Power Lines (8 page)

Slowly now, and more cautiously, they were walking against the wind, their heads bent together, their hair flying in each others’ faces to hear what Krisuk was so urgently trying to tell them. As they reached the cave mouth and Krisuk thrust aside the bush that guarded it, the wind quieted as if it had suddenly been extinguished. Bending low, the three of them stepped inside.

7

“Coaxtl, wake up. I think they’ve found me,” Goat-dung said into the wispy fur of the cat’s left ear.

Coaxtl stretched and yawned.
Who has found us, youngling?

“The Shepherd Howling and the flock. They’re coming to take me back.”

Coaxtl rolled over and sat up on her haunches, front feet propping her erect as she listened to the low voices speaking in words that were not quite intelligible. After listening for a moment, the cat lay back down again.

Fear not, child, it is nothing but the voice of Home.

The Shepherd Howling had spoken of the Great Monster, who seemed to be the same being the cat called Home, and how the monster had a voice, though the Shepherd always described it as a growl or a roar or a gnashing of teeth or spewing of spittle or something equally nasty. He said the Great Monster had its counterpart in all of the tales of Earth, of the underworld guarded by the bones of dead men and of terrible devouring fires and tortures. When he had her or any of the other members of the flock punished, he reminded them that if they didn’t mend their ways, the Great Monster would do much worse to them when they died still in sin and error, uncorrected by his teachings.

Horrible serpents and worms and flame-belching beasts were supposed to guard the Great Monster, or be aspects of it. The underworld held all of these bad things, according to the Shepherd. Goat-dung wondered if she would see them. So far, she had only met Coaxtl.

The cat’s unconcern should have lulled her back into exhausted relaxation from her adventures of the past two days. But she found that the voices—and the possibility of returning to the flock—had frightened her so much that she couldn’t sleep.

“Did you ever hear,” she asked the cat idly, “what it used to be like on Earth back in the olden days, before we were moved for our heinous crimes and sins to this cold place and put at the mercy of the Great Monster?”

Goat-dung awaited the cat’s answer with sleepy anticipation, for in spite of all of the things that she had hated about living in the Vale of Tears, and as much as she had feared the Shepherd Howling, she liked the stories that he and everyone else told constantly. They told stories of why it was good to cook one way and not another. Stories of why a house should be built in one way and not another. Stories of how horrible it had been in their homes before they came to the Vale of Tears. Stories of how they had first met the Shepherd. Although some of the stories were frightening and the pictures they made in her head filled her with revulsion, she missed the stories. She missed having them told to her. The stories were a respite from beatings and made work go faster. A lot of them were ones like those she had just been remembering, about how the Great Monster devoured people and twisted their lives, but some were nice, about the olden days on Earth. These were told mostly to make everybody feel sad for how
much they had lost through their sins, but Goat-dung liked hearing them anyway.

Oh yes,
the cat said.
My granddam told my dam and said the tale was passed to her by an old, old male who was passing through on his way to die. But I don’t think such stories are fit for cubs myself.

“What do you mean?”

The olden days were bad ones. First all of the things that make life good went away. Then for a time everything was sterile and made of not-real materials. Trees had leaves on them that were not alive and bark on them that was not alive, and they did not grow from the ground for it was not alive either. Underfoot was hard and unyielding stuff and between one and the sky were barriers. At first, some real air was allowed to pass through them but later, only light, and sometimes that light was not real, either. This was bad enough while it was clean and free of any tiny living things, but in time, the Earth became filthy, as well as dead. Finally, one of our kind had the sense to make certain that she and a male of her acquaintance were included in the manifest when creatures were chosen from our lands.

“What an odd story,” Goat-dung said, and added severely, as the women did to her when she told them something they thought to be a lie, “That is
not
how the Shepherd Howling talks of old Earth.”

The Shepherd Howling,
the cat said, washing her long sharp claws one by one,
eats his young.

Goat-dung considered this for a moment. “True. Go on. Did the old male give your ancestress any details at all?”

Yes. I will tell it to you as it was told to her.
Coaxtl gave a slight cough that was half a growl and began.

Long ago, in the time when our ancestors wore tawny coats, we lived in the mountains, not mountains like these, all jagged and icy cold but smooth mountains with hot and fragrant jungles most of the way up their ridges. In that time, the skies were filled with layers of leaves and fronds in which to hide.

“What’s a jungle?” Goat-dung asked.

A place of great heat and many trees, sometimes much rain and bright flowers.

“Like summer in the lowlands?”

No, for this is much hotter and lasts year-round. You would not be able to stand such heat and neither would I. Many kinds of animals and plants existed then that no longer exist, at least not here. Not yet.

“What do you mean, not yet?”

Our Home,
the cat said,
has plans.

“What’s the matter, Sean?” Yana asked about the fifth time she caught Sean looking back over his shoulder. Nanook had done so twice, as well.

“I dunno,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders and giving her a sheepish grin. “They should be safe enough with the Connellys. And we’d better get moving if we want to sleep warm tonight.” His grin broadened. “Air’s cooler up here than it is down below. I’d forgot that not everywhere would be enjoying the unseasonable warmth that Kilcoole is.”

Once out of the forest and on slopes covered with lichenlike plants and mosses, they had to dismount and lead the ponies over several stretches where the narrow pathway daunted Yana, even habituated to rough going as she had been prior to her injury at Bremport. The curly-coats seemed oblivious to any danger, though it gave her some comfort to note that their ears wigwagged constantly, their tails sometimes acted like propellers—for balance, the way Nanook used his—and they snorted frequently, as if exchanging information.

They got over the rocky tor and down into forest again by the time it was full dark. The forest was denser than the one around Kilcoole, and the trees larger, with thicker trunks. The branches dripped constantly from the melting snow, so that it might as well have been raining. Yana was very tired, so Sean made her tend the little fire he started while he saw to the horses and then skinned the rabbits Nanook caught. The cat ate his raw, but with such relish that Yana could barely wait till theirs was cooked. At last, with Sean on one side of her and Nanook on the other, she slept warmly and dreamlessly. She awakened the next morning to the smell of coffee under her nose and the sight of a cup with its handle turned toward her. Sean slipped back into the bag, grinning at her, and they both suppressed chuckles at Nanook’s soft snores.

The morning was well advanced when, abruptly, they reached the plateau that tilted toward the other half to the fjord. It was as if a giant axe had neatly bisected the cliff to allow the waters through a narrowing cut to the main body of the continent. The split sloped abruptly down, where a river ended its path to the sea and tumbled in a graceful, medium-sized waterfall into the end of Harrison’s Fjord.

“Who was Harrison?” Yana asked as they made their way down the incline toward smoke that rose from unseen chimneys, Nanook bounding on ahead.

“Harrison? He was one of grandfather’s old buddies. Retired here from the Dear knows where,” Sean said. “He had a droll sense of humor and loved early space adventure stories.”

“Oh?”

“The name of the place,” Sean explained, looking over his shoulder as if Yana should instantly comprehend his reference. When she obviously didn’t, he shrugged and continued his briefing. “Folks are mainly Eskirish—fishermen and boat builders.”

“Boat builders?” Yana was amazed: they’d left the forested slopes behind when they’d crossed over the pass from McGee’s and the other side of the fjord was just as bare as this one. Builders of anything would have to go miles for timber.

“More than wood makes good boats,” he said.

“By the way, Sean love,” Yana began, taking her opportunity while she had it, “how many people know you’re a selkie?”

“As few as possible.” But he grinned at her. “Many people have
seen
a selkie. It can’t always have been
me,
because I know I wasn’t anywhere near there at that particular point in time, and so far as I know nobody else has my—er—versatility. Some Petaybeans have great imaginations.”

“I’d noticed.”

“I thought you might. We can ride now, and I’d rather we made the last leg of our journey before we lose the good light.”

They mounted and proceeded at the marvelously easy pacing gait the curly-coats did so effortlessly at various speeds. Yana’s little mare kept her nose right against Sean’s gelding’s tail. The pace was rather breathtaking, but she wasn’t as nervous about this as she had been on the narrow uphill climb.

Curly-coats could also stop—like right now! Only the bunching of the forehand muscles under her legs gave her warning enough to tighten her hold on the thick mane. One moment they’d been flying along—the next, dead stop! Yana measured the length of her torso on the mare’s neck before she struggled upright. Then she dismounted when she saw that Sean had . . . and was leading his pony right over the edge? No, she realized as she caught her breath. Nanook’s head was just visible to the right and Sean was turning in that direction, too, and the trio proceeded down.

Sighing at a reluctance to repeat
down
what she had only recently gone
up,
Yana was agreeably surprised to find a broad, rutted grassy road leading down in an easy gradient, switching back and forth down the side of the cliff to the village that was Harrison’s Fjord. This trail had to have been man-made. Nanook, tail tip idly twitching, padded on ahead of them, acting advance guard as usual.

“Harrison,” Sean said. “He hated climbing, had problems with balance. I don’t know who he bribed of the original TerraB group, but he got the road done and the village settled, the harbor carved the way he wanted it.”

“Where did your sister and her husband enter caves—” Yana broke off, seeing that the rock formation along the roadside did not lend itself to caves.

As Sean pointed toward the waterfall, Yana was surprised to see Nanook look in the direction he was pointing and sneeze. “Near that, slightly to the left on the far side, is where the fjord cave opens.”

Suddenly dogs began to bark and, while Yana made a private bet with herself, several orange cats wandered up to greet them, lifting themselves to their hind legs to exchange sniffs, nose to nose. She won. The cats immediately moved on to greet the travelers, who had undoubtedly been vouched for by Nanook.

“Wherever we go?” she asked Sean, who was bending to run a hand down an orange back. Yana could hear the purr from where she was, seven paces behind.

“Not everywhere,” Sean said, lightly stressing the first word, “but they get about.” He stroked another one and then fondled the ears of a shaggy black dog, with light brown and white face markings, who presented itself for similar attentions.

Going from purr to full voice, the first cat stropped itself about Yana’s ankles, and she had the oddest feeling that she was welcomed for herself and not just as Sean’s companion. She bent to scratch the cat under the chin and heard the vibrations of a renewed purr. More barking dogs came trotting up to greet them, weaving an adroit and skillful way among the cats.

“Who comes?” called a rasping bass voice.

“Sean Shongili and Yanaba Maddock!” Sean shouted back.

“Sean, is it? And his lady, no less? Thrice welcome! Hurry on down! A glass of the warm awaits you!”

There was no way to “hurry” down, with cats and dogs insisting on sniffing, receiving caresses, and generally impeding their progress. Nanook had leapt down and disappeared, a movement that caused Yana to scrutinize the odd arrangement of the houses: each of the twelve or fourteen had been carefully inserted on an earthen terrace, with the cliff for a back wall, and the terrace jutting out far enough to provide a small garden or yard complete with benches. The houses were perched on each side of the road as it ribboned down to the final broad terrace, which was wharf, as well—and high above the fjord water. Boats were neatly propped up on racks; nets hung from racks of high poles, drying in the last of the sun. At the farthest end of this wide terrace there was a large wooden hall where, Yana supposed, boats could be built. But the water looked an awfully long way down to make Harrison’s Fjord a practical fishing port.

“Low tide,” Sean said to her when he heard her exclamation of surprise. “When the tide turns, the water comes up here like a herd of running moose. Everything had better be stored high, dry, and safe. Ah, Fingaard, good to see you!” And suddenly Sean, who was no small man, was engulfed in the embrace of one of the largest men Yana had seen on this planet.

“And I, you, Shongili!” the man replied, grinning over Sean’s shoulder at Yana. “This is your woman?” And he swung away, to advance on Yana. She held her ground but had to keep looking up and up as the giant approached, until she was in danger of falling backward.

Suddenly he bent his knees so his face was on her level and placed pitchfork-sized hands on her shoulders with remarkable gentleness. He peered into her eyes, with as kindly and searching a gaze as Clodagh’s, and smiled. “Ah, yes, of course.”

With one movement, he had taken the reins of the curly-coat from her, and placed his huge hand on her back like a prop against which she could safely lean during the rest of the switchback way, to the village.