Read Online Parable of the Talents by Octavia Butler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Octavia Butler
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction
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scramble into the truck. Kassia did what Mercy had not. She slammed the truck door and locked it, locked all doors.
Once she had done that, she was safer than she knew.
In-truders fired their guns into the truck's armor and tires.
Both were marked, but not punctured, not much damaged at all. The intruders even built a fire against the side of the truck, but the fire went out without doing damage.
After what seemed hours, the men went away.
The two little girls say they turned on the truck's monitors and looked around. They couldn't find the intruders, but they were still afraid. They waited longer. But it was terrible to wait alone in the truck, not knowing what might be hap-pening just beyond the range of the monitors—on the other side of the chimney wall, perhaps. And there was no one to take care of them, no one for them to turn to. At last, stay-ing in the truck alone was too much for them. They opened the door nearest to the sprawled bodies of their parents and big brother.
The intruders were gone. They had taken the two older girls away with them. Outside, Kassia and Mercy found only Dan and their parents. Dan had come to, and was sitting on the ground, holding his mother's head on his lap, stroking her face, and crying.
Dan had played dead while the intruders were there. He had given no sign of life, even when one of the intruders kicked him. Stoic, indeed. He heard them trying to get into the truck. He heard them cursing, laughing, shouting, heard two of his sisters screaming as he had never heard anyone scream. He heard his own heart beating. He thought he was dying, bleeding to death in the dirt while his family was murdered.
Yet he did not die. He lost consciousness and regained it more than once. He lost track of time. The intruders were there, then they were gone. He could hear them, then he couldn't. His sisters were screaming, crying, moaning, then they were silent.
He moved. Then gasping and groaning with pain, he man-aged to sit up. His legs hurt so as he tried to stand that he screamed aloud and fell down again. His mind, blurred by pain, blood loss, and horror, he looked around for his fam-ily.
There, near his legs, wet with his blood and her own was his mother.
He dragged himself to her, then sat holding her head on his lap. How long he sat here, all but mindless, he did not know.
Then his little sisters were shaking him, talking to him.
He stared at them. It took him a long time to realize that they were really there, alive, and that behind them, the truck was open again. Then he knew he had to get his parents in-side it. He had to drive them back down to the highway and into a town where there was a hospital, or at least a doctor. He was afraid his father might be dead, but he couldn't be sure. He knew his mother was alive. He could hear her breathing. He had felt the pulse in her neck. He had to get help for her.
Somehow, he did get them both into the truck. This was a long, slow, terrible business. His legs hurt so. He felt so weak.
He had grown fast, and been proud of being man-sized and man-strong. Now he felt as weak as a baby, and once he had dragged his parents into the truck, he was too exhausted to climb into one of the driver's seats and drive. He couldn't get help for his parents or look for his two lost sisters. He had to, but he couldn't. He collapsed and lay on the floor, unable to move. His consciousness faded. There was nothing.
************************************
It was a familiar sort of story—horrible and ordinary.
Al-most everyone in Acorn has a horrible, ordinary story to tell.
Today we gave the Noyer children oak seedlings to plant in earth that has been mixed with the ashes of their parents. We do this in memory of our own dead, present and absent. None of the ashes of my family are here, but five years ago when we decided to stay here, I planted trees in their mem-ory.
Others have done the same for their dead. Nina and Paula Noyer's ashes aren't here of
Once she had done that, she was safer than she knew.
In-truders fired their guns into the truck's armor and tires.
Both were marked, but not punctured, not much damaged at all. The intruders even built a fire against the side of the truck, but the fire went out without doing damage.
After what seemed hours, the men went away.
The two little girls say they turned on the truck's monitors and looked around. They couldn't find the intruders, but they were still afraid. They waited longer. But it was terrible to wait alone in the truck, not knowing what might be hap-pening just beyond the range of the monitors—on the other side of the chimney wall, perhaps. And there was no one to take care of them, no one for them to turn to. At last, stay-ing in the truck alone was too much for them. They opened the door nearest to the sprawled bodies of their parents and big brother.
The intruders were gone. They had taken the two older girls away with them. Outside, Kassia and Mercy found only Dan and their parents. Dan had come to, and was sitting on the ground, holding his mother's head on his lap, stroking her face, and crying.
Dan had played dead while the intruders were there. He had given no sign of life, even when one of the intruders kicked him. Stoic, indeed. He heard them trying to get into the truck. He heard them cursing, laughing, shouting, heard two of his sisters screaming as he had never heard anyone scream. He heard his own heart beating. He thought he was dying, bleeding to death in the dirt while his family was murdered.
Yet he did not die. He lost consciousness and regained it more than once. He lost track of time. The intruders were there, then they were gone. He could hear them, then he couldn't. His sisters were screaming, crying, moaning, then they were silent.
He moved. Then gasping and groaning with pain, he man-aged to sit up. His legs hurt so as he tried to stand that he screamed aloud and fell down again. His mind, blurred by pain, blood loss, and horror, he looked around for his fam-ily.
There, near his legs, wet with his blood and her own was his mother.
He dragged himself to her, then sat holding her head on his lap. How long he sat here, all but mindless, he did not know.
Then his little sisters were shaking him, talking to him.
He stared at them. It took him a long time to realize that they were really there, alive, and that behind them, the truck was open again. Then he knew he had to get his parents in-side it. He had to drive them back down to the highway and into a town where there was a hospital, or at least a doctor. He was afraid his father might be dead, but he couldn't be sure. He knew his mother was alive. He could hear her breathing. He had felt the pulse in her neck. He had to get help for her.
Somehow, he did get them both into the truck. This was a long, slow, terrible business. His legs hurt so. He felt so weak.
He had grown fast, and been proud of being man-sized and man-strong. Now he felt as weak as a baby, and once he had dragged his parents into the truck, he was too exhausted to climb into one of the driver's seats and drive. He couldn't get help for his parents or look for his two lost sisters. He had to, but he couldn't. He collapsed and lay on the floor, unable to move. His consciousness faded. There was nothing.
************************************
It was a familiar sort of story—horrible and ordinary.
Al-most everyone in Acorn has a horrible, ordinary story to tell.
Today we gave the Noyer children oak seedlings to plant in earth that has been mixed with the ashes of their parents. We do this in memory of our own dead, present and absent. None of the ashes of my family are here, but five years ago when we decided to stay here, I planted trees in their mem-ory.
Others have done the same for their dead. Nina and Paula Noyer's ashes aren't here of
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