Phoenix Without Ashes (20 page)

“It is at the smithy,” said Garth.

“Then fetch it and be quick, lad.” As Garth turned away, Micah raised his voice to the other men. “Fetch weapons, all! Cudgels, staves, scythes, whatever thee possess.”

“But where search first?” said Jubal.

Micah smiled with no trace of humor. “I believe I know where to guide thee.”

Aram conducted his family along the road to Cypress Corners by dint of will and his strong, farmer’s body. Old Rachel and Ruth wailed and walked behind, younger daughter taking her mother’s cue. Aram gripped the arm of his other daughter as tightly as if she were a recalcitrant calf. Young Rachel twisted futilely, trying to jerk free. Her father alternately called down the Creator’s curses upon the head of Devon and berated Rachel in the Elders’ cant:

“Most spiteful daughter! Come! Thy foolishness wilt not cast thy father and mother in contempt in the eyes of the congregation.”

“Father,
please,
no, Father, please! I will not stone Devon!” Rachel stumbled and almost fell as she tried to twist free; her long dress was already caked with road dust. Aram jerked her erect and cocked back his arm.

“I have no wish to hurt thee,” he said.

“Then do not, Aram.”

Aram recognized the voice and slowly turned. Devon emerged from the chokecherry bushes lining that stretch of roadway. Young Rachel stared; Ruth stopped snuffling; Old Rachel let out a gasp of fear.

“How be it
thou
art here?” Aram stepped in front of his family to protect them from the madman.

“I think you know,” said Devon. “I’m going to take Rachel away.”

Aram stepped forward. “This be not the stoning, Devon, but I wilt kill thee anyway. Stand away!”

“No.” He looked beyond her father’s broad shoulder. “Rachel, will you come?”

“I will, Devon.” There was no hesitation.

Aram turned and stared at her. “I should slay thee as well. Thou betrayest—”

“Let her go, Aram.” Devon was inwardly surprised that his words were steady; he had feared the raw fury of this man. But now there was an overriding reason to break that fear.

Aram swung back to Devon and leaped. Devon had the advantage of youth, but he was exhausted. The two men grappled and rolled in the dust while Old Rachel began again to wail. Rachel put her arms around her mother.

“—kill you,” Aram grunted, reaching with his thumbs for Devon’s eyes. Devon twisted his head aside. He managed to unbalance Aram and the farmer toppled to the side, striking his head against a rock. Aram’s arms slackened for a moment, and Devon found his fingers around the man’s throat. Aram’s face was also Micah’s and he wanted to kill them both. He steadily squeezed.

“Devon, do not hurt him.” Her voice finally penetrated his rage, and he took his hands away from Aram’s neck. Choking sounds came from the farmer’s throat; Aram rolled his head back and forth weakly, fingers massaging the red welts.

Devon got up unsteadily and Young Rachel held him. Ruth and Old Rachel, now mute, stood watching. “I wanted to kill him,” Devon said unbelievingly.

“But you did not.” She knelt beside her father and lightly kissed him. Aram glared, but continued to lie there gasping for breath.

Rachel turned to her mother and sister and kissed them both. She gave Old Rachel an extra hug. “Perhaps I’ll see you all again someday,” she said. “Tend Father well.” Then she took Devon’s hand. Now?

“Toward the hills,” Devon said.

A smaller party of pursuers forged ahead of the mob. Micah was in the forefront, pressing his elderly body to its limits. He ignored the pain burning in his chest, paid no heed to the aching lungs and pulse that threatened to drown the sound of air rasping in and out of his throat.

Jubal, flushed and sweating, scarcely younger than Micah himself, trotted beside him. The second Elder appeared ready to collapse at any moment.

Behind Jubal ran Young Goodman, the jagged stone still clutched in one fist, stout oak stave in the other. Beside Goodman was Garth, swinging the crossbow lightly from his right hand.

“Look!” The others followed Jubal’s outstretched arm and saw two distant figures dodge into the trees beyond the edge of a meadow.

Micah gasped out the words a few at a time: “I knew! They made for the woods where we tracked Devon from Aram’s farm.”

“The grove where we heard the strange howling?” said Goodman.

“Aye.”

As though on cue, they heard the keening wail start up from the trees ahead.

“It is but Devon’s trickery,” said Micah.

The whine cycled higher in pitch.

Goodman said, “Look at that!”

Despite the morning sunlight flooding the valley, a patch of woods was illuminated with a bright blue radiance. The pursuers hesitated in mid-meadow.

“I see them,” said Jubal. “Come on!” In the center of the blue glow, two human figures crouched, waiting beneath the trees.

“Garth!” said Micah. “Your bow.”

Garth reversed the crossbow in his hands. He knelt and, using his foot, cocked it. He slapped a short, heavy quarrel onto the grooved stock.

Micah said, “Now!”

The quarrel hummed away from the bow and passed barely above the distant Devon’s head. The radiance peaked in brightness. Devon and Rachel seemed to drop from sight.

“They’re hiding,” Jubal guessed.

They stumbled into the thicket as the iris began to close. “Stop it!” Micah screamed.

It was not in jest that Goodman had often been called “Young Micah.” Without stopping to think, he obeyed the Elder’s command, leaping at the iris as though human flesh could stop the closing metal flower. Only his right hand and wrist reached the center of the iris before the gateway was again solid. The sound was that of a gardener clipping a weed. For one painless moment of shock, Goodman stared at the end of his truncated arm. He began to scream as blood spurted onto the dull metal disc.

Elder Micah blindly thrust his protege aside and stood above the closed portal with legs apart and fists clenched. His voice was low and hoarse. “I curse thee, Devon! In the name of the Maker, I curse—” His voice broke and he looked surprised. Half-turning, he groped toward the others in the party. “Elder Jubal, the pain, I—” His face twisted in agony. Micah’s knees betrayed him and he collapsed.

Jubal knelt beside the body of his colleague and felt for a pulse. He slowly got back to his feet, saying, “My brother is dead.”

Garth was wrapping his shirt around the stump of the whimpering Goodman’s arm. He looked up at Jubal and shook his head.

Jubal surveyed the men: dead, maimed, or alive. He absently stooped to examine the control mechanism of the portal. Finally he stood and turned to Garth who was adjusting a tourniquet. “I know this be Devon’s means of escape.” He picked up a handful of leaves and dropped them on the half-hidden disc. He murmured a prayer, then said, “Help me move the Elder’s body; then we will make this place again secret, lest it become a temptation to others.”

“Goodman still needs my aid,” said Garth.

Jubal said, “Yes, of course.” He reached down to tug the Elder’s body off the disc. He avoided looking at Micah’s face, the mouth frozen in the snarling rictus of a dog that has been kicked to death.

Bathed by the blue light, Devon and Rachel sailed at constant speed through the gravityless bounce tube. Hands joined, they orbited around a common point.

Against the wind, Rachel said, “How long is the journey?”

“To where?”

“Wherever.”

“It’s considerable,” said Devon, “but not nearly so long as the one we’ve already completed.”

“Will they pursue us?”

Devon said, “I doubt it. It’s possible they won’t even discover the iris; if they do, Jubal and Micah won’t want to disclose the existence of an outside world to the congregation. Besides, most would lack the courage to follow us here.”

“They might force Garth. It is his debt of honor.”

“I suspect it was Garth who freed me from the penalty shed.” Devon shook his head. “And he is expert with his bow, yet the quarrel missed me.”

The end of the bounce tube rushed toward them and—Rachel tensed. “Don’t worry,” Devon said. They slowed gently and stopped, floating at the end of the corridor. The plate on the lockport flashed:

ACCESS TUBE

SERVICE MODULE

He showed her how to use the handholds.

“Now what?” said Rachel.

Devon touched the lockport panel. “We’ll find another skin-suit and I’ll introduce you to the sphere projector and I’ll show you—” He kissed her.

“What will you show me, Devon?”

He laughed joyously as the portal opened before them. “The universe.”

Night in Cypress Corners, wrapping silent wings around the house of Old Garth. Two men sat in the kitchen before the dead, banked fire. Young Garth broke the long silence.

“Was it you who helped Devon escape from the shed?”

The old man would not meet his eyes. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” said Garth. “I want to know.”

This time Old Garth raised his face toward his son. “Then yes. I used a bar to pry loose the screen.”

Garth nodded. “I will tell no one.” He paused. “Why?”

The old man smiled slightly. “Devon was your friend; I would not have you obligated to hurl stones at him. And you are my son.”

After a time, Garth took a heavy breath and said, “It will serve no good.” His father looked at him questioningly. “Elder Jubal has carefully explained things to me. Devon is an outlaw who must be returned to Cypress Corners for his punishment, or else slain when I find him. Rachel must be brought back to her family. These are the things the Elders demand of me.”

The old man slowly shook his head. “Must you?” Already knowing the answer.

“Yes, I must,” said Garth, “and so I will.”

The night grew colder; neither man moved to build the fire. Owls hooted in the trees around the house.

Deep within the ship called the Ark, at the juncture of one of the Ark’s many thousands of bounce tubes and a lockport, a severed hand waited. It hung suspended within a small cloud of dead leaves, twigs, and other organic material. With five stiff fingers and blood clotted black around the stump of the wrist, the hand was a signpost.

Left behind unnoticed by the pursued, it remained, slowly turning, to welcome the pursuer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Harlan Ellison is, of course, the incomparable Harlan Ellison, winner of more science fiction awards than, well, anyone else.

Edward Bryant is the multi-Nebula Award winning author of over a hundred short stories, over a thousand essays and reviews, and one novel with Harlan Ellison, PHOENIX WITHOUT ASHES.

Ed’s complete collected works are in the process of becoming available at:
http://ReAnimus.com/authors/edwardbryant

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