[Barsoom] A Boy And His Thoatling, Part The Second

[we_dont_fly]

It's just before nightfall when the Thark hunting party returns to the ancient ruins known as the Old City. The settlement, once full of grand buildings with huge columns and broad paved plazas, was now home to the Thark Clan of Barsoom's green men. Since the war between Helium and Zodanga had ended, the Thark had taken their place as the biggest, most stable clan in the South under the guidance of the strongest tactician and most feared warrior in the entire Warhoon.

Tars Tarkas paces the stones in front of his encampment. The women have tried to bring him water, to bring him food. He will have none of it. If Dejah Thoris thinks he kidnapped one of her people, she will raze this place to the sand to get him back. The boy must be returned home and in one piece.

How in the seven hells they got separated, he has no idea. One moment he was riding and that stupid magical pocket universe opened up and swallowed him. The thoatling followed them through, and the crechemate* that had bonded to the little one almost stomped the boy into a grease stain. When they'd ran, Tars had watched the sky open up and swallow both boy and thoatling.

It had taken him half a day to make it back here, and the moment he did, he'd sent out riders. If he didn't return soon, he was going to have to swallow his pride and contact Helium. They would lend flyers to the search. Hopefully the boy had survived the night.

Alone. On the Warhoon. With only a thoatling to keep him company.


The cry goes up from the perimeter and ripples through the settlement. One of his lieutenants comes running through the crowd.

"Riders! And they have the boy! He's alive!"

"Praise Issus. Bring him here to me. He is to be treated with respect. Else Helium will see us ended."

"As you will it, my Jeddak! Right away!"


*Thark have words for mother and father. They just don't use them in polite company.

Comments

[hate_gettin_older]

"Oh," he says, "excellent, much appreciated, thanks for saying so," and promptly tips up the waterskin for a gulp.

[we_dont_fly]

It's bitter and tastes like everything smells around here. Slightly musty, like rotting wood or Curtis's hat.

And the moment it passes his lips, things begin to shift.

[hate_gettin_older]

Everything blurs, not just his sight but his hearing, and something else underlying them both. It's like the deepest point of a fever, dizziness and disorientation intense enough to make the very names of things swim and change places.

Edgar staggers, one hand groping out for a support that isn't there.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars sees the young man about to go down and grabs him with his two left hands, gently steering him to a low bench nearby.

From a great distance, Edgar can hear the concerned voices of the women. "Is he going to be all right?" "He is too old to take the Voice of Barsoom, it will destroy his mind."

Tars interjects, "He is fine. He is strong and young." To Edgar he says, "It should pass in a few minutes. Or hours."

He sounds unconcerned. Behind them women are all chattering.

"He's so small and pale. They say he killed a Devil's Snare big enough to eat a thoat calf? Without a weapon? Surely he found it already dead." "No, Tabras saw the tentacle marks around the thoatling's throat. He saved it and brought it back to camp." "They say he looks like John Carter. Perhaps we should take him to Dejah Thoris? They say she still has not married. Maybe she would trade for him?" "Shut up, all of you. He is not Helium's. He fights for us!"

[hate_gettin_older]

No I don't, he tries to say, and isn't sure whether or not the words are coming out. For the Tail. For Curtis. I don't live here.

He's staring into the darkening sky, where thousands of tiny white sparks are pulsing slowly. A lopsided ball of pale light glides across them, swelling as it moves.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars steps away. One of the women pats Edgar on the shoulder and eases him back to lay his head on a pile of furs.

"You don't have to fight," she whispered to him, a soft smile on her strange features. "You just have to rest until your head clears."

[hate_gettin_older]

The ball of light swells toward the far horizon, becomes almost perfectly round, and vanishes; a second, smaller ball follows it, more slowly. The white sparks glimmer behind them. Edgar's eye fixes on two especially bright ones, so close together they look like they might touch, one pure white and one very faintly blue.

Somewhere just out of range of his hearing is a chorus of crystal-chiming voices, singing without words, high and sweet and cold as water.

Water.

Gradually he becomes aware that he's terribly thirsty, and he starts to struggle to sit up.

[we_dont_fly]

Sola rests a hand on his shoulder. "Stay still. I will bring you water."

[hate_gettin_older]

"Thanks," he croaks.

The chiming voices from his -- dream? -- have been replaced by much rougher, deeper voices nearby. It sounds a little like the main room of Milliways on a typical night: dozens of people talking, laughing, having a good old time without worrying about how much noise they're making.

Snatches of nearer conversation float to his ears: "-- yes, leaping like one of the red men's flyers, straight into the riders' camp --" "Just like Dotar Sojat used to do --" "He's so small! And pale. Is he sickly?" "Sickly, pfah! You should have seen Dotar Sojat. He was white as a blind ape!"

... they're talking about him. Fuckin Christ.

[we_dont_fly]

"Tars says he took down a Zodangan battle corsair with his bare hands the first day he met him. That was before Dotar Sojat became Jeddak of the Thark. He was with him in the arena, watched him kill two white apes, one of them by letting him eat him and then bursting out through his heart."

"The greatest warrior Barsoom has ever known and Helium stole him away from us."

"No, she did not have to steal him. He went willingly." There was a round of knowing laughter.

Sola touched Edgar's arm again and held out a rough thrown clay goblet. "Drink. This is just water. It will help clear your head."

[hate_gettin_older]

He takes the cup with one slightly unsteady hand, and swallows gratefully.

"Thanks," he says again, and "... what's your name?"

[we_dont_fly]

"Sola. I am the daughter of Tars Tarkas." Her chin lifts as she says it. "And I am usually in Helium. You are lucky I was in camp this week. The other women were afraid of you."

[hate_gettin_older]

"Afraid of me?" That's partly incredulous, partly indignant.

[we_dont_fly]

"You are from Jasoom. They have heard stories. Come. Tars is waiting for you."

She waits for Edgar to rise and trusts him to follow her.

[hate_gettin_older]

He gets to his feet carefully, in case the dizziness hasn't quite run its course yet.

... and looks up, and further up, at Sola.

[we_dont_fly]

She crosses all four arms and smiles down at him.

"You will feel better for some food. This way."

She heads off into the camp. There's less activity now that the sun has gone down and the moons are out. The building she's leading him towards seems to be the center of most of it. There are drums playing and loud, raucous laughter.

As they come closer, the crowd grows a little quieter, more than a few pairs of eyes turning to watch him as they pass.

[hate_gettin_older]

The drumbeat is infectious; Edgar finds his footsteps wanting to fall into its rhythm.

He nods to the green men who look at him, not sure what else to do.

[we_dont_fly]

Sola takes a left turn before they get to the main building, leading them into a warren of dark hallways. The walls are half carved stone, half hewn directly from the mountain itself. The voices here are different, too.

He can hear Tars talking, laughing. And a bunch of odd snarling noises. "Oh goddess no! You've bitten my arm off! I am dying!"

Sola pulls back a leather doorway and gestures Edgar through. The Thark Jeddak is in the middle of a wide dirt floor, surrounded by -- young Thark. The largest among them is no more than three feet tall, and they're absolutely mobbing the warrior, dragging him down to the floor.

[hate_gettin_older]

They're ... kids. Thark kids. And Tars, play-tussling with them like he's never heard the word dignity in his life.

Edgar's staring a bit, and starting to smile.

[we_dont_fly]

"My Jeddak," Sola says.

Tars looks up and grins as one of the younglings throws its arms around his neck and bites down on one of his tusks, growling and shaking its head. It doesn't even move the old warrior.

"Edgar! Sola, why did you?" He tries to be stern, which is hard with a tharkling hanging from one tusk.

"You told me to bring him to you when he awoke."

"Fine," Tars grumbles. He starts to push himself up to standing and another wave of younglings pours over him. "Oh no! I am lost! Help!" He tumbles back to the ground, flat on his belly.

Sola giggles, covering her face with one hand. "You do not speak of this to the other warriors, Sark-Iljat. It is not spoken of, you understand?" She's firm, but not unkind.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Not a word," he promises.

"... he couldn't use a bit of help there, could he?"

[we_dont_fly]

"Oh I would not impinge on his honor. The metal of our entire tribe depends on these little ones. He will raise them up to be the fiercest warriors Barsoom has ever known."

Tars is laughing and moaning melodramatically under the heap.

"Okay, yes, perhaps a little. Go on!" She starts grabbing them up, one by an arm, another by a heel, and tossing them aside like laundry.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar's a little taken aback by that -- those are kids she's tossing around, isn't she worried she'll hurt one of them?

When he moves in to help haul them off Tars, it's with a great deal more care, hoisting the first green kid with a two-handed grip under its lower arms. More or less the way he might have picked up Timmy or Andy, back home.

[we_dont_fly]

Those 'kids' go flying, tumble across the floor, and come up laughing only to run back and obviously ask for another go. That said, Edgar's care is probably warranted, considering his new found strength.

He'll discover that a young Thark is lighter than a human toddler, and also, far more limber. The youngling twists in his grasp and gasps when he sees who's holding him.

"White ape! White ape!" And he lunges at Edgar's face with an adorable if still somewhat terrifying war cry.

"Child, no!" Sola is there to intercept, her hand grabbing the boy's face. "We do not eat our guests!"

[hate_gettin_older]

Sola's interception saves the kid from getting instinctively thrown across the room, or at least dropped, as well as saving Edgar from getting his face chewed on.

"... That's right," he adds his own admonishment to Sola's. "And you especially don't eat me."