Day 2
I have no idea how many hours I sat there, in the dark, the rain pounding down on me. I eventually cried myself out, but couldn't get back to sleep, or even persuade myself to lie down again. I had just about convinced myself that I'd gone completely blind for some reason, when I noticed that I could see the outline of the nearest tree in front of me.
My waking nightmare of becoming a near-worthless work slave dissolved, and my spirits rose momentarily. But I plunged into despair again when I thought about my friends at the Academy. I started crying again, thinking about being a Hanging Boy and then losing all that.
Somehow, an image of Andrew, smirking at my fate, drew me out of my funk. My depression vanished in a hot flash of anger. He can't beat me! I insisted to myself. I can't let him beat me.
The rain had subsided to a light sprinkle, gave way to a heavy fog. I could only see about ten feet. Maybe that's good, I decided. Nobody can see me.
I roused myself enough to crawl to the still-rushing river for a drink. I had no idea whether it was the same one I'd been following yesterday, but if it was, at least I was on the opposite bank, so I'd made some progress.
I stood up and started walking, looking for food. After a time I saw one of the nut trees looming in the fog, and sat down to begin gathering nuts.
I piled about a dozen of them beside the trunk, and picked up a heavy rock to smash the shells. I scooted back against the trunk, then noticed something hard under my buttock, and brushed at the offending spot with my hand.
I bent down for a closer look. It wasn't a rock, as I'd assumed. It was an oval of steel. I pulled up on it; it was a link in a chain, half-buried in the mud.
The chain was wrapped around the base of the tree trunk, slightly below ground level and covered in dirt so it couldn't be seen. I carefully traced the chain in the other direction, away from the tree.
I gasped as I found the platter-like shape it connected to. My first impression was of a bear trap, but as I uncovered more of the device from the mud and ivy concealing it, I was more puzzled. It was about eighteen inches across, eight-sided like a stop sign, each side having a metal rod enclosed in a spring projecting out from one corner in line with the side. I wasn't sure what the purpose was but I took the fist-sized rock I'd picked up for cracking shells and dropped it on the middle of the platter.
Even though I expected something of the sort, I was still startled when the spring-loaded rods simultaneously shot along the edges of the plate, closing to form an unbroken octagon an inch above the periphery of the platter. I tried to pull one back to its original position, but it was now locked in place.
Suddenly, I realized the purpose of the trap, and I tossed it away from me in alarm. No!! I came so close to stepping on that without ever seeing it!
The trap had been invisible to me as I walked around the tree gathering nuts. I'd only noticed it when I accidentally sat on the chain securing it to the tree. If I had stepped onto the middle of the trap, one of the rods would have shot across directly over my hobble chain, and trapped the chain between the rod and the platter.
No doubt slaves did run away on occasion, despite the hobble chains and the vigilant dogboys watching them. Slaves were worth too much to want to injure them so they couldn't work. This trap was designed so that it wouldn't hurt a runaway slave, it would simply catch his hobble chain, and hold him where he was until he could be reclaimed.
I tried desperately to release the rods, any one of the eight. All were locked in place. I saw keyholes in the mechanism. Whoever had put this trap here could come and unlock it. I sat fiddling with the trap, my breakfast forgotten for the moment. I realized that I simply couldn't open the trap without the key. If it had caught me, I would have been stuck by this tree until somebody came to let me go.
There was food in the tree, which indeed was probably the reason that particular tree had been selected — it would attract a runaway trying to live off the land. But the food would only last so long. A few days, at the most, and I would have consumed all of the nuts I could reach.
And if I couldn't get myself loose, then what? Starve?
Shivering, I shook my head. There was no question in my mind about priorities. I would call for help, would scream myself hoarse if I had to. I was close enough to the farm I saw yesterday to be heard from there. My guess was that the farmers there had set the trap here. That farm would become my new home for the rest of my life. But even a lifetime of strenuous drudgery as a work slave, was better than dying alone, my fur left to rot and be torn by animals. My whole life had no meaning if I couldn't end it as clothing for other anthros, giving them protection and luck. Even if it meant protecting the horrible slaveowners of Purity Island.
I had no doubt that any prey species would feel the same. To be fur is the reason we are here, I reminded myself. Not that I needed the reminder; it was the central fact of every prey anthro's existence.
I've got to figure out what to do, I told myself, and I'll think better on a full stomach.
I reached for the rock again and began cracking nuts.
Wishing I had a toothpick, I hugged my knees, biting my lip in thought. I'm not going anywhere until I can figure out how to be safe from these traps.
It seemed reasonable to assume I hadn't found the only slave trap on the entire island. They must be scattered all around. It had been a complete accident that I had discovered this one before springing it. I might not be so lucky next time.
I still have some hopes of getting home, but as soon as I step on one of these things, all that hope is instantly gone.
If I could somehow...
As the fog had begun clearing, I could see more of the world around me, and I noticed the creeping vine spiraling up a nearby tree trunk as if the tree were a barber pole. I'd been seeing the things all along the way, but hadn't given them much attention.
I sprang to my feet and walked awkwardly toward the tree, bent over to hold my hobble chain off the ground. I can't keep walking this way, but I won't need to. Solution right here. I reached the tree safely, knelt and scraped several square feet in front of the trunk to make sure I hadn't missed one of the mechanisms, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Reaching as high as I could along the trunk, I pulled the vine away from the trunk — it was clingy, but it gave. It was too thick to cut through it with my fingernails, so I picked up a rock and used it to break the vine. I unwound about ten feet of it, and broke it off at the far end.
I wrapped it around my waist at the center, and tied it in a knot in front of my stomach. After a moment's thought, I slipped it around my waist so that the knot was in back. I bent down then, lifted up the center link in my hobble chain, and tied the loose ends of the vine around the link. The vine would now hold the entire chain off the ground as I walked. If I stepped on a trap now, it would miss the chain. As an added bonus, the chain wouldn't get snagged on rocks any more. I'd nearly tripped a hundred times, already. No more of that. The one problem was that I'd have to take even shorter steps than before; I couldn't stretch the chain could out in a straight line. I was willing to pay that cost.
With a feeling of accomplishment, I resumed my journey along the bank of the river.
The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with moisture. I'd been creeping along for perhaps an hour, listening more intently than before, after yesterday's near-disaster. My carefulness was rewarded when I identified an unexpected sound as one that seemed very much out of place. It seemed to be children laughing, shouting — playing.
Oh, right. Not out of place at all. I realized I was close to a breeding farm.
I dropped to my stomach and crept forward on my elbows and knees. The river I'd been following upstream was coming from under a wooden fence, about forty feet long. Where the fence crossed over the river, vertical metal bars projected downward from the bottom of the fence into the water. No kids getting out that way. Assuming the thought of escaping even occurs to them. The fenced pens holding various age groups were the entire world for the youngsters inside them.
The fence made a right turn, then went on for at least a hundred, maybe two hundred yards. In front of the fence there was a well-trodden walkway of packed dirt. At its far end, two slaveboys were struggling to pull a heavily-laden wheeled cart. Probably food for the pens. The slaveboys were accompanied by two dogboys. As I watched, both slaveboys pushed several buckets of what I assumed were food through a window-like opening in the fence. They received an equal number of buckets in return. Full of waste, probably. And the waste is probably used for fertilizing the fields.
I won't be following this river any farther. There's probably more of the co-op beyond the end of the breeding farm pens. I don't want to check to find out.
I turned to the side and crawled for some time before I felt safe enough to stand up again. I started walking again, looking for another river to follow.
At my second stop for food, I stepped on a trap. I stifled a shriek as the rods snapped closed, but the missed my hobble chain because of the vines.
Day 3
The rain had started up near nightfall the previous day, this time with lightning and thunder. I'd spent a sleepless night huddled against a tree trunk. As before, the rain was slowed by the leaves but it still poured down on me. The absolute blackness of the night was interrupted by frequent lightning flashes, showing my surroundings in near-blinding, split-second images. Each flash was followed by a rattling boom that echoed through the trees.
At daybreak the rain had slacked off to a tolerable drizzle. I spent an hour or so gathering nuts and peaches for breakfast, and thought about the increased danger of trying to travel on inadequate sleep. After eating I sighed and tore some limbs out of the middle of a nearby bush. Then I crawled into the hiding place I'd made, and immediately fell asleep.
I woke up feeling groggy but better, ate again, and resumed walking. But sunset came in just over an hour. The heavy cloud cover made the night nearly pitch-black, so I curled up on the ground in a dense stand of trees, and finished catching up on sleep.
Day 4
I woke up crying. I'd been dreaming about a practice session with Zuchter, and now I was feeling overwhelmed by how much I missed the boys, missed the excitement and commitment to purpose so central to life at the Academy. Above all, I missed hanging.
I sat up and peevishly adjusted the vine so it wouldn't chafe my waist so much. I hated having to wear it, but I needed it to keep me out of the traps. As I pulled at the vine, I had an idea.
The one vine isn't strong enough. But there are plenty more.
I didn't even wait until after breakfast. I jumped up and looked around for a tree with vines. There, that one.
I worked up a sweat in the warm, humid air, but I soon had three ten-foot lengths of vine strung out along the ground. I started braiding them together, and only stopped when my stomach finally insisted on some attention. I ate quickly and returned to work.
I looked around, again, for just the right arrangement of trees... there! There were any number of fallen logs amid the standing trees in all parts of the forest. So far, they had just been obstructions for me to walk around or step over. I found one beside a tree with a perfectly-placed overhanging branch.
I tied a slip knot in one end of my impromptu rope, flung the other end over the branch and secured it. My heart was pounding. This was the first excitement I had felt on the island, I stepped onto the log and slipped the noose over my head. I had nothing to use to tie my hands, and I didn't want to without a hanging partner, so I simply clasped them tightly behind my back. Almost too excited to breathe properly, I closed my eyes, spent a moment calming myself, and carefully stepped off the log.
At once, all of the tension, all of the fear, all of the worries fled, replaced by a feeling of being... at home. No matter what horrors the future might hold, as long as I could hang, I felt better. After a few minutes, I started a practice drill including several of the new elements Zuchter and I had been working on — I couldn't do full kicks with the hobble chain, but I could easily manage Zuchter's feet-tied moves.
At last I reluctantly stepped back onto the log, and reached up to the branch to steady myself. My internal clock told me I'd been hanging for thirteen minutes. I could have gone longer, but I didn't want to overdo it. This was my first session in five days.
I untied the rope from the branch, wrapped it around my waist and tied it in place. There was no way I would leave it behind. Feeling it around me warmed the cold, desolate place inside me that the island's heat couldn't reach.
Around midday, patches of blue showed through the clouds for the first time in three days. I lunched on peaches, sitting in the welcome shade beneath the tree that had grown them. Lunch had the lighthearted feeling of a picnic. I wished I could share it with Maverick, and soon lost myself in a reverie of what Maverick and I would talk about on this picnic, the laughs we would share, the love we would make. Finally, I stood up and went on.
I froze suddenly in mid-step, holding my breath. The lightness ahead had resolved itself into a clearing much larger than those I'd been skirting around. I slowly crept closer, and saw that I had reached my immediate goal — the island's central mountain ridge. I'd been walking up a gentle slope for some time.
I dropped to my stomach and crawled as close to the forest's edge as I could without breaking cover. My feeling of success gradually gave way to stunned helplessness. I hadn't been picturing it like this.
I wasn't an expert in geology, or botany, or any other field that might explain what I was seeing. The mountains must be a different type of rock from the part of the island covered with forest growth.
The mountains were devoid of plant life, as far as I could see, unless there were some ground-hugging lichens not visible at this distance. The forest ended in a sharp boundary. Just past the last trees, a natural wall of rock, about three feet high at this point, served as a step up to the barren surface leading to the foothills. Between the step and the mountains was a strip of land about a hundred feet wide, as naked of plant life as the mountains themselves.
The mountains weren't very high, and might more properly be called hills. That agreed with my memory that they reached a maximum altitude of about five hundred feet. And they were certainly climbable — they weren't impossibly steep, and there were plenty of rocks of various sizes, useable as handholds and footholds. But they may as well have been five hundred miles high, as far as I was concerned.
From the moment I stepped out onto that strip of land I'd have no cover at all. I'd be seen easily by anyone looking in my direction, and there's no imaginable reason for my being there, all alone, other than that I'm a runaway slave.
And there were indeed people around to observe me. I watched as a wagon approached from my left on a path along the base of the mountains. Six slaveboys were pushing the wagon, three on each side. A predator sat on a raised seat in the wagon and steered. Behind him, the the wagon was stacked with what appeared to be preyskins. Two dogboys rode along, at present resting among the preyskins.
Each slaveboy was pushing on a wooden bar projecting out from the side of the wagon, his wrist cuffs chained to the bar. They were the first slaves (except dogboys) I had seen without hobble chains. They did have the ankle cuffs, though, and would no doubt be hobbled prior to being released from the wagon. Their legs were obviously very strong, and they pushed the wagon on the level path with little obvious effort. This is probably their permanent job.
They must be going to push that thing over the mountains. Preyskins are one of the main items of trade with the mainland, and they've got to be taking those to one of the trading posts. All of which are on the other side of the mountains.
There has to be a path, a trail through the mountains. Anybody can climb these mountains, but not pushing a wagon like that.
Directly in front of me, the wagon clattered as it passed over a wooden bridge above the small river I'd been following. The river was dry now, but would be running again as soon as the rain started again.
I've got to find that mountain trail.
I withdrew a little farther into the woods; I didn't need to follow the wagon to find the trail. It would be safer to wait until the wagon was well out of sight.
I waited, then began walking, parallel to the edge of the forest, a safe distance within the trees.
After about an hour, I froze again and hid behind a tree. A wagon came toward me, traveling the opposite direction from the earlier one. I couldn't make out what this one was carrying, but it had some boxes along the edge clearly labeled as wine. I waited until the wagon was out of sight, then continued on my way.
My progress was frustratingly slow. I had to take small steps because of the hobble chain, and stop frequently to listen for any sounds of intelligent habitation. Then I came to another co-op, and had to take a long detour around it. By the time I got back to the forest-mountain boundary, night was falling. Sighing, I gathered dinner, and curled up on the ground for another long night.
Day 5
Heavy clouds were rolling across the sky once again as I awoke. I gathered some breakfast, and set off another trap under one of the nut trees. Not surprisingly, the things were always near a co-op. Maybe sometime one would warn me of a co-op I hadn't noticed. Ironic if the traps could be useful that way. There was no flowing water, but I drank from a small pond.
I retreated a few hundred yards deeper into the forest for hanging exercise, incorporating Holden's stair stepping move into my practice routine. The hobble chain allowed it, though I worried the chain might be making too much noise. I let myself down after sixteen minutes, sweaty but refreshed, glowing in the euphoria from my practice session.
I was about to continue my journey along the forest edge, but discovered I had passed my goal while circling the co-op. There, directly opposite the co-op, was the trail over the mountains I'd been seeking.
I sighed heavily. I had tried to stay optimistic; the mountain trail would at least be something different, and anything different had the potential for being useful.
I shook my head at the work that must have gone into creating the trail. I'd been expecting something more natural, but this was obviously the result of years of heavy labor with picks and shovels by long-dead slaves. The trail rose gently and smoothly along the side of the mountain, about ten feet wide, leveling off about every hundred yards, becoming wider at the level points. At first I thought those were resting areas, but then I realized they were probably designed so that wagons traveling opposite directions could pass each other. There was a wagon coming down, flanked by slaveboys. Their hands were chained to the bars like the wagons I'd seen earlier. Their muscles strained as they worked to control the wagon's downhill motion.
No way I can go that way. There was no cover for me whatsoever. I noticed another wagon approaching the base of the trail for the trip upward. The traffic practically guaranteed there would always be someone around who would spot me the instant I came out of the forest.
I spent some time considering whether it would be possible to cross over at night. I had no idea what phase the moon was in — I hadn't spent much time watching the sky when the cloud cover cleared off. If I can get enough moonlight to see where I'm going, that may mean I can be seen... and if I do start out with enough light, there's no telling when the clouds might roll back in, leaving me totally blind halfway up the mountain. The trail up and down is probably three or four miles, and in complete darkness I'd have to feel my way along it on hands and knees — probably in a driving rainstorm — and I'd probably run out of night before I finished, leaving me out there for the world to see.
And I'll definitely need some light to find the start of the trail. I can see where it is now, but to find it at night, I've got to have moonlight. And it's right across from that co-op. I can't even get started before I'm seen.
I have to get over, I told myself again and again. I have to get over. I can never get home if I don't.
I felt tears coming on again.
I wondered briefly whether I could circle around the mountains at their northern or southern tip. Then I remembered the lowlands on either side of the mountain sank below sea level at the North and South ends of the island, and disappeared into the ocean. The only way around the mountains was by swimming. That would be suicide: the pounding surf would smash me into the rocks as soon as I set out.
I moaned quietly. The mountains were seeming, more and more, like a permanent roadblock to any possible rescue.
But I hadn't seen their entire length. There still might be a place I can cross. I'm not giving up until I've seen the whole mountain range. All forty miles of it. I shuddered.
What I can't do is stay here. There's no escape route here. I can't find one unless I move. So let's get started.
I didn't want to go back around that same co-op again, so I continued going the same direction as before.
Day 6
It had been raining all morning, but let up around what felt like midday — at least my stomach was telling me it was lunchtime. I detoured to the nearest peach tree I could see.
I'd started a pile with two peaches and was reaching for a third when alarm bells clamored in my head: I heard an unfamiliar sound.
I looked down and felt like squealing in terror.
A dogboy was trotting toward me, scowling.
My mind seized up, but one thought trickled through: how much the dogboy looked like Shaw. Except not with that glowering expression.
I opened my mouth and closed it, not sure saying anything would help. Not sure anything at all would help. I couldn't outrun a dogboy, not hobbled as I was. I considered myself the world's least violent person, but I wondered whether I could attack the dogboy, knock him unconscious.
I held up my hands, instead, in a gesture of defenselessness, and began backing away. The dogboy growled then and bared his teeth, in uncanny imitation of a real dog. To my astonishment, I saw that the dogboy's front teeth had been filed to sharp points. I hadn't heard about that.
I gasped at the sound of another growl behind me. It came from a second dogboy, this one with his short hair in tight blonde curls, his rounded, dimpled face belonging more to a cute doll than the vicious animal he sounded like.
I felt overwhelmed with sudden nausea. It's over, it's over. I'm caught. I was trembling so violently I almost couldn't stand. Every scene of heavy slaveboy labor I had seen, and every one I had merely imagined, flashed through my head in an instant.
The new dogboy approached me and barked twice, as the first began circling around to join it. The dogboys worked together to force me toward what must be the co-op they belonged to. Now that I knew to look for it, I could make out a farm cabin at a distance through the trees. There was also a brief flash of skin of a slaveboy working in a field just beyond the cabin.
After the sound of the bark, I heard a stirring within the trees just ahead of me. Looking that direction I saw a male, not much older than me, based on his build and the not-quite-finished look of his face. He was wearing the usual leather outfit of vest, shorts, floppy hat, and moccasins, a bag by his side held by a strap over his shoulder. His shoulder-length, unevenly cut headfur was astonishingly black, and the fur on his face had an almost coppery color. It really was an extraordinarily attractive face, if I hadn't been so frightened by its mere presence. Even beautiful, a word not often applied to males. Native islander blood? I wondered. There was supposedly some of it still around, as far as anyone knew.
The male patted the first dogboy on the head, and reached into his bag, pulling out several strips of meat. My mouth watered involuntarily. The male offered a strip to each of the dogboys, who snapped it up enthusiastically, chewing it eagerly, swallowing, and looking up for more. The male began walking in the direction of the farm, gesturing to the dogboys with more meat held out to them. As they approached, he tossed it farther toward the farm, and spoke his first word, "Go." He patted the nearer dogboy on the rump as he passed; both dogboys scampered after the food.
The youngster approached me and walked right past me, away from the farm, back in the direction I had come from. He beckoned to me and said, "Come on." The words were spoken in an odd accent, but were easy to understand in context. I followed him: I was perfectly willing to go that direction. It was better than waiting to see if the dogboys wanted to make me their dessert. He broke into a run, looked back, and stopped with a chuckle when he saw I couldn't follow at that pace.
I followed him as quickly as I could. I just didn't understand what was going on. Even through my astonishment, something was niggling at the back of my mind, something that didn't seem right. The way that hat fitted his head was just a little off.
The young male ducked suddenly between two bushes, gesturing at me to follow him in. I did, but thought to myself, okay, this is getting too weird. Nothing is making any sense here.
I began to speak. A brusque "Shhh!" from the male stopped me. I waited, listening for the sound of the dogboys returning, and with a strong impression that this male was listening for the same thing.
At last the is male nodded briefly, rose, and gestured again for me to follow. This time he seemed to be more interested in quiet than speed, and I was easily able to keep pace. When I thought we had put gone far enough from the farm and dogboys, I asked very quietly, feeling almost sure of the answer, "Are... are you...?" I gestured at my slave hardware.
He stopped in mid-stride and spun toward me with a look of shock. "You know?" The accent again. But the male's face said it all. And I realized what was weird about the hat: it was covering up horns. The male must be some sort of short-horned antelope.
I immediately understood what was bothering him. I held up my hands. "It's okay, it's okay! I was never sure. I just started thinking that. I'm from somewhere else. Nobody from around here would notice." I was pretty sure of that. It probably never occurred to anybody here to question whether somebody was what they seemed. And I still couldn't fathom how this antelope could be where he was, dressed as he was — dressed at all, for that matter. With no metal cuffs or collar. "And I won't tell anybody. Please believe me, I would never tell anybody!"
He seemed to relax, slowly and reached toward his bag. "You hungry?"
Meat! Real preymeat! I breathed, "Oh, yes!!"