The Belar (A Tale from the Gateway Worlds) Read online



  The Belar

  By

  Robin P Gilbert

  A Tale from the Gateway Worlds

  Copyright © 2011, Robin P Gilbert

  License Notes

  eBooks by Robin P Gilbert

  The Serendipity Trilogy

  Double Negative

  Single Positive

  Nothing Neutral

  ( Forthcoming in 2012 )

  Other FREE eStories by Robin P Gilbert

  Elysium

  Looking Back on the Summer of ‘87

  Speckledom Recitals

  Brightly Falling

  Tales from the Gateway Worlds

  The Magic Moonstone

  The Belar

  More coming soon!

  The firehome shone like a million gemstones but was far more valuable. Thin streaks of jade coloured fire fingered the sky attracting lost souls from miles around. Maya landed some distance away and approached rapidly on foot. As soon as she neared to within earshot she called, “I am the one known as Maya the Shepherd. Do you have room?”

  The customary delay lingered interminably. Maya’s long, thin plumes of magenta hair twitched with apprehension as thoughts of the inevitably stalking gorban, the godforsaken and nefarious beasts of the Dark Zones, grew more palpable. She had her spear; the graymany, but the stories heard from the colony scouts when they had first landed left little doubt that the opportunity to use its immeasurable power was seldom given.

  The gorban were pack hunters, only the fittest among them survived. The young were left to fend for themselves when barely weaned. The adults had long grey fangs in a blood red mouth, narrow, yellow eyes and hairs on their backs like iron needles. They could outrun most creatures, and could run and run and run, or would, conversely sit beneath a tree for as long as necessary. A bane to all shepherds, prospectors and interlopers alike.

  Even the Watchers feared them.

  But Davox, Utainium’s second moon offered many rewards for brave, hardy souls.

  “Disengage your spear,” came the order from a voice old and gravelled and weary. Instantly Maya pictured the speaker as a white bearded prospector, torn hat askew, dusty pack and blanket, assorted equipment and accoutrements all within reach. Perhaps he had the pale, white eyes from the glare of his laser drill and twisted fingers curled into perpetual fists, a lined face like rivulets seen from above, pouring into a sea like mouth, corners upturned into a mischievous smile.

  Maya closed a finger hole and the glowing tip at the graymany’s end was extinguished. There followed a feint hum, then a short hiss, then a swift folding and contracting that shrunk the graymany into a ring of obsidian. Maya slipped this upon the little finger of her left hand. Tiny prongs erupted from the ring, pierced her flesh and attached themselves to her bloodstream from which the graymany could absorb all the energy it needed. If uncalled upon, by dawn it would be recharged.

  “Welcome, Shepherd.”

  Maya approached the firehome, sat near but not too close to an old prospector that embodied her previous imaginings, and said, “I join you in peace. May the flames protect us on this cold night.” It was a standard greeting, one that had to be carefully intoned.

  The old prospector nodded, the inlets of a smile apparent. He offered no name, nor was he expected to. Trust no-one and live was not an uncommon saying amongst their strange ilk. But he did offer Maya water, which she gratefully accepted.

  “My day has been long and gruelling. Yours?” Conversation around firehomes was not compulsory. Those that frequented them, as Maya did, would often find no more than a warm blanket of protective and unbroken silence that only dispersed at dawn, when as one, all the night’s incumbents would simultaneously depart. There are many unwritten laws, an ethics of tradition, concerning firehomes which must be observed if one ever wished to return.

  But the old prospector, despite his apparent weariness, replied in a tone more commonly associated with one much younger. “My day? Better than most, my friendly young shepherd. The rivers were kind.”

  “Did they bring you treasures or enlightenment?”

  “Both fine allies, indeed, although the former excites me more, as the latter I seem to have acquired quite by accident throughout my lonely decades here. You, for instance, Maya. Shepherd, herder of the runeyan. Singer. Player of the graymany. You I’ve spied many times. Mostly from afar as you circle, watching, caring. Protecting. Often I feel jealous of those timid beasts.”

  “Jealous? Of the runeyan?”

  “Indeed. To have one such as you watching over them. Watching over me. My lore speaks of such heavenly creatures. Angels of the Guard. Watchers of the Little.”

  Maya stared as sadness dragged the old prospectors wrinkled face into a frown and felt herself inexplicable and surprisingly drawn to him, as if to the father she had heard talk of but never known. It was rare indeed that firehomes be occupied by only two, but Maya found herself hoping they might be allowed longer alone to explore each other. To learn of other ways. With such thoughts paramount, she asked, “And what of your life before... before now? What of your beginnings?”

  The old prospector raised his head very slowly and smiled. “I have forgotten.”

  Maya was unconvinced but knew better than to pry. Such were the ways of the firehome.

  An uncomfortable silence surrounded them, but soon the tension eased. Gorban howled nearby, inciting other nocturnal creatures into warning, pleading replies, if such raucous chants could be called thus.

  “I’m tired. Old and tired,” the prospector moaned, “and need my sleep.”

  Maya nodded and lay on her side. She remained awake for many hours, watching the shower of stars that skipped across the outer atmosphere, thinking of her sisters in the colony, of the runeyans she had tagged that day and those she hoped to send safely home on the next.

  Before dawn Maya was woken by the old prospector. He crouched beside her, all packed away, hat pulled down firmly on his head and obviously ready to leave. “I would like you to have this,” he whispered covertly, looking around. “I am unused to company and my old heart burns with guilt that I did not engage you further in conversation yester eve. Please, forgive me.”

  Maya accepted the pendant, brought it close to her blinking eyes and examined it. A plain leather cord held a white river stone that on closer inspection was in two halved and shut tight with a delicate clasp. Maya moved her finger towards it, but the old prospector grabbed her wrist.

  “It contains a great treasure, an unthinkable gift, my friendly shepherd. When most in need, open it. Swallow what lays within.”

  Maya stared.

  “Go in peace.” He stood, and as the first rays of sunlight cut the clear, pale sky, he left the firehome.

  Maya watched him go, her thoughts confused. Who was he? A Watcher from the stars? A simple prospector? Where does he go? How long has he been watching me?

  She placed the pendant around her neck and slipped off the ring. It detached itself from her veins without pain, without scaring. She held it in her palm and watched as the graymany lengthened. She raised it heavenward, played it expertly like a master flautist and lifted easily into the air.

  For a while she hovered, suspended effortlessly by a slender hand and arm, her thin clothing translucent, thinking, absently scanning for runeyan, for gorban. Seldom would airborne creatures approach, and most who did were small and quick to leave, although a swarm of biterflies could inflict deathly injuries.

  To the west a tall waterfall fell silently, its mesmerising shower reflecting the dawn. Mighty shoulders of orange cliff pushed heavenward to the north and south, gradually lowering to uneven arms of rock tha
t eventually slipped beneath a green blanket of woodland. Vast plains beyond the trees to the east carried slow moving shadows, animals up early and feeding. Maya played her fingers, played her graymany, spun towards the rising sun and sailed above the treetops, her bare feet occasionally brushing the soft-leafed canopy. She barely noticed her passage. Often firehomes attracted the most unusual of characters, but the old prospector was... different. Not like the unpredictable and demanding Watchers. And special, somehow. And never, for as long as she had known of or heard of or sung about had a gift exchanged hands, save that of nocturnal companionship and the grey-dawned heartfelt wishes for future success.

  So why now? Why her? What lay in the heart of the pendant? What did this prospector know that she did not? Was something afoot? Had he perchance caught wind of impending unrest? The arrival of more Watchers from their strange and distant world? So many questions.

  She was so distracted that suddenly looming below her was a great runeyan. It grazed in a drenched