Omha abides, p.5
Omha Abides, page 5
But there was still the matter of the squirrel. It had moved higher, and was clinging to the bark with its body at a forty-five degree angle, head lowest, ready to move. Murno studied it while he nocked his arrow. It could dart in any direction, even upward; but he thought it would move horizontally around the tree toward a certain limb.
The young mutant flipped his dart with such an easy quick motion of the wrist that Murno wasn’t really ready. His reflexes were, though. His arrow flashed while the dart was still in the air.
As before, the squirrel evaded the dart. But the arrow took it in the back, near the tail. It squeaked once and fell; hit the ground and lay kicking. Murno—suddenly full of shame—hurried forward and killed the suffering thing quickly with his knife. Slowly, he picked up the small body. In a surge of revulsion, he flung it violently into the brush. Shooting food was one thing. Killing for sport—even grim sport—and not killing quickly and cleanly, was another.
Without surprise, he found the other four blue men once more directly behind him. But now there was approval, even admiration, in their eyes. Perhaps they’d never seen a real bowman before.
They let him go, and he saw no more of them on the way to the new camp. When be was within a hundred yards of that, he began to feel that something was wrong. He crouched listening for a moment, then broke into a run.
The tree platform was finished—and there were braces of freshly-hewed pine, more sophisticated than he would have expected of the boys. And the lashings—those weren’t any rope of his!
He stared around. There was a neat circle of round white stones that had never come from this valley; a far tidier fire-spot than needed. Two freshly-cut forked sticks were thrust into the ground on opposite sides, forks up, and several neatly-trimmed pine wands lay handy—cooking spits. A spot of color at the edge of a trunk caught his eye. He stepped around the tree; found a pair of wild turkeys hanging there.
But where were his people?
He ran suddenly, snarling with anger, to the knotted rope that hung, as a ladder, from the platform; went up furiously. They were all there, on comfortable bough-and-deerskin beds, utterly asleep. He stood for a moment shaking with anger. Those damned young blue idiots! Murno made a move toward the rope. He found his quivers hanging from new pegs on the tree-trunk and grabbed the one that held heavy arrows. He slid to the ground. He took a few running steps up-valley, then stopped. How could he find woodsmen like those?
A clear high note sounded from down-valley: “Mur-no!”
He delayed a moment, caution struggling with rage, then started down-valley at a trot.
He had enough sense to pause after a while and catch his breath while he listened and scanned the pine-covered slopes on either side. He thought the call had come from the shady western side. Slowly, he moved toward it. As he went, a sense of some specific danger grew in him, but he was past caring until, just among the trees, the feeling suddenly included certainty and direction. He jerked his head around and leaped for a tree-limb and hauled himself up. Murno escaped greedy claws by inches. The feline fell back and bunched itself for another leap, but Murno was already clambering to a higher branch. He stood on that, one arm around the trunk, staring down at the animal. It stared back at him with the expressionless fixity of a cat.
A second one padded silently into sight and sat down near the first, staring up just as intently.
They were no sort of feline Murno had ever seen—perhaps they were some mutation the Gaddyl had made some time, some place. The body-shape was more like a leopard’s than a cougar’s. But the beasts were big—almost the size of lions though a little of it had to be discounted, as their fur was fluffy. It was splendid fur—almost white, with a few spots of light gray on the backs. The tails, light gray, were long and fuzzy. Just now they lay half-curled about their owners, twitching a little at the ends. These, he knew suddenly, were the beasts he’d half-glimpsed when he and the family were first captured. He noted, now, that they had, indeed, no detectable smell.
He wasn’t surprised when the five young mutants strolled into sight and stood watching. He glared clown at them for a minute. “You’d better call off your cats if you don’t want them full of arrows.”
As usual, they didn’t respond. After a minute, the one who’d missed the squirrel—Murno could see, now, that he was a trifle more mature than the others—reached for his dart-thrower. Murno tensed. The dart came so quickly he had only time to duck his head. When the hardwood dart thunked into the bark above him, he realized the blue man had aimed deliberately high—but not by much. Cheeks burning, he set himself, resolved not to duck the next dart. But the blue man was making gestures—patting himself on the scalp, then indicating by measurements in the air that each successive dart would be lower.
So that was the game. They’d drive him down within reach of the cats. He tensed to reach for his bow—better to die trying to fight back, if it came to that—then he remembered that some patriarch of these strange people had allegedly ordered them to treat him well.
Could he rely on that? Sickly, he thought of his family, marooned here, if he died. On the other hand, how humiliating if these striplings were only bluffing!
He drew in his breath, stood straight up, relaxed, and glared at them. The one with the dart-thrower in his hand—it must be Liss—paused uncertainly. The five of them exchanged glances. Then, in unison, they grinned and began to make familiar weird little gestures with their hands. Murno, suddenly terrified, squeezed his eyes shut. But the kneading in his brain began. He clamped his teeth on a groan; a tiny bit of it forced its way out anyhow …
He was falling—falling from a long way, sprawled out and tumbling end over end, clutching at air. Far below, a horde of huge pale felines milled about and reared, staring up at him, ravening mouths agape, claws stretched and straining as if they couldn’t wait. The mass of bodies seemed to explode outward, so great was his speed. He struck stunningly; was swarmed over; felt the weight and the heat of the great bodies, the awful claws stripping flesh from his body. His scream shrilled in his ears …
And he was clinging limply, drenched with sweat, to the pine trunk. The blue men were watching him gleefully. The two cats were on all fours, crouched, staring up in surprise.
Slowly, the terror drained out of him. Shame, and a cold anger, replaced it. He pretended to shift his footing as if still terrified of falling—but, hidden by the pine-trunk, his right hand stole to his knife, eased it from the scabbard, turned it so he gripped the point, ready to throw. When his arm flashed up and back, he was on balance.
An instant before his quick movement, the blue men went tense, faces startled. Then they leaped for cover. But his first arm-motion was a feint—he wanted them moving, committed. The knife flashed through the air, and caught Liss in mid-leap.
Murno, in his anger, hadn’t intended a killing wound—no one could throw a knife that fast or that accurately anyway. But he wanted to hurt his tormentor. As it was, the slash was more glancing than he had in mind. It sliced across the right buttock. But the blue man’s startled “Huy!” was a tremendous satisfaction.
Very odd, though, was the expression on Liss’s blue face in the instant that Murno was throwing. Clearly, he thought Murno was throwing to kill. But he looked neither frightened nor enraged. He looked, rather, hurt—as if a favorite toy had suddenly exploded in his hands, maiming him. And that hurt expression lingered in Murno’s mind.
The blues didn’t show themselves for five minutes. Then Liss, not limping badly and hardly bleeding, stepped hesitantly from behind a tree. He looked humiliated, but not particularly angry. The other four appeared, grinning broadly. Liss flushed—a purpling of the face—then, suddenly, he laughed. For a full minute he laughed, easily, heartily, then got control of himself long enough to sing a high note at the cats, which immediately trotted toward him. One sniffed curiously at the minor wound, then seemed to ignore it.
Liss called to Murno, “Come on down, Freed Man; the cats won’t hurt you now. I’m sorry I gamed with you, but I was angry about the squirrel.” He hesitated, then said reluctantly, “You are the best bowman I have ever seen, and I doubt that any of us could match you with the knife either.”
“So,” Murno said after a minute, “you can talk after all.”
Liss looked guilty, then brightened. “The Vow Of Silence may be suspended in necessity. And it is necessary for you to meet the cats, since they will be on guard at the mouth of this canyon. Come on down.”
Murno, not comfortably, complied. The cats tensed at first. And then, as Liss crooned a note or two, they relaxed. Soon they were purring and rubbing against Murno as if they’d been his pets all their lives.
Shortly, the blue men and their felines departed. Murno watched them go. Then he turned and hurried to the tree-platform.
The family knew, of course, that the blue men had appeared and put them to sleep, but that was all. They were as astounded as Murno at the camp the mutants had built. Murno decided not to worry his family by telling them the whole of his encounters.
For the next five days, they were alone in the valley—though he didn’t test the mutants’ word by going down the mouth to look for the cats. The cats might not remember the introduction. He did climb each slope, and saw only rugged green-clad mountains in all directions. He couldn’t guess how far he’d been brought, or how near he might be to the Sierra Norms. Certainly, the terrain didn’t invite blind wandering.
On the sixth morning, early, he looked over the edge of the platform and saw the two felines sprawled lazily on the ground as if they lived there. His exclamation brought Klayr awake. She sat up with a worried look. “What is it?”
“Some tame felines,” he sighed, “that I met the other day. I didn’t want to worry you, so I didn’t mention it. I imagine we’ll have company today.” He called down to the cats. One lifted its head briefly, glanced at him with neither surprise nor any other emotion, blinked once, slowly, then put its head on the ground again.
It was half an hour later that the five young blue men walked casually down the western slope. Liss—easily recognizable by his slight limp—carried two fresh-killed wild turkeys. Something looked different about them—Murno realized, finally, that the small patches of hair were shaved off their heads. Liss saw his glance and grinned sheepishly. “Our gaming cost us, Freed Man.” He glanced at Klayr, and made a stiff little half-bow. “A pleasant day to your family.”
There was, of course, nothing to do but ask the blue men to share breakfast. Only Liss talked during the meal, and he sparingly. Afterward, though, he had business. “The Old One will be in our region soon, and a feast is planned. Much meat is needed, and it would be preferable if some of it were beef. We have come to ask you to hunt with us.
Murno, surprised, faltered, “I don’t know if …”
Instantly, the blue men all went rigid. Slowly, Liss said, “It is a great compliment we pay you, Normal!”
Murno felt himself flush. “I understand the compliment. But I am not a carefree youth like you. I have my family to look after.”
For a moment they stared at him as if they didn’t understand; then they looked at each other with odd expressions. Finally Liss chuckled. “I was careless not to mention that your family will be looked after. They will have to move, in any case, so why do you not hunt with us meanwhile? Unless we are too young for you!”
Murno didn’t dare hesitate any longer. “In that case, I will be honored to hunt with you.”
The mouth of the valley was a narrow rocky gorge which emptied into a wider, lower valley boasting a respectable stream. For most of the day, they descended that.
An hour before sunset, Liss said, “Freed Man, if you will provide a fire we will get fish. It’s best we have the cooking done before dark.”
Murno had been worried that they seemed to be headed for the Sack Toe Valley. “The Fief who is after me will not give up easily. I’m surprised we’ve seen no geehawks yet.”
Liss looked at him in surprise. “Didn’t you know the search had been diverted? Do you think we want breloons among our hills? A few of us crossed the San Wah Keen again, and left false trails leading southwest. Our scent is human. And we dropped a garment of your daughter’s—has she not missed it?—and two arrows from your son’s quiver.”
“Oh.” A thought struck Murno. “Can you control Gaddyl as you do—uh, other beings?”
“No. Their minds are too alien. Breloons we can sway sometimes, and geehawks. And the jeel, though alien, are not too hard. But we cannot even touch a Gaddyl mind. The Old One says it is a blessing—else they’d have discovered our talent long ago, and exterminated us.”
Murno went about building the fire. He noted that his companions didn’t charm the fish out of the water—they drove them into shallows and caught them by hand, as he would have, lacking hooks or a net. Later, he asked them about it, and earned incredulous looks. “How naive you are, Freed Man,” Liss said finally. “Such a small mind as a fish’s … one might as well try to control a stone! In any case, we would not use our talents to catch food! That would be as unmanly as taking it away from a child!”
Murno let it go at that.
They entered the Sack Toe Valley far south of where he’d left it. The land was even drier and barer, though the river they followed was adequately screened. Liss explained that there were small herds of bovine here, not much hunted by the Gaddyl, who seldom visited this part of the valley.
After an hour, though, the young blue men began to act odd. Finally Liss told Murno, “You’d best take to cover. There’s a feel of geehawks.”
Murno scooted for the thicket, and the two felines came with him. The blue men, still in the open, walked slowly so he could keep pace. After a while he called out, “Aren’t you worried about being seen?”
“No,” Liss said. “We’ve never dodged Gaddyl. Would it not look suspicious if we did now?”
Murno told him, “You may find it different now.” He hustled along, trying to stay hidden and still keep up.
After a while he saw a geehawk diving—then several more. The blue men walked on calmly. The birds circled for a few minutes, screeching uncertainly, then flapped away. Murno hurried close enough to whisper. “Listen—those birds wear radios, and in a minute an aircar will be here to investigate!”
Liss said, “We know that, Freed Man.” Nevertheless, he looked worried. Finally he glanced at his cousins, and they all took to the cover. “This has always been considered our hunting territory. But with you along, obviously it is different!”
Murno, beginning to fume inwardly at this foolhardy trip, tried to hurry them along. But they wouldn’t listen to him until, somewhere behind, them, a clamor of breloons began.
CHAPTER VII: THE GAME OF AMBUSH
The blue men glared back toward the breloon-clamor. The two felines crouched, snarling. Finally Liss, blue face suffused with anger, said, “So they would hunt us?” He glanced around swiftly and moved toward the water. “Come!”
The cats swam as easily as anyone. On the far bank, Liss hustled Murno upstream a ways, then out through the thicket. He chose a big elm at the edge and held his hands to give Murno a boost up. “Hide well, where you can see out over the grass. And have your bow ready!”
Back at the river, the others were doing something—constructing trail puzzles, no doubt. He heard the cats snarl and push through brush somewhere near him, then they were silent—hidden, perhaps. It was some comfort to know they were near. Then he heard the blue men plunge into the river again, and swim back across. What gall!
Now there was only the sound of the breloons. They coursed along the opposite bank, halted, vociferating, where the trails turned toward the water; then quieted to a low grumbling. Aircars, obviously, had landed near them.
Murno perched uncomfortably in the fork he’d chosen. What were the young fools about? Had they decided to abandon him here, and flee home? With their talents, they might evade the pursuit. The cats might be gone, too—he’d only presumed they were still here. Maybe, for all he knew, Liss had arranged things so he’d be discovered after a while—which would give them quite a lead and might, in some twisted thinking mollify the Gaddyl. Liss—for all Murno knew—might, despite the protestations, hate him. If all that were true, what was Murno’s best chance? He didn’t know where his family might be now; anyway, he could hardly go looking for them, with Gaddyl close, on his trail again. Fool! Why hadn’t he just refused this insane trip, and let the young jackasses be insulted?
But he did not know what was in Liss’s mind; he had no evidence of betrayal. Suppose Liss were depending on him? He’d told him to have his bow ready.
Fool or not, he had to assume—for the time—that Liss would be back.
After a while the breloons began a scattered search along the opposite bank, as if their handlers, before leaving the spot, wanted to pinpoint every trail. Then there was some shouting and disorganized breloon-gibbering—Murno guessed the beasts were being loaded aboard aircars, to be transported somewhere. Across the stream, to this very spot? Would they follow his trail to this tree; clamor around it? Would they flush out the cats? He waited, tense to sickness.
But, instead, the sounds vanished. There was nothing, for a while, except the gradual resumption by the small creatures of this thicket of their ordinary activities. The breloons could not be near.
Then he heard them again, far upstream and he understood the handler’s thinking. Why spend hours combing out trail puzzles? The quarry—whatever it was—would most likely try to double back and get to the hills. The breloons were now set down far enough upstream to intercept such an effort. They’d sweep down on both sides aided by hawks and aircars, and push the quarry out into the valley.
Which still didn’t tell him what Liss intended. Slowly, perspiring, with the familiar leaden feeling in his stomach he chose arrows and arranged them in his left hand, with the bow-grip. He tested the string and shifted about until he had a passable window to the open. The breloons were getting close now—and they sounded as if they were on a fresh trail. Also, they all seemed to be on this side of the river—maybe the other bunch had already been ferried across to join the new chase.
