Whispers on the Wind (13 page)

All it offered him was a strident warning of Rankin and his depraved, artificially enhanced power...

Did Rankin now have Jon as well as Zenna? Was that the reason for Jon’s cry having been choked off so abruptly?

Despite the warning from his
Kahinya
, he sent out a deliberately wide, sweeping probe, keeping its volume low, hoping Rankin, if he was still seeking, would be doing so on a higher plane.

He had sensed...something...for scarcely a heartbeat during his flight from the law in that place called northern Minnesota. What had it been? A projection of pain? Of hunger? Of thirst? Of need? Or merely an echo of those, bounced back to him from some unknown place and time?

There was no way to tell, for it had been transitory and weak. But he was still convinced it had been Jon. As had his
Kahinya,
which had most assuredly sent him in the direction of the Octad leader. Rankin’s interference, had, unfortunately, snatched him out of his solo translation short of his objective.

The best he could do now, he reasoned, was search this dwelling for clothing to provide warmth until he was strong enough to collect it for himself from the atmosphere; for food, to give him that strength, and for something that would tell him where on Earth he might be. Snow, and the avalanche he’d experienced, in addition to the steepness of the terrain, suggested mountains. But...which mountains? Which continent? He suspected it was the same one Jon had ended up on, and would prefer to find him without having to translate again. These solo translations in a culture where nudity was frowned upon were to be avoided. He began opening cupboards and drawers in search of food, eating whatever he found that appeared edible and felt himself growing stronger, feeling more certain of his ability to survive.

Presently, he began a search for warm garments, since it also appeared the outdoor climate control employed here did not lend itself to nudity, either. He wished for Zareth’s talent with the art of illusion—or even the much lesser knack Jon could employ when necessary.

Zareth, Ree, Wend, oh, Wend—his own birth-mate. Wouldn’t he sense her total absence if she had failed to survive? Would he not have felt her death-resonation, however distant she might have been swept from him? Even here, in this alien place, wouldn’t he know? He longed for her soothing mental touch. Wend, their healer...would she have enough strength left to heal herself if she were injured? He longed for her, for Jon, his bond-mate’s brother. In despair, he longed for all the others, too, but dared not send out probes to seek them.

Rankin’s proximity created such danger! Did Rankin truly sense his own presence, or had he simply been striking out at what he perceived as a threat, some unknown entity that might possibly interfere with his nefarious activities? How was he to know if Rankin sent out such killing bursts periodically as a routine precaution?

Minton found many different garments, but selected one of a fabric which, while thin, was insulated enough to keep him warm in the snowy environment he’d discovered. Luckily, it had some stretch to it and it covered most of him. Atop that, he drew on a jacket of the same fabric, fumbled for a moment with the unfamiliar closing, then mastered it. Stockings, pulled high, covered the gap between the bottoms of the trouser part of the garment and the only foot-covering he could find that appeared stout enough to take outdoors. They were extraordinarily hard, open at the back, but they fit—barely.

He slid his feet into the boots and as he stepped down, felt them close around his ankles somehow, tightly, firmly. They allowed his ankles no movement at all, he discovered, clumping awkwardly around the room. What manner of shoes were these? What use were they? He tried to remove them, but they appeared to be stuck fast to him.

He would have to make the best of it. Heading for the door, he spotted a flat image on a wall, and suddenly understood. A man in such footwear appeared to be flying through the air over a wide expanse of white. Snow! Exactly like the snow he had dug himself out of, had struggled through to gain entry to this place. And affixed to the man’s feet—to the hard, uncompromising footwear—were narrow slats of some description, composition unknown. He accessed what he could recall of his rushed studies of Earth and finally found it.

The footwear he wore was designed to be attached to those slats. Once they were connected, the wearer could then fly across the snow. He smiled and stomped around the small dwelling until he found a tall cabinet in which were stored several sets of those slats, pointed at one end, and curved up. Yes! There was some manner of fastening for the shoes near the center of each slat.

For a moment, he studied the image on the wall, then laid the slats flat on the floor, stepped onto one and felt the footwear attach itself...magnetically, he thought. He lifted his free foot and nearly tilted sideways. Luckily, his
Kahinya
caught him, steadied him. He saw poles in the closet and another glance at the image on the wall indicated that these must be used as stabilizers. With one clasped in each hand, their points planted solidly against the floor, he managed to attach his other booted foot to the narrow slat on the left, fully expecting to be lifted from the surface upon which he stood and carried through the air.

It did not happen.

Frowning, he studied the picture further, wishing for a nearby mind to access for current, local knowledge. It seemed he must be the only person within many
westals
—either that or he had been misinformed, and there were no receptive minds other than Aazoni anywhere on Earth, and none of those was near—or safe to reach out to.

Again, loneliness threatened to overcome him. The rest of the Octad...Where were they? Since he had come through the disastrous translation to Earth’s time and space relatively unscathed, and since he was certain Jon still lived—if precariously—he must find the others. Then, and only then, would he have any hope of locating Zenna.

He would not do it huddled here in this small dwelling.

He slid one slat forward. It was not easy. He followed it with the other. Maybe the slats required snow under them before they would permit him to fly. It went against all scientific knowledge he had, but could cold possibly provide lift? He opened the door, burned away the snow that tumbled in, and put the upward-tilting points of the slats against that which remained outside. With difficulty, he turned, closed the door, and conscientiously caused the locks to return to their previous position.

Still, the slats did not lift him. Using the stabilizers to assist him, he shuffled forward, up a small hill, and poised on the brink, waiting for the flight he fully expected. Again, the slats remained firmly attached to the snow.

He gave an experimental push with the poles and was suddenly in motion. Not flying above the surface of the snow, but gliding upon it, going faster and faster. The wind whistled in his ears and chilled his teeth, bared in a grimace. It blew his hair back from his brow. It caught his breath and stole it away. If his
Kahinya
had not controlled his balance, many times he would have fallen and then—oh, then, he did fly!

The small hill he had just ascended, aided by his downward speed, fell out from under his slats and he was finally airborne. But not for long. As his slats struck the snow again, his
Kahinya
loosened his knees to adjust for the impact, and aimed him straight down the hill again. He searched ahead for yet another hillock that would let him fly, and found one, then another, another, a larger one, taking bigger bites of air with each.

It was wonderful! He laughed aloud with the joy if it, locking the experience into his
Kahinya
so he could share it with his bond-mate when he found her.

Zenna, letise
, he projected without caution, so caught up was he in this new experience.
I am coming. I will find you!

L
ENORE SHOOK HER HEAD
hard as she realized the avalanche had not happened—at least not to her. She fixed her eyes on Jon’s face and saw him blinking as they both regained their feet. He wiped the back of a hand across his forehead and swayed for a moment, clasping his fist into Mystery’s mane for support.

“Where?” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

“Where...what?” she asked, but she knew. She knew what he needed to know.

“Where would snow tumble from above, sweeping a man off his feet, burying him?” His eyes all but burned into her with urgency. “Where, Lenore? You saw it. I know you did. I was unable to keep from sharing your vision,
his
vision. You projected it strongly out of your mind. I did not enter. It was just...there.”

Lenore locked her trembling knees. “Whose vision?”

“Minton’s. I know it was he. I know his signature almost as well as I know Zenna’s. They are bond-mated, and for this reason, his
Kahinya
and mine, along with Zenna’s, are closely linked.”

“Minton is your sister’s husband?”

“Yes.”

“He...he fed us that avalanche experience?”

“Not us. You. You received it when he projected it. He could not help himself any more than you could help yourself projecting it to me. It was the threat of our...enemy that tore Minton from his translation. I sensed him, too. He flung out a strong intent to kill. It forced me to shut down any probes I might have sent to locate Minton. But you remained open to him.”

Lenore glanced uneasily at the dimness in the trees surrounding them. “I was...my mind was...open to your enemy?”

“No, no. To Minton. He was searching blindly and found you. You experienced what he did and you projected it so strongly I entered into it as well. But only because I am near to you. Even standing five feet away, it’s unlikely Rankin would have felt your experience. He has not the talent.”

“Rankin being the enemy.” Heaven help her, she was all too easily accepting this madness. Even being out here with the familiar scent of her horse in her nostrils, the sight of the trees, the sound of the wind in their boughs, the solidity of the rocks and soil underfoot, the familiarity of the visible patches of sky above, as blue and unsullied by flying saucers as always, she couldn’t discount what she’d experienced.

“Yes.” Jon looked and sounded distracted. “I must learn where Minton is so I can reach him before Rankin does.”

“I don’t know where he is,” she said. “It could be anywhere there are mountains, and on Earth, there are many, many mountain ranges. He could be relatively close by, or in Europe, in New Zealand, in South America, Asia. For all I know, he could be in Antarctica!”

“No, no. He is near,” Jon said, which she took to be an indication of his knowledge of Earth’s geography. “Minton’s projection is not as powerful as that of some—Zenna’s, or mine, for instance. For me to discern him for that instant when he was in your mind, before Rankin gouged him out of translation and I had to remove myself, for me to sense his pain and fear in that instant, he must be within...within a hundred
westals
, at the very most.”

“Westals?”

His eyes went blank for a second. “A
westal
is approximately half of one of your kilometers.”

“So, he’s not far away.” She set her mind to recalling what ski resorts with cabins were in the vicinity. There were several.

“What happens when you find him?”

“With two Aazoni minds, we will be better able to find the others.”

“Then, with your stronger...powers, why don’t you seek him out?”

“Because to do so would be to give away my presence, possibly even my position, to Rankin. And I am not yet hale enough. There is, too, one other problem.”

Lenore was quite sure of that. She was certain there was plenty more than just ‘one’ other problem and she was afraid she’d have to face each one soon. But not yet. She wasn’t ready to fully accept even half of what she suspected simply had to be fact.

“What has this Rankin done?” she asked. “What makes him so dangerous?”

Jon closed his eyes for a moment, an expression of ineffable sadness crossing his face. “He deals in illegal substances, importing them from other worlds. He sells them to weak people who have become addicted.”

Lenore felt her jaw drop and caught it halfway before snapping it shut so quickly her teeth clacked together. “An...inter-galactic drug smuggler?” Jon nodded and she asked, “Where does he get these drugs?”

“Some of them, some very potent ones, here on Earth. But until the past several years, we were able to keep his activities to a minimum because windows to Earth, as well as to other places, are not frequent. Many times I was able to prevent his translating to this space and time. In doing so, we managed to keep his illegal imports to a minimum.”

“And then?” she prompted when he did not go on. He looked at her blankly. “You said ‘until the past several years.’ Obviously, something changed.”

Jon’s face aged with grief even as she watched. “He stole my sister—and a device she and Minton had developed to allow translations from one world to another without having to use a full Octad. It gives them the ability to translate through narrower, less stable windows, of which there are many—such as the one I brought my Octad through, with such disastrous results. With this device, the amplifier, he has been keeping a steady stream of the essence of an exotic botanical known locally, I believe, as sallell and—”

“Sallell?” she echoed.

“The illustrations I have seen show an elongated oval leaf, somewhat leathery, growing on very crooked stems. It comes in shades from pale, golden green to dark and shiny. I believe its color depends on the age of the leaf. But beyond that—”

She broke in. “Sa
lal
! Surely you don’t mean ‘salal’?” She corrected his mispronunciation with an uncontrollable burst of laughter. “Salal isn’t an exotic botanical, for heaven’s sake! It’s a weed! It has roots that go all the way to China. Anyone who’s ever tried to clear land for a garden within ten klicks of the coast in this part of the world has to battle it constantly. It grows along the edges of clearings, even infiltrates deep into the coastal forests. It fills any open space it can find, sending its roots even into crevices in bare rock. It crowds from the forest edge right out to high-tide mark. Everywhere it can put down a root, there’s another tenacious salal plant! Though thousands of people cut it and sell its leaves to florists to add greenery to their arrangements, they’ve never made a noticeable dent in its population. Your Rankin is welcome to it.”