Alien Oblation (page 2)

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“Do they always make so much noise?” I ask the next day. Its clansmen’s wailing ended with the dawn, but only for a brief respite. Long before the day had lost its heat, they took up their chorus again.

“Oh, no. Banshees scream only when distressed. They are worried for me.”

“If you answer their call, I will kill you.”

“Oh, yes. I understand that. I have no intention of trying to escape.” It makes more marks on its rolled hide. I watch its face for signs of treachery, but it seems completely without guile.

The way has become hazardous. I follow a path walked only by monitors, mountain lions and dead pilgrims. The ground is rocky and slick with dust. I fear that the alien’s weight will unbalance me, so I make it walk. Its clumsiness slows our progress and I must be patient.

Reaia is near. I can feel Her divine breath on the wind that scorches the mountain face. My beards quiver with need. I am ready to give myself. Only the alien holds me back. I prod it until its feeble body collapses with fatigue. This high in the mountains, sunset is still a long way off, but I make camp for the night. No point in rushing the journey if my trophy does not survive.

“I’m curious,” it says. The alien is curious about everything. “Where are we going?”

“To Reaia.”

“To Reaia? You plan to give yourself to the goddess?”

“No. I mate with Her. You are the gift.”

And then the alien begins to scream, a sound not unlike a pack of starving wolves in battle. I thrust my hand over its mouth. It bites me. And screams. I tear my loin cloth into strips to gag it, and it screams, muted but no less horrible. The sun is falling fast and the predators are hungry this late in the season. The alien’s throat is dry with dust, but still it screams. I stuff it into a snake hole and pile debris around it–dirt, brush, anything I can find. The screaming goes on like a bad memory even while I make camp. From this height the sound will drift down to the valley and its clansmen. Tomorrow I must watch for them. Tonight, I fear the true hunters of the mountain. I will not sleep.

The Banshee screams.

*   *   *   *

I wake to silence. The alien pokes its head out of the pile of rubble. Its skin is tight across its face and paler than I remember. Its eyes are red-rimmed, but bright.

“Are you done?” I ask, taking the gag from its cracked lips.

“Yes.” It does not speak again all morning.

I break camp, careful to leave no trace of our passing. I suspect these aliens are poor trackers, but I have been taught to be careful.

The screaming has calmed the banshee. Perhaps the fit was a ritual like the one I will undertake at Reaia’s altar, or the screaming holds power over its spirit, like prayer. I do not ask. Only Reaia matters.

Slung over my back, the alien makes suckling noises as it sleeps. I walk through the heat of the day even though my body aches for rest and relief from the sun. I worry that the alien will perish in this heat, but its suckling is constant, so I continue. The sound lulls me, like night whistlers, and soon my feet stumble over the ground on their own. My thoughts have given into fatigue and drift away on the wind.

I feel the pain in my shoulder only after the jolt of hitting the ground. A monitor sire tears at my flesh with its claws. I try to roll, but the creature is massive. My knife flashes off its scaled hide. With both hands I push. It has hold of my beard and I hear a sickening tear as I free myself. The monitor is on its feet before me. I am honored by its size. No one of my clan has ever fought such a beast.

my movement. I circle behind and come at it from the blind side, stabbing my knife into its only vulnerability, the eye.

It shrieks and slashes me with its tail, knocking me to the ground, but my aim strikes true. The knife sinks into its head up to the hilt. The dying creature thrashes and shudders. I reach for my alien as my legs are flayed by the whip-like tail. The lizard falls hard, but I pull the banshee out in time.

Wasted, we all lay on the ground dying, though some of us faster than others. The monitor twitches as its spirit dances one last time in its body.

The alien is unmoving, though its eyes are open. Its legs are broken, but the alien seems unaware of the pain. I inspect my own wounds. The gash on my shoulder is deep and ragged. Reaia will be pleased by my oblation.

I pull the alien to its feet. It cannot walk. I swing it over the wounded shoulder, leaving my good arm free.

“You should take care of this wound,” it says with a voice like bread crust.

“It will heal.”

“It will fester.”

“Reaia’s touch heals all,” I say and then I can speak no more. I need all my concentration to keep the pain from clouding my vision.

“Don’t worry about me,” says the alien. “I have shut off the blood flow to my legs.”

I don’t worry. I climb.

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Between its front feet my alien lies inert. The monitor’s tongue flicks over its catch, warning me away. The pain in my shoulder is now a fire urging me on. The alien is a prize for Reaia and no creature, not even one of Her own, will take it from Her.

My knife at the ready, I circle the beast. It will not play this game, though. It knows that its hide is safe from my flimsy blade and it stands firm. Only its flicking tongue tracks