Rocky Terrain

If there had been a tree or a bush left in existence across this blackened plain, Cormack may have made himself a little more comfortable and watched with real interest the figure he had spotted, and who had not yet spotted him. Already belly to the rocky ground, he had ceased all forward movement, not in the rigid way that danger would normally induce in a being, but in a purely neutral sense. Emotion emanates, fear in particular. It had only taken a generation for Post Apoco's to master fear by accepting its constant presence. Some amongst them had sensitised to all manner of emotion while also developing the ability to harness their own. It was these traits that marked the elite in this new world. His mottled clothing in shades of black and grey, skin paint, and the Great Pollute; the opaque greyish haze that weaved and wavered vertically across the terrain; gave him all the camouflage he needed. He could risk glancing in that direction, but sustained focus was out of the question. It would only draw attention.

It was not Shanaya that had first caught his eye but the glimmer of gold, an entirely alien encounter in this monochromatic landscape. It had taken him several long, quietly cautious moments of intermittent glances to discern her seated outline amid the low granite outcrop, enveloped, as all else was, in the ever-present Great Pollute. He pinned her identity from the loaded and cocked crossbow that one hand held, deceptively casually, by her right side. Despite the distance between them, he did not think it his imagination that the feathered headdress of its arrow had been dyed in blood. Trademark Shanaya, she of contemporary, legendary status. Her left hand lay on her left knee and between her fingers dangled the glittering object that had warned him of her presence and undoubtedly saved his life.

Both the woman and the object gave rise to a feeling that Cormack struggled to define as enthrallment. He knew the word but had not previously experienced the feeling. He understood with what might have become a jolt, had he allowed it, that she too was within its grip. That knowledge released him and left her vulnerable. Even as his heart thudded once, hard against his chest, he relinquished the thought that had barely made consciousness: that he could take both her and the object. His weapon of choice lay strapped to the outside of his lower right leg, within her peripheral sight. The horizontal movement required to retrieve it would run contrary to the camouflage effect of the rippling Great Pollute. She occupied the higher ground, her weapon ready to raise and shoot. Given her reputation, it was unlikely that he would register the sound of her arrow penetrating the heavy air before he felt the sharp sting that would secure this patch of dirt as his grave. With characteristic pragmatism, he turned his head away, slowly adjusted his face mask for resting breathing and resolved, without rancour, to wait her out.

Shanaya had arrived at the rocky outcrop twenty minutes previously. It was not the first time she had visited this place. She and her mother were in need of food. Having woken that morning with that ever more frequent and growing restlessness, she had determined a reptile from the black plains would fulfil the first need while providing her with the solace she required to explore the origins of the second. Few people braved the bad air and open desolation of the black plains.

The slithering movement of snakes was difficult to distinguish from that of the Great Pollute, but having been startled, the dugite took off at such speed its body stretched to full length and it all but flew across the open ground. Shanaya's reflexes and her arrow, powered by the crossbow's mechanism, matched that speed and her aim was good. She hit the full-grown specimen midway along its body just as its head disappeared into a crevice of the rocky outcrop she was headed for. Within a minute she had covered the remaining ground, donned the protective glove she had brought with her, fished it, by its tail, from its hiding place where it lay wounded and riled, and in one fluid whip-like motion its head, and its life lay smashed upon a rock.

It was within the midst of this violent action that Shanaya's mind had registered what her eyes had seen: the presence of unexpected colour at the base of the shallow crevice. Ever mindful that food could disappear in one unguarded second, she meticulously scanned her surroundings with both eyes and feel receptors. Finding nothing worthy of concern, she detached the body of the serpent from its head and venom glands, looped it through her belt and reloaded and cocked the crossbow. Only then did she turn her attention to what would prove to be a catalytic discovery. Waves of emotion swept through her body, each bringing with it vivid memories of times now long past. The shock of recognition was the first to hit, its impact causing her legs to feel as if they could no longer hold her upright, consequently forcing her to a seated position, object in hand.

She was five years old and Pappa held her easily in his arms, always a place of comfort and safety. Her hands, as they frequently did, sought the weighty chain that never left his neck. Pappa waited, amused and patient, while, with no small effort, she dragged the heart-shaped locket up the middle of his ribcage and into her small hands. The locket itself, though much larger than what was known to be the norm, was otherwise unmarked and unremarkable. The latch to its hinge had been removed and in its stead was soldered a tiny gold bar that locked easy entrance to its chamber. Pappa already knew the questions she would ask. “What's inside Pappa? When will I know?” Her eyes wide with the love and trust of the innocent. She knew the answer he would give. “That which lies within my heart, little one. When your heart and mind can understand what your eyes can see, you will know.”

The pain of deep regret overtook shock. It was the evening of her twelfth birthday. Her father was demonstrating to her, with the same intensity and thoroughness he brought to all his mentoring, how to use the miniature blow torch he had devised. She was alive with anticipation, this and her sharp mind rendering her a rapid learner. Once he was assured of her competence, he merely showed her the carefully concealed hiding place of the tiny instrument. The locket never left his neck. “When, WHEN!” she demanded with all the unbridled petulance of pubescence. “Not before its time”, he had replied with a calmness that had been backed by certainty. Shanaya had known not to argue with him. She was, however, both child and woman enough to inflict the pain of love withdrawn. Three months later he, along with the locket, was gone.

Pain gives birth to grief, and time becomes distorted; just as it did back then. Sequence ceases to matter in a world that no longer makes sense. Images of her mother disabled by the same grief that consumed her. Neglected home and routines, even the crucial ones. Hungry days and nights, for the body pays no heed to the mind's turmoil, yet cannot act of its own accord. This desolate new world did not lend itself to community support; no meals dropped at their hearth, no help offered and, if he, or his body was ever found, no one cared to inform them of it. Later came her desperate and careless hunts for food, and for him. On more than one occasion it was luck and not skill that saw her home safely.

Shanaya could not remember the moment hope of his return had died, but she did remember the days that a profound aloneness would claim her. During one of these episodes, her father's non-physical presence broke through. In the quiet communication that knows no words, she came to realise if she and her mother were to live, she would need to embody all his considerable tutelage. The dam wall broken, she was flooded with senses of love and gratitude, though above all else an abiding faith in her abilities. Whether these emotions came from herself or her father, she could not be certain, but the invisible, yet tangible hug, accompanied by the familiar sense of comfort and safety that followed were undeniably Pappa. With her inertia dispelled, the following years, though far from easy, were distinguished by a single-mindedness geared for survival. By the time she was 17, though unknown to herself, Shanaya had reached the ranks of the elite.

Lacking the resilience of youth, though having experienced a love Shanaya was yet to know, it had taken her mother longer to rally. Yet rally, she had. Shanaya's heart ballooned at the thought of her. She had not forgotten to incorporate her mother's otherworld teachings into her daily training regime.

Back in the present, the emotional roller-coaster ride over, Shanaya took several deep breaths, re-harnessed her energies and began to consider the locket with more objectivity, but no less intensity. It was questions, not memories, that filled her mind now. How had it come to be here? Did he die here, or did he leave it here for her to find? That thought caused her heart to race. With nothing but intent, she calmed it. Something, most likely common sense, told her that she could no longer indulge unguarded emotion.

The acute disappointment of that birthday, ten years ago, had overshadowed other events of the same day. Her parents had presented her with her first weapon, a youth-sized crossbow, the forerunner to the one she carried now. Her father had brought her here to train, that day, and every other in the months before he disappeared. He had impressed upon her the isolation and relative safety of the site. His words bringing new meaning now. “When you seek answers, here is where you will find them.” Again, her heart began to race. Again, this time in irritation, she harnessed it.

What was niggling at her?

Abruptly, she stood and scanned the surroundings. There! The camouflage was good, so was the emotional control, but that shape, distinctly male in size, did not belong here. In one split second, she had both cursed her recklessness and thanked the spirits that had protected her through it.

Cormack had been lying 'non-existent' for no more than a minute when he felt the emotional disturbance shift. He had been pinned. It was too late for him to attempt either defence or attack. The next move was on her, and he had no doubt what that would be. His body momentarily tensed, yet, contrary to his earlier expectations, he heard the warped whoosh of her arrow making its way through the Great Pollute. Instinct demanded he roll, regardless of its apparent futility. Mid-roll he heard the soft thud of arrow piercing flesh, but felt no accompanying pain. He completed the action in time to see the hazy outline of her shape gracefully vault the rocks at the back of the outcrop and immediately disappear. Her voice took a second longer to reach him.

“A meal for your charity, and my life, Apoco!”

Cormack's eyes lowered to the ground in front of him. A large black skink lay skewered there, still writhing. In that moment of uncharacteristic gratitude, he could not know there would come a time when he would repeat those words back to her.