Rising by Patrick Sean Lee (sneezy the snowman read aloud .txt) 📖

everything else. He looks kind of like a huge rug that has been blown from one end of the earth to the other through piles of gooey poop, and then come to rest in a clump. How could one creature throw up so much?

Across the metal floor of the hold, five or six feet back, Mother is sprawled one way, Father another. Out cold, or...no, no, no...dead. I rush to them.

They’re both breathing, and from the positions of their bodies, I think—hope—no broken bones. More bruises, but no worse than what what they were when we carried them out of the prison cell back on Folly.

Faerborn.

He’s conscious. He is indestructible. He’s a worse mess. I go to him, wanting to pinch my nose. I throw my arms around him—as much of him as they’re able to grasp anyway. He lifts his head slowly.

“Oh Faerborn, I know this has been hard for you to endure. We’re almost at my home, though. It will all be over very soon, darling.”

I don’t mean that last word the way it must sound to him. His huge lips quiver, but his bloodshot eyes light up.

“Faerborn not like this place.”

“Yes, I know. I know. Just hang on for a little while longer.”

“Faerborn hang on Alana.”

He means that literally.

His legs go straight out suddenly, his feet slamming into the far wall. My body falls as though the cliff I’ve been gripping with my fingernails just gave way. I’m hanging onto his shoulders, and before I can take a breath, his powerful arms have me locked to his chest. My feet barely reach his thighs.

It smells in here, this forest of vomit-splattered, tangled fur.

“No, no, Faerborn. I came back to check on you. You have to let me go so that I can go back. Darra is the one who made you sick. I’ll take care of him. Let go, now…darling.”

That moves him. His grasp loosens, I push backward, and plant my bare feet on his wooly thighs.

“Not let ship crash?” he asks.

“Of course not. That’s why I must go back, Faerborn.”

The sound of a groan from Mother interrupts. Glancing over my shoulder, I see her trying to sit up, her hair disheveled, wild strands covering the left side of her face.

“See to my parents, please, Faerborn. If you can. Help them—but be gentle. We’re nearly home. I’ll be back, I promise.”

He moans, but this mutated son of two normal, human cave-dwellers—who I’m still not certain didn’t abandon him after I was thrown out of their rock chambers deep below the surface, and he followed—has a childish, but iron constitution. He can be a little rough, because he has no idea of his strength; he might crush Mother to death. But on the other hand, since his Alana has asked him, he’ll do it…as gently as he is able.

My dear giant isn’t particularly fond of Sant. I understand, and so does Sant. The rival for affections thing on Faerborn’s end. Still, he is loyal, with a heart ten times the size of his burly chest, especially when it comes to anything Alana. Oh how I wish there was someone as soul-beautiful as he. Some terribly ugly female, shunned and lonely. Some mutant just waiting for his entry into her life. Not likely we’ll find someone made by the cruel gods just for him, though. Such a pity. So unfair.

 

Sant is crouched forward a little with his hands on the panel in front of his seat, staring through the window. A few feet away, Darra sits placidly, guiding the Helicere down. We have descended several hundred feet, maybe more. I see the mish-mash of ratty hovels, the dirt roads winding to and fro among them, and one section of the tall stone wall that wraps around Black like a huge snake. Women with raggedly-clothed children at their sides stand, staring up, as though a god or a demon is swooping down upon them. One or two of them point up. I can almost read the shock in their eyes, feel the muscles constricting on their fear-filled, haggard faces.

Out there to the left, the escort ships keep pace with us. Darra has once again put the headset on, and I notice he twists his head to look out. I don’t know if he has communicated with them—I hope Sant was smart enough to prevent that, but I'll take advantage, anyway.

“Tell them to leave,” I say. Darra reacts with surprise. Turns to me. I take the knife from Sant’s hand and point it at Darra. “Now.”

“I have a guest on board,” he says clearly after a few seconds pass. “She has a knife at my throat. She wants you to back off a litt…”

I cut him off, leaning close to his face, shouting into the little black dot hanging close to his mouth. “Go back to your filthy city immediately! If you try to land…if you do anything at all other than leave, I’ll kill him.”

Darra turns his face to the window at his left. I raise my eyes, follow his gaze. Over there, the Helicere escort is close enough for me to see into the cockpit. A man in uniform has his face turned to us. Beyond that ship another keeps pace. I don’t know if Darra has mouthed some command, but after a few seconds he nods his head backward, and then the ship closest to us rises sharply and banks away, followed by the other.

“They’re leaving!” I hear Sant say.

I watch as the second ship floats up and back, disappears from view,  and wonder how far they’ll go.

Darra cruises very slowly onward. I recognize every dirt road and pathway we pass, every splotch of houses, every stunted tree, every weed and piece of discarded trash it seems. How many times did I walk these streets of sorrow?

“Put us down right there,” I say to Darra, pointing to a wide space just outside the first mounds of garbage, smoldering trash, and children standing atop some of it looking up at us in shock. They’re so young. I doubt any of them knows yet what these flying machines are built to do for their masters. I have a terrible feeling in my stomach that soon enough they’ll find out.

We touch down in a cloud of swirling dust with a slight bump. I’m home.

 

THREE

 

We settle in. The dust begins to clear. I can hear bursts of squealing from the children outside as they replace fear with curiosity, and one after another approach the ship warily. My first impulse is to yank the headset off Darra and destroy it, but Mondra and Tereka won’t be here. I’ll need to find out where they are, then have Darra send for them.

“Make the ramp go down.”

First things first. I want my parents out of the hold and allowed to return to our home half a mile back. I haven’t yet heard about Jeren’s fate. Maybe the little guy is still there, fending for himself.

Poor Faerborn. He needs fresh air, the comfort of solid earth—and a bath. That might present a problem. There isn’t a washtub in all of Black large enough to contain even half his body. It will have to be the pond a mile or so outside the west wall, close to the mine entrance. Or a spit bath, which might take days to complete.

First things first.

“Call whoever has my sisters,” I say to Darra. “Tell them to send Mondra and Tereka here, alone. They had better be unhurt for your sake.”

Darra hedges. He must be thinking that once they’re free I’ll no longer need his services. I need to emphasize the seriousness of my demand. I lay the knife on his inner thigh.

“Sant, take hold of his shoulders. Don’t let him move.

“Now, Darra, make that call. I’ll start cutting right here, and make my way up until you do what I say.”

The color in his face vanishes. His mouth drops open as he stares sideways at me. “Darra here. Send the girls…” Sant laughs.

“Good show, Alana! I didn’t know you had it in you.”

He and Demi and Tamra had no moment of hesitation back on Folly when it came to putting arrows into the necks and heads of the Jades dragging little Keeva down the long trail toward the compound. That ambush made me hide my eyes. That was before I met Marcus and Miz Aloor in their horror chamber. Before the Jades torched Sant’s home high in the mighty trees, and everyone in it. I do have it in me.

Another small problem. I hear screaming outside, and through the windows on either side and in front of us, kids are shooting away in every direction. That could only mean one thing—Faerborn has found his way out. Oh, I didn’t even consider what would happen if he left the ship alone!

“Sant,” I say shoving the knife at him, “Faerborn is loose! Keep President Creep occupied here until I see what’s happening out there.” I know Sant would have no compunction about removing Darra’s head after what his thugs did to Catanar.

I’m through the narrow door and into the hold in a breath. Mother has Father under his shoulder, wearily helping him onto the ramp. I flash by them. “Home, Mother.” That’s all I have time to say.

There he is, more frightened, I think, than the children scattered like a jar of marbles spilled on a tabletop. He is a nine foot-tall ruggish statue, except that his fingers are flexing nervously. No, he could never hurt any of them. I bolt down the ramp, run to him in full view of everyone, and throw my arms around his trembling waist. Oh, the smell!

“It’s okay, Faerborn. Don’t be frightened! The children have never seen someone as tall as you. Give them a minute, won’t you? Very soon they’ll love you as much as Sant and I do!”

“Faerborn not like…”

Yes, yes, I know. This will take time, but given we aren’t slaughtered by invading Polit troops in the days ahead, the fear will leave both sides. Children are so much more adaptable than adults to…oddities. Once the shock has subsided, they’ll take to him like honey to a bees’ nest. He won’t be able to keep them off him. That is, after I clean him up and shower him with affection in front of them.

I turn and address the children. “This is Faerborn, my friend! I want each of you to run quickly to your wells. Fill your buckets with water and come back. Quickly, now. Go!”

First things first.

Slowly, and then like shooting stars, they begin to vanish, back to their hovels to retrieve gallons of water—I hope—and not pitchforks.

“Bring scrub brushes and towels and bars of soap!”

Faerborn seems baffled, watching them scatter. I wonder how much he is regretting having said yes to my plea for him to come home with me? Now I am regretting it, but it’s done.

They will love him. That’s the good thing. I know they will. And his natural inclination will be to love them ten times as much. He had no home on Folly. Only a dreary cavern, a doting mother and spineless father. I made the right call.

“Little ones not like Faerborn,” he whimpers. “Why?”

“No, Faerborn. They’re just a little scared.