Kiteman of Karanga Page 2

  As he pulled out of the dive Karl headed straight for the huge column of smoke rising in the center of the crater. Like a cloud, it would provide refuge from his pursuers; but unlike a cloud, it was poisonous to breathe. As he entered the column, wisps of vapor swept past him. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes as the smoke engulfed him. He doubted that any of Garths band would follow him through the smoke. They would fly around it, which would take longer.

  Cautiously, Karl sniffed the air. A biting pain seared his nostrils. He would not be able to stay hidden long, for he had to hold his breath and fly blind the whole time. It was impossible for any flyer to keep a wing upright for many minutes without something to look at for reference. Not disturbing his wing from what he guessed was level flight, and judging his speed by the sound of the air on the terry leather, Karl continued. He hoped he was going straight through the center of the column of smoke.

  Loud shouts came from behind him. Karl's wing began to jerk and bounce. He tried not to shift his weight as the air grew rougher. The bumps meant lift; he might even exit the smoke higher than he had entered it.

  Karl tested the air often now because he was running out of breath. The shouts behind him seemed echoes to his alarmed thoughts. He leaned forward, pulling the bar under his chest in order to go faster. His lungs screamed for air. He had to get out of the poisonous smoke quickly. His wing picked up speed. The shouts behind him became more frantic. When he didn't think he could hold his breath a second longer, Karl opened one eye slightly. Instantly, a stinging pain blinded it. He shut his eye as the wind drew the tears away. He must breathe! He let the air out of his lungs and started to inhale. The air was sweet. He opened his eyes as a few smoky swirls of vapor swept by. He had made it. He was clear now on the other side of the smoke.

  But even as he was gasping for more air, Karl realized that he was in a dive that was quickly becoming a spiral. He checked it by straightening his wing and leveling off smoothly. Then he flew back in close to the smoke, where the air was bumpy with lift. With the few moments he had gained he would climb as fast as the thermal would take him. Once he was above his pursuers, he would be free. No Karangan could catch him in a thermal.

  As Karl worked the currents at the edge of the rising column of smoke, the shouts from the other side faded. Then they were silenced by a harsh scream. Not far below Karl saw Garth come out of the smoke in a steep spiral, plummeting downward. All at once Garth righted his wing so violently that the action was immediately followed by the unmistakable sound of splintering terry bone. Now, with his wing crippled and barely controllable, Garth fluttered deeper yet, and crashed onto a tiny ledge jutting out from the crater wall. A curtain of smoke hid him as he yelled to his companions to save him.

  Karl kept climbing. By the time the hunters had come around the column of smoke, he was well above them. Although they had stopped chasing him for the moment, he knew that they would resume their hunt soon. Skimming over the crater rim, Karl flew north, paralleling the edge of the desert. He would put as much distance between himself and Garth's band as he could.

  A feeling of confidence came over him. If he could evade a dozen of Karanga's best flyers inside the crater of Angastora, he could survive on the desert. Now, however, he needed a hiding place and food and water for his journey.

  Presently Karl landed on a ridge overlooking the desert. He tied his kitewing tightly to some shrubs so that an unexpected gust wouldn't lift it up and smash it down again. Then he scouted the slope on foot until he found a small cave hidden among the rocks. Hiding his belongings in the cave, he took just his spear and knife and returned to the top of the ridge. He strapped himself back into his kitewing. One of the short-horned antelope that ranged in Karanga's valleys would provide him with all the meat he would want.

  Taking a few steps down the back side of the steep ridge, Karl dove into the air again. As he glided out over the grassland, he scanned the valley floor for game. A half mile away he spotted three antelope grazing, so he shifted his weight forward to steepen his descent and pick up speed.

  Karl could not imagine hunting on foot. Because of their kitewings, Karangans hunted over vast distances and never knew hunger. There were tales, though, of the times before they had wings, times when the people often went hungry. But they paid a high price for their easy hunting; they had to hunt the terry. Only terry skins would make a kitewing. Other animal skins were too small and far too thick and heavy. Only the terry's bones would do for the framework of a kitewing. Terry bones were hollow and light and springy, and they did not become brittle when dry. No other kind of bone nor any kind of wood was strong enough or light enough.

  The terry! Karl thought. But for the terry, he would have become a great hunter, so nearly perfect was his skill with a wing. Why had he panicked at the terry hunt? Why had he been unable to keep his courage up and just hang onto the stick? Why? He had no answer, even though the question went round and round in his mind and made him feel rotten and sick. Perhaps it would be better to be dead than to feel like this.

  But the nearness of the antelope pulled him away from his gloomy thoughts. He was coming up fast on them now, and as his shadow fell across them they looked up and bolted. Karl chose the middle animal and tracked it as it streaked across the flat terrain.

  In a moment he was directly over it. Diving steeply, he rammed his spear down into the animal's neck. The antelope stumbled and fell as Karl pulled his wing up into a climbing turn to work off his excess speed. Then he glided to a gentle landing a few feet away, slipped out of his harness, and ran to his quarry. Stepping on one horn, he cut the antelope's throat with a quick motion. In a few minutes it had stopped kicking.

  As he skinned the antelope, Karl felt lucky for having found game so close to his temporary camp. While he was waiting for the meat to dry, he would make a water sack out of the terry leather he had brought with him. It would have to be a large sack, almost half as tall as he was, but he knew that the terry leather would hold the weight and that water would stay fresh in it for days.

  Karl cut the meat into thin strips for drying. As he worked he glanced back at Angastora in the distance. It had been Bron who had told him the trick of flying close to the plume to get lift while being careful to stay out of the deadly smoke. A wave of grief overcame him. Bron was in his every thought and action. He could do nothing that did not recall him. "It was my fault," the great hunter had said. But Karl blamed himself. Knowing that his failure had caused the death of his teacher and friend made him wonder why he was even bothering to make preparations to survive the journey. He should just fly out into the desert!

  But his hunter's training made his hands keep working. He tied the cut-up meat in the skin, folded his kitewing, and began the hike back to his temporary camp. He searched the sky constantly as he walked, for if he were spotted by Garth's wingmen now, he would be vulnerable.

  Outside the cave, Karl made a rack out of brush and hung the strips of antelope meat to dry. In a couple of days the meat would be hard, and it would keep for months. He threw the antelope skin on the ground for a bed and then took out a sheet of terry leather and began sewing a water bag. As he worked he kept one eye on the sky. He would not let Garth catch him unawares again.

  3. The Foreboding Desert

  A few days later, Karl climbed to the top of the ridge behind his campsite. He stood in the shade of a boulder and scanned the midmorning sky. At first he felt relieved to see the blue sky clear of any specks, but suddenly a large shadow passed across the rocks. Karl dove under the boulder and peered out.

  Three kitewings flew silently above him and continued on their way. With a stifled gasp of relief, Karl realized that he had not been seen. Across the valley, he spotted another flight of three wings low down, ridge soaring, and searching as the first group was doing. Garth's posse was making a major effort to rout him out and there was not a moment to waste. He raced back to his campsite.

  Karl worked quickly. His preparations for the deser
t crossing were complete. He gathered up his hunting kit, lashed his water bag to the frame of his kitewing, and got into the straps. Then he forced himself to look at the desert. There was no time to delay; at any moment, one of the hunting parties might reappear. Taking a running start downhill, Karl launched his heavily loaded wing toward the desert, diving down the slope until he had speed enough to move out over the flat expanse and search for thermals.

  Nobody would follow him now.

  All afternoon, Karl flew west. By late in the day, Karanga had fallen beneath the eastern horizon. Yet, as Karl squinted against the lowering sun, he could see no break in the desert, only the immense flatness that seemed to go on forever. The thermals were weakening as the sun sank, and Karl knew he was on his last glide of the day.

  A short while later, Karl's wing flared back and settled. He touched the ground running. Then he slowed down and stopped. He climbed from the straps and rubbed his stiff muscles. The desert was absolutely still. There was no breeze, no chirping of insects, nothing. There was only a quiet as vast as the desert itself. Here and there, the sand had been heaped into little dunes a foot or two high, and in the distance he saw some rocks as big as crouched men.

  As the sun began to set Karl dismantled his wing. When wrapped in its own leather, the wing made a long bundle that he could carry on one shoulder. He rested, sipped some water, and chewed a piece of dried antelope meat. As he ate he sensed that something was lurking in the gathering darkness, but he decided it must be his imagination. As long as he kept moving, no harm would come to him. His plan was to hike west all night and sleep during the hot day. When dawn came, he would have to find shelter. If he had to, he could set up his kitewing and use it to shade himself from the fierce sun.

  Karl hoisted the water sack onto his back and put his arms through the straps. Then he shouldered his other two sacks. Finally, he lifted his wing to the other shoulder. It was a heavy burden. He wondered how long he would be able to carry it and what he would be forced to leave behind first. But as he considered this, he resolved that he would never abandon his wing. His water bag would go first.

  It was difficult walking on the sandy surface with such a load, but the effort warmed him despite the desert night chill. He continued west, following the beak of the plunging constellation Terry, remembering grimly that it was the beak of a real terry that had caused him to panic and had cost the life of his teacher. But Bron had been more than a teacher and a friend. Bron had taken over Karl's training and had guided him after Karl's own father had declared him a failure and refused to teach him those things that a Karangan father normally taught his son. Though Karl's father was famous for his daring and had once saved the chief's life, he was also known for his lack of patience.

  "Hopeless, you are completely hopeless," Karl's father shouted at him in front of the entire village when Karl was afraid to take his first step off in a kitewing. His father walked away, but a few minutes later Bron, the great hunter, went over to him. Karl remembered being too embarrassed to look up.

  "Wrap up your wing and come with me," was all Bron said.

  Terrified, Karl did as he was told—a boy did not disobey a great hunter. Karl was convinced that Bron was going to stake him out for terry bait as they hiked several miles up the valley, away from the village. Then Bron sat him down.

  "With your slight build, you could be one of the best flyers in Karanga," Bron said with a friendly smile. "Go ahead and set up your wing."

  All afternoon Bron worked with him, and finally he was gliding down the slope. Every day after that, when Bron had time, they went up the valley and Bron gave him more lessons in flying. Soon Bron brought his own kitewing, and Karl learned to soar from thermal to thermal. After nearly a year of training, they flew to the village together.

  Karl's father, jealous of Bron's attention to Karl and angry because he failed to teach his own son to fly, said nothing, but Bron told Karl that he was a good flyer now. And, more importantly, Karl knew he was good.

  Karl's training did not stop there. Bron required better performance from him—tighter, snappier maneuvers, more and more thermaling, and more cross-country flights. When he was able to keep up with Bron at all times, Bron began to demand more still.

  "You can do everything I can," he said. "So you must start teaching yourself. From now on, you should try to do better than me. You can, and I know you will."

  So Karl pushed himself harder and harder. After a third year of constant practice under Bron's direction, they both knew he was ready to prove himself to the tribe.

  The opportunity came during the summer festival when all the tribes of Karanga met in the central valley for a week of trading, ceremonies, and contests. Hunters swapped furs, spear points, and stories. Women traded sheets of terry leather, for though the women of Karanga did not fly, they tanned all the terry skins and sewed them into the shapes of kitewings. The children, free from their normal chores of berrying and gathering firewood, ran wild through the encampment towing tiny kitewings on strings. At night there were drums and dances, and skits about the great happenings of the past. And during the days the contests were held—spear throwing, running, wrestling, and most important, flying.

  The main flying contest was a cross-country course of three hundred miles over mountain ranges and dry valleys to a lonely peak, where one of the judges sat, and then back again. The years of hard training with Bron paid off. Karl discovered that not only could he keep up with the best, he could outfly them. He rose faster in thermals because he could turn tighter and he weighed less. And on the straight runs he gained again because he applied Bron's rule faithfully—better to run fast and straight all the way to the ground than to waste time in a small thermal. His luck held, and he encountered big thermals every step of the way. Everyone else was surprised, but Bron and Karl were both proud when Karl came in first by a wide margin.

  The ceremony honoring the winners of the contests was held before the assembled tribes. When Karl's name was called, his father did not move to accompany him. Karl waited, looking at his father, not knowing what to do. His hesitation was becoming awkward and people were beginning to mumble. Suddenly, with a glare toward Karl's father that would have shriveled a dread lizard, Bron strode forward, clapped his arm around Karl's shoulders, and went with him to claim his prize.

  Karl had won a superb kitewing made by one of the famed craftsmen of the Asti tribe. At first, Karl had only stared at its graceful lines. He had hardly dared to touch such a masterpiece, much less accept it. But Bron had told him he must, he had earned it. So he had flown the beautiful wing home, marveling at how well it performed.

  When he had asked Bron why the Asti didn't win the contest every year, his teacher had grinned broadly. "They are craftsmen, Karl, not flyers."

  Shortly after Karl's victory at the games, Bron had started teaching him the skills that he would need for hunting the terry. And then, much sooner than Karl had expected or wanted, Bron had asked Karl to go on the terry hunt with him....

  Crunch, crunch, crunch. Karl kept moving along the desert surface, which was now a hard layer of coarse sand. All night he hiked westward by the stars, never stopping. The desert wasn't so bad, he thought. If he could hike this far every night, he would cross it. He had a fifteen-day supply of water. Surely he would reach the other side or find a water hole in that time.

  Karl stopped his march as the dawn turned the sky pink behind him, and looked around at the place where he would be spending the day. It was completely flat; there was no shade anywhere. He set up his kitewing and buried one wingtip in the sand to secure it. He took several gulps of water and ate some more of his dried meat. After that, he crawled under his wing and fell asleep.

  When Karl awoke, the sun was low in the west. The optimism he had felt in the morning was gone now. He was lonely and close to despair, but he was determined to go on—he would not fail Bron again. He began taking down his kitewing. The desert hadn't changed—the flatness ... the rocks....
Karl jumped. The rocks! They hadn't been there in the morning. He wanted to run, but caught hold of himself. The rocks, or whatever they were, weren't moving now, so he kept on with his preparations.

  After hiking a few minutes, he stopped. Maybe he ought to take another look at those rocks. He thought he remembered rocks like them from the evening before, when he had first landed in the desert. If they were dangerous, it would be wiser to find out now while there was still light. "No, no, keep going. Don't be a fool; don't go near them," a voice deep within him called. But he was curious; he had to see what they were. Setting all his other belongings on the sand, he picked up his spear.

  As Karl turned to go back, he received a second shock. The rocks were only a short distance behind. They had followed him! That meant they must have been following him all the previous night too. Gripping his spear with both hands, Karl slowly advanced toward them. There were dozens of these rocks, the largest the size of crouched men, while the smallest were no bigger than his hand. They looked pinkish tan in the setting sunlight, exactly like scattered sandstone rocks. But as Karl drew closer yet, he saw what they really were. Large land crabs!

  "Carrion crabs," Karl muttered, as the proper name for them came to mind. He had seen small specimens brought back from the edge of Karanga, but he had no idea that they grew so large. He prodded one with the blunt end of his spear, but it only hunkered a little deeper into the sand and tucked its ugly claws in front of its mouth. Karl poked another of the giant crabs and got the same reaction. They certainly weren't going to attack him, that much was clear. What they were going to do was follow him until he died and then.... Karl shivered. He did not want to become food for these scavengers.