded its way between the strange, square-edged mountains.

Sand blew in the wind. Kaainka squinted, walking slowly. Here, the sand covered the road; there, it was swept clear. A few paces further on, the road was eroded down to its spongy gray substrate. Rubble left by the last great war between the Ancestors and the Unspeakable lay scattered around the nesting-mounds: Shattered boulders, pitted stone, and pits half-filled with crystal.

Kaainka picked his way down the road toward the mountains. Now he could see that they were made of individual blocks of stone, too numerous to count. His heart fluttered with the knowledge that somewhere in the dim distance of history, some
one
had built mountains. His breath came quick, and he thought he could feel the ancient stones looking down at him. Kaainka began the Song of Stone, but his voice stumbled and he stopped. The stones hung silently above him, casting long shadows.

Finally Kaainka walked out into the open desert, leaving the terrible mountains behind. The road ended there, trailing off into gray rubble, but he could see his goal shimmering above the horizon. Kaainka’s heart thundered behind his keelbone. As he approached, the strange house seemed to solidify out of the trembling desert air. It stood in the sand like something out of a fever-dream, white as an eggshell and sharp as splintered bone. The stories said it was a house, and indeed it had a roof, and door flanked by warding-symbols in the form of a pair enormous, beakless, two-legged beasts with serpents growing from their heads.

Kaainka flapped and hopped up the tall stone steps to the door of the huge, dead house. His feathers slicked down in wonder as he finally stepped inside. Who but the Ancestors could have built something so strange, so grand? Light filtered through the walls as if they were made of water. His claws clicked on milky stone that was strangely cool under his feet despite the heat of the sun. The floor was one smooth block of stone, and the ceiling above him curved up to a central spine like the ribcage of some titanic creature.

Kaainka stopped. His beak hung open, and he stared in wonder at the presence that dominated this house of bone. Then he remembered himself. He bowed low, spreading his wings on the sandy floor. He rattled his beak against the ground, then stood, stepped forward, and bowed again. The feathers of his wings left crescent marks where they swept the dusty floor. Kaainka danced, and bowed, and dragged his belly in the dust. Only then did he look up again.

Held in space above a dais in the center of the room, naked of flesh and gnawed by time, were the bones of the Ancestor. Though his mouth was filled with sharp teeth and he had claws in place of wings, he stood on thick legs and three-toed feet like one of the People. His tail hung in the air like a blade of grass caught in the wind. A proud row of spines rose in a wave from the bones of his back. The Ancestor stood in that strange white cave just as he had since before the War with the Unspeakable and the Long Winter.

Kaainka bowed again. Inflating his throat, he began the long, slow Song of the Ancestors. His voice thrummed with joy. The Ancestor’s empty eye sockets stared into the distance, but Kaainka thought he felt the ancient one’s approval. All that remained was to retrace his steps. He could already hear the drums of the People welcoming him home.

Kaainka finished his song and turned to go, head held high. He knew the Ancestors would be proud. Their children still honoured them, generation after generation. The People had kept the songs alive, through the Long Winters and the dominion of the Unspeakable. They had all survived. Now the last children of the dinosaurs stood alone, ready to re-conquer the Earth.

Originally published in On Spec
Summer 2013 Vol 25 No 2 #93

Sarah Frost
lives in Kansas, where she makes her living putting science on the internet. She is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. When the weather is fine, she can be found working in her garden. Online, she can be found at
www.sarah-frost.com
.

Diane L. Walton

Managing Editor, On Spec

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