Chương 69: Ch 38b – Trees

Draig had returned her to the garage the next morning. Following him across the lot had been a dread-filled trudge as the thought that Wyndeer had changed his mind took hold. The garage is empty save for two riders parked in the middle of the large space. The garage walls are a mottled grey marked through with a thick red line at head height. Missing patches of plaster, scuffs and damp stains mark the walls.

The floor has a thick crust of dust and dirt scoured through with lighter passageways where recent movement has disturbed the dirty layer. Draig strides up to the nearest rider and immediately starts making scratch marks on his left cuff. Up close she sees that the rider is a sleek, squid-like shape. A long, pointed nose gracefully widens into a scalloped ridge. Behind the ridge two shallow seats are carved into the crest of the main body and defined by black padded saddles.

Running parallel to the seats at the bottom of the cylindrical body are thin ledges with hollowed out notches for footrests. To the rear of the craft the thin ledges flow outwards separating to create a series of slim fins. Protruding underneath the main body, short legs attach to the thin runners on which the rider stood. As Draig works on his cuff the top of the scalloped ridge expands outwards revealing controls beneath a protective curved screen.

They are riding out to where Wyndeer and Crathsun wait for them, he announces as they mount the rider. Concerned that she will not be able to hold on to the hidden handles during her first ride, Draig insists she wrap her arms around his waist. He will keep one hand on her clasped hands during the duration of the ride to ensure she remains seated.

She is grateful for his hand not just for her safety, but because she does not trust how her body might react to being free to feel his prominent abs beneath his thin top. A distraction, she suspects, more likely to cause her to lose her grip than the motion of the rider. Because his body is larger than hers the riding position pulls her forward in her seat, her knees squeeze at his thighs.

She yelps and squeezes tighter as something kicks and jolts underneath them as he drives out of the garage, the rider rocking as if it is floating on a calm sea. She feels his chuckle vibrate through his back, but the annoyance this evokes is soon lost behind them as they speed out over the lot and on through the scrubland beyond. Her instinct is to keep her eyes firmly squeezed shut, concentrating instead on bracing against every jolt or bump. He pats her hands in reassurance and gradually she starts to relax.

Huddled at his back, protected from the wind, she finds she is able to enjoy the warmth of the sunshine and the thrill of racing across the open land. They speed. The sight of the sea disappears into the horizon line, and the shrubs grow in height as they venture deeper into the moorland. They stop towards the edges of the outpost boundary, drawing up next to the rider Wyndeer and Crathsun have used. In the distance, the size of a thumbnail, she can make out the main building and its surrounding structures.

Closer, about 200 meters away, is a stretch of fence. Each section is a set of solid bars, equidistant apart, reaching as high as a two storey house. From where she sits, as Draig pulls a slow arc around to park up, there looks to be nothing bridging the gaps between the horizontal bars. It seems illogical to her, that the fence is made to keep people out. If the bars have nothing between them, an average sized person could slip through. It takes her two attempts to get down from the rider.

Her legs are still vibrating from the thrum of the vehicle beneath them and not quite ready for solid ground. Her leg buckles briefly causing her to stumble back. Crathsun puts out a hand to steady her. Wyndeer looks on, unimpressed. She fumbles to remove the semi-rigid collar Draig had fastened around her neck. The collar, he had explained, would inflate a protective balloon around her head in the event of an accident.

Draig intervenes to release the clasp, his fingers brushing the delicate skin at the base of her neck as he does so. Cara makes sure to look away, pretending to find something of interest on the moor. Wyndeer is restrained in his explanation of the recommencing of shard training, toning down any disapproving or threatening remarks.

He explains his preference for conducting shard training in a remote area of the outpost, weather permitting, to limit what he diplomatically refers to as potential accidents and distractions. Training is still to be supervised by Crathsun with the support of at least one other person. Any person present is to remain beside or behind Cara while she is in possession of a shard. It is unclear how much Wyndeer has told Crathsun, and, as per her promise never to discuss the conversations, she can't ask.

It does seem that Wyndeer has mentioned the slingshot notion as now Crathsun wishes to explore not only moving shards but giving them a momentum that would continue after she releases her breath. Cara tries to keep her thoughts to herself during Wyndeer's declaration of the revised rules and expected behaviours, limiting herself to simple yes and no responses. Wyndeer's final stipulation is the use of the conduction comms for outside shard training.

The wind, he argues, will make voice instruction unreliable, therefore using a group connection is best from a safety perspective. Additionally, he explains, it is time for Cara to get used to the communication method as it is a standard way to convey instruction and support. She didn't managed to stop her eye roll in time which provoked a warning look from both Wyndeer and Draig.

With his lecture finally complete Crathsun enthusiastically led her in a lengthy exercise of one-sided throwing using floats he had detached from old fishing nets that had been found in the secondary accommodation. At the mention of fishing, she avoids the look Draig shoots her, feeling the burn of embarrassment flush her cheeks. She studies Crathsun's beard with renewed intensity.

The exercise, she admits to herself, is a useful understanding of how she can use the notion of different types of throwing or slinging to influence the speed of an object; and that by initiating a throw then releasing her breath the object remains on course for its intended target. A secondary discovery from the exercise is that she struggles to influence objects she cannot directly see, though whether this is a true limitation of the shard or her immature ability to use the shard is unclear.

What it does mean is that retrieving the floats to restart the exercise is a manual process. A not unwelcome break to stretch her legs and move freely across their small section of the moorland. After Cara dispatches the last float and hands back the shard, Wyndeer signals the end of the training by closing the group connection. A sharp ping rings out in Cara's left ear and their voices disappear from her head. Their absence does not completely quiet her head.

Memories and fears soon resurface to fill the temporary void. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"A good session," Wyndeer says to Crathsun.

"Both of you," he adds making a point to catch Cara's eye as well.

"A similar session this afternoon Crathsun?" he asks.

"Physical training this afternoon," Crathsun announces with a grin, "Time to start improving Cara's lung capacity."

"Can't wait," she mutters dryly, making Crathsun's smile grow wider.

"Draig," Wyndeer calls over to where Draig is perched against a rider, the same position he has been in for most of the exercise.

"Can you collect up the floats with Cara? I want to check out the repairs Magse has been overseeing before heading back."

"Of course," Draig replies in his usual disinterested tone. Crathsun throws him a mesh basket before joining Wyndeer to mount the rider. Cara takes a few steps back as Wyndeer powers up the rider, his hands disappearing into two holes in the central console. As the rider hums into life it rises up on the thin runners, bobbing very gently from side to side. With a smooth thunk, the runners retract, disappearing underneath the main body. The rider shudders then speeds off across the moor.

"There's- what-? How does it-?" she asks in confusion, her finger pointing weakly after the rider.

"What?" Draig asks, following her gaze.

"How does it?" she asks, staring from Wyndeer's distant rider to the one parked next to Draig. She bends down to look underneath. Two parallel hollows above the runners mark where they fold into the body. There are no wheels or tracks or even vents to keep the rider raised from the ground once the runners are retracted. She looks across at Draig's upside down face as he searches the underneath of the rider with her, trying to understand her question.

"Magnetic levitation," he answers simply, moving to stand upright, "It's not possible across the whole of Feilan, especially in uninhabited areas, but out here on the peninsular the combination of ground rock and flat moorland makes it the easiest way to cover short distances."

"Oh. I don't think we have that, most vehicles are on wheels or rails," she says. Had that, were on, her inner voice corrects followed by a punch in her stomach. Her hand rubs her stomach in a self-soothing motion. She straightens up to find him watching her uncertainly, his attention moving from her face to the hand on her stomach. She pats her stomach.

"Getting hungry," she says, forcing a grimace.

"Shall we pick up the floats?" She turns, walking out towards the squat tree they had used as a primary target, wanting to escape his scrutiny. She weaves between the clumps of plants. Further from the outpost the plant variety changes. Long grasses and shrubs with thick waxy leaves still grow but they were more widely spread, revealing a mix of dry earth, mud and decaying vegetation. Dotted sporadically across the area are larger bushes that rise to her shoulders.

The bushes are sparser, revealing branches covered with thin spikey thorns that protect the berries growing close to the trunk. The thorns snag her thermal jumper requiring her to move carefully past them as she searches for the football sized floats. The task has finally uncovered a use for the brassy cuff clasped on her left forearm; it protects her arm as she reaches between the thorns to retrieve the floats.

Only able to carry three or four at a time, she is forced to seek out Draig to offload her floats into the mesh basket. He has targeted the wider area leaving her to search the ground immediately around the shrunken tree. Its old twisting trunk seems to be slowly splitting and spreading, having fought gravity for too long. She looks up at its canopy which only reaches about a metre above her. It has the needle-like leaves of a fir tree, but they are longer and droop towards the ends making them claw-like.

She looks around the moor, spotting only two or three similar trees this side of the fence and not many more beyond it. Loss gnaws at her as the soaring chestnut trees that lined the paths in her local park fill her mind. Lush and green in the summertime, providing cool shady areas for an impromptu picnic. In the autumn their leaves redden and brown quickly, falling to the ground to create vast carpets of dried leaves that crunch satisfyingly underfoot.

She wonders what other trees existed here, if any can match the majesty of those back home. Back home. You're not going to leave here. Wyndeer's words crush her with the weight of a planet. Her knees weaken, bending under an imaginary yet palpable heavy force. Reaching out a hand to brace herself against the tree, she fights the impulse to collapse on to the ground and surrender to the grief.

"I think we've found most of them," Draig calls out from somewhere behind her, jolting her back to his presence. She squeezes hard on the branch until she feels the dry bark biting into the soft skin of her palm, forcing her thoughts to retreat, to make way for her body's growing insistence to let go. She quickly wipes at her cheeks, unsure if she has been crying, and takes a deep breath.

"Cara? Anymore?" he prompts, closer this time. She pulls her hand from the tree and dips her head down, pretending to sweep the ground for missed floats as she wanders away from him.

"Can't see any," she says, hoping he wouldn't question the shake in her voice. She takes another deep breath as she paces around one of the thorny bushes.

"Apart from this one right in front of you," he declares at her side. He reaches into the bush to retrieve a white float, the long cuff on his forearm destroys the thorns that try to defend against his intrusion. He deposits the float into the basket but doesn't move on.

"Are you ok?" he asks with what sounds like genuine concern. No, her mind screams, I'm not ok, I'm nowhere near ok. She can't look at him. If she looks at his indigo eyes and sees anything other than cool indifference she will fall apart. She keeps her gaze on his chest instead.

"Did you want to talk about what happened with Wyndeer last night?" His voice is deep. He stands so close to her that the wind cannot carry his voice away.

"Nothing happened with Wyndeer last night," she says to his chest. It is so close she could lean forward to rest her head on it. When he had held her against him after removing the rods from her arm his chest had been warm. And strong. And safe.

"Yes, good, I know he asked you never to talk about it. But you seem very quiet today." His hand lifts, as if he is going to reach out to her. It pauses and drops back down. She almost laughs at him. The manic laugh of someone trying not to fall apart, or perhaps someone who has unknowingly already fallen apart. Of course she is quiet, she thinks, she'd spent most of the night staring at the ceiling whilst Wyndeer's harsh rant and the looming threat of Vheece circled in her mind like vultures.

"It's just been a lot to think about," she says vaguely.

"We won't report the healing," he reassures her, guessing at her cause for concern. His words and their unsaid connotation push away enough of her grief. She snaps her head up, needing to look him in the eye to judge his sincerity.

"Why?" she asks.

"Because that conversation didn't happen and there is no other evidence," he says, holding her stare.

"And it needs to stay that way." She swallows hard.

"Should be easy enough, just follow the rules and I won't get hurt, right?" She tries to force a smile but her mouth refuses to curl. It isn't just physical injury she must avoid she knows, she needs to keep herself together mentally too.

"Quite," Draig mutters, also failing to find any amusement in the conversation.

"We should head back. You look like you could do with a rest before more of Crathsun's training." She helps him tie the basket to the back of the rider and he helps her back into her seat. She has no concerns about holding on to his waist this time. Her body is only interested in the comfort of the brief backward hug and the warmth of his touch when he still holds on to her hands.