He didn’t know. It didn’t really matter, except as an item of curiosity. Anyway, why would the original tribe brought in here have named a moose after a horse? That could b£ because the hikwu functioned more like a horse than any animal the tribe had encountered.
During the day Kickaha either rode, his hands bound, on amerk, a female riding-moosoid, or he lazed around camp. When he was in the saddle, he kept an eye out for signs of Anana. So far, he didn’t know the language well enough to ask anybody if they had seen pale strangers like himself or a black man.
The tenth day, they came through a mountain pass which seemed to be a permanent feature. And there, beyond a long slope, beyond a broad plain, was the ocean.
The mountains on this side and the flat land were covered with permanently rooted trees. Kickaha almost cried when he saw them. They were over a hundred feet tall, of a score of genuses, plants like pines, oaks, cottonwoods, many fruit and nut-bearing.
The first question occurring to him was: if this land was unchanging, why didn’t the Thana put down their roots here? Why did they roam the evermutating country outside the ocean-ringing peaks?
On the way down, clouds formed, and before they were halfway down the slope, thunder bellowed. The Thana halted, and the chief, Wergenget, conferred with the council. Then he gave the order to turn about and pass beyond the mountains.
Kickaha spoke to Lukyo, a young woman whose personality, not to mention her figure, had attracted him.
“Why are we going back?”
Lukyo looked pale and her eyes rolled like a frightened horse’s. “We’re too early. The Lord’s wrath hasn’t cooled off yet.”
At that moment the first of the lightning struck. A tree two hundred feet away split down the middle, one side falling, one remaining upright.
The chief shouted orders to hurry up, but his urging wasn’t needed. The retreat almost became a stampede. The moosoids bolted, riders frantically trying to pull them up, the travois bumping up and down, dislodging their burdens. Kickaha and Lukyo were left standing alone. Not quite. A six-year old child was crying under a tree. Apparently, she had wondered off for a minute, and her parents, who were mounted, were being carried off against their will.
Kickaha managed to pick up the little girl despite the handicap of his bound wrists. He walked as fast as he could with the burden while Lukyo ran ahead of him. More thunder, more strokes of lightning. A bolt crashed behind him, dazzling him. The child threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder.
Kickaha swore. This was the worst lightning storm he had ever been in. Yet, despite the danger of the bolts, he would have fled into it. It was his first good chance to escape. But he couldn’t abandon the child.
The rain came then, striking with great force. He increased his pace, his head low while water poured over him as if he were taking a shower. The frequent bolts showed that Lukyo, propelled by fear, was drawing ahead of him. Even unburdened and in good physical condition, he might have had
trouble keeping up with her. She ran like an Olympic champion.
Then she slipped and fell and slid face down on the wet grass for a few feet uphill. She was up again. But not for long. A crash deafened him; whiteness blinded him. Darkness for a few seconds. A score or more of blasts, all fortunately not as near as the last bolt. He saw Lukyo down again. She was not moving.
When he got near her, he could smell the burned flesh. He put the child down, though she fought against leaving him. Lukyo’s body was burned black.
He picked up the little girl and began running as fast as he could. Then, out of the flickering checkerboard of day-turned-night he saw a ghostly figure. He stopped. What the hell? All of a sudden he was in a nightmare. No wonder the whole tribe had fled in panic, forgetting even the child.
But the figure came closer, and now he saw that it was two beings. Wergenget on his hikwu. The chief had managed to get control of the beast, and he had come back for them. It must not have been easy for him to conquer his fear. It certainly was difficult for him to keep the moosoid from running away. The poor animal must have thought his master was mad to venture into that bellowing death-filled valley after having escaped from it.