Under the Canopy (5 page)

Two weeks passed after my encounter with R'lok. I decided to put the ax in my living room. At first, I leaned it against the wall near my bedroom, but the very next morning I tripped over it on my way to the bathroom. The mighty weapon slid along the wall, leaving a nasty scratch and crashed on the floor. After that, I drove spikes into the wall and hung it there. I looked the ax it every morning coming out of the bedroom as the reminder of the bigger world out there. It also made me remember the lost rifle. However, soon it became a part of the scenery, and I didn't notice it anymore.

I stuck the furs in the closet and forgot about them. I shouldn't have.

The weather took a turn for the worse. The downpour from my night out was only the beginning; winter was coming. Days were growing longer, nights shorter. This region was far away from the polar caps, so it didn't experience a real frost, and the trees on Safun were evergreen, keeping their leaves year-round. It snowed a little, just a light dusting on the green, neither melting nor accumulating.

The wind was the problem. The wind became my bane. Some days, it would start blowing, and I couldn't risk leaving the cabin. I even stopped opening the windows in the nest. In cases where I had to fly, I would cover every inch of my skin before going outside. Fortunately, the gusts were intermittent. The wind would pummel the forest and then disappear without a trace.

The animals seemed not to notice the change of seasons. With fur like theirs, they probably didn't care. Maybe that was why R'lok had given me the skins. He couldn't have been oblivious of the coming weather.

That winter also marked my first encounter with poachers. Here's how it happened.

One day I was out on ground patrol. The wind had calmed down and the woods were silent. In the still, cold air I heard tree bark creaking dozens of feet away from me. The cold air has this peculiar feature of transmitting sound over distance. Then there was a commotion from one side. I turned the scooter and looked in the direction of the noise. When I saw nothing there, it occurred to me to look up. When I did, I saw a pack of monkeys galloping over the tree branches. They moved in packs, jumping from tree to tree. At first glance, nothing special; they did that a lot. This time, however, I heard a primal fear in their screams. Something was terribly wrong. Shifting gears, I went to check the reason for the disturbance.

I spotted them from afar. A small boat floating inches above the ground, one man at the wheel, two others idly walking around it. They were armed with shockers — electric impulse guns. One hit paralyzes all your muscles and leaves you helpless for about an hour. Why mess up all that pretty fur with bullet holes or burns? These men knew what they were doing alright. All three wore khaki fatigues and in other circumstances would have passed for rangers. The boat was a multitask vehicle, widely used in wild territories. The picture was obvious — they got a "fishing" permit, went up the river to the beltysh habitat and then just flew out into the woods.

Their work was nearly done. Shockers dangled from their belts, the poachers were working with knives. They took immobilized monkeys and skinned them alive. The pelts were tossed in the boat, the corpses left like litter on the ground. That was what frightened the others. Not the strangers — the scent of blood and the amounts of it being poured.

At the sight of the massacre, I felt such indignation and disgust that I fell out of reality for a moment. The poor peaceful animals didn't deserve to die so horribly just for their furs. I shook off the stupor and pressed the pedal, throwing my scooter forward.

I flew up to them, pulling my rifle on the move. 'Freeze! Forestry!' I shouted at the poachers.

The wheelman turned to face me. His cigarette fell from the mouth and exploded into sparks on the dashboard. I aimed at him and then at the skinning crew. One of them shouted, 'Bloody ranger!' and threw a body at me. The corpse hit the scooter, leaving a bloody smear on it, and the machine rocked. Yellow splatters appeared on the windshield and slid down.

'Stop! I'll shoot!' I shouted, but I hesitated. I wanted an arrest, not dead bodies.

The poachers ignored me. They grabbed what they had and ran for the boat. This was getting ridiculous, I was nothing to them. So I fired into the air and shouted another empty warning. One of them showed me the finger, and the boat jumped into the air and sped away.

Cursing and slinging the rifle onto my shoulder, I grabbed the handles tighter and went into pursuit.

Their boat turned out to be surprisingly mobile. Even I barely evaded the trees while they drove away like pro racers. I didn't even bother trying to shoot, if I attempted to reach for the rifle at this speed, it would have been the last thing I did in life. Before long, I realized they were getting away.
Beads of blood on the fur, bodies on the ground.
I pushed the pedal to the metal, squeezing everything I could from the engine.

The scooter whined and shook, but the distance between the two machines lessened. I was close enough now that I could see the dashboard. One of the poachers turned and shot at me with a gun. A FUCKING GUN! Most of the bullets whizzed past me, but a couple hit the scooter's nose. So, it's war. Left with no choice, I dropped the rifle off my shoulder, nearly losing it in the process, and gripped the butt under the trigger arm. I made a poor attempt at aiming and realized that I couldn't do it. I locked eyes with the gunman. The poacher held fast onto the cabin's frame. He steadied himself and aimed to kill.

At that moment, the boat's windshield shattered. The driver acquired two holes in his head, its contents sprayed over his comrades and hit the floor. The man shook in his chair, still holding the wheel, and fell forward, pushing it to the dashboard. The boat's bat-like nose dipped. The gunman fell back inside the cabin, and his shot went somewhere into the canopy. I dropped speed and turned, sensing an unavoidable crash.

While the gunman tried to push himself to the feet, the other poacher jumped to the wheel and threw away the dead body. He grabbed the wheel and pulled it towards him as hard as he could. The boat's nose went upward, but it was too late.

There was a fallen tree ahead. It lay on its side, covered by moss, some of its branches still protruding upward. When the boat tried to level out, the nose hit such a branch. The hit was so hard that the wood exploded into splinters, and the boat's nose just disappeared, like it was sheared off. The sound of the impact made me jump in the saddle.

Having lost its front, the boat became completely insolent. The machine spun around and bucked, until it hit one of the trees. Another loud crash, the cabin exploded with glass, and the boat itself bounced off a mighty tree like a tennis ball. It hit the ground and plowed it, uncovering black earth, until it finally came to rest in a self-made grave.

I flew up to the crashed boat, still clutching the rifle in my arms for some reason. Bloodstained furs, pieces of wood and metal were scattered everywhere. Poachers inside were probably all dead, but I still wasn't sure.

'Whoever is alive, come out now!' I shouted at the dark maw of the boat’s cabin and aimed into it.

At first, there was no sound, but then there came rustling of the glass. A bloodied hand appeared and grabbed the edge. A poacher pulled himself up and threw himself out of the crashed vehicle. I saw that it was the gunman who was going to kill me. The poacher rolled on the grass, staining it with blood. He raised his head and looked at me. I saw the sorry condition he was in and lowered the rifle. The fight was over for him. The bloodied man helplessly fell to the ground.

With that over, I remembered the shot in the windshield. I couldn't have made it, even accidentally. I looked up, searching for a shooter. And there he was.

A lone figure was floating high above near the top canopy. It was descending to the crash site. Even before I could distinguish any features, I knew who helped me.

This was my introduction to Ort.

Ort landed his scooter near the overturned boat and dismounted. I followed suit, slung the rifle behind my shoulder, and walked up to meet my neighbor. I saw him for the first time and felt a little awkward and even scared. From Edlon's words, I imagined Ort to be some mystic woodman, a hermit. The man didn't disappoint. His gaze was stern, his face sullen, even grim, but I saw no malice in it. Ort was older than me, but not by too much, just one generation ahead. I guess, he was about my age when he came here. Ort was taller, with considerably more body mass. Long hair tied in a knot at the back of his head. A beard, of course, but a short one.

I stood on the ground, shifting from one foot to the other, not daring to speak first, and watched the older ranger. Ort knelt beside the poacher and examined him.

'New ranger?' Ort said, not raising his head. He touched the man's neck, feeling for the pulse.

I coughed. 'Well, I've been here for more than two months now.' I instantly felt silly after saying that.

'New,' Ort looked at me. 'This one is alive, check the other.'

I felt that there was no need in that, but obeyed. He had complete command over me. Walking past the kneeling Ort, I looked over his shoulder. He was spraying the poacher's wounds with antiseptic. 'By the way, I'm Wealder,' I said. My voice wiggled, I must have sounded like a schoolgirl.

'I know,' Ort said. 'I'm Ort.'

I stepped into the overturned boat and went to the cabin. It was dark inside, but I knew what I would have seen. The stench of blood was too thick to ignore. Nevertheless, I stuck my head inside and waited for my eyes to adjust. Just to be sure. The picture cleared and proved me right. The other two were dead as rocks. With the headshot guy, it was obvious, I saw him go. The other man must have been thrown forward at the impact. If he flew out of the cabin through the windshield, he might have survived the crash. But he struck the center frame. The metal beam cut his head in half and now stuck from the base of the neck. Gross stuff.

I walked out of the boat and announced, 'All dead.'

Ort looked over the remaining poacher and stood up. 'Should have apprehended them there. On the spot,' he said. 'Instead, you started a race. Caused a ruckus. You shouted warnings. Am I right?'

'Well, yes. What was I supposed to do?'

Ort shook his rifle by the butt. 'You see them — you shoot. Talk later.' He paused. 'They should know. Don't mess with the rangers. They see a rifle, they surrender.'

I was at a loss for words and pointed at the man on the ground. 'He tried to shoot me with a gun!'

Ort shrugged. 'You showed weakness. Fussed around. You're still a city dweller. It will pass.'

I felt ashamed and indignant. For years I considered myself to be the man of my own mind, the calm and the wise one. And here I stood, being berated by a guy who I saw for the first time in my life. But I couldn't argue, for I knew that Ort spoke the truth.

'So what do we do now?' I said, shifting the subject away from me.

'I'll do a scan,' Ort said, looking at the surviving poacher. 'He may have more injuries inside. As for
you
,' he empathized the last word,' you'll go and gather the furs. They mustn't lay around like that. It's just not right.'

'Yes, the first rule — respect life and death,' I blurted out and bit my tongue. By the expression on Ort's face I understood that I'd just said another silly thing. So I shut up and went to work.

Ort returned to his scooter and opened a compartment. He took out a small satchel and went back to the wounded poacher.

I looked at the sight in front of me. The scattered furs created the illusion of an ancient battlefield. I sighed and began picking them up. The furs were coarse and still wet with blood. I stacked them on the ground in a pile.

Ort injected the poacher with an antibiotic. After that, he used a small device to scan the man's body. Judging by the grunt he uttered, it didn't give encouraging results.

I finished gathering the furs and brought them to the boat in a heap. 'So…' I said, leaving the question hanging in the air.

Ort shook his head. 'This man can have internal bleeding. Maybe fractures. Can't carry him to the cabin. Even together, we won't manage. You stay here and guard. I'll go to my home. Call a boat from the sawmill.'

'Can't you do it from the wrist communicator?' I asked.

'No.'

I got content with such a final answer and didn't ask more. Ort went to his scooter and took off. I followed him with my eyes until Ort's scooter disappeared behind the thick trees.

Thus I was left alone in the woods with an unconscious man, two corpses and a pile of beltysh skins. At first, I strolled around the perimeter like I did on desert patrols on Clomt. When I got sick of that useless activity, I just sat on the scooter and waited, looking at the mess before me.

A rustle came from the side. I turned, automatically grabbing the rifle. A tikili picked out of the tall grass, its nasal antenna moving from side to side. The beast's gaze was fixed on the body on the ground. It looked at me, then back at the poacher and stepped forward. It was followed by another one.

'HEY!' I yelled, getting up. 'Go away!'

The tikilis flinched and stepped back, staring at me with their hollow eyes. However, seeing that I did nothing more than empty threats, they moved forward again.