Moontrap - Don Berry Page 32

  There were too many feelings. He could not keep track of them all. The muscles of his back occasionally twitched, and there would be momentary burning irritations like the sting of a nettle. They were not real. He did not know where they came from, except that he could no longer perceive his body accurately, and it was signaling things that did not exist.

  He had to forget about the feelings, it was all he could do. Some of them existed, some of them did not exist, but all were equally real. All he could do was forget them, because he could not distinguish and there was not sufficient room in his mind to hold them all. He forced himself to think only of the one thing that was important, to move. Elbow forward, drag. Leg up. Elbow forward, drag . . .

  He was astonished as his glance caught the boulder he had left. He thought he had been crawling for several hours, but the rock, now outlined with the silver fire of the moon, was only a few yards away. He looked down at the ridge and could not see that he had gained at all. He would have to use something much closer for a reference point, or he would never be able to discern any progress.

  He chose a flat slab of rock that leaned against another, about fifteen feet away. As surely as he had turned his mind from the pain, he turned it away from the ridge and the peak at the other side. There was only the leaning slab. That was his goal. The rest did not exist. He reached his elbow forward again.

  He tried closing his eyes for a few movements, to see if he could surprise himself with the progress he had made. It did not work well. He tended to lose his balance with his eyes closed. And when he lost his balance it required a tensing of muscles to keep him upright, and then there was the quick succession of dull pain, sharp pain, and the knowledge that the puncturing sliver of bone had penetrated deeper into his life.

  Even that was not so bad as the terrifying sense of someone watching him when he closed his eyes. He looked around, but there was only the bright, indifferent eye of the moon, staring down from a vastness of sky that was deeper and higher than he could ever remember.

  He stopped often to rest, when the always threatening veil of redness crept in at the edges of his sight. lt was hard to rest, he hated it. He wanted to move, he wanted to go on. The only thing that was real was the dragging of his useless corpse over broken ground, the land tearing at his flesh. He wanted to do that. He wanted to move and the anger and hatred welled up in him when he had to stop to rest.

  He set himself to it viciously, finding a fierce joy in doing it. The moon stared down, and watched him.

  "I'm goin'," he muttered. The moon did not believe he could do it. The moon thought he was a helpless old man, all alone and almost dead and unable to do what he had to do.

  "I'm goin'. Wagh!"

  The leaning slab of rock was passed. He did not remember passing it, and looked back over the long bright barrel of the rifle to see that the rock was fifteen feet or more behind him. He clenched his teeth in satisfaction. He was doing it.

  He looked forward again, and pretended that the ridge seemed a little closer. As he had lost the ability to distinguish between the world outside and his own mind, it was not exactly pretending. If it seemed closer in his mind, it was closer. It was simple. The rock over which he dragged the beaten body was a product of his mind. He had created it and the moon to watch. It was his joy to do this. It was his life.

  He stretched his arm forward again, and it passed from the light into the sudden blackness of a moon-shadow. He saw it disappear, and drew it back again, badly frightened. He looked at it, back in the light again. It had not been cut. It had seemed to him it had been cut off, thrust into the nothingness of space, ceasing to exist along the sharp line of shadow. It was another trick of the moon.

  He looked up. It rode very high, and tiny. It seemed incredible it should be so tiny and yet give so much light. But the sky was so large, it deepened above him to infinity, and just beyond the last reaches of depth hung the moon, watching.

  He grinned. The moon was testing him, to prove his worth. The great white eye of the world was watching impassively to see if he could do it. The moon did not care, one way or the other, but it was interested in watching him.

  He put his arm forward into the shadow again, tapping with his fingers to be certain the ground was there. Reassured, he dragged himself up, and his head passed into the nothingness. He looked back. His legs were still in the light, cut off by the shadow-knife just below the hips. He almost wished he could leave them there. They were doing little good. He could not even remember if his right leg was still working or not.

  He went on. The moon crested above him and began to swing down toward the sea. ln time it was no longer above, but ahead of him, and then he understood it better. The moon could not wait. She was watching him, the great white eye, but she would not wait for him. He would have to keep up.

  It helped. In time it became clear to him that the world had ceased to exist in the shadows. There was only emptiness, an emptiness created by the moon. Where there were no rocks to tear at him, he could move more easily. The luminous lovely moon was dissolving the earth around him.

  He went a little more easily then, moving westward in the track of the moon. Time and pain were lost and drowned in the sweet curve of moving light that drew him on.

  Only once was there trouble after that, and then he fell over a low step along the ridge. It was not more than three feet, but he lay crumpled at the base for a long time, the redness that was the enemy of the moon having overcome his sight. The silver light revived him in time, and he began again. He closed his mind off to all sensation but that of moving. It was so complete that he thought he had let go of the rifle, and had to look back to see if it and the useless leg still dragged along.

  He did not remember crossing the base of the ridge and beginning to ascend the other side. He remembered only the brilliant light he followed, a light that filled him completely and left no room for pain or thought.

  But the moon in time touched the crest of the peak above him and gently, softly, began to slide down out of his sight. It was time, he thought. This was where he was supposed to be. He faithfully dragged himself as long as the faintest sliver remained above the hill, but when

  it had gone, he stopped.

  He was finished with his journey now. He was alone again. He looked around him. The opposite slope, the peak from which he had come, was now in the silvery light. He was tired and he would rest here.

  He was almost surprised to find how high he had come, following the moon. Now only one thing remained for him to do. Just a few feet uphill, he saw a rubble heap of rock. That was it.

  He dragged himself behind the heap. and at last put his head on the ground. The rocks dug into his forehead comfortingly. After a moment he lifted his head again. He would make a fort. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought he had twenty-four hours to make a fort in. He didn't know where the idea had come fiom. Things had happened so confusingly, ever since the blooming ofthe miraculous smoke-flowers.

  But time had become meaningless and it didn't matter if there were twenty-four hours or twenty-four years. There was no time, only movement, and all movement followed in the moon's track. He was bitterly ashamed of himself. Dragging himself like a gut-shot animal while the moon glided with her white perfection so easily and smoothly across the sky. But there was nothing to do about it. It was just the way things were. The moon was perfect, but he was only a man; the way the world was.

  He began to try to arrange the rubble into a sort of wall that he could lie behind. He would have to lie on his right side, though by now he could no longer distinguish one side from the other with precision. The right one was pretty badly torn up too, he thought, from all the dragging. He hoped it would be all right.

  He did not seem to make too much progress with the wall. The stones would slip from his hands, and sometimes he would forget what he was doing, and find himself sitting numbly staring at the rock he held. Then he would place it carefully with the rest, and reach out to find an
other with his fingers. The moon having left him, he did not see very well.

  He put his head down and thought perhaps be would rest a little before he did anything else. He couldn't remember ever having been quite so tired. He was sorry the moon had left him, but he realized it could not wait. It made him a little lonely.

  He opened his eyes again. Suddenly he smiled, blinking. The eastern sky, just above the horizon was faintly light. He felt a joy that was stronger than the pain surge inside him. The sun was coming. And smoothly as the moon in its perfection it would glide upward in the sky It was perfect, and there were suddenly tears in his eyes. He had never in all his years thought of anything so beautiful as the slow and perfect course of sun and moon swinging through the depth of sky, balancing each other, lighting the day and night. It was a miracle.

  He put his head down, no longer feeling lonely, knowing the sun was coming. He loved the moon, but he loved the sun more. He looked once more at the lightening patch of the horizon and closed his eyes.

  He loved it all.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  1

  After the blast there was enormous agitation up and down the line as men scampered back into the hill shelter of the trees to reload.

  "We got him!" somebody called excitedly. "We got him, honest to god!"

  "He just ducked behind that rock, you damn idiot!" a voice answered.

  Monday stood looking at the spot of sky next to the rock where the silhouette of Webb had appeared. The sudden apparition, a moment of utter stillness, and then it was gone again. It was too sudden, like some sort of miracle.

  "I'm dead sure I hit him!"

  "I got eyes too. He jumped back just before we shot."

  "He ain't fired back, has he? Has he? That means we got 'im."

  "Hell, he's just sittin' there waitin' for somebody t' show," the skeptic answered.

  "Monday!" the first man called. "What d'you think? Did we hit him or not?"

  Monday did not answer for a moment, the after-image of the dark form strong somewhere inside his eyes. Finally he looked down at his own rifle and gently lowered the hammer.

  "Well," he said at last, "there's one sure way t' find out. Go up an' look."

  Someone laughed, a strained tight sound in the reddish dusk. "Not me, friend."

  Behind the trees Thurston came scrambling through the brush to Monday's side. "Well?" he said.

  Monday turned to look at him. "Well, what?"

  "What do we do now, mountain man?"

  "It's gettin' dark," Monday said absently.

  "I can see that, thank you," Thurston said. "What do we do now?"

  Monday shrugged, looking down at the ground. He frowned. "Take him now or wait for morning, " he said. He shook his head confusedly, his mind not on his words. When he looked back up at Thurston his eyes were full of puzzlement, as though he had expected to see someone else.

  "What's wrong with you, Monday?"

  "Nothin'," Monday said slowly. "Nothin's wrong with me."

  "Your gun hasn't been fired," Thurston said.

  Monday looked distractedly down at the rifle. "Misfire, I suppose."

  "You suppose!"

  Monday shrugged.

  "Monday, pay attention, will you? Should we follow up now, or wait until morning?"

  Finally Monday brought his attention back, and his eyes lost the glazed indifference that veiled them. He looked around, at the rocky slope above, at the dim shapes of the men he could see through the trees, finally faced Thurston.

  "We best wait till morning," he said. "Ten more minutes an' we'll be shootin' each other."

  Thurston watched him carefully for a moment in total silence. The debate was still going on along the line as to whether or not the old man had been hit, but even those who were convinced of it had no enthusiasm for going to check.

  "All right," Thurston said finally. "Bill!" he called. "Come over here a minute, will you?"

  The carpenter came slowly through the brush, picking his way methodically around the clumps.

  "We'll camp for the night and take him in the morning," Thurston said.

  Bill shrugged. He looked at the ground for a moment, then glanced up at Monday. "That what you say too?"

  Monday nodded. "No fire," he said. "An' you best scatter your bedrolls around in the brush. No use makin' it too easy if he decides to do a little night-runnin'."

  "You think that's a possibility? " Thurston said.

  "Possibility of anythin'," Monday said. "I'm just sayin', is all."

  "We'll set a few men to watch," Thurston said.

  "All right," Monday said. "I'll take a watch."

  Thurston looked at him. "No," he said. "No, that won't be necessary You'll need all your energy tomorrow."

  After a moment Monday snorted. "You just won't get off my back a minute, will you?"

  "Why, Monday. l'm trying to look after your condition. We're depending on you." Thurston smiled humorlessly in the growing dark.

  "You're sure damn worried about my condition," Monday said.

  "Yes, my friend," Thurston said quietly. "I am."

  Four men were picked to make up the first watch. and their alternates chosen at the same time. The night would be very short with the summer full on them, and their altitude. By four o'clock there would be enough light to begin. Grumbling, the men began to distribute their bedrolls, and by the time they had finished it was full dark.

  "Where's your roll, Monday? " Thurston asked him.

  "Over here," Monday said, pointing to the small fir with his pack and gun resting against the tree. "Why?"

  Thurston shrugged negligently. "Just curious."

  Monday tilted his head, but there didn't seem to be anything to say He got out his blanket and began to settle down. just as he had his legs raised stiffly to tuck the edges of the blanket under, he saw Thurston's shadowy form bend over by the guard post nearest Monday. He was there for only a moment, then moved past Monday's bedroll toward his own.

  "Sleep well," he said as he passed.

  Monday rolled over on his side. "Y're a trusting bastard," he said quietly. "Y'are now."

  ***

  From where he stretched, wrapped tightly in the cocoon of wool, Monday could just see between the tree trunks a tiny patch of the rocky slope leading up to the little peak. The gigantic full moon had hung on the eastern horizon just before the sun went down, and rose into the darkening sky rapidly. It was as brilliant a moon as he had ever seen, and he watched the bluish light flood over the rubble and debris of the slope, casting sharply defined shadows.

  He watched the shadows shift, picking a reference point where a shadow just touched a stone. lt had soon changed, pulling gradually away from the stone with the pace that was always just too slow to see.

  He counted the illuminated stones that he could see in his rigidly blocked field of vision. A few minutes later he counted again. It was always around the same number, as nearly as he could tell. While some disappeared into shadow others slowly emerged. It was just the way it was, without pattern. Some vanished into the black nothingness of shadow and others came up to replace them in the light. It was all measured in a slow rhythm of the world he could not understand or hear.

  He sighed and rolled over to his back. Through the mat of branches above, the patches of sky he could see seemed very light, and only a few of the brightest stars were visible. There was too much moon, and it fit the whole sky, as well as the land below.

  He watched the shapes of the dark limbs above occasionally moving gently in the night breeze that seemed to flow up the slope from the valley below. He started to count, and stopped himself, disgusted. It was pointless, and it made him obscurely angry that he should be forever counting tiny objects in small patches. The trees that blocked his view of the slope were a frustration, and the limbs that cut the night sky into a thousand bits and sections were a frustration. He could not see, and he felt closed in, muffled.

  Out in the clear it would be different.
Up on the peaks, looking down with the sky stretching out. He would have a different view from up there. Webb would be having a different view now.

  Then the image he had so carefully avoided flooded sharply before his eyes. The moment of stillness, the figure beside the rock, seeming no more real than a cut-out paper man pasted against the red sky. The roar of the rifles in his ears and the gouts of white smoke that leaped out toward the sharp man-shadow.

  He wondered how badly Webb had been hit. There had been no mistaking the spasmodic jerk of the body before it disappeared behind the rock. He had been hit, there was no question of it in Monday's mind. The only question was how badly. The heavy impact of a ball could spin a man around just by grazing him. It was hard to tell, it was impossible to imagine.

  He tried to think how it might be for Webb now, where he was, what he was thinking. On the other peak there was a chimney of sorts in the rock, out of sight of this peak. Monday had seen it before, but it was no use. A man going up the chimney back braced against one side and feet on the other, was just a mark. But—in the night . . . Webb could make it down in the night. While the posse was rummaging around on their bellies in the morning he could be moving silently through the woods toward the horses. Then up to Astoria, maybe.

  From there a ship, down to San Francisco, or up the Columbia. That would be it, upriver. Past the Willamette, up to the narrow straits and the beginning of desert country. The high plateau and the long dry days, and the final glorious relief of the Blue Mountains. Across to the Snake, and Pierre's Hole, where the Tetons reared up against the morning sky like the ramparts of Paradise, and Jackson's Hole on the other side, and the Wind River beyond . . .

  Monday looked up at the segmented, blocked sky above him. After a long moment he sat up, untwisting the blanket from around his legs. He fumbled in his pack for his powder horn and the little leather possible sack. In the almost-blackness of the deep woods he put the blanket silently aside, picked up his rifle and started toward the perimeter of the guard circle.