The Fall of Tartarus (30 page)

Refreshed
after her ablutions, and comfortable in her clean dress, she walked along the
shore towards the off-worlder’s camp.

He
was still busy working with the machinery, his back to Leona, when she arrived
at the canopy. She hitched up her dress around her knees, squatted, and hugged
her shins. In silence she watched as he worked. He was doing something to two
long, pointed mechanisms that were directed at the centre of the lake. As he
worked, he talked to himself in a language unfamiliar to Leona.

He
was even bigger than she had originally thought. His skin was a lighter shade
of brown than hers, a copper tone that glistened with sweat. She watched his
muscles as they slipped and tightened beneath his skin. The sight of his naked
flesh reminded her of Yarta, a boy who had gone with the rest of them into the
TWC ship, and how she had felt for him in those hopeless days before the
evacuation.

She
blushed when she realised that the man was watching her. She felt embarrassed,
as if he had been able to read the run of her thoughts.

In
her own language, more to divert his attention from her blushes than to elicit
any reply, she asked him what he was doing here.

The
man smiled gently, and shrugged his shoulders. He said something in his
strange, soft language, and then returned to his machinery. From time to time
he glanced from his work, his eyes lingering on her in a way Leona found at
first invasive and then complimentary. She knew she was blushing again, in
confusion: she had never before had the attentions of a grown man, and she was
unsure how to respond.

She
decided that his presence beside the lake had nothing to do with the healer.
Off-worlders were ignorant of important things of the spirit - her people had
laughed when the TWC off-worlders claimed they knew nothing of the sun god
whose anger was causing the sun to explode - and clearly this man was more
bothered about his machinery than about ultarrak.

She
stood quickly and retraced her steps around the lake, increasing her pace when
he called something after her. When she looked over her shoulder, he was
standing beneath the canopy, wiping his hands on a rag and watching her.

Back
at her tent, she mixed her powders in the bowl of water. She was careful with
the white powder, the
fehna -
the right amount would bring relief, but
too much could kill her. When the mixture had turned the water blood-red, she
raised the bowl to her lips and drank the concoction in one long draft. She
felt its heat coursing through her, and told herself that she could feel its
restorative powers working already.

Later,
when she felt the time was right, she left her tent. Her stomach fluttery with
apprehension, she sat cross-legged before the lake, bowed her head and began
the mantra of the Summoning.

Connery
saw the girl as she approached hesitantly around the curve of the lake. He
watched her covertly until she was within a few metres of the canopy, then bent
to his work. So is not to scare her off, he would let her initiate
conversation. He’d had contact with the tribal people of the southern seas:
they were an insular, shy people who were easily frightened by the brusque and
confident ways of outsiders.

After
perhaps an hour of silence, he glanced across at the girl. She was squatting on
her heels, her brown arms hugging her shins. She seemed miles away, lost in her
own thoughts. When she noticed him looking at her, she blushed and spoke so
hurriedly that he was unable to catch the meaning of her corrupted French
dialect.

He
smiled and shrugged and returned to his work. From time to time he stole
glances at her. She was tiny and dark skinned, with long black hair and a thin,
high-cheekboned face.

She
wore a short dress made from animal skins, sleeveless and laced up the front.
He guessed her to be on the cusp of womanhood, perhaps sixteen or seventeen
Earth years old.

He
wondered what she was doing here, why she had not left the planet with the rest
of her people. He wanted to ask her, but she seemed as shy as a bird - as if
any sudden word or movement from him might frighten her away.

When
she did finally leave, jumping up quickly and hurrying around the shore, he
called to her to come back soon, then stood and watched her go. Something
turned in his stomach, not a physical pang at the sight of her slim back and
quick brown legs, but a more fundamental sense of longing and loss represented
by her hurried retreat.

He
did another hour’s work on the machinery, then retired to his dome. He showered
in the recycled lake water, then sat in the air-conditioned luxury of the
dome’s main section. He heated one of the pre-packed trays he’d bought from the
TWC surplus stores at Baudelaire, and slowly ate the tasteless meal.

Beyond
the transparent wall of the dome, he could see the sky losing its colour as the
merciless sun rose on another day. In an hour or two the temperature would
increase by forty degrees, by which time he would be asleep and oblivious to
the hellish conditions outside. And when he woke, in approximately ten hours,
he would be ready for when the Vulpheous next chose to surface.

He
darkened the wall of his dome to shut out the heat and light of the day, then
stepped outside and peered along the shore to the small, triangular
irregularity of the girl’s tent. Already the heat was sapping, and the sun had
not yet fully risen. He returned inside, filled a container with two litres of
cool, sparkling water, picked up a food tray and left the dome.

The
girl sat by the water’s edge, her back straight, her head bowed. As he walked
along the shore, she uncrossed her legs, stood and ducked into her tent. He
wondered how she hoped to exist here with no source of renewable foodstuffs and
only the brackish water of the lake to drink.

He
knelt outside the tent. ‘Hello,’ he called.

Almost
immediately she drew aside a flap and peered out, her expression neutral. She
ducked from the tent and sat cross-legged before him. He matched her posture,
then held out the food and water.

She
looked at him, her face radiant. She spoke in her singsong French patois. ‘For
me?’

‘For
you,’ he replied.

She
stared at him. She spoke quickly, and though he caught only every other word,
he was able to make out what might have been: ‘You can speak my language?’

‘A
little - if you speak very slowly. Do you understand?’

She
nodded, her eyes on the tray of food and container of water.

‘I
thought you might like these. A present. Do you have rood of your own?’

Her
eyes were big and brown, the whites very white. They widened as she said,
‘None, only water.’

He
tried not to smile. ‘Then how do you hope to survive?’

She
stared at him, her head on one side. Finally she shrugged, then cast her eyes
down to where her fingers worried the imperfect hem of her animal-skin dress.

‘What
are you doing here?’ he asked.

She
did not look up. ‘I am here to pay respects,’ she whispered. ‘With luck, I will
be helped by ultarrak.’

Connery
did not know the word. He shook his head. ‘There are no more people here, just
you and me.’

She
shrugged again, either unwilling or unable to enlighten him.

‘How
did you get here?’ he asked. ‘From which island do you come?’

At
this, she was more willing to speak. ‘By canoe,’ she said, glancing up at him,
then shyly back down again at her fingers. ‘Three days from Sauvé.’

He
had seen the island on his map, part of a small archipelago that ran parallel
with the main Demargé chain.

‘But
what of your people?’

‘My
people have left for the stars in great ships.’

Connery
shook his head, feeling a sudden stab of pity for the girl.

‘Why
were you left behind? Why didn’t you go with them?’

She
shook her head in a show of frustration. ‘No ... I could not go with them. I
had to come to the holy lake. Later, I will join my people.’

‘Later?
How much later? How long will you stay here?’

She
had plucked the hem of her dress to a frayed tassel. ‘Perhaps a year, maybe
more. It is not up to me.’

‘A
year?’ he echoed. ‘A year without food?’

She
looked up at him, her wide eyes critical of his ignorance. ‘I do not need
food!’ she said.

‘But
in a year . . . Don’t you realise that in a year the sun might have blown?’

‘A
year, or two,’ she corrected him. ‘Who knows?’

A
silence came between them as the heat of dawn increased. He could not keep his
eyes from the swelling of her small breasts he glimpsed through the zigzag lacing
of her dress.

At
last the girl asked in a small voice, ‘Why are you here? What are your
devices?’ She pointed towards the canopy.

Connery
thought about his reply. If she considered the lake holy, would she think what
he was doing a desecration?

‘I
am a scientist,’ he said at last. ‘I am studying the lake.’

She
nodded, glanced from him to the burning sky. She touched the food tray and
container. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and made to move to her tent.

He
reached out a hand, forestalling her. ‘I’m Connery,’ he said. ‘And you are?’

‘Leona,’
she said, and unsure how to respond to his gesture, touched the tips of his
fingers with hers. He took her hand, and she stared at him in surprise.

‘I
. . . There is plenty of spare room in my dome,’ he said. ‘And food. You can’t
live in that thing - you wouldn’t last a day. Please, you can join me if you
wish.’

Her
watchful expression gave no indication that she had understood him. She pulled
her fingers free of his and crawled into the tent, taking the food and water with
her.

Connery
made his way back to his dome, took another shower and lay on his bunk. He
could not banish the thought of Leona from his mind. He considered the heat,
unbearable even at this early hour. How might she exist with nothing but the
flimsy skin tent to shade her as the day progressed?

Leona
sat cross-legged, clutching the cool container of water. Already the heat
inside the tent was unbearable - a lank humidity that made a full breath
impossible. Still, this was preferable to the direct light of the sun, which
would have burned her skin in minutes.

She
closed her eyes and considered the events of the past few hours. Her summons
had failed to attract ultarrak. She had said the mantra just as the holy-man
had told her, and emptied her mind of everything but her principal wish - but
nothing had happened.

And
then the off-worlder had arrived, bearing gifts.

She
had assumed the correct posture to accept the gifts, and looked into his eyes
only occasionally, as custom dictated in these matters. He should have said
straight away, if he wanted her, that she was welcome to share his dwelling,
but instead he had asked many questions, and only later asked her to join him
in her dome. Well, perhaps customs were different on his home world.

One
hour passed, then two, and the temperature inside the tent rose steadily. The
sun was so bright that its invading light pierced the threadbare patches of her
tent and smote her with a heat like burning coals. She took a long drink of
cold water from Connery’s container, but seconds later she was thirsty again.

When
she judged that a suitable duration had elapsed, she slipped from the tent and
dismantled it, transforming it quickly back into a pack. She stowed away her
cup and bowl, and made sure her six leather pouches of powders were secure. By
the time she was ready, the sunlight was burning her skin, the heat searing her
throat. Then, her heart beating wildly in her chest, she walked around the lake
towards Connery’s dome.

Before
she reached the off-worlder’s dwelling, she knelt and cast about for a sharp
sliver of pumice. She found a suitable length, tested its point for sharpness,
and slipped it into her belt.

She
passed into the dome through two doors which opened like the petals of a
flower, first the outer door and then the inner. It was cold inside, and Leona
wondered how this was achieved. It was as if the inside of the dome was another
world entirely.

Connery
was not in the main chamber, but an opening gave access to a second, smaller
room. Leona stepped silently across the threshold. The off-worlder lay on his
bunk, staring at her.

At
the sight of his gaze, Leona almost stopped dead in her tracks. A part of her
wanted to turn and flee. Another part, which knew that this was what should
happen, made her continue towards the bed.

She
perched herself on the side of his bunk, very aware of his bulk beside her,
though her eyes were staring at the floor. From her belt she pulled her pumice
dagger, and reached out for his bare chest. Only then could she bring herself
to look into his eyes. He was staring at her with a startled, shocked
expression, his head raised from the bed. She smiled to indicate that she would
be gentle. She held the point of the dagger above his sternum. He moved his
hand, as if to stop her, but did not. Perhaps this was another of her people’s
customs that differed slightly on the off-worlder’s homeplanet.