“She could have taken a fall,” his wife said. “Could have hurt herself–Might be too wet to start a fire.”
“All the same she could live,” Gutierrez said. “If she had two legs broken, she could still find enough within reach she could get moisture and food. That’s the best guess: that she’s broken something, that she’s tucked up waiting for us–She’s got good sense, our Jane. She was born here, isn’t that what she’d say?”
They did it to bolster their own courage, shed hopes on each other and kept going.
vii
Jane screamed, came awake in the dark and stifled the outcry in sudden terror–the smell of earth about her, the prospect of hands which might touch… But silence, no breathing nearby, no intimation of human presence.
She lay still a moment, listening, her eyes useless in this deep and dark place where they had brought her. She ached. And time was unimportant. The sun seemed an age ago, a long, long nightmare/dream of naked bodies and couplings in a dark so complete it was beyond the hope of sight. She was helpless here, robbed of every faculty and somewhere in that time, of wit as well.
She lay there gathering it again, lay there waking up to the fact that, having done what they had done, the Weirds were gone, and she was alone in this place. She imagined the beating of her heart, so loud it filled up the silence. It was terror, when she thought that she had long since passed the point of fear. She was discovering something more of horror–being lost and left. Isolation had never dawned on her in the maelstrom just past.
Think, her father would say; think of all the characteristics of the thing you deal with.
Tunnels, then, and tunnels might collapse: how strong the roof?
Tunnels had at least one access; tunnels might have more; tunnels meant air; and wind; and she felt a breeze on naked skin.
Tunnels were made by calibans, who burrowed deep; and going the wrong way might go down into the depths.
She drew a deep breath–moved suddenly, and as suddenly claws lit on her flesh and a sinewy shape whipped over her. She yelled, a shriek that rang into the earth and died, and flailed out at the touch–
It skittered away…an ariel; a silly ariel, like old Ruffles. That was all. It headed out the way Ruffles would head out if startled indoors…and it knew the way. It went toward the breeze.
She sucked in wind again, got to hands and knees and scrambled after–up and up a moist earth slope, blind, keeping low for fear of hitting her head if she attempted to stand. And a dim light grew ahead, a brighter and brighter light.
She broke out into the daylight blind and wiping at her eyes…saw movement then, and looked aside. She scrambled to her feet, seeing a human shape–seeing the azi‑born young man crouched there, the first who had touched her. Alone.
“Where are the rest of them?” she asked. “Hiding up there?” There was brush enough, in this bowl between the mounds, up on the ridges, all about.
And then a sweep of her eye toward the left–up and up toward a caliban shape that rested on the hill, four meters tall and more–brown and monstrous, huger than any caliban she had imagined. It regarded her with that lofty, onesided stare of a caliban, but the pupil was round, not slit. The feet clutched the curved surface and a fallen branch snapped beneath its forward leaning weight as the head turned toward her. She stared–fixed, disbelieving when it moved first one leg and then the other, serpentining forward.
Then the danger came home to her, and she yelled and scrambled backward, but brush came between her and it, and trees, as she climbed higher on the further slope.
No one stopped her. She looked back–at the caliban which threaded its way among the trees; again at the azi‑born, who sat there placid in the path of that monster. Very slowly the young man got to his feet and walked toward the huge brown caliban–stopped again, looking back at her, his hand on its shoulder.
She began to run, up and over the mound–scrambling among the brush and the rocks. A gray caliban was there, down the slope and another–near her, that jolted her heart. It lashed about in the brush, caliban‑like: it skittered down the slope and along the ridge, headed toward the river past the rocks–it must be going to the river…
In a flash she realized where she likely was, near rocks that thrust through the mounds: rocks and the river below the cliffs.
She stopped running when she had spent her breath, slumped down amongst the trees and took stock of herself, her remnant of clothing, that she put to rights with trembling hands. She sat there in the brush with tears and exhaustion tugging at her, and she fought the tears off with swipes of a muddy hand.
“Hey,” someone said; and she started, whirled to her knees and half to her feet, like something wild.
From the Camp: they were two of the men from the Camp, Ogden and Masu. She stood up, shaking in the knees, and the blood drained from her face, sudden shame as she stood there with her clothes in rags and her pride in question. “There,” she yelled, and pointed back over the ridge, “there–they caught me and dragged me off–they’re there…”
“Who?” Masu asked. “Who did? Where?”
“Over the ridge,” she kept crying, not wanting to explain, not wanting anything but to see it wiped out, the memory and the smiling, silent lot of them.
“Take care of her,” Masu said to Ogden. “Take care of her. I’ll round up the others. We’ll see.”
“There’s Calibans,” she said, looking from one to the other of them. Ogden took her arm. Her coveralls were torn almost beyond staying on; she reached to cover herself and gasped for breath in shock. “There’s calibans–a kind no one ever saw–” But Ogden was pulling her away.
She looked back when Ogden had hastened her off with him. Fire streaked across the sky, and she stared at the burning star.
“That’s a flare,” Ogden said. “That’s Masu saying we found you.”
“There are people,” she said, “people living in the mounds.”
“Hush,” Ogden said, and squeezed her hand.
“It’s so. They live there. The Weirds. With the calibans.”
Ogden looked at her–old as her father, a rough man, and big. “I’m going to get you out of here,” he said. “Can you run?”
She caught her breath and nodded, shaking in all her limbs. Ogden seized her hand and took her with him.
But they met others, coming their way…and one was her father and the other her mother. She might have run to meet them: she had the strength left. But she did not. She stopped still, and they came and hugged her, her mother and then her father, and shed tears. She was dry of them.
“I’m going back after Masu,” Ogden said. “It may be trouble back there.”
“They should get them,” Jane said, quite, quite coldly. She had gotten her dignity back, had found it again, used it like a cloak between her and her parents, despite her nakedness.
“Jane,” her father said–there were tears in his eyes, but her own were still dry. “What happened?”
“They caught me and dragged me in there. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her father hugged her, and her mother did. “Come home,” her mother said, and she walked with them, no longer afraid, no longer feeling anything but a cold distance between herself and what had happened.
It was a far way, to the Camp; and her father talked about medics. “No,” she said to that. “No. I’m going home.”
“Did they–?” That her mother found the question hard struck her as strange, and ominous. Her face burned.
“Oh, yes. A lot of times.”
viii
“There has to be law,” Gallin said, in Council, in the dome–looked down at all the heads of departments. “There has to be law. We rout them out of there and we have to do something with them. It was a mistake to sit back and let it go on. We can’t be having this…this desertion of the young. We set up fences; we organize a hunt and clear the mounds.”
“They’re our own kind,” the confessor‑advocate objected, rising from her chair, grayhaired and on the end of her rejuv. “We can’t take guns in there.”