Omha abides, p.3
Omha Abides, page 3
Two events during the day put an end to such thinking.
First—about mid-morning—geehawks appeared over the fringe of the hills he’d left. Several aircars cruised north and south, holding the birds to their pattern and adding Gaddyl eyes to the search. The implication was clear: there were still fugitives—some of Murno’s neighbors—at large; and Guddun intended to seal them into the patch of hills east of Bay.
Second—near noon—a geehawk-and-breloon search swept up the waterway a mile to the east. Murno, at times, could faintly hear the tracking-beasts; but even if he couldn’t, the way the birds circled and the way the three or four aircars behaved would have told him there were breloons.
“Is that the San Wah Keen?”
Murno started at Joe’s quiet question. Carefully, he moved nearer the youngster. “No. The San Wah Keen’s a real river, twenty miles or so east.”
Joe squinted at the hawks, now moving to the south. “Why are they scouting a small creek?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering. Someone may have got to the straits at the north of the bay, and headed inland along the waterways. Or—Guddun may simply suspect someone’s made it out of the hills, and be trying to pick up a trail.” He shifted in the tree-crotch, trying to find more comfort. “I hope Oory’s not in charge of the hunt. He’d be a lot shrewder than Guddun.”
Joe glanced at him, then stared back at the creek.
Murno guessed what might be in the boy’s mind. “Your father,” he said quietly, “is a woodsman, and he knows the hills almost as well as I do. There’s a good chance he got the family away all right.”
Joe turned to him slowly. “Do you think I’ll ever know?”
Murno couldn’t say yes honestly. Instead, he asked, “Are you willing to throw in with us? You’ll be heading farther away. But I don’t see how you can stay here.”
There were the beginnings of tears in the boy’s eyes. “I’ve got to go with you. Dad told me to. He … doesn’t want me caught, because I know where those things in your knapsack are headed.”
Murno had no reply to that either; and he was glad Joe didn’t stare at him too long. The implication wasn’t pleasant: Kenth didn’t intend himself, or Joe’s mother, to be taken alive either.
There was no rain that night, so, on crossing the creek, Murno constructed trail puzzles. Then he pushed on cross-country, keeping as much as possible to the cover of oaks. He didn’t like this at all; leaving plain trails in the grass; traveling in strange country, with the rising moon full in his eyes.
There were other small waterways to cross. One, for a while, turned eastward; he followed it gratefully. Then he had to strike out through grass again. “I think we’d better not walk in single file or a straight line. Spread out a little, and wander a few feet to the sides, as cattle would.”
An hour after that, he was heading for a big oak when he sensed presences in the black shadow under it. “Hold up!”
He peered into the blackness. How could the moon be so bright, and leave such dense shadows? “Move downwind, very slowly,” he whispered. He felt for an arrow; got his bow in hand; moved laterally, staying between family and oak.
A vague bulk shifted in the blackness. He kept circling to the north, slowly. After a while he caught fresh bovine smell. He felt a little relief, but not much. So far as he knew, there were only the short-horned cattle in this part of the valley, but they could be dangerous enough when they felt threatened. It would take an exceptional arrow-shot to stop a bull.
But they got by safely. After that he was more circumspect about the oaks he approached.
They stopped, ate sparingly, rested, and went on. The moon gradually obliged by moving west.
But sometime after midnight Klayr whispered, “I’m sure there’s something following us!”
Murno peered back into the moonlight. They’d just passed under an oak. Did something pause there now, in the shade? If so, they had a fifty-yard lead. He looked around for another oak, small enough so Klayr and the youngsters could shinny up in a pinch. “Move on ahead, slowly.”
In the shelter of the small oak, he paused a full ten minutes, looking back. Nothing. “We may as well rest here a while anyway, and watch.”
He allowed fifteen minutes, then urged them on. Now, though, he paid attention to both flanks as well as ahead and behind—but, mostly, he kept a surreptitious watch downwind.
It was half an hour before he glimpsed it—a furtive pale shape in the moonlight, a full hundred yards to their left.
He stopped, midriff knotting. A lioness—not a cougar—but the larger feline that might be very dangerous if hungry. He reached for his bow, then hesitated. He had the Gaddyl handgun in his pack. This far out, could he risk using it? The burst of static would register on a wide radio-band. He could be far from this spot before an aircar got here from any Fiefdom—but suppose there were a flying monitor somewhere near?
The lioness was, possibly, an immediate threat and one not to be faced with arrows. Slowly, he reached for the fastenings of the pack.
The rest of the night, he walked with the alien gun in his hand. But he saw no more of the feline. She had, perhaps, only been curious.
They spent the next day beneath a large oak—out of sight of any cattle, in case of casual hunting-parties. Twice he saw aircars cruising high up, and late in the afternoon he heard rifle shots somewhere south. He waited nervously, fearing that bovines might stampede this way. None did.
The next night they had a real scare that turned into a puzzling incident.
They were traveling down a nearly-dry creek that ran east—a tributary, he supposed, of the San Wah Keen—and came within sight of some jagged old ruins that thrust up, above the willows. The moon—past full, now—was medium-high in the east; therefore, he was going cautiously.
Murno paused, trying to assess the stretch between them and the ruins. There was an odd feel about the place—perhaps it was the absence of the small life that should have been stirring.
Then the breeze shifted and he caught just a hint of a rank, carrion-like odor.
He crouched in sudden terror. That was the jeel-smell! From what direction did it come—or did it cling to the area? The ruins—like an outcropping of great rocks—could be a lair. But what was a jeel doing on this side of the San Wah Keen? For that matter, was the place dry enough for a jeel?
That, he told himself nervously, was the jeel’s problem. He didn’t think he could be wrong about the smell.
If one were near, it was aware of them—jeels were nocturnal, with senses incredibly keen; the more effective, perhaps, for having been transplanted from their home world. Very slowly, he reached for the Gaddyl weapon.
There was a faint susurration which he recognized as an intake of breath via big armored nostrils. He whirled toward the sound—behind him—and leaped clear of his family. He heard the willows crush; aimed the handgun frantically—but before the jeel could charge, there came from off to the side an arresting high-pitched call—a single musical tone, sung by a clear human voice. Even as he felt his own muscles go oddly rigid, he heard the jeel’s startled croak. Then the voice broke into a cascade of quick liquid notes—five or six down the scale; an odd shift of key; two more notes in a trill, then sudden silence as jarring as the sound it followed. The jeel rose immensely from behind the willows, crashed across the creek in two mighty bounds, and hurtled off northward—fluting in a mad, frantic way.
Murno, astounded and still unable to move, listened to the massive flight. It diminished into the distance. When it was gone, he was suddenly free to move. Shakily, he turned the other way.
But now there came only a faint, faraway answer to the tenor voice, and after that, nothing. Presently he crept across the creek and parted the willows, to peer out. The grass, with no sign of a trail in it, rippled in a breeze.
Eventually—as shaken by the queer stasis that had gripped him as by the encounter with a jeel—he managed to say, “Come on!” He led the way out of the creek and far around the ancient ruins, which did indeed reek of jeel.
There wasn’t much more said until a line of trees—tall ones—loomed ahead. He stopped, studying them. “That’s the river. I’ve been thinking we might stop here a day or two. How’s the food holding out?”
Klayr said, “Two more snacks.”
CHAPTER V: THE SAN WAH KEEN
The tree-platforms—a half-day’s work—were in a huge elm far enough within the bottomland to be invisible from outside, but still a hundred yards from the river proper. Here, a lacework of channels—some dry, some pondy, some still flowing—chopped the bottomland into a multiplicity of islands, even the smaller of which were choked with willows, elderberries, and such. In this shady sub-world, even in the daytime, muskrats, raccoons, cottontails, and a dozen other species of small life scurried about. Murno even saw one gray fox. Birds were everywhere. Surely, there’d be bobcats at night.
He got the family installed. “You can try fishing, but don’t go near the main river. Gaje, you and Joe shoot cottontails if you can, and try to find a few big rocks for a cooking-place. I’m going to scout around for better meat, and see what signs there are of Gaddyl. I’ll be back before dark.”
He was careful when he neared the river. There were waterfowl about, though, indicating that this stretch wasn’t frequented by Gaddyl. The brown stream, seventy or eighty yards wide now, flowed fairly fast in a channel that twisted but remained near the east bank of the bottomland—leaving rootage on that side only for willows and brush. The dirt bank was a dozen feet high, collapsed in places—showing, in those places, plenty of hoofmarks.
He noted where eggs might be found and then retreated from the main channel and went upstream.
There was nothing different—no deer or pig signs—for a mile and a half.
And then a narrow fork of the main channel barred his way.
He hesitated, studying the point of land. Island or gore? The fork looked deep enough so he’d have to swim. Murno listened; glanced at the sun and decided to have a look.
He’d no sooner hauled himself to the opposite bank and through its screen of willows than he felt the strangeness of the place.
Though the ground looked ample there were no elms. Perhaps because the shade was lacking, the small growth was profuse. Elderberries formed solid ranks; apricot trees struggled for living-room; almonds reached skyward above thickets. There were crabapples and some fruit trees even he didn’t know.
A jay hopped from a branch and planed away, eyeing him silently. He watched it closely. Silence was unlike jays.
Murno pushed on, detouring where necessary, for a ways. He could hear the river on both sides, so probably this was a long slender island. He was about to turn back when the south breeze brought him a familiar smell. Pigs! He slipped his bow off his shoulders, selected an arrow, and advanced quietly.
The pigs were in a mud-wallow in the shade of a tree something like a magnolia, but with no blossoms and with a denser crop of leaves. There was one boar mature enough to show the high foreshoulders, razorback, shaggy hair, and tusks that might mislead some people to think he was a different species. Murno didn’t want to tangle with that fellow. There were four sows of various ages, and a dozen young pigs of at least three separate litters. Murno hesitated. He didn’t particularly feel like killing any of a social group of this sort. But pork, well cooked, couldn’t be surpassed as a supply of meat to carry.
He ran thumb and forefinger along the bowstring to squeeze it dry, nocked the arrow, and held the weapon in his left hand while he looked around for something to throw. He found a chunk of broken limb, hefted it, then paused to study the game-trails around the wallow. He didn’t want the startled swine bolting toward him.
The only two ways out of the wallow were on opposite sides of the large-limbed tree, twisting into dense brush beyond. Good enough. He moved a few steps to improve his angle, then tossed the chunk of wood in a high arc.
The missile came down inches from one of the sows, making a loud plop and scattering mud. The pigs erupted, in a bedlam of grunts and squeals, and were on their feet and moving. Murno, bow drawn, waited while most of them gained solid ground and flashed into the brush—including the boar and the larger sows. There were four pigs still struggling to gain footing. He swung the bow to lead the one he’d chosen, and was about to let fly—when the pig suddenly froze.
Murno stood in a crouch, eyes darting about. What had the pig seen—the tableau lasted only a second—he realized that the animal was facing the trunk of the large-leaved tree, toward which it had happened to bolt.
The pig darted aside, toward one of the trails, and Murno released the arrow. The pig let out a squeal like a siren, leaped once, fell kicking. It died quickly.
Skin prickling a little, Murno walked slowly around the wallow. Before going near the pig, he looked hard at the base of the tree, thinking the pig might have seen a snake.
But pigs, he reminded himself, don’t fear small snakes. They eat them.
Well, then, maybe the tree itself was poisonous; or maybe there were deadly insects. Certainly, all the bolting animals had swerved around it. But he saw nothing. Nevertheless, he carried the pig away from the spot to butcher it. Then he headed downriver.
The next day went by without incident. The pork was all cooked and salted and wrapped; there were three-dozen-odd duck-eggs, hard-boiled and packed in a bagful of willow leaves; more cooked fish than they’d ever eat before the flavor got high. There was a stew-pan full of blackberries, and a few black walnuts from a tree half a mile downstream.
On the third day, an hour after sunrise, Murno was wondering whether they might find a marsh somewhere with rice growing, or find some yams, when Gaje, high in the tree called down furtively, “Dad!”
Murno climbed and followed the pointing finger.
There was no doubt—the bird-shapes to the west were geehawks. They were just spreading out. He clambered down. “We’ve got to move again!”
“Oh,” Klayr said weakly.
Murno began hacking at platform-lashings. “We’ll need some of these poles for a raft. You kids hide the rest of them. Get rid of the cooking-stones, too, and everything else we can’t carry!”
Klayr—already packing knapsacks—asked in a small voice, “We aren’t going to cross the river in daylight, are we?”
“No. We’ll …” He fell silent, remembering, from years ago, the country beyond. “We’ll hide on an island I found, until night, then cross over.” No use telling them that the choice between perils was a hard one.
Evening shadows stretched across the river.
A hawk-and-breloon sweep had gone up the east bank, and Murno could only hope it wouldn’t be repeated after dark. He stared across the main channel at the small tributary opposite. If there were water there … but it looked dry.
If only he had bearskin overboots for them all, like the ones he’d used so often to hide his own trail. Suddenly he stood up straighter. Pigs smelled as strongly as bears!
He ran to the loaded and waiting raft—seized two empty water-bags “Stay hidden! I’ll be back in a little while!”
Sacrificing caution for speed, he fought through thickets to the hog wallow and scooped the leather bags full of the redolent mud.
When he returned it was Sis who asked, “What’s that, Daddy?”
He felt like ginning. “Smelly stuff to smear on our boots after we’re across the river.”
She leaned forward, sniffed, and made a face. “Ooh.”
He tied the bags to the raft and stood thinking. Presently he bent to open his own knapsack, removed the handgun and tied it to his belt with a thong. Then he went to sit down.
Wondering about the night ahead wasn’t going to be any fun. The worst, maybe, would be not knowing whether they were starting too soon or too late. But he daren’t spend another night here as he’d like to, listening to learn the habits of the animals of the far shore.
The dark river seized upon the raft at once and tried to wrestle it downstream. Murno was starting two hundred yards above the ravine opposite, to allow for the current. The silt was slippery beneath his bare feet. He was at the downstream side of the raft so he could fight the current, while Klayr and the boys pushed from behind. He stepped into an unexpected hole, floundered, caught his balance and leaned hard against the raft. The water was at his waist now. The boys were already swimming and Klayr was losing her traction too. He saw Sis—on the opposite side of the raft—slip and cling to the raft with one arm while her head went under. His midriff contracted violently. He made a quick move, ready to duck beneath the raft to help her, but she hauled herself up and got the other arm hooked over the edge and she was all right. A surge of emotion swept over him. Through all the terror and exhaustion, she’d hardly whimpered.
The current was shoving irresistibly now. Frantically, he gave up fighting it and, instead, shoved the raft cross-stream with all his strength, swimming with his left arm. He managed a glance toward the shore; saw it sweeping by far too fast. He felt a bludgeon-blow of despair—they’d shoot past the ravine, and God knew where they could beach the raft! But just when he thought they’d failed, he felt silt under his feet. And with a muscle-cracking effort, he checked the raft and drove it ashore.
They clung, exhausted, for a minute; then he forced himself out of the water, limbs feeling like lard, seized a rope at the front, and tugged. The others came to help, and they got the raft out of the water and into the mouth of the ravine.
As he’d feared, the latter was dry. After a few minutes Joe asked, “What are we going to do about the raft?”
