Khe by Alexes Razevich Page B

Lunge during planting and harvest. I must have returned to camp and finished the sled while I was delirious, and then made my way back to the spring.
    There must be something be in the fruit that tricked my mind and made me think I’d heard the sled speaking. We’d learned about plants like that from the vision stage—madness-causing villisity, and sticker brump that could work its way through the soles of your foot to set in its dreamer’s poison.
    I felt better having figured a logical explanation. I wrapped up in my cloak and blanket, hoping I wouldn’t dream of chanting trees or talking sleds.
    ***
    In the morning, I piled my few goods onto the sled and hiked down the hill. The valley floor was hard-packed red dirt, with red stones scattered around, as though the tall, twisted, scarlet rocks had leaked all over. A light snow started to fall, dusting the red stones with white. Tufts of tan, weedy grass grew around the feet of the knobby rocks. Here and there something that looked like denish, a bulb crop we’d grown at Lunge, thrust brown stems out of the ground. I pulled the knife out of my pack and made for the denish-looking plants.
    The dulled blade wasn’t much help in digging through the compacted soil, but I worked my way down and found the bulb. Like the denish we’d cultivated, the bulb was white with thin orange bands running top to bottom, oblong, but pinched in the middle—a wild cousin of the denish I knew, but smaller, about the size of my fist. I held it in my hand a long moment. What if it was poisonous too?
    A long, low growl cut through the air. I jerked my head up and tried to work out where the sound came from. It seemed to come from everywhere, bouncing off the tall stones. My heart beat against my ribs.
    A good meal for some beast —that’s what the doumana at the last commune had said. I squeezed the bulb in my hand. My neck burned muddy-gray. I had nothing to defend myself with but my two short, dull knives. I grabbed the sled’s towrope and leapt to my feet.
    What good would running do? If I looked like food sitting there, I’d look and smell the same moving, maybe more so.
    I needed food. I couldn’t fight or flee as hungry as I was. I bit into the bulb. It had the same sweet-tart flavor, the same juiciness as denish, but with a slightly bitter edge. I swallowed the first bite and took another, then another, all the time scanning for sight of the beast and listening for its sounds.
    The beast called again—not a growl, but a series of sharp whistles. Another answered. Two beasts at least. I needed a weapon. The defenders at Lunge used stun-guns against predators, but I’d never held much less fired a stunner. It’d never crossed my mind to steal one. Stupid. Stupid.
    Sharp rocks lay all around. If I could fasten one to a handle, I’d have a spear. I dug through the brush I’d brought from the hill and found a straight piece that would do for a shaft. I needed a long, thin stone. I found two that seemed promising, picking them up with the hem of my cloak, to protect my fingers. A beast called again, closer now.
    My neck was on fire, my heart hammering. I made myself sit and carve a notch in the branch to fit the stone. At least three beasts were out there. I heard them, coming closer. I ripped a thin strip off my hip wrap and used it to bind the stone to the shaft. I stood and looked, but couldn’t see anything moving. Which was better—going deeper into the valley or holding still? Staying put, I decided. Better to save my energy.
    A beast whistled, but its voice sounded fainter now, moving away from me. Another answered. I cocked my head and listened. The sounds were definitely fainter.
    Teeth came at me, as long as my hand, thick as a finger, barbed on the end for holding prey. Teeth, and foul breath, and a huge beaked head covered in shaggy red and white feathers. I jumped back, held my spear with both hands and thrust it towards the beast’s large, round black eyes. The