Ben Dover's Arc

Chapter 33 of 150

Ben unfolded Anita's paper by the stock pen. Two names. Two places. The nearer one sat a half day west, in a river bend. He read it twice and his gut dropped. He had three carved boxes back in the stone crack, and every one of them held a relic. He had nothing empty for the next. "I need a box," Ben said. "A sad-face box. Before I touch either of these." Justin rubbed his neck. "Barb's four days south. We don't have four days." "I know." Joe watched the road. "Lift a relic without one and the hum brings the blue-scaled thing straight down on us. No cover this time. No animal to throw." Anita sat on a feed sack. She had run two days east and two days back. "Carve one," she said. "You did it before. Your mother's box." "I don't have wood," Ben said. "Not seasoned. Not sad-face ready." A trader by the pen was unloading crates from a cart. On top sat a woven basket with a face pressed into the weave, wide mouth, big eyes, a hungry grin. It looked ridiculous. It also had a lid. "That's not wood," Justin said. "It has a face," Ben said. "The rule is a carved sad face. But every box I've used has been wood." "Then test it," Anita said. "Here. Cheap. Before the relic." Ben paid the trader in coin he could not spare. He carried the basket behind the pen, out of sight. Joe kept watch on the road. He pulled one carved box from his pack. The comb box. He set the basket beside it and lifted the lid. He held his breath and moved the comb across. The hum spilled out. Loud. Wasp-thick. It filled the yard. Ben shoved the comb into the basket and clamped the lid. The hum kept going. Joe's head snapped up. "It's not stopping." Ben grabbed the comb back and dropped it into its carved box. The hum cut. Silence. His hands were shaking. Ten seconds, maybe more, of open sound sent out across the ridges. A small shape came out of the scrub behind the pen. Blue scales along its back. Yellow markings. It was young, cat-sized, ears pricked. It looked at Ben. It did not run. It sat. "That's not the big one," Justin whispered. "No," Joe said. "But it heard. And it's the same blood. The big one heard too." Ben stared at the small creature. It stared back, calm, curious, wrong. He stood. He kicked the grinning basket into the dirt. "Carved sad face," he said. "Not hungry. Not any face. Sad." Anita had her jaw set. "Then we move. Now. Before the big one comes." Ben shouldered his pack. Three boxes full. Two relics named on paper. No empty box, no time to make one, and a young blue-scaled thing watching him from the weeds.