[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

[we_dont_fly]

Sola nods and settles back, giving Edgar a gentle smile.

Tars throws the young man a glance. "The trick will be getting your new friend back with you."

[hate_gettin_older]

"Don't I know it." Rueful. "Won't be too hard to get her to try and follow me, though, so there's that."

[we_dont_fly]

"Into the old observatory," Tars says, his tone dry.

And then he turns and points up at the edge of the cliffs above them.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar follows his pointing hand up, and further up.




"Oh," he says, very distantly, "well."

[we_dont_fly]

"The view is worth the climb," Tars assures him. "Whenever you are done eating. I see no reason to wait."

[hate_gettin_older]

"As much fun as all this has been," Edgar says, "me neither."

He folds the last bit of his meat over with his knife, crams it into his mouth, and moves to get to his feet.

[we_dont_fly]

"Did I hear you right?" Sola asks Tars. "Did you just say you're going to lead a thoatling up the stairs to the old observatory? Did you hit your head when you were away?"

"It does sound like something you'd only do for a wager," he drawls, the corner of his mouth lifting. One of his lower hands clinks a length of chain tucked behind his breast plate.

"You are out of your mind," she laughs.

Tars finishes off his goblet of wine and stands. Several of his warriors scrabble to their feet and raise their glasses. A jumble of voices rise in toast. He toasts them back and then raises a toast to Edgar.

"Sark-Iljat must leave us now. But he will return some day soon, yes?"

[hate_gettin_older]

He has just enough presence of mind not to say what? and converts it instead to "Oh, oh yes. I'd be honored." And raises his cup to Tars in turn.

[we_dont_fly]

That was the right answer. The warriors let him know this with another raucous chorus of cheers. They're still laughing and someone is starting to sing when Tars beckons for Edgar to join him.

This time they leave through a side passage that spits them out on the far side of the thoat paddocks. Nitwit seems have been watching back the way Edgar left but when she hears his footfalls, she whirls around and bounds across the paddock, wonking happily all the way.

"You know, it is perhaps best you take this one," Tars says. "She is far too loud for a war party."

[hate_gettin_older]

"She's just a baby," Edgar says defensively. "Bet you weren't much quieter when you were a baby. -- Is there a gate here, or do we have to go all the way around to the front?"

[we_dont_fly]

Tars chuffs a dry laugh and shakes his head. He steps over and shows Edgar how to unhook the pickets from one another so they can be separated. A moment later, Edgar has a thoatling head pressed tight against his chest.

"She trusts you," Tars says, his tone quiet and somewhat reverent.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Hey," Edgar's murmuring, patting her head gently. "Yeah. You're okay."

And glancing up at Tars, he says "Well, we sort of saved each other five or six times out there, it happens."

[we_dont_fly]

Tars nods. "It is how we have learned to survive out here. Knowing who we can trust and who we cannot."

Nitwit lets out a great long sigh and nestles closer.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar nods, slowly.

"We know a bit about that," he says, low.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars leans on the picket, watching the two of them.

After a moment, he reaches out and grabs one of the torches, gesturing for Edgar to follow.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Come on, Nitwit," he says in an undertone, and follows Tars.

Now all he has to do is figure out how to get an eight-legged creature to understand the concept of stairs.

[we_dont_fly]

It's a bit of a walk to the outskirts of the camp, and Tabras waves a hand as they pass. Soon enough, they reach the base of the cliffs. The stairs start out wide enough for two Thark to walk abreast. It takes her a moment, but Nitwit doesn't seem to even mind the steps. She just seems keen on following Edgar wherever he's going.

Edgar can see up ahead, they narrow to about three feet. Room enough, but barely any to spare for the young thoat.

[hate_gettin_older]

The first clutch of actual fear comes as he climbs onto the narrower steps: what if Nitwit falls, poor stupid beast, only here at all because she's following him?

"Stay close to the wall, now," he says to her, hoping she'll understand. "Hear me?"

[we_dont_fly]

"Wonk?" Stay close? Okay.

Nitwit closes the distance between them, surprisingly gentle and careful not to knock Edgar about.

Tars is taking the stairs far faster than Edgar and Nitwit could. He seems content to let them negotiate this part together.

[hate_gettin_older]

"... Yeah, that'll work. Good girl." He's staying as close to the wall as he can; if Nitwit's sticking to him, she'll be close to the wall too, and as far as possible from the edge.

"Could do with a fuckin handrail," he mutters under his breath, as they make their way up in Tars's wake.

[we_dont_fly]

"Wonk," Nitwit agrees, watching Edgar's every footfall. Which is good, because when her back half nears the edge, there's the clear sound of crumbling stonework. Pebbles fall down and echo off the canyon wall. Above them, the night sky of Barsoom opens up, two moons rising above the horizon.

Tars's gaze turns up to watch the sky.

[hate_gettin_older]

So does Edgar's, for a long moment, only not quite as high; the sky stretches all the way down to the horizon, the land stretches all the way out into the distance to meet the sky, huge and wide and stunning in its immensity.

He feels dizzy, as though the stone path under his feet is swaying, and backs up against the cliff wall. Both hands fumble for a grip on the rough stone.

It's all too big.

[we_dont_fly]

Behind him, Nitwit puts her head down and curls it around Edgar from the outside, until she's wormed her way under his arm. She's putting herself between him and the edge.

"Wonk." Here. Hold onto me. Won't let you fall.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Yeah," he whispers, and transfers one hand from the cliff wall to the little thoat's warm hide. "Yeah, I got you. We're good."

With an effort, he pulls his gaze away from the vastness of night on Barsoom, and fixes it firmly on the upward-climbing path ahead of them.

[we_dont_fly]

One two three four to his one. Five six seven eight to his two. She's very precise where she lays her feet, and she steps when he steps. Slowly. Methodically. Up and up and up.

Tars pauses at a wide spot, looking back to make sure they haven't pitched over the edge. He nods and keeps heading up.