Binary by Jay Caselberg (best short books to read txt) 📖

Sandon took the proffered mug. "And what about you? I know you are Alise. But what else? Alise what?" She hesitated, looking slightly confused. "Oh, I forgot," he said. "Badrae told me. You don't have family names."

"No, we are all one family here."

"Well, you can call me Sandon," he said. "Just Sandon is fine."

He took a tentative sip at the mug, expecting the worst. It didn't taste too bad, after all, slightly earthy, but not too bad. He took another sip.

She fussed around the shelves, looking for something, then returned with a pot and a small wooden spatula.

"Sit still," she said. "I am going to apply an ointment to those cuts on your face. It will stain the skin, but you must keep it there. It will make sure there's no infection."

He hadn't even been aware of the smaller cuts, but as she first patted his skin clean with a moist cloth, and then dabbed the preparation over his forehead, he very quickly knew they were there. Everywhere she smeared the ointment, there was a sharp hot stinging, tracing the lines of damage. The cut that ran across his cheek and over his nose burned like fire and he sucked air in through his teeth. Finally she sat back, inspecting her handiwork and nodded.

"When you have finished that, we will find you somewhere where you can stay undisturbed and I can look in on you, but take your time. There's no hurry. Give it time to work." She moved to sit cross-legged on the sleep pallet, watching him.

"So what are you doing here?" Sandon asked, after another sip. He reached up with one hand to probe his injured face, but quickly withdrew it in response to a stern look.

"We are where we are, where the Prophet takes us."

Sandon slowly lowered the mug. "But I thought you believed the cities and all they represent were evil. Why so many of you so close to Yarik?"

"We are where we are."

"But -- "

Alise shook her head. "Drink."

Sandon bit off his next question and took another sip at the medicinal brew. He was itching to find out more, but she was right, he was in no real state for logical thought. Despite his curiosity, the pounding still thumped inside his head. Better to drink whatever it was she had prepared for him and let it do its work if it was going to do anything. Then he remembered. On the journey to the camp, Badrae had mentioned a healer, but he had the distinct impression that whoever it was had been a man.

"So," he said. "Are you the healer?"

"I help in that regard. I am not alone in this task. We share the work amongst those with the knowledge."

Sandon nodded and immediately regretted the action. He grimaced and returned to the brew, feeling slightly uncomfortable under Alise's gaze.

By the time he was nearing the bottom of the mug, he was already starting to feel something. The dull throbbing in his head was beginning to subside, the ache in his shoulder had diminished, and suddenly he was overcome with a strange feeling of unreality. What had she done to him? He knew he should be concerned, but he just couldn't be bothered. Still she sat watching him. He took a last swallow and placed the mug down gently on the bench beside him. Alise gave a satisfied nod, stood and disappeared out the back of the wagon, motioning him to stay where he was. Moments later she returned, this time with Badrae's head following her through the canvas flaps.

"Good," he said. "Help me get him to his feet."

Badrae stepped into the wagon and with Alise's assistance, helped Sandon to stand. He felt numb, but despite the strangeness, alert. The stinging on his face had faded too. Now the skin felt merely warm. It throbbed faintly, in time to his pulse.

"Come, Sandon," said Badrae. He led him down the steps and out across a patch of open ground to a small group of tents. Sandon wobbled as he ducked to enter, Badrae guiding him down. Inside, the tent was bare, except for another simple sleeping pallet. They weren't high on comfort here. Badrae disappeared, and then reappeared moments later, bearing a large book beneath his arm. He stopped and handed to Sandon.

"Here. This will help you pass the time: The Words of the Prophet."

Sandon took the tome, wincing slightly with the weight of it. "Um, thank you," he said. Badrae watched him as he nestled the book in his lap, then, with another brief satisfied nod, ducked out of sight.

The Words of the Prophet. Just what he needed.

The book was old. Ancient yellowing leaves and a worn leather binding creaked as he turned the pages. He scanned the painfully lettered text, all hand worked, barely taking anything in. He'd been sitting for hours. From time to time, Alise had appeared, ducking beneath the tent flap, then crouching beside him to look at his face, his eyes, and poke and prod. He put up with the ministrations, instinctively knowing that she had his best interests at heart. Last time she'd visited, he had even attempted a smile, but found his face hard to move. That had been over two hours ago. Bored, and with the aches starting to return to various parts of his body, he closed his eyes. Within moments, he was starting to drift.

Bilious orange swept behind his lids. A crack and rumble. The noise of padders straining against their tethers, skittish movement, filtering through canvas walls. He opened his eyes quickly, groaned and shifted, regretting the move immediately as he put sudden pressure on his hip. Canvas walls? Flat sleeping pallet. Ancient text. What was he doing here? He lifted an arm, the wrong arm and groaned as sharp pain shot up from his elbow. His hip was sore too now, along with everything else, from where he'd been sitting on the hard ground. How could people live like this? He lifted his other arm and gingerly explored his head. The bruise was still there. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. At least the strange sense of unreality seemed to have faded a little.

More noises came from beyond the tent walls. Voices issuing commands, the sound of padders again. He felt it too, a tension in the air, an expectancy, waiting for -- what? Then suddenly, all was still. He levered himself into a more upright position as another boom and crash lanced light across the narrow space, sharp yellowish light, harsh against the deep orange. Silhouetted figures stretched against canvas walls, distorted in their length. Damn it. He wasn't supposed to be here. He had to...he had to...

He felt the first stirrings of the ground as he struggled with the thought, chasing the idea away with realization. A gentle trembling flickered through the ground beneath him. Then another. Throwing his arms back, he braced himself, waiting. One moment. Two. An eternity. Then there it was; the ground slammed up against him, throwing him flat. He sprawled, his arms offering no support at all. He knew as he bucked and rode the heaving ground that he'd have been better off staying flat. Now there was fresh pain in his shoulder, and his wrist on the other arm had been wrenched as well. He screwed his eyes tight shut, ground his teeth together and waited for the endless shaking to stop. Then it was gone.

Sandon let out a breath, took another. It wasn't over yet. Again the ground rose, taking him with it, motion shuddering through his bones. Eyes screwed tightly closed, he opened his mouth and yelled, forcing the air from his lungs, screaming into the storm of motion. Soon, soon it would end. It had to. The ground was still once more. He lay where he was panting, waiting, and waiting. It couldn't be over yet. The ground shuddered gently beneath him, again, once, twice, three times, and then all was quiet. That might have been the last of it. Very tentatively, he raised his upper body, ready to throw himself flat at the first sign of anything more.

Then came the noises. A padder screamed, then voices, called queries, the sound of feet and more shadows casting bizarre angles against the tent walls. Cautiously he poked his head outside.

One wagon lay overturned. Off on the tether line, a padder lay on the ground, its legs splayed. One or two tents had fallen, but for the most part, everything seemed intact. It hadn't been too bad then. Within the tent's confines, it had seemed enormous, but there was no sense of scale in such a confined space. In small groups and singly, Atavists, both men and women, and children too, Sandon noticed, wandered between the tents and wagons inspecting for damage. An older Atavist in homespun headed purposefully toward the tether line, a broad flat knife in his hand. Sandon looked away, not wanting to watch what was about to happen. A group of men clustered about the side of the overturned wagon, already preparing to right it. They grouped evenly around the base, around the set of wheels that faced skyward and around its ends. Then, as one, they heaved, pulling it upright. The wheels held, but its roof sagged on one side where the struts had been cracked by its impact with the ground. Sandon stood and watched, not wanting to get in the way.

"Sandon, it is you. Are you all right?"

It was Alise. He turned to face her, one eye still on the proceedings around the damaged wagon. "Yes, I think so. Thanks. But I don't think it's done my head any good."

A concerned look flickered across her face, and then she gave a shy smile and nodded. He gave a short laugh in return, then immediately wished he hadn't. "But you shouldn't be worrying about me. What about the others? Is everyone unhurt?"

She nodded, and then glanced over toward the tether line. "Yes, except for, well, whatever is the will of the Prophet." She looked back at him. "Come," she said. "You must drink another dose and keep calm."

"But isn't there anything I can do?"

"Everything will be taken care of. Now come with me."

Feeling useless, he did as he was told. The ache in his head and the throbbing through his face and body were back. She was right. He was in no real position to argue. He glanced up at the sky, still covered in thick cloud, marked by the occasional flash of light. Storm Season was going to be heavy this cycle. A quake of that force up here and so early did not bode well. Storm activity often occurred early, especially on the Yarik plateau, but this storm looked ugly. So far, the winds had not started, but they could come at any time. He turned his attention to Alise who walked unhurriedly in front of him. He wondered whether she was keeping her pace slow to spare him. It was not until they reached her wagon that she finally turned and looked at him again.

"Sandon Yl Aris. It is a strange name," she said, then gave a little frown, climbed the steps to her wagon and disappeared inside, beckoning him to follow.

The next few days progressed in much the same fashion. Sandon either stood or lay around feeling completely useless. They rode out the storm, and Sandon found himself poring for hour after hour over the text in the large book Badrae had left with him. At intervals seemingly known only to Alise, she would appear, escorting him to her wagon for more of the restorative brew. Once or twice, she washed the paste away from