Wild Thing
Wild Thing
by
L. J. Kendall
For my wife, Stella, who encouraged me and helped me, through all the happy years we had.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Creator: Kendall, L. J., author.
Title: Wild thing / L.J. Kendall.
ISBN: 9781925430011 (ebook)
Series: Kendall, L. J. Leeth dossier ; v. 1.
Subjects: Magic--Fiction.
Science fiction.
Dewey Number: A823.4
Copyright © L. J. Kendall, 2015
Cover image copyright © Mirella de Santana
Girl image copyright © Pindyurin Vasily / Dollar Photo Club
Background image: http://l.facebook.com/l/vAQFDJGMsAQEe6HIPO8CfpXviJT4s4w9RHGRQrx1IsVUxxA/pt.depositphotos.com/49042221/stock-photo-destroyed-tenement-house.html
Debris, dust: http://l.facebook.com/l/oAQFz8MmqAQGVexoZQMs3RPZjugjJ1XmhN2Ukg0GwvUV8KA/roen911.deviantart.com/
Fire and effects: http://l.facebook.com/l/LAQF5Qe7eAQGmPe0MBvnDkHqGp7nfZTP_zbrobhOLNqhCLQ/cgtextures.com
All characters and corporations in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or institutions is accidental.
Release version: 7
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank my wife, Dr Stella St. Clair-Kendall, from her generous use of red ink in the first editing of this story, to putting up with the chagrin which followed, and for all her ongoing support and encouragement.
An especially deep thanks to Jon Marshall for his insight, support, and help in shaping Leeth over two decades.
Sincere thanks also to Dave at ThEditors.com for his extraordinarily valuable insights and advice, and particularly for pushing me to tell more of Sara's time at the Institute: this book would not have existed on its own if not for that. If you see a problem, you've probably found a spot where I ignored his advice.
Another special thank you to Mirella de Santana, the artist who designed my cover. You can see more of her wonderful art on her Facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/mirellasantana.digitalartist and at http://mirellasantana.deviantart.com/
And last but not least, I wish to thank the Online Writing Workshop for Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror site, http://sff.onlinewritingworkshop.com/, and all the writers who reviewed chapters, there – more than a few years ago.
Thank you, all.
I should add: a special thanks to Louise Harris, who gifted me with a free proofreading; but any errors remaining are my own work, not the fault of anyone who has helped me.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
PART I
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
PART II
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 3
PART III
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
PART IV
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
AFTERWORD
PUBLISHING, 2015
HARSH LESSONS, CH 1
Note: there's a special offer if you're 1st to inform me of errors in the text – see Publishing, 2015 for details.
PROLOGUE
Chief High Cloud crouched, silent, hands still trembling in shock. Trying to understand it all: the vision; the bonfire's snuffing; the hungering cold.
One small ember struggled in the frozen ashes, and blowing gently he nursed the fire back to life, taking comfort from the simple act. Firelight breathed traces of warmth and hope back into the shocked faces around him. Their desperate expressions pressed on him like the hopes of distressed children, eager to believe a parent could somehow make everything all right.
There would be no way to make this right, he knew.
Behind him, beyond the gathering of mis-matched people, the sun's last light crowned their geodesic domes in a glow of burnt orange. Even as he watched, the tallest slid into darkness. Not an omen, he told himself, as the flame took tentative hold.
But he could delay no longer. Old bones, weakened from too many zero-gravity months in years long past, protested as he stood to speak into the wretched stillness.
'Let us talk. We can not accept one whose Way is murder. Human Beings should kill only for food, respecting our brother creatures for the gift of their life. We cannot open our hearts to the woman in the vision we have just seen.
'The rules of the Sky Corn community are clear. The child must be sent from us. She must leave her name. She must take nothing. Let her go to a people for whom killing and destruction is a part of their culture: she will go to the Wasichus. Let her killings happen there, just as we saw, rather than among the People. If one day she sees the evil of her actions; if the Great Spirit moves her, and she proves herself worthy, then perhaps may she rejoin our community.' He stopped and waited, letting any other speak who wished to.
Abruptly, the girl's mother rose to her feet. Black hair cascaded down her back like liquid, one hand briefly brushing the gentle curve of her belly for reassurance, yet something – the way she stood, the expression on her face – made her seem dangerous. Her husband flowed swiftly upright behind her, placing large steadying hands on her shoulders. His touch seemed to calm her; allowed words to come. 'I would speak.'
The chief looked from her to the shaman who still stood leaden with sadness. The wise-woman slowly lifted her head and nodded. He turned back to the child's mother. 'The Sky Corn community will hear Shining Hair.'
Her words leaped forth. 'My daughter would never do these things! She is a good child. Good, and brave. The young woman in the vision was not Happy Mouth.' She looked around at the doubting faces. 'You all know my daughter: she is loving, not cruel.
'My husband and I follow your ways. We teach them to our child. We know that violence is wrong. Deeply. It's why we came to you – not just for your vision for the future, or your honoring of the past. We are teaching her to respect life, to reject violence. You know this is true.' She stopped, meeting the eyes of each of the solemn faces, hating the note of desperation which had crept into her voice.
Her voice sank, against her will, fighting fear for her daughter and shame for herself. 'Aunt White-Eyes’ vision was not of the future,
but the past. She saw me, from my bad days. You have all mistaken my daughter for me.'
A mutter ran through the patchwork tribe. Her husband's head was bent, now, his face impossible to read. But his hands, still resting on his wife's shoulders, tightened involuntarily at her words.
The wise-woman shook her head sadly. 'No. All saw. It was not you, Shining Hair. You speak with love, but not with truth.'
The vision was too fresh for denial. Raw, red meat, pulsing bloody in a delicate hand. Then flames, one girl dancing like a scythe through panicked leather-clad bikers while another fed…
Finally, the twisted scene with its inhuman cold. Cold which had, terrifyingly, reached for them all through the flames, scrabbling for purchase in the watchers until the wise-woman broke the link. Leaving a circle of stunned faces around a bonfire suddenly black, cold, and dead.
All had thought their hearts equal to the reluctantly-shared vision. But that vision had been far worse than they had feared.
The child's mother pushed herself away from her husband. 'In the vision, her killing was in a city. Perhaps if we keep her amongst us, the vision can be broken.'
'Our shaman's visions have always revealed truth,' the chief answered, 'even for those who tried to change the future foreseen. Keeping your daughter would be to nurture one who will be a murderer. Should she stay here, maybe she would bring her killings here, to our small community.
'But worse: might not such attention reveal your presence to those who hunt you?'
At those words, all present stiffened.
'But now we know this future we can raise our daughter so it won't happen!'
'How? You do not know what will make Happy Mouth that way, so you can not know what to change,' the Chief said. 'We have seen the natural future for your child. Would you seek to change her true nature? To bend her?'
'So you're saying it's natural for her to kill? That it's all right? That goes against everything the Sky Corn community is supposed to stand for!'
'Shining Hair, you have much to learn.' He looked sad. 'Though a Way is wrong, we do not try to force others to our path. That Way is wrong too, and most treacherous. A coyote is not a coyote without its teeth. But we will not have her here, now we know her Way.' He stopped again and waited, watching all the faces.
Only silence answered him this time.
'Then it is so.' He looked back to the parents, troubled. 'And you, Shining Hair and Crazy Bee, will you hold to your vows and stay? Or will you go with your daughter, and join in her killings?'
The mother glared back. 'We will go with our daughter and prevent her killings.'
'But if you leave, and they find you – what then? When you sought refuge here, did you not say his vengeance would be terrible, on both you and all who had harbored you? Did you not both give your word to do nothing to draw that vengeance down on any here?'
The woman said nothing. Simply stood, with fists clenched.
The Chief turned to the tired shaman. 'White-Eyes Woman, will you seek their future, should they leave with their daughter?'
The shaman nodded, slowly. Nothing could be worse than the future she'd already seen tonight. She and the Chief looked back at the fire-pit – once warm and welcoming, now cold and somehow hostile, the new flame still struggling.
The Chief beckoned. 'Come, we will use my tepee.'
In ones and twos, then, the council disbanded. Shining Hair stalked behind the Chief, hardly aware of Crazy Bee's larger hand gripping hers as they followed the chieftain to his hide-lined, geodesic “tepee.”
The wise-woman, crouching before the fire pit and remembering the hungering cold, struggled still to understand. A chilling awfulness lay beneath the impossible quenching of the bonfire. What had killed the blaze?
Finally, heavily, age aching in every joint, she rose to follow the girl's parents.
-
The semi-permanent structure used traditionally-tanned hide, bonded to interlocking Bucky-struts earned from the community's expertise in sustainable orbital technologies. Inside, the four sat while the Chief kindled a small ritual flame.
The shaman was surprised by how easily the new vision flowed; and as the monstrous scene smashed through her, ended it just as quickly, amidst horrified cries.
All four reeled from the image now scorching their retinas: the community's holding, a wasteland scoured black. Nothing but drifting ash, mile after mile. Recognizably the same trees and buildings, but reduced to charcoal spars and triangular charred skeletons. In the same positions they were today.
'Fuel-air bomb.' Crazy Bee's analysis was reflex; his tone, hushed disbelief. 'Maybe a tac nuke.'
Still the woman denied. 'No. Once we leave… even if they found us, we would never tell them of your aid. This can't be-'
The shaman interrupted. 'These people who seek you: what would you not do, should they threaten your daughter?'
The man and the woman flinched.
The wise-woman did not relent, though she took no pleasure from her words; her voice sinking to a whisper. 'Or, might they not even seek to force the truth from your four-year-old child herself?'
The parents froze in horror, knowing the answer. Imagining what he would enjoy doing to their daughter.
'Which future do you choose, Shining Hair?' the Chief asked. 'Which future for your daughter, and for us all?'
The two stood motionless for a long time, the man's arms close around his wife's shoulders. At last his head bowed forward.
Shining Hair stared across the small fire into the milky eyes of the wise-woman. 'No. It's not true.' The woman's long black hair whipped in angry denial. 'You can't see the future. No one can. I reject this prophecy. Either you let my daughter stay, or we take her and leave.'
The Chief shook his head. 'We cannot let your daughter stay. If we are not true to ourselves, our community poisons itself. She must leave. And if you leave with her….' His head moved left, right, refusing that fate. 'We have just seen the doom which that choice would bring to all who remain here.'
She made a cutting gesture with her hand, chopping off the Chief's words. 'No. Aunt White-Eyes is mistaken. Or deceived. Come on, Crazy Bee, we're going.'
'Shining Hair- ’Lita- wait, let's think this through. Maybe…'
Crazy Bee faltered to a stop at the look his wife turned on him. She stared at him as if he had just transformed into a complete stranger. Somehow, that expression unlocked his voice, and he spoke from the heart. 'I love you, ’Lita. I love our daughter. But I know we've seen the truth tonight, in these visions. I don't understand – not the how, not the why – but I believe. You do too, I know you do.'
Her lips thinned into familiar stubborn lines, and he found his fists clenching helplessly. Still he tried. '’Lita, we gave our words when we came here; when the Sky Corn took us in despite the danger we brought to them all. Remember that night: every member agreed. Every member. And in return we made them a vow. You can't break that vow.'
His wife stared at him, her shoulders hunched. 'So… what: you'll stay here, ’B? What about your marriage vows?'
Her jaw set grimly. 'Right-'
'No, ’Lita. No. I will stay here, and so will you. Only Happy Mouth will leave.'
She looked at him as if he'd gone mad. Or she had. She shook her head, words briefly failing her. Took one step back. 'No,' she whispered, before her voice strengthened. 'No, ’B, I'm leaving, and I'm taking Happy Mouth with me. With or without you.'
'No, ’Lita. You're not.'
She stiffened at those words. Then, strangely, relaxed. Her posture subtly shifted. Loosened. An air of danger suddenly draped her once again, like a dark shroud hovering at her shoulders. 'You won't stop me.'
The man's face looked carved from the earth itself. 'But I'm the only one here who can. So I must. Please, ’Lita, I'm begging, don't do this! Don't risk the safety of our unborn child. I love you. You think I want to abandon her? That's crazy! But our other choices are wrong! And I'll be betraying you, and me – a
ll we have and all we hope for – if I let you do this!' His eyes locked on hers, willing her to see what he could. 'As deep as my soul, I know if you ignore this vision, you doom us and everyone here.'
Her slim hands moved across her belly, instinctively protective, and for those seconds, as her gaze turned inward, he dared to hope his words had reached her.
Then her hands fell away, her expression darkened, and she turned sideways to him, rolling her shoulders as she took a defensive stance. 'Never.'
From behind, he heard the shaman mutter – he recognized the beginnings of a spell – and he spoke without looking around. 'Aunt, even if you do succeed in putting her to sleep, you will lose her trust forever. It must be me who stops her. Who makes her see.'
His wife was abruptly in motion, flashing forwards, lit by the warm light of the fire in the enclosed space. He rocked his head to one side to avoid her palm strike, right hand rising to deflect her left, anticipating the simultaneous knee strike, sliding his thigh forward and into it, diverting the force a moment before it could blossom. Her left leg flashed up… to those watching, it seemed the two danced: a strangely-accelerated series of moves and powerful countermoves choreographed in fury and love.
The Chief's heart ached in his chest as he watched Shining Hair, for the first time in over four years, forsake her vow of non-violence; the mother in her literally fighting against the impossible choice suddenly confronting her.
Husband and wife contested their daughter's fate with frightening intensity, feet weaving intimately in and around each other, body jolting body, limbs blurring and meeting, the impact of flesh on flesh jarring the man time after time, rocking him.
As they fought, the Chieftain felt a chill run through him. He was no expert in combat; was very far from a martial artist; and the two had been frank about their past. But perhaps in their brevity, he had underestimated the depths of their capabilities. The fight stopped making sense to him as the pace increased, the two bodies locking together in a series of blows, grips, twisting moves and blindingly-fast strikes from hands, fists, knees, elbows, which he simply could not follow. Dirt flew from the floor as the two spun and wove together. He felt he watched two tigers fighting, inches from him. Skin prickling, he had to stiffen his spine.