The Space Between
Authors: Scott J Robinson
Tags: #fantasy, #legend, #myth folklore, #spaceopera, #alien attack alien invasion aliens
Tribes of the Hakahei:
Part 1
The Space Between
by
Scott J. Robinson
All characters and events portrayed in this
book are fictional,
and any resemblance to real people or
incidents is coincidental
(and, let’s face it, unlikely).
Copyright © 2011 by Scott J Robinson
3rd Release. Nov. 2014
Smashwords Edition
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This book is
dedicated to
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Like everything else.
Table of Contents
Prologue
***
Elsewhere
Magic whispered in Scree’s mind, picking at
the edges of his consciousness like a vulture working at a carcass.
He stopped a meter from the dying stranger, unwilling to get any
closer.
"Akawi," the man said, "you must take the
books and flee. You must. I know these men are just trolls and will
not stop to steal two books, but they may burn them." He coughed a
dollop of blood onto the timber floor. One of his legs shook
violently, drumming a ragged rhythm. "You must take the books." He
coughed again. "We are so close. I know it. Continue the search for
the portals."
Scree didn't move, hardly dared to breathe,
and the dying man grew more urgent.
"Take the books and go. Flee."
The vulture of magic grew more desperate,
fluttering and scrabbling for something to grip. "Where's the
books?" Scree asked in a hoarse whisper. "Where?"
"Where they have always been, Akawi. Where
my precious books have always been."
"Where's that?"
The man struggled to sit up, though he
shouldn't have been alive at all. "Who are you? You are not Akawi.
You are a troll." He slumped to the floor as the vulture finally
took flight.
Scree stepped closer and kicked him. "Gutted
cats. Where's they at?" Akawi, who ever he was, would know. "So,
does I finds Akawi? Or does I finds something more useful, like
food?" Food did sound good — he hadn't had a half-decent meal in
days — but a dying man's last thoughts were for some books, not
himself!
As if to decide the issue, a slim young man
crept into the room, peering back over his shoulder.
Scree leapt up, a smile on his face, and
grabbed the newcomer around the neck before he could react.
"Akawi," he said, "how is ya?"
He received a gurgle in response.
"Your friends here was talking abouts some
books." He gestured vaguely. "Where's them books at?"
Akawi, if that was who it was, shook his
head and gurgled again. Scree decided he might save himself some
time by first discovering if he was talking to the right man.
"You
is
Akawi, ain't ya? Keeping in minds
that if you ain't, thens I mightn't have any more use for
you."
The man nodded, eyes widening with fear as
if he'd expected to live before that.
"Good, so hows about we makes a deal? You
tells me where them books is hid, and I'll let you lives." Scree
smiled. "Sounds like a fair deals to me."
Elsewhen
"The giant statues on Easter Island?"
Dongoske said. "You know the ones, Miss McLean?"
Kim nodded. "Yeah, of course. In
general."
"Well, they're called 'moai'."
"Tuki's people are called moai, right?"
Dongoske nodded. "But wait,
there's more. My people, the Hopi, who were based to the southeast
of here, have legends about our ancestors arriving from other
worlds by climbing up through holes in the ground. That's why most
of our ceremonies are carried out in an underground chamber called
a
Kiva
."
"Kiva is the name of Tuki's world," Meledrin
said.
"Correct. So, suddenly, ancient legends take
on a whole new light. Here we are, within a few meters of an
underground gateway to a world called Kiva."
Kim shook her head. "But the Indian cultures
aren't that old, are they?"
"They're a few thousand years old, but no,
nowhere near the kind of time spans we're talking about here. We
aren't saying that the Hopi really crossed from another world, but
their legends had to start somewhere and the coincidences are
starting to build up. The predecessors of the Hopi were called the
Anasazi — a word that means 'ancient ones' or 'lost ones',
depending on who you ask."
"What about Roswell? That's around here
somewhere, isn't it?"
Dongoske laughed. "Roswell
is in New Mexico, not that close to here, but still within the Hopi
and Anasazi regions. But, a spaceship did
not
crash there in 1954. A weather
balloon crashed." He smiled at the look of disappointment on Kim's
face. "However, when the Air Force went to investigate, they did
come across something."
"A spaceship?"
Dongoske smiled some more.
1: Festival
Kim almost ran over Robin Hood. She hit the
brakes and the crappy old car slid to a halt with a crunch of
gravel and clatter of engine.
Winding down the window, with an effort, she
poked her head out into the cool of the early afternoon.
"Sorry."
Robin waved away her apology. "No," he said.
"My fault. Should look for traffic before stepping onto the road.
I'm not as spry as I used to be."
That was obvious enough. This Robin was
getting on in years and had spent far too much time drinking ale
and not enough time running from the sheriff. Kim pushed long dark
hair away from her face. "Well, as long as we're all okay."
"Don't worry, I'm fine."
With a small nod to Robin, she got the car
moving again.
The parking lot was packed and, after making
her way up and down a few of the lanes, Kim started to wonder why
she'd agreed to come here. She finally found a spot in the back
corner where the roots of a large oak had broken the road surface,
forcing the more careful drivers to leave a gap between cars. Kim
really didn't care and ignored the metallic complaints as the car
bumped and scraped over the roots. She was just about ready to hock
the car to some other poor, unsuspecting backpacker and give up her
wandering ways.
After a final clatter and hiss, the car fell
silent. Kim sat and enjoyed the peace for a moment then climbed
out, stretching her legs and back. Starting to feel normal again,
she leaned in the back window and pulled her mobile phone from the
pocket on the side of her pack. One message. She listened as Nina
explained, in a French accent that probably drove guys crazy, that
she wouldn't make it to Nottinghamshire until late in the
afternoon.
"Shit."
Kim looked at the people around her. Some
were heading towards the Sherwood Forest Visitor Centre. Most were
following a gravel path towards the wonder and merriment of the
Robin Hood Festival. Knowing she was going to regret it, she
pocketed her phone, locked the car, and followed this second
group.
Beyond the plywood-castle gate the
festivities were in full swing. Kim strolled along, watching the
strange array of characters who'd made the journey to Sherwood
Forest to celebrate Robin's birthday. Robin himself was popular, of
course — silly tights and all. He ranged from babies in prams to
men older than the one she'd almost run down earlier. Friar Tuck
was popular as well — shaven scalp and all. Little John look-alikes
were congregating around a tent selling cans of 'ye olde ale'. For
the women, the three main choices seemed to be Maid Marion,
witches, or fairy princesses. About half the people were dressed
normally.
Kim nudged her way among the stalls, past a
silver smith and a weaver, a potter and a dressmaker. There was
carved timber, weaponry, wrought iron, and all sorts of things for
sale. Historical societies had tents and camps where they could
tell people about their little piece of the past. She followed the
crowd, dodging past lacy wings, capes, drooping feathers, and
curly-toed shoes. On any other day Kim could have happily wandered
around taking it all in, but she was sore and tired from driving
and pissed off that Nina had abandoned her, if only for a few
hours.
She stopped to buy a hotdog and spent a
moment wondering what such a delicacy might have been made of in
the thirteenth century. Probably about the same as it was made from
these days. A couple of minutes later she bought a salad sandwich
and a drink for the second course. Making her way along the edge of
the forest, she spotted a rare vacant seat at a picnic table and
sat down with a grateful sigh.
Nearby, a young boy fired a blunt arrow at
his sister and received a half-hearted smack from his father. A
troubadour got down on one knee to serenade an embarrassed looking
Goth girl. A knight, helm under his arm, clanked and rattled
through the crowd, smiling and bowing to almost any woman who
looked his way. When he spotted Kim he paused.
Kim knew that look. She sighed as the knight
jammed his helm onto his head and started in her direction. His
armor gleamed. The faceplate of his helm was lowered, offering only
a small slit through which he could look.
When he was standing in front of Kim, he
bowed with a rattle and a screech of metal that made him sound a
lot like her car.
"My lady," he said.
"You know, I'm really too tired to put up
with this shit." Kim shifted slightly on the hard wooden bench and
examined her sandwich. "I just want to eat my lunch in peace."
"Oh, I see." But he stayed where he was.
"You see?" She was trying to be polite, but
it was hard. "That's surprising with that stupid bloody
helmet."
He quickly reached up to remove the
offending object and seemed to think he'd found an opening. "I
apologize for my rudeness in hiding my face, but once I saw you I
could think of nothing as trivial as my helm." As if he hadn't put
it on just a moment before. But, give a man a suit of armor and a
classic phallic symbol like a sword, and he seemed to think he
could do anything. "My name is Sir Douglas."
