Authors: Dave Freer
Stiffly he rose to his feet, and began to walk onward. The night grew still colder as he trudged on. Gradually the sky began to pale in front of him, fading the stars and showing the stark outlines of steep, barren hillsides. Then, when Keilin was sure that he could get no colder and still continue walking, came the miracle of a desert sunrise. Within minutes the colors of the landscape went from grays and blues to sharp reds, yellows and browns, still razor sharp and clear in the night-chilled dry air.
Now that it was light, Keilin could see that the valley bottom was in fact a wide, dry river bed, braided with banks of water-polished and size-sorted stones. Had Keilin been desert-wise, he would have seen that the place was, compared to the surrounding hills, full of life. The sand was patterned with the tracks of insects and birds. There were a few dead-looking tufts of grass and weed stalks among the stones. On the margins of the stream bed were occasional near-leafless bushes, their twigs full of cruel thorns. Despite the thorns, there were signs that something grazed on them. Succulent plants, their flat leaves stonelike, were actually common. But the boy did not see this. To his city eyes it just looked like the outskirts of hell. However, the sun at least was welcome, licking down to warm his numb feet. The mountains surely could not be far now? He’d lost some time by sleeping, but surely by midmorning he’d be there?
Midmorning came . . . and went. The sun he’d welcomed had built up to scorching strength. Not a breath of air moved between the red cliffs of the valley. The cliffs themselves however seemed to shiver. Keilin’s feet felt as though they’d never be cool again. Each step on the burning surface was a small agony. He’d learned to avoid dark stones, picking his way across the lighter ones. There was no sign of any mountains. Finally, in the meager shade of a water-cut overhang on the dry river’s edge, he stopped. He ate a body-warmed melon, even sucking the limited juice from around the pips, and then drifted into an uneasy sleep. When he woke again it was nearly sundown, and his mouth and throat were mercilessly dry. He sucked and chewed at the pulp of the third melon, dragging out its limited moisture, struggling to swallow the near tasteless muck, ending up spitting out most of it. Still, he was determined. He walked on, and kept going all night, although the terrain became steeper and rougher.
The fourth melon proved a rare bonus. Near ripe, and far more juicy. The fifth and last had been a bitter disappointment after it. The boy had had the sense to find deep shade and sleep in that, but now, with his supplies exhausted, he began to realize that he might end before the desert did. He’d woken in the midafternoon too thirsty to sleep. It had taken him a while to work out what was different about the harsh desert light. High above, the sky was patched with great lumbering castles of white cloud. If only . . . if only it would rain.
His longing for water chilled the jewel on his chest. The fear that that cooling caused just seemed to worsen it. Damn! Damn! Damn! The whiners thought him dead. He couldn’t let them find him again. Not here. There was no possible place to hide. He forced himself to be calm, to think it all through. The jewelled pendant was magical. He knew that. It seemed only to work when he was emotionally stirred up; and then only for some emotions. Hatred did nothing, but fear had some effect; however, real potency seemed related to sex and its brew of emotions and desires. The things it whisked out of nowhere were not consciously chosen by him, but their nature did seem to have some connection to the circumstance. The jewels his first fear had materialized. The mattresses his fall from the library window had produced. The thought of the girl on the mattress dragged out a tension-easing smile. She’d been so preoccupied with her own body that it had taken her a good few moments to realize she was no longer in the privacy of her bedroom. That she hadn’t screamed the street down was a miracle of sorts. With one horrified, embarrassed look at him, she’d stifled her screech, grabbed a sheet to cover her nudity and left at a blind run. He’d often wondered if she’d got home, and how she’d explained the missing mattress. He’d often been tempted to try and recall her, and wished he’d had more of a chance to do something on their abrupt meeting. She’d been the subject of many fantasies, abruptly shut down because of the cooling of the jewel. He knew experimentation was impossible. When the thing was used, the whiners always came, trying to kill him.
Well, when he was sure he was going to die anyway, he’d try using the jewel. In the meanwhile he would keep walking. The mountains couldn’t be far now, could they? As for the jewel, well, if it could stay cool, perhaps it might help his burning mouth? He pushed it in between his lips.
It was cool. Cool enough to start some saliva rising from an inner well. As soon as the jewel was wet there came the weirdest of sensations. Vastness. Memory. Great seas of it. A terrible war threatening even the existence of life itself. Flight: A huge hand reaching for the stars, and then, when the stars had been almost within grasp, the memory of treachery as black and bitter as gall. Overlying all of this was a powerful, desperate calling. He could see the place: There were endless plains of intense whiteness, and a mountain, no place of trees and streams, but a towering white monolith, ribbed with broken gray rock standing in the middle of the limitless white plains. It was bone-freezing cold, and the air was thin and biting.
Using the pendant’s chain he pulled the jewel plug out of his mouth. The feeling was gone, cut off as if by a knife. He was still in the heat of the desert. It must have been some kind of illusion, he decided, eyeing the jewel suspiciously. Yet, despite the warm dry air, he was shivering. And there was a powerful compulsion to go to the white plains, even though he had no idea where they were. Shaking himself, Keilin set off again, thirst gradually washing away other concerns.
Some fifty miles away the clouds hit higher, cooler slopes. Thunderheads began forming, and soon heavy driving rain was washing down the bare hillsides. The first that Keilin knew of it was hearing a distant rumble in the valley. He’d read of lions. Would they live out here? Fear plucked at him, enough to begin to chill the jewel against his chest. But . . . surely there was no water for animals? It was only when the roaring came closer, growing louder and more constant that it dawned on him. It
was
water, lots of it. His moment of relief was overwhelmed by the realization that he had to get out of the middle of the riverbed, fast.
Like a brown wall it came, thundering closer, as Keilin scrambled for the red rocky slopes, running as fast as he could, calling on the last of his reserves. Minutes later he sat panting on a high rock, looking down on the flood. Soon he dared to creep down and drink the muddy water. Perhaps there was hope after all. Perhaps he could reach the cool green valleys in the mountains of his dreams...
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Morningstar