Read Online Reap the Wild Wind by Julie E Czerneda - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julie E Czerneda
Tags: Science-Fiction
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Chosen. Stammering an apology, Aryl shook her head and pulled back.
Despite the smiles and nods, she was surrounded by fear.
Why?
Her hands found and grasped the guide ropes. Like the rest of the Yena, she descended facing outward, her feet sure on the wide rungs, her pace determined by those ahead on the ladder. After one quick look into nothing, she lowered her eyes to watch her knees and Seru’s head.
Truenight. The grove’s shadows had fused to utter black. Other hunters grew bold now, including those that swarmed from the waters of the Lay to seek the unwary. Only once a M’hir, after the Harvest, did the Yena willingly leave their homes and well-lit bridges to descend this late, without the sun. They took with them bundles, lowered by pulley and chain beside the ladders— the Tikitik’s tithe of fresh dresel and sprouts. Aryl glanced left, then right.
She saw only one, two ladders over. One chain, one bundle.
Was this why she’d sensed fear? She frowned, confused. Surely there was no blame to the Om’ray, who’d died trying to collect the pods.
They moved down, the sound of creaking rope and footfalls from twenty ladders louder than breathing. Only those who sheltered in the Cloisters were excused: the Lost, the infirm, the ancient. Babies and crawlers were secured in carriers. Their total lack of mental control— there was nothing as agonizing as the brute HUNGER of a newborn— was shielded from other Om’ray by their parents. For the moment, their big eyes were bright and alert through the fine gauze of their hoods, their expressions content. Most smiled. Like all Om’ray, even the youngest took comfort being together, in moving as one.
But not safety. Aryl remembered Om’ray falling and her hands clenched on the ladder rope, though she didn’t stop.
The ladders ended at another, much different platform. This was solid, as if rooted to the ground beneath the water. Young Om’ray exclaimed over the odd feel of it, staggered, and pretended to be dizzy. Their parents kept them close.
Aryl took a steadying breath, fighting the urge to turn and climb. Not that she could; every ladder was filled by those coming down. She hated this place. She’d tried to explain to Costa, M’hirs before, how she felt crushed by the weight of the grove above, how she felt imprisoned by the limits of light, sickened by the cold, damp rot that clung to the very air near the Lay Swamp. He’d teased her about loving the sun and air above.
He hadn’t, she thought sadly, been wrong.
The platform’s shape echoed the deck of the meeting hall directly above, though wider to allow the ladders to be anchored at their base. Its wooden surface had been repaired and cleaned beforehand. Today, during daylight, the ever-present slime had been scraped with metal rasps to make the footing secure. No one wanted to slip into the water, too close at hand.
That water was further spanned by three long, narrow extensions from the platform, like flat arms reaching out. Each arm was traced by ropes of glows. That light reflected in the water, not from ripples but from eyes— eyes as far as Aryl could see, disks of white and red and yellow, some paired, some clustered, some alone.
None moved or approached any closer. She heard distant splashes, as if more were coming or busy with easier prey, but knew they weren’t a threat tonight. The respectful distance meant the scouts had poured toxin made from somgelt into the water. They would have soaked the edges of the platforms with it, too. As if in proof, small corpses rolled and bumped against the wood, their bellies bloated and white. The larger, more dangerous hunters would avoid the taste until it wore or washed away. Fortunately, the M’hir meant no rain, for now.
She slapped at a biter and drew her hood farther over her face.
“Move, Aryl. You’re blocking the others.” Seru’s urging was hushed; she seemed to respond to the tension everywhere. The Chosen were coming down
Despite the smiles and nods, she was surrounded by fear.
Why?
Her hands found and grasped the guide ropes. Like the rest of the Yena, she descended facing outward, her feet sure on the wide rungs, her pace determined by those ahead on the ladder. After one quick look into nothing, she lowered her eyes to watch her knees and Seru’s head.
Truenight. The grove’s shadows had fused to utter black. Other hunters grew bold now, including those that swarmed from the waters of the Lay to seek the unwary. Only once a M’hir, after the Harvest, did the Yena willingly leave their homes and well-lit bridges to descend this late, without the sun. They took with them bundles, lowered by pulley and chain beside the ladders— the Tikitik’s tithe of fresh dresel and sprouts. Aryl glanced left, then right.
She saw only one, two ladders over. One chain, one bundle.
Was this why she’d sensed fear? She frowned, confused. Surely there was no blame to the Om’ray, who’d died trying to collect the pods.
They moved down, the sound of creaking rope and footfalls from twenty ladders louder than breathing. Only those who sheltered in the Cloisters were excused: the Lost, the infirm, the ancient. Babies and crawlers were secured in carriers. Their total lack of mental control— there was nothing as agonizing as the brute HUNGER of a newborn— was shielded from other Om’ray by their parents. For the moment, their big eyes were bright and alert through the fine gauze of their hoods, their expressions content. Most smiled. Like all Om’ray, even the youngest took comfort being together, in moving as one.
But not safety. Aryl remembered Om’ray falling and her hands clenched on the ladder rope, though she didn’t stop.
The ladders ended at another, much different platform. This was solid, as if rooted to the ground beneath the water. Young Om’ray exclaimed over the odd feel of it, staggered, and pretended to be dizzy. Their parents kept them close.
Aryl took a steadying breath, fighting the urge to turn and climb. Not that she could; every ladder was filled by those coming down. She hated this place. She’d tried to explain to Costa, M’hirs before, how she felt crushed by the weight of the grove above, how she felt imprisoned by the limits of light, sickened by the cold, damp rot that clung to the very air near the Lay Swamp. He’d teased her about loving the sun and air above.
He hadn’t, she thought sadly, been wrong.
The platform’s shape echoed the deck of the meeting hall directly above, though wider to allow the ladders to be anchored at their base. Its wooden surface had been repaired and cleaned beforehand. Today, during daylight, the ever-present slime had been scraped with metal rasps to make the footing secure. No one wanted to slip into the water, too close at hand.
That water was further spanned by three long, narrow extensions from the platform, like flat arms reaching out. Each arm was traced by ropes of glows. That light reflected in the water, not from ripples but from eyes— eyes as far as Aryl could see, disks of white and red and yellow, some paired, some clustered, some alone.
None moved or approached any closer. She heard distant splashes, as if more were coming or busy with easier prey, but knew they weren’t a threat tonight. The respectful distance meant the scouts had poured toxin made from somgelt into the water. They would have soaked the edges of the platforms with it, too. As if in proof, small corpses rolled and bumped against the wood, their bellies bloated and white. The larger, more dangerous hunters would avoid the taste until it wore or washed away. Fortunately, the M’hir meant no rain, for now.
She slapped at a biter and drew her hood farther over her face.
“Move, Aryl. You’re blocking the others.” Seru’s urging was hushed; she seemed to respond to the tension everywhere. The Chosen were coming down
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