Pools of Yarah Read online

  THE

  POOLS

  OF YARAH

  a novel by

  J E GURLEY

  JAMES E. GURLEY is a 61-year old writer of science fiction and horror born in Corinth, Mississippi, but now living in the deserts of Tucson, AZ., with his wife, Kim, and two cats, Coco and Shoes. An avid musician, he plays rock and roll with local area bands when not writing or doing research for his novels. His great loves as writers figure from Lovecraft to Faulkner to King. His life in the medical field, an oil field worker, demolition, a musician, and as an Atlanta chef plays a large part in his writing. He is an active member in the Horror Writer’s Association, the Society of Southwestern Writers, and the Baja-Arizona Southern Science Fiction Association.

  I dedicate this novel is to my mother, Pearl Irene Kellum Gurley. She was and always will be an inspiration to me.

  First Montag Press E-Book and Paperback Original Edition April 2016

  Copyright © 2016 by JE Gurley

  As the writer and creator of this story, JE Gurley asserts the right to be identified as the author of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. However, The physical paper book may, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, or hired out without the publisher’s prior consent.

  Montag Press

  Print Book ISBN: 978-1-940233-33-8

  Cover art © 2015 Dwight Clark

  Cover, layout, & e-book © 2015 Blush Book Design

  Montag Press Team:

  Project Editor – Mara Hodges

  eBook Design – Camilet Cooray

  Managing Director – Charlie Franco

  A Montag Press Book

  www.montagpress.com

  Montag Press

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  Oakland CA 94601 USA

  Montag Press, the burning book with the hatchet cover, the skewed word mark and the portrayal of the long-suffering fireman mascot are trademarks of Montag Press.

  Printed & Digitally Originated in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s vivid and sometimes disturbing imagination or are used fictitiously without any regards with possible parallel realities. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  1 Hramack of Ningcha

  2 The Burning Lands

  3 Alone

  4 High Priest Chu Li

  5 Ningcha

  6 Long John Baldry

  7 Under House Arrest

  8 Deadly Pursuit

  9 Mars

  10 The Journals of Arun Kane

  11 Into the Light

  12 Hell on Earth

  13 Observed

  14 Tempers Flare

  15 Grey Eagle’s Band

  16 Pueblo Nuevo

  17 Nightmare

  18 Into the Bowels of the Earth

  19 Precious Water at Last

  20 The Glass Plain

  21 A Forced Marriage

  22 Mt. Lincoln Pumping Station

  23 Fox Hunt

  24 The Star People

  25 Trapped

  26 A Proposal of Marriage

  28 Contact!

  29 A Slight Detour

  30 Prisoners

  31 Chu Li’s Wrath

  32 Soaring like an Eagle

  33 Long John Baldry’s Reluctant Passenger

  34 Reunion

  35 Homecoming

  1

  Hramack of Ningcha

  The searing heat of the afternoon sun beat fully down upon Hramack’s broad, bronzed back as he wandered up and down the steep stone paths of the village. His anthracite eyes carefully searched the village for signs of Kaffa, the Village Elder. He had much on his troubled mind and felt he must speak with his old friend. He wore only loose-fitting trousers and a leather vest in spite of the sun’s fury, his arms and shoulders well protected by the oil rubbed into his skin. His thick shock of long, black hair braided atop his head like a burnoose protected it as effectively as the customary leather hat most village men wore.

  As Hramack came in turn upon each of the three village cisterns carved deep into the red sandstone rock of the cliffs, he found long lines of women awaiting their daily ration of precious water. He searched eagerly for Teela among them, hoping to speak with her, but she was not there. He assumed she was tending to the children while the other women visited the cisterns. Each woman’s haggard face bore the unmistakable signs of strain and something Hramack had never seen on any villager’s face – fear.

  Like his, their clothing bore innumerable stains from lack of washing. Water was too precious a commodity these days to waste on clean clothing. Dirty clothes were the new badge of honor. He heard none of the good-natured bantering and idle chatter that usually accompanied such gatherings of women. Each woman wordlessly accepted her sadly reduced water ration and returned directly to her home. Soon, he feared, quick anger and resentment would replace silent complacency. Many of the women drank sparingly themselves that the children might have more. Their selfless sacrifice would prove of little avail when the end came, for the children could not survive long without the adults, but he admired their courage and devotion.

  He, too, had passed his daily ration back into the cistern many times during the past few weeks. He was young and strong and could tolerate long periods without water. Kena had taught him that. Thoughts of his father brought home the uncertainty of Kena’s prolonged absence. Hramack feared for his father and longed for his return from the Burning Lands. Soon, conditions would worsen, and people driven to the limits of their endurance could turn on each other. The village would sorely need his father’s skills as Healer then.

  Hramack was painfully aware of his own limitations in such situations. Often, the ill or injured hid their pain or the cause of their misery for fear of judgment by others. Kena could ferret out the root

  cause of their discomfort and heal their wounds. Hramack’s inability in this area came from no lack of empathy. He truly wanted to be a Healer, to follow in his father’s example, yet the skills of Healing eluded him like water cupped in an open hand. He suspected that he would never become the Healer his father wished him to become.

  He glanced across the narrow canyon to the empty Pools of Yarah at the base of the dry springs. The annual return of the springs was three long months overdue, and the water supply in the underground cisterns was running dangerously low. Never in the long history of Ningcha had the water been as late in its return. Soon, the newly planted crops would wither and die in spite of the shade netting strung across the valley to protect them from the searing sun. He feared the sorghum, the puny chickpeas, the flax, and the sadly undersized squash in the fields below would be inadequate for their needs. If the yields were too small, it might become necessary to eat the seed needed for the next year’s crop. If there was a next year.

  The animals grew thinner and weaker daily. Many of the females were no longer producing milk, forcing the villagers to slaughter them for meat. Already the larders were full to overflowing with smoked goatelope meat. The hybrid cross between hardy southwestern mountain goats and Gobi Addex antelopes were low-maintenance foragers well suited for the desert climate, and provided both meat and wool. Hanging beside the haunches of goatelope meat were links of spiced sausages made from javalinas, a domesticated peccary. The lack of water was especially hard on the chickens, causing them to lay
fewer eggs, but they would outlast the grazing animals. Sadly, starvation would not be the villagers’ demise: thirst would.

  Dark thoughts such as these plagued Hramack’s mind as he spotted Kaffa sitting under the shade of a great Yar tree at the foot of the path leading down to the springs.

  “Greetings, Elder,” he cried as he entered the shade provided by the spreading branches of the massive tree, older than the village itself; the difference in temperature was dramatic. Though not cool by any means, it was a spot often sought out for relief from the searing sun. Hramack noticed that even the great Yar was not immune to the lack of water. A carpet of purple heart-shaped leaves covered the ground, crunching beneath the weight of his booted feet.

  “Peace and prosperity to you, Hramack,” Kaffa responded politely, his voice brittle with age, but still bearing traces of a once-powerful orator’s voice.

  Hramack bridled slightly at the Elder’s jubilant greeting. The Words of Greeting, used for hundreds of years, seemed to have lost their meaning lately. Neither spoke for several long minutes, as Hramack settled himself comfortably on one of the many exposed roots polished smooth by countless generations of backsides, and Kaffa shooed away several of the younger children playing loudly beneath the shade of the tree’s spreading limbs. Neither heat nor drought slowed the young in their pursuit of amusement. Hramack’s eyes followed them as they ran away playing a game of tag. He wished he too could return to the joys of youth, the days when running and play were his only concerns, and lessons and chores the only tragedies. The mantle of coming manhood sat tightly about his neck like a worrisome yoke, choking out memories of his youth and reminding him painfully of the duties and labors of adulthood.

  Kaffa noticed the look of dire concentration on his face and broke the silence. “You look troubled, my son. Please unburden yourself. You cannot carry the problems of the entire village upon your back, though a strong, broad back it is.”

  He offered Hramack a piece of pori fruit. In spite of his mental turmoil, Hramack smiled at the gesture. Kaffa could always defuse a troublesome situation. He took the piece of fruit and bit into it, enjoying its cool, moist flesh and delicate taste. The pear-shaped pori’s burgundy-hued skin was thicker to seal in the moisture. Once peeled, the fruit itself was juicier but had only a single small seed in its center. This made it difficult to reproduce; thus, pori was always in short supply.

  Kaffa returned Hramack’s smile and said, “Our forefathers developed the pori fruit from the pear, genetically altering it centuries ago when such manipulation was possible.”

  Hramack nodded. He had read all of the books in the village’s meager library many times over. Many such modified fruits and vegetables graced their tables, designed by plant geneticists centuries ago to adapt to the growing harsh, dry climate. Such things were no longer possible.

  “Thank you, Elder,” he responded. “Your words always place

  things in their proper perspective.” Hramack nodded at the halfeaten fruit in his hand. “There are few of these left.”

  “Yarah will see us through these harsh times,” replied the old man. “But tell me, what brings you to me with such weariness written in your young eyes?”

  Hramack examined Kaffa with his eyes, noticed the slump in the old man’s shoulders, the once-brilliant eyes withdrawn into their sockets, the deep wrinkles furrowing his weathered brow. As Elder, Kaffa was a fount of wisdom to the villagers, but as village Precept, conscience of the Council, he took on the additional burden of leadership. His voice had been the one the villagers heard calling for the rationing of water and food, his face the one the people associated with their misery. The responsibility the old man bore was tremendous. Hramack hated that he must add more stones to that weighty burden.

  Hramack stood and began to pace back and forth beneath the canopy of the Yar, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. He had much he wanted to say, but he had not bothered to organize his speech. Instead, he would speak from his heart.

  “Our people grow weaker each day,” he began. “Soon, there will not be enough water for both the crops and the herd animals. We cannot survive the loss of either.”

  Kaffa stood, wearily leaning on his great staff: a delicately carved branch of the Yar tree, its polished multi-colored wood topped by a silver orb, and placed a gnarled hand on Hramack’s shoulder to stop his restless pacing. He forced Hramack back down to the root and stood facing him, leaning forward slightly to stare at him. Hramack suspected the Elder’s eyesight was failing.

  “Long ago, our world was green and fertile, and water fell from the skies. Our people grew greedy and destroyed their world. In anger, the sun became hot and boiled dry the great oceans. Most of our people scattered to other worlds among the stars. Yet, some remained, refusing to abandon the land of their birth. They had faith in the future, in their God. When the last of the great domed cities fell centuries ago, Yarah led us here where He has allowed us to flourish.” He added with a twinkle in his eye, “Do you think He would abandon us now? Do not abandon Him so quickly.”

  Hramack sighed. He had heard the same familiar words many times from his father, but belief didn’t come easily when your world, your friends were suffering. To avoid offending the Elder, he chose his words carefully.

  “I have read the Teachings of Nuama, Elder, but with my own two eyes I have seen the great dry salt sea far to the south. Beyond it, the oceans once spread farther than the eye could see. With my father, I have walked in the Burning Lands that surround our sheltered valley. I have even ventured into the fringe of the Empty Lands near the mountains where only sand fleas and predatory beasts live. I do not dispute from where we have come, Elder, or that we have had Yarah’s help in surviving thus far. I wish only to know where we are going now. What of tomorrow?”

  Kaffa slowly shook his head. “You are truly your father’s son. Kena is a great Healer, the greatest in generations, but he too is an impatient man. Our people desperately need him now, but he has been absent a fortnight, gone into the Burning Lands searching for herbs and medicines.” Kaffa closed his eyes and lowered his head for a moment in thought, then raised a hand and made a flicking motion. “More likely, he is searching for the ruins of the old cities. It is best to let dead things lie.”

  “We will all be dead things lying soon enough,” Hramack shot back at Kaffa.

  Defending the actions of his father had become a full-time job lately. The entire village questioned Kena’s wisdom in leaving. He immediately regretted snapping at the Elder. He knew Kaffa only worried about his father.

  His father had gone into the Burning Lands two weeks ago in search of pei, a small shrub that produced a pungent sap used to treat fevers. Its bark could be ground into a powder to produce a tea that relieved the swelling in joints, while its aromatic leaves seasoned food. He had been gone days longer than usual. His father was an excellent shot with the bow, but Yarah only knew what beasts roamed the Burning Lands or the treacherous Empty Lands that lay beyond.

  Kaffa ignored Hramack’s impertinent outburst. “Nuama tells us that Kane called to Yarah for guidance when the Dome fell, and Yarah led him and his followers here. Yarah struck the rocks with his power, and water poured forth. Our village has been here ever since, carved into these cliffs overlooking the canyon, protected from the scouring winds that blow across the Burning Lands and sheltered from the full fury of the sun. There are no other civilized people on the face of the world. Remember, Ningcha is the last refuge of Mankind.”

  With these words, Kaffa turned and hobbled slowly down the path to the Temple of Yarah situated beside the empty pools. Hramack noticed that the Elder leaned heavily on his staff and wondered if he had been drinking his daily water ration. Probably not, he decided. The Elder was a stubborn man, but he was selfless in his devotion to the welfare of the villagers. Hramack regretted making him angry. The Elder was trying to hold the village together in this time of crisis, and he was not making Kaffa’s job any easier.

 
Hramack looked around, surveying the only home that he had ever known. Few people roamed the paths or sat on the stone benches in the heat of the day. Most were in their homes, praying or hiding from the sun. Even the children had returned to the shelter of the caves or to their homes.

  The village of Ningcha perched on the western side of a narrow canyon protected by a large, overhanging cliff. The stone houses’ bright white adobe walls embedded with tiny flakes of mica shone like jewels, as the sun rose each day. Most of the village was carved deep into the cliff face itself, utilizing the density of the stone to cool the homes during the hottest part of the year when the temperatures could reach 550 Centigrade.

  There was no longer a winter. For almost a thousand years, since the time of the Great Migration, winter had been absent from the face of the Earth. Snow appeared only on the highest peaks of the Earth. Even there, most of it evaporated before it could melt and reach lower altitudes. The seas were barely thirty percent of their original size and so concentrated with salt that life could no longer exist in them. The very earth had trembled during the Upheaval, as if trying to shake off its unruly children. Freed of their watery burden, the ocean beds rose, dramatically shifting the continental shorelines. Earthquakes toppled cities already abandoned by a star-bound population. The planet had become a desert, and only those things able to adapt to harsh desert conditions had survived.

  Humanity, those few people remaining after the Great Migration outward, had survived using remnants of technology. When at last, even that technology had failed and the domes fell, mankind had clung to life solely through tenacity and the strong will to survive. Hramack feared that even strong will would no longer suffice.

  Above the village along the rim of the canyon, the gracefully curved blades of a lone wind turbine spun slowly in the light breeze, generating power to light the village and to run the few remaining machines. The rusted trunks of three similar windmills slowly crumbled into the sand. The banks of solar panels surrounding the lone windmill were growing old and were often unreliable. The meager remains of a once vast, planet-spanning technological base were slowly breaking down. Soon, the village would be at the complete mercy of the hostile environment. The last millennium-and-a-half of technological advancement would be lost forever.