Excerpt
Episode One
Where Lord Belmundus dodges pincers and feeds bunny rabbits; and also learns there are no repair shops in the desert
1
Wild things own the wild, while tamed things should stay home within a quiet disposition. Folk with a bent for curiosity should discover their limitations and draw a line in the sand — even if that sand is as red as blood. But in the realm of possibilities, the impossible trumps the desperate hours allowing the tamed things to pay dues to the wild things — the price of passage to those who own the wild.
2
Dizzy from the heat, Lord Belmundus jetted in a direct line into the red dust of the Forling. He had much on his mind and shut out the movement of the porcorporians beneath him. They shifted through the sand like silverfish — lethal silverfish, with lobster claws and tarantula jaws. Harris kept the Cabriolin as high as possible and steady in the crosscurrents. However, he had no confirmation of his direction, because the magneto on the vehicle’s compass was missing indicators. Besides, east was west, and south was north in this bass-backward world. Who knew whether there was an equivalent to time zones or interfarn date lines?
Medians and longitudinal navigation were the least of Harris’ worries. General Tarhippus would send a brigade after him. Why they hadn’t lifted high over the gates and chased him when they had the chance was a mystery. But they were stupid, after all. Then Harris wondered why he didn’t do the same. It could have been the swirls of yuhenihi — the razor-sharp barbed-wire used effectively in the Yuganawu. Still, he wanted to put many miles between him and the gate before the suns set and the soft glow of the three moons played their nocturne for the Forling’s critters.
As the wind played in Harris’ hair, a terrible thought struck him. He was alone. It was the first time he was pitched into solitude since the Plageris, and even that was short-lived, having the company of the blue-headed stupid-birds and the ballet of the misancorpus — until Arquebus showed up with his Barden welcoming speeches. Nothing balletic struck Harris watching the dunes ripple with the porcorporians. No consort from the Old Vic was on the horizon with a rendition of Prospero. Hell, there was no horizon; but there never had been in Farn, so why should Harris expect one now? But the sudden thought of being a solitary sentient being on an expanse of blowing red sand was frightening. Then, his Columbincus flashed and the Cabriolin choked — a chug-chug that didn’t bode well. In fact, he recalled such a chug-chug on his last visit to the Forling. Then he attributed it to sabotage. What were the chances of driving another lemon? What were the chances Lord Tappiolus found this one vehicle in a thousand to remove the spark plugs?
“Shit,” Harris said, as the Cabriolin descended.
It didn’t stop. Lower, it leveled off and flew better, but it slowed to a rate which wouldn’t beat the suns-set or a porcorporian’s claws. It wouldn’t outrun a gasuntsgi at a rapid hop.
Harris released his hand from his Columbincus and the Cabriolin shut down. At least, he knew why it quit now. He let it hover to the ground. He gazed in every direction expecting to see the desert rush at him — Noya Tludachi galloping with their saber teeth raised for the kill. He anticipated a lobster claw — hold the drawn butter, if you please.
His hand went to Tony’s hilt. He might not know how to fire this thing like a lightsaber, but he had had enough training on the set of The Magic Planet to slice more than bologna. Then his sight fell on the korinkle — the knapsack.
“Let’s see what my Little Bird packed for me,” he murmured, squatting in the cab.
The korinkle was laced tightly. Beside it were three awidena skins filled with what he hoped would be water, but what was probably brantsgi — better for the cold Forling nights. Inside the sack were assorted trays, sealed with wax. There was an ample supply of mongerhide. Although tasty, it was easier on the entry than on the stinging exit. Three loaves of bupka, the good kind with prysyst and Mollicops. He held another container to his eye.
“Jipjipjiptipu,” he said in a high-pitched tone. Tasty fungimus — Zecronisian mushrooms. “I’ll be farting for an eternity.”
Other containers were packed with kayos, asdoyuwi, suweechi and the delicious stewganasti. Whatever these things were, Harris would need them to stay alive. He then spotted two smaller tubs, one marked with a black symbol he recognized — for sleeping, and the other, a red sigil — for waking. He opened the first and sniffed.
“Sqwallen,” he said. “Old man, what were you thinking?”
Then he paused. The evil jomar-quilefoil porridge was a drug, after all. It had its uses. The other tub was the antidote, pilocarpinus, although Harris couldn’t figure out how one administered the solution when under the influence of the problem. He tucked them away in the korinkle. Then his hand hit something wedged in the bottom — a cloth-wrapped object. He pulled it out, letting the outer shell fall aside.
“Zulus.” He grinned. “These’ll come in handy, I bet.”
Then Harris regarded the cloth — a cloak, and no mere shoddy poncho, but a cloak coated with jupsim. He also found two borripsuns. He checked them out, flashing them about the cab. He stood. He could use these now, because night was spreading her pall across the Forling. The dunes became silhouettes against the emerging moons as first Solus disappeared, and then Dodecadatamus. Nothing else was revealed. Perhaps the fauna of the Forling retired for the night. Somehow, Harris doubted that. He thought he saw the flashing of eyes bouncing back in the borripsuns’ glow. He raised Tony, which illuminated the periphery. Dozens of critters scurried. They didn’t look like anything he had seen in daylight or in his research at the Cartisforium.
Harris shuddered.
“It’s gonna be a long night,” he said, and then turned Tony off.
3
Long and cold. The temperature dropped at least thirty degrees in a matter of a half-hour. The Didaniyisgi wasn’t dressed for the climate change. He shivered for at least an hour until he resorted to the jupsim cloak. He was immediately warmed. The miracle Gurt coating, which nature hardened against moisture, proved an excellent insulation. What other properties did it have? Was it porcorporian proof? Could it stop a saber tooth at a single bound? Harris was thankful for the restored warmth and hunkered down in the Cabriolin.
He slept in fits and starts, but just when sleep settled in, it was shattered by merciless cries — banshees stirring the souls of the dead. More probably, the Tludachi found a night-whatever or a nocturnal-what’s-it, something with three heads and grisly gills — greatly roaring in the dark, howling to the moons in its final death-cry. Harris also heard footsteps — thunderous, sand shaking movement. He was tempted to pop up and shine a boripsin across the desert, but decided he’d rather not know. Perhaps it was large enough to keep him safe, unless its appetite exceeded its curiosity. In that case, he wouldn’t much worry. He’d be digested all the same. Finally, wrapped in the cloak, thanking Yustichisqua for the forethought, Harris dozed into a deep dreamless sleep.
He stirred in the morning chill, the jupsim cloak now cooling him as insulation does. He wasn’t sure where he was — the previous day’s events swallowed in the recesses of his mental state. No dreams — just a vacuum of the body shutting down for repairs, the brain drifting to sleep like a damaged Cabriolin. Harris was numb, but did feel a sharp pain in his foot, which he thought odd, because he wore borabas. He glanced down the length of the cloak at his exposed foot. He saw his toes — the lower portion of his boot torn away. Clamped on his foot was a pugnacious creature, sucking on his instep.
“Fuck,” Harris screamed, shaking his foot.
The damn thing — a gasuntsgi, didn’t pause, but chomped down in a different place. Harris yelped, kicking with his other foot, a fully-borabas’d foot with heavy phitron soles. The grotesque rabbit screeched, first in pain, and then threateningly. But it let go.
Harris grabbed Tony, and with a single swipe, decapitated the beast, blood (probably his own) spraying the cab thickly. Harris kicked the creature out. But when he tried to stand on the gasuntsgi-bitten foot, he collapsed — the foot numb, as if injected with an anesthetic, which it probably was. He glanced around the edge of the Cabriolin. He was surrounded by gasuntsgi. They hopped toward the vehicle; their vampire fangs ready for a drink.
“Christ,” he muttered. “There’s not enough of me to satisfy them all. I’ll be dead in twenty minutes.”
Harris felt light-headed but managed to hop on his one foot to the control panel. He touched his Columbincus, which responded like a charm. The Cabriolin, however, wasn’t as responsive. It revved, choked, lifted a few inches from the sand, and then set back down. Harris tried again, this time managing to move forward, but not up. He could have been driving an old Volkswagen — one trailed by the Halloween bunnies. Still, there was enough oomph to distance himself from the vampire crew.
“I’m glad they don’t fly like bats,” he thought, and then banished the thought from his mind, thinking the ears might convert into wings. Thankfully not.
The foot pained him, and yet it was numb. He hoped these funny bunnies weren’t toxic, although there was a good chance they were. Even so, if he didn’t stop the bleeding, he’d be in la-la land soon. So, he chanced a landing over the next dune. He glanced about for his pursuers, but they had given up — he hoped.
Harris cropped to the side of the Cabriolin, examining the foot. Two sets of punctures were evident, and both oozed red and black. The red was his, but the black was the gasuntsgi’s contribution. He dove into the korinkle and unwrapped a loaf of bupka. He bit down and chewed (he was hungry and couldn’t help himself). He reached for an awidena skin and drank some brantsgi.
“Wisgi,” he said, smiling. “Bless that Garan.”
But wisgi was a good thing now, and not to drink. He used the bread wrapper to wipe the wound, and then sopped up the rest with the bupka. He wasn’t that hungry after all, and there were priorities. He then took a mongerhide stick, bit down and poured the wisgi over his foot.
“Man, that hurts,” he gasped. “Motherfucker and the bunny you hopped in on.”
He bit the mongerhide in twain, and then carefully replaced it in the korinkle. The foot throbbed.
“How am I supposed to get across this fucking desert like this?” he muttered. “I might as well hitch a ride on the first porcorporian I see and let it perform the amputation.”
Then Harris had an idea. Well, not an idea, but an instinctive reaction. He raised Tony and struck his Columbincus. Then he touched the brashun blade to the punctures. They clotted; and the blood stopped flowing.
“Thank God.”
But the pain was unyielding, and the numbness unabated. Then another idea dawned on him. He shuffled through the korinkle for the sqwallen. He opened the top. He wasn’t sure whether he should use it as a poultice or to swallow it. The stuff was vile and narcotic. He sniffed it, and then choked. Then he espied the sigil — for sleeping. Sleeping was the last thing he wanted to do, so he took a glop of sqwallen and spread it over his foot.
“Looks like pigeon shit,” he muttered.
But he felt better instantly. He couldn’t imagine what the stuff did to the innards, but he did. He had seen the poor souls of the Banetuckle.
Harris hopped to his feet, and then headed for the control panel. He pounded his Columbincus and touched the controls. The Cabriolin spluttered, rising slightly, flickered, and then gave up the ghost.
4
Harris was not in an analytical mood. Why the Cabriolin ceased to function was not in his ken. He wasn’t a Gurt mechanic nor did he have a driver’s manual. There was no glove compartment in the thing with a step-by-step, and no Farn equivalent to AAA.
Harris didn’t panic. He had anticipated this contingency when he first landed the contraption last night. But the prospects didn’t delight him either. He sighed and stared numbly out at the Forling — dune after dune of unforgiving red sand. He shrugged. He would have got out and kicked the damn thing, but with his foot in this condition, it would be self-defeating. He went to the korinkle and dove his hand into the bottom.
“It’s zulu time.”
Harris was glad Yustichisqua had the foresight to include a pair of these, but now that he tried to slip them on, he was confronted by a left foot which had swelled to a considerable size. Zulus weren’t one size fits all like the borabas. He managed to strap on the heel, but the instep flapped loose. Once engaged, the thing would flip-flop at will and he’d be on his ass in a flash. He studied the problem, thinking that the best way to get the things on was to chop off his toes. He shook his head, grinning at the thought. It was improbable, but when push came to shove, he might need to shove. Then he looked to the birrupsun wrappers — cloth and just the right length to twist into ropes. So, he tied one to his instep, giving it a tight yank. Even with the sqwallen and the wisgi, the pain shot up to his kneecap.
“If I live to tell Mom about this one, it won’t be clean,” he muttered.
Harris completed the task and switched on the zulus. He managed to hover upright, the Gerry rigging staying in place. He filled the korinkle with as much loot as he could, grabbed Tony and slung the awidena skins over his shoulders.
“Perhaps I’ll make it to Cetronia by Christmas,” he said, and zipped out of the Cabriolin
Zulu travel was slow, by comparison, but slow go was better than no-go on any day. The heat raged now, so he adjusted the cloak to cover his head. The jupsim was insulation still — no air conditioning, but cooler by any standard. The dunes were high. Without the zulus, he would have taken all morning just to clear one. As it was, the weight of the korinkle and the skins kept him low to the ground. In fact, as he reached the crest, he wasn’t sure he’d clear it. He stopped to survey the landscape from here.
Harris sighed. Dune after dune and nothing more. No mountains in the distance; and he was far from Montjoy’s walls — a good thing perhaps, but it completed his solitary confinement. His foot ached and the slight hum of the zulus made his soles itch. He was thirsty but didn’t want to guzzle the wine or the booze, fearing depletion and perhaps unwanted drunkenness. Water’s what he needed, because he sweated profusely, even under the jupsim cloak.
Down this dune and up the next and down and up — countless times. Each dune was much like the next. One thing absent were the critters. Perhaps he had ventured into a zone even the fauna shunned. As he pondered this, the answer came to him — all at once. He reached the bottom of a dune — a valley with many blind spots — boulders and scrub. He thought it would be a good time to rest, when from beneath him, a claw rushed up — a porcorporian, which had patiently waited for room service. If Harris was lucky, he could have veered aside and avoided the mandible, but no such luck. Surprise was complete and his foot — the bum left one, was caught in the creature’s claw. Agony.
Harris tumbled over, the korinkle flung to the dunes and Tony tossed aside. The awidena skins crashed to the ground, splitting open, the wonderful liquor feeding the red sand. Harris choked back tears. He wiggled his foot, but it was snagged. He reached for Tony, but it was beyond him.
Dragged. The porcorporian tugged Harris, but he turned over on his back and, with his phitron boot, slammed the beast in the nose — if it was a nose. It winced, loosening its grip. Harris was still stuck, but another twist of his foot and the makeshift ties on the zulu fell away, leaving the porcorporian with an aniniya sandal, and nothing more, Harris scrabbled through the sand, reaching Tony. But the porcorporian attacked.
Harris stood, barely balancing on one foot, wielding his sword with both hands. He struck the thing, drawing green blood. It was maimed, but still determined to feed. It made a clicking sound — enragement, no doubt. Harris prepared to engage the thing again, but soon had double trouble. Two Tludachi roared from the dunes. They galloped down, the red sand puffing before them, their saber teeth bared for the attack. Harris prepared to greet them with Tony. He struck his Columbincus trying to coax the brashun blade to shoot fire or brimstone or just a projection to scare the damn things away. He would have settled for old I Luv Lucy reruns. Nothing. He raised the sword. At least he’d get the lead Tludachi. and perhaps that would deter its partner. But as the beast approached, a shadow cast over them. A pair of tusks ripped through the lead Tygger, and a trunk dispatched the other. Another shadow stomped, and the porcorporian was pulverized beneath a gigantic stump.
Harris stood transfixed, his mouth agape, Tony loose in his hand. He looked up at this newcomer, his breath hitching, trying to determine whether this was still a contest for dinner. The pain in his foot flew up his thigh to his groin and his belly. He was overcome and tottered. The beast cast a wide shadow over him as Harris collapsed in a full-fledged swoon.
The Tippagore had arrived.
Episode Two
Where Lord Belmundus is repaid for a past kindness, makes a skelatal discovery and hears voices across the dunes
1
Champions do it for no other reason but to defend the worthy and the good — or perhaps the weak and vulnerable. They never ask for rewards and are seldom blessed with any. But when you cast your bupka on the tide, it’s bound to return on the morning flow — perhaps not ten-fold, but unexpectedly timely. No kindness goes unpunished, they say, but every kindness lingers somewhere to unfold again like a rose over thorns. If a trophy does not come, the perfume will drift as thanks for a thoughtful act.
2
Pain’s reality stirred Harris from another dreamless sleep. He had vague recollections of night’s passage and another sunsrise. His head wasn’t clear. He sat in the sand, brushing his cloak and clutching first Tony, and then his Columbincus.
“The korinkle,” he stammered, and then swept the ground. Then he remembered. “Lost. And my wisgi.”
Harris had a raging thirst, which matched his utter pain — the foot throbbing, so much so he could see it pulsating, blackening under a roadmap of veins. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and then looked about. In the distance he saw the bull Tippagore, an apartment house-size beast, filtering the sand for nourishment, much like a whale filters plankton. Then he heard a grunt, turned and saw the bigger member of the species — the female, as tall as the bull, but like a freight train. Her tusks and horns blazed in the sunslight. At first Harris panicked, remembering the power of these beasts and their crushing defeat of the other critters. However, when his eyes met the female’s, he knew. This was the Mama Tippagore — the one he had saved from Kuriakis’ staff. She must have found herself another mate, because her sheltering shell protected a new crop of Tippababies. Yes, this was the one; and she remembered.
“Damn,” Harris said, managing to rise painfully. He bowed, and the beast nodded. “You remember me, my lady. You do. Well, speak of casting bread upon the waters.”
This loaf had returned ninety-fold, like a freight train. She returned the favor, saving his life. He bowed again.
“I thank you.”
The Tippagore nodded again and moo’d — a deep moan, melodious and befitting a Valkyrie, but Harris couldn’t recall a sweeter thank you in his life. Suddenly, the pain shot to his knee and he keeled over, using Tony to keep him from plowing into the dune. His thirst overcame him; and he began to choke. Madame Tippagore swayed in alarm and called to her mate, who answered with a booming hark. Then the female moved toward Harris. He thought she might accidentally crush him with good intentions. He pushed back, falling on his rump. Mama beast raised her foot, flipping her shaggy shell up, revealing the latest crop of pups, all drinking copious amounts of Tippamilk. Harris staggered. He couldn’t believe the intent. She had extended an invitation.
Slowly, Harris crept, hopping on one zulu, dragging his gasuntsgi foot behind him like a Somerset-Maugham throwback. As he approached, he gazed into the beast’s eyes — beautifully blue and tender. He shuffled beneath the moving tent. The babies had hooked their adolescent tusks to Mama’s hide, and then suckled on her teats like lords and ladies at a banquet table. He glanced back at Mama. She waggled her head — a clear be my guest.
Harris slipped beneath the shag, and once there, the rug engulfed him. He tried to find purchase to steady himself, but he didn’t have tusks. But he did have Tony.
“Forgive me,” he muttered, and then slid Tony into a flap of flesh. Mama groaned but didn’t evict him. “Gracious lady. Gracious, gracious lady.”
Once in position, Harris hooked his arm around Tony’s hilt. The flap tightened. The stench was akin to the monkey house at the zoo, but he had tolerated the indelicate odor of charpgris, so he could survive this. He heard the array of babies sucking and moaning with delight. The thought of being weaned at his age was not so terrible considering his thirst. He felt for the nipple, Tony’s glow guiding his hands.
“Big,” he murmured, squeezing, a warm thick trickle coursing his cheeks.
Harris kissed it, and then engorged this wonder of nature, which saved his life. Mama grunted, trumpeting her approval.
3
Swaying. Gentle swaying rocked this newfound baby — this waif cast upon the Forling sea. As the cow trundled the red sands, like a ship upon the waves, Harris found comfort. Even his foot seemed to throb less. The drink had been sweet; and he had had his fill of it. His stomach growled less, although a rumble danced through his bowels, perhaps in thanks. He still heard his brothers and sisters caressing Mama’s wonders.
Harris was in heaven. Perhaps he had died, and this was heaven — his reincarnation as a beast. For the first time in some while, he dreamed — pleasant remembrances of his sister at play and his mother sitting on the pier in Santa Monica, the sun blazing over her floppy hat. Then the wind blew; and she held the rim. Humphrey, she called. Don’t go too far. I’ll take you on the Ferris Wheel in a moment, dear. Just let me rest here. The sun is warm and feels good. Be good for Mama. Be good.
“I am good, Mama,” Harris murmured, his eyes half-shut in Tony’s glare. “Mama.”
Harris had a new Mama now, at least for the moment — a day and a night, as she trundled over dune and valley, filtering the sand bugs and digesting the source of the sweet milk, which gave him life. He caressed her, kissing her, ashamed he had pierced her with his blade. But he felt stronger now, although he didn’t want to leave her shelter, but he had no choice, because the swaying ceased, and the flap opened. The suns’ glare near blinded him, but he released his legs and tumbled to the sand, taking Tony with him. His foot ached, but the pain seemed less. It was still useless to propel him far. He limped severely but managed to come face to face with the Tippagore.
Both beasts were there — the cow mooing, the bull snorting. Harris bowed awkwardly to both. He couldn’t thank them enough, nor would thanks be appropriate, because these creatures had returned a favor. But Harris wasn’t sure if he was part of a new family or whether this was where the train stopped. Then, the bull reared and spit, a chunk of flesh falling at Harris’ feet. He jumped back, nearly falling. It was a leg bone and haunch, chewed at the edges, but with enough skin and fur to be identified.
“Tludachi,” Harris muttered, cautiously approaching it.
The haunch had enough meat on it for a small village, but there was also rot. The bull nodded, and then turned away, seeking its meal of choice — microscopic critters in the sand. Harris speculated. porcorporians probably ambushed the tludachi and feasted until Mr. Tippagore chased them off, harvesting a haunch for his human guest. Harris crouched beside it. He reached under the skin, a mass of sinew and muscle — not appetizing. But he knew if he didn’t imitate an animal and chomp down, he’d be dead by tomorrow. So, he knelt, bringing his face to the shin. He gagged; a stench so foul to conjure outhouse images. He started with a lick, his tongue stretched and trembling, if a tongue could tremble. The taste was metallic, but he had got to first base, so he dipped his face close, his nose poking through the sinews. Putrid. It was like diving headfirst into a dumpster. Then he counted mentally to ten and bit down, ripping a chunk of flesh and skin and fur, a flag waggling from his teeth. He chewed and choked. He swallowed a little, the gristle stopping in his throat. He shook his head, his eyes tearing. His chest heaved and he spewed the slop to the red sand. He coughed and spit, holding his stomach.
“Great,” he gasped. “Now I’ve got a belly to match my fucking foot.”
Harris looked back at the haunch, and then choked again. But as he held his chest, the Columbincus shone brightly and, as if answering it, Tony lit like a candle. Harris grasped the hilt, amazed at this action. Then he plunged the brashun blade into the haunch, where it smoldered. A few minutes later, he had roast Tludachi and settled down to a meal.
4
Harris never returned to the Tippagore’s hospitable teat. Water would be a problem, but he managed to wring enough blood from the haunch to satisfy his needs for the evening. When the Tippagores moved on, however, he packed as much meat as he could carry, using the jupsim cloak as a makeshift korinkle, and followed them. They were easy to lumber behind, because . . . they lumbered. He hoped the bull might scavenge another meal for him, but he supposed he could spear something with Tony, now that he could get it to throw a flame. It wasn’t much of a flame, but it was a start and could boil water for tea if he should happen to meet Thomas Lipton. If pressed, he was not above flirting with Mama to see if the flap would rise and the milk bar open again. More important, the Forling fauna stayed clear of the Tippagores.
A passing exigency, Harris tried to plan his next move, but it wasn’t promising. The beasts were slow and didn’t seem to belong to a herd. There was no Tippatown on this map. They were also moving in a circle. Solus and Dodecadatamus indicated the mountains were in the opposite direction. The priority, however, was the foot. It flared at least ten times a day, forcing Harris to pretzel in agony. But he did attempt to activate the sole remaining zulu. At first, it was an idiot’s effort, like riding a pogo stick in the mud. But after two days of trying, Harris could stay aloft on one zulu like the clown on the unicycle. Unfortunately, the minute the rabbit-bitten foot flared, the pain would knock him asunder and he’d need to rest after each episode.
For four days, Harris semi hovered and crunched behind the Tippagores. Then the liquids ran out and the thirst returned. The meat was gone the next day. He began to fall behind, and then he could no longer keep his balance on the zulu. He thought to use Tony to cauterize the wound. Cutting his foot off was an option. If he could withstand the pain and not pass out, cauterization would be a blessing. Then the pain would pass and so would this wild thinking. As he fell farther behind, his new family didn’t wait. They accepted the inevitable. So, did he. That night he saw eyes flashing in the darkness and knew the margin grew wide and the desert critters were here.
“So, this is how it ends,” he said to the dawn, with no Tippagore in sight.
Harris glanced to the dunes. His thirst pinched his throat. His stomach belched fire. His foot went beyond pain. Then he saw the eyes — the flashing nearby. Tludachi or gasuntsgi, he wasn’t sure. He knew it wasn’t a porcorporian. Those bastards would come at him from beneath the sand and go for the belly. Perhaps it was a new terror. He stared at the eyes, and then realized they pulsed. His Columbincus seemed to answer them. His curiosity piqued. So, he tried to get to his zulu and meet this new horror head on.
Surprisingly, the zulu held him; and he slowly cruised to a cleft in the dune, the red sand shifting over a clump wedged beneath it. He hopped to the ground and crawled toward it.
“Damn,” he stammered. “I know this.”
He touched his Columbincus, and then scrambled to the mound, clearing it with his hands. He gasped, sitting back. It was a skeleton — rib cage. Tludachi? A meal, perhaps?
“No,” he said. “Human and . . .”
Harris’ fingers pried through the cavity. He brushed the sand from the spine. A skull rolled to his knees. He stopped it from rolling down the dune. He lifted it briefly, and then thrust his hand into the rib cage, grasping the pulsating gem which he had mistaken for an eye. It was . . . a Columbincus. He raised it to the light, examining it.
“The Eye and two wavy lines,” he muttered, and then looked to the skull. “So here you are . . . Lord Hierarchus.” He sighed. “Here you are and . . . and here am I.”
5
Harris drew the skull to his chest, hugging it close. He began to weep, rocking as he sobbed. He stared at the skeleton and the flickering of the Columbincus clutched in his hand. The road had ended. The desert’s expanse had claimed him as it had his predecessor. He wondered what Hierarchus looked like, now as he embraced his skull. Images of youth and slyness overcame him. The impurities of existence washed through his soul. Here was a man with the spark, but the spark didn’t keep him from this finality.
Harris rocked, gasping. He licked the tears from his cheeks, and then shook his head.
“I don’t want to die,” he muttered, the full force of the Forling pressing his mind. “I don’t.”
Then he looked to the sky and shouted:
“I’m only nineteen, for fuck’s sake. I don’t want to die. I don’t . . .”
His throat clogged. He dropped the skull. Tears prevented him from watching it roll.
“I don’t . . . I don’t want to . . . die.”
Then anger replaced abandonment, and, despite the pain, he stood, wiping his nose and his eyes. He faltered, unsteady on the dune. He glanced down. The rib cage still flickered. He swallowed hard, and then poked through the cavity, where another object lay near the surface. He grasped it, and then yanked. Glowing in his hand was a brashun blade, a twin to Tony.
“His sword,” Harris stammered, still sniffing. “Much good it did him.”
Still, he raised it to the sky as if to pierce the suns.
“I shall call you Hierarchus, doomed though I be.”
His hand trembled. He glanced at the second Columbincus again and decided to snap it beside his own. The clasp was sticky, but he had acquired the knack, and clasped it beneath its twin. Then both Columbincus’ flashed. He had never seen such a reaction from his. Tony also flashed, as did Hierarchus. Suddenly, Harris was spun about like a firecracker, falling to the sand. He retrieved the second sword, because he had dropped it, and when he scrambled for it, the brooch ceased to glow. However, he no longer wore two Columbincus’. Instead, he had an enormous sapphire-colored gem pulsating on a single brooch — a double stone. The prospects scared him, fearing he had somehow polluted his own lifeline. Then he remembered he hadn’t much life left.
Harris sat with a thump beside the remains of his predecessor and looked to the sky again. The dust had kicked up and visibility dwindled. A glimmer of hope crossed his mind and he longed for his surrogate family — the Tippagores. So, he rolled to his knees, secured his scant truck and switched on the zulu to begin a painful descent. When he passed the skull, he felt like kicking it like a soccer ball, but he hadn’t a free foot for it.
6
The sand kicked up furiously. Harris wrapped his cloak about his head, covering his mouth, Bedouin-fashion. He couldn’t stay aloft on the zulu, so he walked or hopped or hobbled. The wind howled. He expected a claw to pop from beneath the sand and do him in, but perhaps the porcorporians preferred fair-weather hunting. If the critters didn’t get him, his hunger or the infection would. Then he looked skyward to whatever sky could be seen.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Harris saw the outline of a terrerbyrd.
“No wonder the critters are in hiding. And I don’t even have a boot.”
The thing flew low, and he wasn’t sure it was a Terrerbyrd, because, to his faulty knowledge, these reptiles were native to the Plageris. But perhaps this was a cousin — a Horrorbyrd or a sandy flicker-fucker. It cast a significant shadow but passed him. He tried to follow its course, but it disappeared beyond the next dune. His foot flared; and he counted to ten, waiting for the agony to pass. When it did, he shuffled slowly up the dune, but visibility was appalling. He sighed and trundled on. Then he saw them — the Tippagores, or the outline of a big backside.
“Thank God,” he muttered.
He moved forward, but the big butt disappeared. A mirage? It was bound to happen. He looked again. The globular ass of the beast drifted in and out of view. He was sure it was a mirage, because it had psychedelic coloring — a tapestry of stripes in the colors of the rainbow.
“Foot gone. Eyes failing. Brain fried.”
He switched on the zulu. If the Tippagores were ahead, he’d catch them faster this way. But when the aniniya sandal revved, it tipped him forward; and he crashed to the sand, his face slamming to the kowlinka. He spit out the grit and began weeping again. The fates had conspired to keep him alive to play with his soul. Torture. He didn’t wish for death, but he certainly didn’t want to dance with it. He crept forward, looking for the backsides.
“Gone.”
Harris’ breath hitched. He waited for his life to flash before him like the pundits assured it would. He glanced up. The mirage appeared again. Color and silver flaring. The colors were brighter, and the silver drew near. He blinked, but sand encrusted his eyes. Then the foot flared again; and he knew it would be for the last time. He clenched his fists, and clasped his eyes shut. His teeth gnashed to counter the agony. But now his mind was going. He saw things — colors, Tippagore butts and shimmering silver. Now he heard voices on the wind. He expected this. He expected the calls of his sister and his mother. Next, he’d hear the angels and see God, if forgiven his sins. The voices came. The voice. One voice.
“Oginali.”
Harris opened his eyes. A vision came toward him — silver blowing in the wind. A cloak . . . and a runner.
“Oginali.”
“Little Bird?” he whispered. He pushed up from the sand. “Little Bird?”
Yustichisqua hastened to him. Harris mistrusted this vision. Mirages. Mirages. But no. The Tippagore butt clarified in the distance. Not the backend of a beast, but . . . a balloon — the ferry.
“Oginali.”
“Yustichisqua,” Harris rasped.
Little Bird rushed him, catching him as Harris fell again. Yustichisqua held him tightly, rocking him, brushing his hair through his fingers, weeping without shame or hesitation.
“I have come for you, oginali. Your Little Bird has come.”
Harris grasped his double Columbincus, and then kissed Yustichisqua’s hand. All pain subsided and, if he had died and this was heaven, an angel indeed had come.