Pools of Yarah Read online

  He was a man of medicine, a Healer, yet he did not cast aside the need for hope or faith in his belief in the sciences. He had faith in Yarah, but he did not believe Yarah required men to sit idly by and wait for divine deliverance, as the High Priest Chu Li preached. Yarah helped those who were bold enough to help themselves. It was thus his duty to find the answer to the water shortage. None other would try.

  Finally, even blind determination must eventually succumb to nature’s indomitable iron will. He could push his worn body no further. He felt the cold fingers of Death closing around him and was almost relieved for even this small respite from the ever-present heat. If Death must take him, the least Death could do was offer its victim a small degree of cool comfort in exchange for the soul it was receiving.

  With trembling hands, Kena scribbled a last, hurried message on a scrap of paper in the slim hope of someone finding it, stuck it tightly in his belt, and, giving in to the fatigue that enveloped his body, collapsed onto the sand. If anyone found the message, it would surely be his son. Only Hramack would ever venture deep into the desert searching for him. Son had accompanied father into the Burning Lands many times searching for herbs. They had also hunted the horned lizards and feasted on their sweet, moist flesh. Now, Kena mused, lizards would probably dine on him.

  He could find no substantial shade from the deadly sun, and not wishing to die in the open, dragged his body under the meager protection of a dead, dried-out thorn bush, scraped out a shallow depression in the sand, and placing himself in Yarah’s hands, settled down to await the arrival of Death. He could do no more.

  The voices returned. Around him, the heat hammered at the seared earth, raising towering dust devils that pranced around him, whispering their secrets to him as he lay there. Whether it was the voice of the wind or the voice of Yarah, Kena could stand no more. “Taunt me no more,” he croaked from his shallow open grave, his throat tight from disuse. The parched skin around his mouth again split and bled, but he could no longer feel the pain.

  Still the voices whispered; a litany of voices spanning the centuries of Mankind’s last days, telling him of great domed cities and starships and the almost magical science of his ancestors. These were just whispers now, memories only to those who had died, or to those who still cared, such as Kena and his son. In his heat-ravaged mind, a small portion of remaining intellect knew that psychosis was upon him, but the voices persisted.

  “Leave me to die! I can go no farther!” No tears accompanied his outburst. His tear ducts were dry.

  “Your job is not yet finished,” they chided him from the cool safety of his mind.

  “I am finished,” he yelled, knowing in his mind he was speaking only to that place within himself that still urged him onward.

  “No,” they whispered, enticing him with visions of lakes of cool water, sparkling like crystal in the sun.

  “No,” he whimpered. “I am dead.” Ignoring the voices he knew were only in his mind, he shut his eyes tightly and succumbed to his fatigue. To Kena’s relief, the voices remained as silent as the desert around him.

  3

  Alone

  Hramack pushed himself to the edge of exhaustion, marching steadily until near dawn before stopping to rest. The ruddy sky to the east presaged a blistering day. After a quick meal of amaranth bread and dried fruit, washed down with a few swallows of tepid water flavored with lemon juice, he resumed his journey. As the sun rose, dissolving the desert shadows like ice on a hot griddle, the temperature steadily mounted. Already it was almost 400C, 104 on the old Fahrenheit scale, and the sun was merely a finger’s width above the horizon. At noon, it would reach 500C or more. He would have to find shelter soon. He remembered a nearby rocky outcropping containing a small cave he and his father had used many times in the past.

  He was exhausted by the time he reached the shelter of the cave, really just a shallow horizontal gap in the outcropping where a layer of sedimentary rock had crumbled away and time and wind had removed it. He eagerly collapsed against the wall. He took one sip of water, laid his head on his backpack, and slept.

  Awaking a few short hours later, he drank more of his precious water and ate sparingly. He searched the sandy floor of the shallow depression cave and found indications that his father had been there, but the signs were at least ten days old. Kena had probably rested there on his outward journey. Hramack had seen no other sign of his father’s passing all night.

  Outside the cave, the desert broiled. Nothing moved, not even the wind. Most desert creatures had the intelligence to seek shelter from the full heat of the sun. Hramack shared his small cave with a tiny desert kangaroo mouse huddling quietly in a dark corner, as if fearing to attract Hramack’s attention. Its large pink ears appeared oversized for the diminutive creature, but they allowed the mouse to cool himself more efficiently. Its large dark eyes stared at him, searching for any sudden threatening movement.

  Hramack broke off a small piece of bread, dipped it into the water, and laid it where the mouse could see it. The mouse, like most desert creatures, quickly caught the scent of precious water and cautiously hopped over to the offering. Hramack did not move for fear of frightening his new cave companion.

  Satisfied that its giant roommate offered no threat, the mouse leaped upon the bread, grasped it between its two front paws, and gobbled it down. He squeaked a few times as if offering thanks and hopped back into the corner of the cave, methodically preening his whiskers for any last morsel of food or drop of water. It lay down in the sand, curling its long tufted, tail around its body. Hramack wondered if his father had also fed the tiny mouse. The long-eared hoppers often led Kena to patches of pei. The mice liked to burrow into the soil at the plant’s roots and feed on the tiny, nutrient-rich nodules that grew on them.

  Hramack whiled away the daylight hours napping and trying to complete the carvings on his staff. Not overly adept as an artisan, he still managed to carve a reasonable facsimile of a rare desert hawk. He admired the graceful bird with its great wingspan and its ability to soar almost effortlessly above the desert and canyons. A hawk could have covered Hramack’s night march in minutes.

  He had been working diligently on the staff for almost two years, ever since Kaffa had first given him the long, straight piece of cottonwood, a rare find. Familiar animals and those gleaned from books he had read graced its curved surface. He had left a spot for Teela’s likeness near the top, but felt his talents were still inadequate to capture her grace and beauty.

  Finally, the sun began to drop behind the western peaks, casting a pale, rosy glow across the landscape. Twilight lasted only for a short while in the desert. Long shadows gathered into dark pools beneath the mountains and raced toward him like a long vanished monsoon flood. Darkness descended rapidly. Hramack gathered his belongings and resumed his journey. Between twilight and the rising of the moon, he could still see well enough to navigate the uneven terrain. Heat radiating from the desert floor caused the quartz crystals and mica flakes in the sand to become softly iridescent, outlining plants and rocks. He looked behind him and noticed his boots left glowing tracks in the sand. He frowned.

  Nightstalkers hunted mainly by scent, but they would easily be able to see his glowing footprints from a great distance. Bred from mountain lion stock and genetically enhanced through careful manipulation of jaguar DNA to propagate a dying species, nightstalkers had further mutated from exposure to excessive solar radiation, becoming larger and more deadly. They were fearless hunters, tenacious trackers, and Alpha predators commanding the top rung of the food chain in the Burning Lands. All creatures feared them, even man. Hramack would have to be on guard at all times. He tried to stay on hard rock whenever possible, but he still left oddly glowing tracks. He trudged across the endless sands, watching every shadow lest a nightstalker leap upon him unawares.

  Hramack had watched once from a distance as a smaller, female nightstalker attacked a large horned lizard, quickly devouring it after slashing it nearly in h
alf with her razor-sharp claws. A large nightstalker would show no qualms in attacking a man. Kena had made Hramack’s backpack from the skin of a nightstalker that had attacked him on one of his trips into the Burning Lands. Kena had survived only because of the warning call of a desert hawk and his excellent marksmanship with his bow.

  Soon, the faint sliver of the waning moon appeared over the horizon and Hramack relaxed slightly. At least in the moonlight, surprise became more difficult. He began a sweeping zigzagging path across the desert floor, searching for signs of his father’s passage. There had been no great winds for days to cover the tracks in the slowly changing desert. Still, he saw nothing.

  He climbed a low rise and scanned his surroundings. The night air was clear and crisp. He could see for kilometers. Nothing moved on the desert floor. The night was strangely still. No sound reached his ears, not even that of the wind. Overhead, the stars twinkled almost mockingly. Somewhere out there, if the old stories were believable, the Scattered Ones lived and prospered in their new home, while those they had abandoned might be the dying remnants of humankind, one lone village remaining from a population that once reached fourteen billion. He could barely fathom such a large number. The hundred or so people of his village were nearly too many to count.

  If the water did not return soon, Mankind’s birth world could become no more than an ancient memory – a dried-up, desiccated planet devoid of life.

  He pushed himself hard, continuing until dawn, halting only long enough to eat and drink sparingly from his supplies. As the first rays of the sun bathed the eastern peaks, he discovered a large outcropping of sandstone that would offer shelter from the sun and lay out his sleeping roll beneath it. In spite of his fatigue, he had difficulty in falling asleep. A vague premonition of danger troubled him, but he could not pinpoint its source.

  He decided to make a signal fire atop the outcropping. If his father were nearby, the fire would serve as a beacon. Gathering small pieces of dried wood with which to kindle the fire and dried animal dung to keep it going was easier than finding green plants that would produce smoke. He settled on a small creosote plant whose sap produced a dark, pungent smoke.

  After seeing that the fire would burn for a while, Hramack tried to force himself into the sleep his body needed to rest his weary muscles for the remainder of his journey. He closed his eyes and concentrated on Teela’s features, conjuring up a mental image before him. Her high cheekbones, slim frame, and short stature belied her inner strength and determination. Even as a child, Teela had been afraid of nothing and would not hesitate to attack anyone larger than herself for the slightest tease. Her beauty and strength of character placed her above the other girls of the village, but she seemed oddly unaware of the effect she had on men.

  Her piercing blue eyes saw more in Hramack than he could see in himself. She had told him once that he was destined for greatness and intended to be always by his side. Though he doubted the wisdom of her words, he felt pride that she would choose him. He wished he could be with her now, to hear her sweet voice as she sang, to feel the soft touch of her caress. He felt complete when with her. They were soul mates in every sense of the word. Only the search for his father could have pulled him away from her. He made a solemn vow never to leave her side again.

  He fell asleep with her name on his lips.

  *

  Hramack awoke hours before sunset, feeling an urgency that would not let him wait until the sun had dipped below the horizon to depart. He knew it was unwise to leave before sunset, but he was certain speed was of the essence. Drinking the last of the water from his first water skin, he was again thankful for Teela’s gift. He tucked the empty skin in his pack, slung the large skin she had provided over his shoulder, and started out.

  He had traveled only a dozen kilometers before the blazing sun began to take its toll. Already he was becoming tired and lightheaded. He forced himself to drink sparingly from his remaining water skin. The water-filled skin cooled through evaporation, leaving a cool spot in the middle of his back as a constant reminder of its liquid promise. He rested often, but by nightfall, he was exhausted from the heat and famished from hunger. He stopped and built a small fire, and then prepared a simple posole stew from his meager supply of vegetables, amaranth flour, and preserved meat. His small, portable pressure cooker prevented the loss of water through evaporation by redirecting the steam through a series of tightly looped coils, which used the relatively cooler surrounding air to condense it, forcing flavor and moisture deep into the food. He used only a small amount of water, making the stew thick and creamy, like a casserole. To save space in his pack, he had brought no herbs and only salt and dried chilies to flavor it. It was a very plain dish, but it satisfied his hunger.

  The warm stew filled his belly and sent renewed strength surging into his limbs. He broke his self-imposed rule and drank deeply from the water skin. He felt refreshed for the first time in days. It was his third night in the Burning Lands. He had seen only the old signs in the cave of his father’s passing, but he would not give up hope. His father was alive. He knew it. He knew his father’s death would leave a void that he would be able to feel in his heart. The bond between them went deep: a bond shared by few in the village. Only Kaffa seemed to understand it almost as well as Hramack.

  “Some spirits unite beyond the boundaries of time and space,” he had once told Hramack. “This bond joins two people with one heart and one mind.”

  He believed he and Teela also shared such a bond. Her absence tugged at him like a tether urging him to return. Though betrothed as children by their families, it would not be binding if either found another, more suitable mate. He could not fathom such a thing happening. In extreme cases, the High Priest could arrange or deny a marriage if deemed in the best interest of the village, but such an instance had not occurred for a hundred years.

  He rested a few hours longer and continued his journey at the rising of the moon, realizing how unwise it had been to walk in the heat of the sun. He had deeply depleted his water supply and had covered only a short distance. Such mistakes could kill. He would have to be more careful if he were to be of any use to his father. Still, he could tell by landmarks he recognized that he was nearing the Singing Caves and, hopefully, his father.

  The Singing Caves were a series of caverns carved into a red sandstone mesa high above the valley floor by the relentless desert winds. He and his father had discovered the caves a few years earlier while chasing a wounded antelope. Custom and hunger dictated that they track down and dispatch the beast to end its suffering. The hunt had led them to the caves. Wind blowing through the interconnecting caverns caused them to sing a low, mournful tune. Hramack believed they were ghost voices lamenting the damage done to Earth during the Upheaval. Kena had found artifacts dating from before the fall of Denver Dome – a flashlight that worked perfectly when he removed the old, corroded power cell and replaced it with a fresh one; a collapsible telescope with a broken lens; and, more importantly, a map. Delicately traced on a thin piece of non-corrosive metal, the map showed the location of the old city of Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico.

  Taos, New Mexico, had been one of the last cities abandoned during the migration into Denver Dome. Its few remaining inhabitants were mostly Diné Indians who had steadfastly refused to leave their homeland of nearly 2000 years. Many returned to their ancestral ways and moved deeper into the desert rather than live in one of the domed cities. It was unlikely that they had survived the intervening centuries.

  Taos or Santa Fe could still hold many things that would be useful to the villagers of Ningcha. Metals were always in short supply, as were parts for machinery, like the pumps and wind generators. Perhaps they could find even more of the precious power cells. From material readily available, they could construct crude batteries to store electricity from the solar cells and wind generator, but power cells demanded high-tech, precision manufacturing techniques and required materials difficult to find and even more difficult t
o manipulate. Hundreds of layers of one-molecule-thick lead foil were sandwiched between equally thin layers of nano-gold crystal fibers impregnated with lithium ions, vacuum-sealed under extreme pressure, and then coated with a non-conductive carbon-fiber shell. Power cells produced electricity at a variable rate, were durable, easily rechargeable, and stored power almost indefinitely.

  These though were just excuses for his father’s wanderlust. Kena wished to look upon the ruins of one of man’s accomplishments. It would put his own life into proper perspective to see the achievements of his ancestors. Kena had confided in Hramack his suspicions that humankind was slowly losing its hold on civilization.

  “Soon, we’ll be worshiping fire and wearing animal skins like our ancient ancestors,” he had said. Sometimes Hramack agreed.

  The moon cast a feeble light to aid in Hramack’s trek through the Red Valley. The soil’s reddish color was the result of extensive copper mining in the past. The soil was too laden with heavy metal tailings for plants or animals to thrive. The fine dust raised by his footsteps burned his nostrils. He wrapped his scarf around his face and mouth to keep out the acrid powder. The dust made his exposed skin itch. Each step was a struggle. The loose sand sucked at his boots like dry quicksand. At times, he plunged knee deep into dust-filled depressions, crawling out on his hands and knees. No pack animal or wheeled vehicle could traverse the Red Valley. It was difficult enough for a human on foot.