The Mantooth Part 20

Because a man who finds the tight-rope of his existence drawn so fine, the abyss below him so deep and terrifying, can never see the natural and benevolent forces that may (or may not) come to his aid. But the dangers and possible means of his downfall, wrapped with fear and based on past experience, are as clear to him as the struggling flesh he inhabits. For truth and fear exist only inches apart, and fear, by its very nature, will always seem the stronger voice. Men have faced this same darkness for thousands of years, and many fallen before it. And the darkness never ends.

Kalus felt, as he always had in times of deep struggle, the eternal desire for life that calls a man to action in the face of danger, and courage in the face of despair. But he also felt something altogether new, or at least, never before felt at this level of intensity. He felt a flat and empty indifference that told him all such effort was futile, even laughable, in the eyes of the G.o.ds who tormented him. Just as a laboratory animal that can endure no more torture will simply stop eating and slowly die of shock, he too felt that he had been punished long enough, that any reasonable bounds of endurance had been long since pa.s.sed, and that the hopeless games of this world no longer held any meaning for him. He saw only death: his father mauled by a bear, Shama torn open by Shar-hai and his guard, who had themselves been dragged back to earth. Skither, who had died alone in a stinking hole at the hands of mindless brutes, protecting others who were heedless. And at the last, when his spirit had nothing left, Kamela, who had perished to save his own, meaningless life.

The truth now seemed so clear to him that he was amazed he had not seen it before. All the useless struggles ended in death, either quickly, or in humiliating sickness and old age. All earthly bonds were pa.s.sing, torn asunder by the whims of Nature and uncaring Time. And therefore all life was futile. Still worse, it was absurd. A man who possessed real courage only wasted it in endlessly trying to continue. Let him take that courage instead and say, 'Enough! This torture must not be allowed to continue. If I cannot choose the manner of my life, I will at least choose the manner, and time of my death.' Kalus knew nothing of existentialism, or the other fashionable philosophies of men. He knew nothing of the religious fears of mankind, or of his angry, despairing pride in himself. He knew only that his heart was broken, and he wanted to die. The dull and hopeless look that had fixed itself in the eyes of Kamela, became his as well.

He no longer cared, and had lost all fear of death.

Chapter 20

The wind howled outside them and the chamber held no warmth. His body shivered and coughed, and excreted the pain that knew no bounds.

Sylviana moved the fire closer to the bed, then tried to seal out the wind that stole through the cracks in the barrier.

It was hard and frustrating work. But rather than crumble to see Kalus laid so low, and become cold and distant, she sensed that responsibility for their survival had been shifted onto her, and she responded.

Through all the trials, all the highs and lows that she had endured the last year of her life, she would have thought she'd have nothing left, and that such a crisis would be her final undoing. But she was wrong. A quiet strength and maturity had been growing inside her, and now she put it to the test.

Forming the mortar to fill the cracks required effort and endless perseverance. The hard earth below them, packed solid for so long, was reluctant to be uprooted and mixed with melting snow beside the fire.

And the straw that was called for was simply unavailable. So she took dry pine needles, ground them up, and mixed them in by hand. The only large ?bowl' they possessed---a curving palette of stone---held only a small amount compared to the number and size of the cracks she must fill, and it was heavy and awkward. Then the mortar itself seemed not to want to stay where it was put. It took constant adjustments in the mix and in her technique just to find a half workable formula. Her hands were cold and ragged and p.r.i.c.ked by countless needles, and there was no one to encourage her or appreciate the effort. Kalus was oblivious, in sleep or in waking, and Akar was off somewhere alone. The pup followed her with its eyes and occasionally whimpered for food. That was all.

But that was not what mattered. The man she cared for, and who had done the same for her many times, was sick and helpless. She stayed with the task all through the night, until the work was done. Then at last, wearily, she made her way to the bed and knelt beside him. His fever still burned, and the cold drafts that pulsed down through the shaft still troubled him.

She thought to make up his bed somewhere else, but realized that laying him on the cold floor might be worse. She looked over through the shadows at the dais beneath the altar, but could not think how to bring the fire close enough..... The pup, lonely, hungry and confused, moved beside her and looked up at her with pleading eyes. She comforted it as best she could, then gently roused her companion.

'Kalus?'

'Yes.' His voice was flat, though he shivered.

'Later today I have to go to one of the reserves of meat, for the pup at least. Then maybe move you to the dais, if that will help. Where is the nearest of the reserves?'

He shook his head without a sound. Misunderstanding, she got angry.

'Why not? Don't you even care about the pup?'

Again he shook his head, and said in a hoa.r.s.e voice. 'Too dangerous.'

'd.a.m.n,' she said. 'd.a.m.n it all.' True, bitter frustration had caught her at last, a destructive anger which found no release. She stood up and paced wildly around the room. He knew what she was feeling, and it troubled him.

'Where is Akar?' he asked.

'I don't know,' she replied, her anger turning swiftly to concern, then bordering on panic. 'He's been out since last night.' It would be the last straw if something had happened.....

She stiffened, hearing a scratching sound at the door. Fearing the worst, her mind made no connection until she heard a sharp bark, and Kalus said. 'It's the wolf.'

As she forced open the door against the onslaught of snow-laced wind, she slid down, shivering in the cold and wet. Akar slipped past her.

When at last she recovered herself and rose and closed the door, she leaned back against it to face him, her emotions strained to the limit.

When she saw what he carried she knelt down and embraced him and wept.

Though weak and injured himself, his mobility hampered still further by the snow, somehow he had done it. A large rabbit lay on the floor beside him.

'How did you do it?' she stammered. 'When we needed it most.' Again she buried her face against him, in her exhaustion unable to stop crying.

'Because he has the heart of a champion,' said Kalus, himself both moved and ashamed. The help unlooked-for had arrived, and they would live a little longer.

Chapter 21

The next day Kalus felt a little better. The small portion of meat he had been able to push past his swollen throat had calmed his delirium, and seemed to help his body generate a little warmth of its own. But he was still very sick, and any attempt to get up and move about was met with failure and a stern rebuke from the girl. She didn't realize, and possibly shouldn't have, that to Kalus being helpless was the equivalent of being dead. This attempt at the least physical exertion, walking, was his way of rejecting fear and trying, impossible as the task seemed, to turn away from the inner darkness that told him his life was over.

Because Kalus, too, had great heart. No matter how many times he was broken, he had always been able to rally somehow and go on. The problem now was that he had lost sight of that faith and hope, the belief that no matter what happened, he would always find a way to survive, and keep the spirit alive inside him. His confidence in himself, at best of times uncertain because of the severity of the roads which led to manhood, was all but extinguished.

There had been so little margin for error in his life, and worse had come to worst so many times, that he could not help but wonder if he possessed some terrible flaw, some shortcoming which made failure inevitable. But when he looked at this more closely, he knew in his heart that he had always done his best: that he had taken the only paths open to him, that he had never quit, or expected anything to be easy or free.

What was it then that defeated him? To this he had no answer, only frustrated rage that having no release, turned inward upon itself. The bitter maze of his emotions had joined together into a tightly knotted and irremovable clot, blocking out all light and making life, even the simplest continuance, seem utterly impossible.