Land of Clouds Chapter One Hundred Forty Two Maqota reached across and slapped away the frozen stars of splattered mineral ice from the fur of his fathers coat‒grinning all the while. Taqua was still shaken, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. He brushed at his heavy sleeves, and looked back at the billowing cloud of steam and ice powder flowing down the river valley. The ice beneath their feet pulsed, and the startled ponies–slipping and fast stepping–quickly found their equilibrium and splayed their legs–eyes wide. The ice groaned and a deep boom resonated up through the snow, followed by a crack like close continuous lightning. The ice was cracking, and the sound raced toward and away from them with great speed. “We should move,” said Taqua, but Maqota held up his fist. “No–it is not dangerous–the ice is too deep,” and he leaped down and swept away the snow until the glossy bluish ice was revealed. From horseback, his father could look down several feet into the river ice, for the network of surreal cracks gave the solid mass of water obvious depth. He could see that it was indeed solid for at least the height of a man, at least here where they stood. The racing, crackling rivers of sound faded into the distance, and all became quiet but for the wind blowing steadily down from the eastern headwaters of this great river. Maqota looped his reins about a gnarled branch protruding from the ice, unlashed his bow and quiver, and began to walk further west, deeper onto the river–head bent toward the complex snowy surface. Taqua pondered sliding down to the ice himself, but decided to wait for his son to return from his reconnaissance. He closed up his voluminous hood, pulled his icy hands back into his sleeves, and dozed for a few minutes. Maqota lost sight of his father behind a streamlined drift of snow, and kept going for a few hundred paces. He could see the far side of the river where the land sloped upward–thick with snow-buried trees. It was too far to go right now. He stopped and stood very still, letting the freezing air flow around him. Something tingled and stung his sense of smell. Between his eyes he felt the subtle tingle. There was no recognizable scent at all, only a prickling sensation like the tiniest burr. It had to be smoke. He emptied his lungs and slowly drew in the biting air–letting it warm and flow through his nose and down his throat. There it was. He followed his tracks back toward his father. Seeing a disturbance in the smoothness of the powder, he stooped and placed his finger into the wind dulled outline of a small boot. Looking up and down the snow, he now saw the virtually obliterated tracks of a small human–walking alone. Walking twenty paces further, he saw more disturbance in the snow. Falling to his knees in the low light, he thought he could discern the long dragging tracks of a pony, but he could not be sure. His father would know. The dim light was waning, and there was little to be done tonight, yet he rose with new enthusiasm and purpose–returning quickly to where his father sat astride his pony, cocooned in his substantial furs. Taqua heard the crunch of his sons feet as he came closer to the horses; slipped his hood back so he could see and said,”We should camp–the horses are hungry–so am I,” and he waited for his son to speak, for there was excitement in the shining dark eyes. Pointing upriver, Maqota said–a little breathless–“There is faint smoke on the wind, and I found the tracks of a girl walking upriver.” Astonished at this news, Anja Taqua let out his breath in a loud,”Hah!” and the sound was whipped away in the increasing wind. “Are you sure?” he said with both a smile and a tone of incredulity. Maqota almost leapt from the snow saying,”Yes–there is a fire some miles up the river, and a small person walked in that direction some days ago–tiny boot.”There was a pony, but I cant tell if it was with her–too far away,” and he swatted the snow from his knees and said happily, pointing his bluish hand, ”Lets camp near those trees,” and under his breath he muttered,”they will see our fire,” and he cursed. Maqota gathered wood while his father pulled provisions down from the horses backs, and as the light left the iron gray clouds they were warming themselves next to a strong fire–preparing food. The tongues of flame whipped in the increasing wind, ripping any smoke away to the west before it could be seen. Maqota was silent now–excited and on edge–and Taqua watched him warily, for a particular opaque light in the boys eyes was growing. He thought back to the encounter in the cave, only days ago, when he had pulled the young man–wild and violent–off of the young Chaali. The look in his eyes now was similar to that fierce and uncontrolled lust he had seen then. Remaining calm, he smiled at his son. ”I am hungry!,” he exclaimed as he bit animatedly into a thin cut of meat from the skewer–and he growled and munched noisily. Maqota was startled out of his strange reverie– surprised and delighted by this antic, and he mimicked his father in every detail–munching and slurping loud enough to be heard over the wind, which was beginning to moan through the high cliffs. They ate and laughed together as they had not done for some years–pretending to wolf down their meal like animals. The water pot was full, and they both drank thirstily, ate still more meat, sedately now, and prepared to sleep, and Taqua sensed that the crisis had passed–for now. A flash of soft light from above drew their eyes away from each other and up to the rapidly flowing sky. The moon suddenly broke through in its fullness and looked very close, and the ice scape around them glowed with its eerie candescence. Then vanished again, reapprearing after only fractions of seconds had passed, flashing on and off, throwing massive columns of shadow down from the speeding clouds. They looked at one another, then back up at the spectacle of the moon, which was such a rare sight in this endless winter, they were both transported by the wonder of it. Taqua reached for a large log to place on the fire–his ribs smarting with the effort–when the ground shifted strongly to the south. Immediately, the loud cracking began in the river. Loud boomes reverberated off into the night, and the high snaps of massive blocks of ice cracking filled the night. At the mouth of the canyon from which they had so narrowly escaped came the muffled roar of still more ice falling to the canyon floor. They both turned to see once more, the billows of ice dust streaming out of the mouth of the canyon. The ground jerked again, and a sick feeling rose up in Taquas belly. He was afraid. Maqota seemed unperturbed as he stared at this unfamiliar mask of fear in the whipping fire. He calmly added even more wood to the fire, and said, “We are safe, father, the ice will not crush us here.” “The earth – the earth is moving,” said his father with a shudder in his voice, “What is happening?” and he turned away until his face was lit only by the flash and shadow of the moon. Maqota looked into the fire, then back at his fathers hunched form. He said, “It is the ice. The ice is pushing the world–breaking it up,” and there was an eerie quality to his voice that made Taqua turn slowly to look into his eyes. “How do you know this, Maqota? Maqotas eyes were clear and intense, but he only shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head and he turned away to prepare his sleeping robe. The wind was strong and steady now, the strange sky a kaleidoscope of clouds stars and the startling moon, all in motion. The cracking of the river ice went on for some time more until it died away. The sky closed up completely, plunging the world into complete darkness only to split wide open moments later leaving the moon and stars with nothing at all to veil them. Taqua lay back in his furs to sleep. Maqota rose from the fire and lifting a bright brand rich with flame strode across the fresh snow. He walked for several paces into the trees, looking for a suitable place to relieve himself. At his feet, he saw a disturbance in the snow. There were prints–deep prints–the clear marks of a horse. There were drag marks atop the prints–a furrow in the snow. Looking back along this furrow, he saw that it went to the river bank, Looking ahead, it disappeared into the snow buried trees. He walked further until he found a mound of snow–no–two mounds of disturbed snow. His brand began to die and he waved it gently in the frigid air to bring it back to brightness. Kicking away at the snow, his boot struck something solid. He knelt–brushing away the dry snow from the object he had kicked. He was confronted by the rictus grin of a frozen corpse, frozen blood spread from its neck across its contorted face. He fell back in the snow, horrified. He dropped the torch, and quickly retrieved it before it could be snuffed out in the soft snow. His heart stampeded in his chest, and he could barely suppress the desire to run screaming into the night. He backed away, the torch jerking and swaying above his head until he could regain his feet, then he returned quickly to the fire–panting loudly. “What,” said his father, whos eyes had snapped open at the sound of rushing feet and anxious breathing—”What happened–cats again? And he sat up and reached for his bow. Maqota held his tongue. His father could see the strange shifting of his sons eyes, even in the dying firelight, and knew that something had deeply frightened the boy. Maqota began to shake his head slowly from side to side, looking down at his feet. He dropped the torch, not even near the fire, and it sputtered out in the soft snow in seconds. Taqua looked back along the path his son had taken, and rose painfully. He was unsure of what to do. He might regret the boy in this state of shock, but could think of no way to distract him from his trance. “I will go see,” and he lifted another burning branch from the fire. Trudging along the footprints his son had left in the snow, his ribs aching, he came upon the tracksign, and eventually his torchlight was illuminating the grotesque face Maqota had uncovered. He was startled, but not horrified. He walked further and looked down on the man from a better angle so he could see his face clearly. As horrific as the agonized, frozen carcass was, he immediately recognized the man. He was one of the twins–he could not tell which–either Nituqa or Uvqa Miqta – but it was one of them – one of the twins. He hissed between his teeth, and kicked the snow away from the second mound. Kneeling, he drove the torch into the snow and brushed away the crystalline snow until he had uncovered a second dead face. He stared in astonishment. Contorted in shocked and surprised death, eyes frozen and shining with a morbid light, was a face he knew well–a face that had haunted his dreams more than once. It was Akua Huqai. Anja Taqua spat into the snow violently, and raised his hand to punch the grinning face. Before he could bring his hand down, he heard hard breathing next to him, and he froze. Maqota was standing behind him. He heard a swift whooshing sound flash past his ear, and watched in horror as his own war-club was driven deep into the skull of the frozen man he had hated for so long. The skull shattered into a mass of frozen blood and brains, and the face was gone. Taking a step back and to the right, Maqota drove the war club into the face of the twin as well, with the same devastating effect and Taqua waited with sudden despair and resignation for this to be the trigger for a frenzy of irrational violence that he himself might not survive. To his utter surprise, Maqota wiped the slightly bloody war club on the snow, slid the carved handle into his belt, and strode calmly back to the fire. His father watched from afar as his son lifted the extinguished torch from the snow and placed it into the flames, then sat with calm straight-backed poise, staring into the fire, adding still more wood. By the light of his faltering torch, Taqua looked down at the two crushed heads with their blankets of bloody snow, and confronted his confusion. Why were these men here? He spat into the snow again, his bile rising. These were Natakus men–they were close to him–henchmen–slavers. If they were here, Nataku might not be far away. The hatred rose up through his belly and scorched his heart, continuing to rise until it inflamed his brain. He looked back at his son and wondered–not for the first time–if they were both insane now–crazed by hatred and the poison of revenge. He yanked the torch from the snow and strode back to the fire. Sleeping in such close proximity to the twisted bodies of these evil men would not be easy. He wanted to grab up his sleeping robes–throw them on the horse, and ride alone and aimless into the bitter cold of this night. With each step toward his son, he forced himself back into his calm disguise, melting his face from one contorted by rage and angry sorrow to a more congenial and kind countenance. He felt the resistance of the muscles of his face to the false emotion, and fought with himself. When he reached the fire, his intention was to remain silent–to observe the boy–try to read his eyes. His own emotion was getting the better of him, and he pressed it back into the hot knot of raw hatred he had molded long ago to survive. Letting himself down onto his bearskin, he shoved his torch into the roaring flames and pretended to ignore his son. He allowed his eyes to sweep over the hooded figure before him, trying to see the eyes–the cut of the mouth, but the boys countenance was near invisible, and what he could see was inscrutible. Maqota said, “I knew them,” and he stirred the fire with a small stick of gnarled wood. Taqua responded, incredulous – “How?” The sparks rose into the air and were whipped away by the wind. Maqota replied,”The big one was in the lodge when I showed the silver to Obwa Nataku. He watched while they strapped me down tight on the horse,” and he kicked up more sparks with his probe.”The young one, or his brother, took me far from the great lodge, across a river, and whipped the horse until it ran.” Astonished, Anja Taquas mouth dropped open. He had never heard this or any detail of the ordeal that preceded his discovering his son so close to death on the starving horse. He waited for the boy to say more, but he remained calm–stirring the ember, watching the sparks rise up into the moon washed sky. (to be continued) Photo: Edmund Stump
Posted on: Fri, 21 Mar 2014 07:42:23 +0000
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