The Slave and The Free: Books 1 and 2 of 'The Holdfast Chronicles': 'Walk to the End of the World' and 'Motherlines' [Paperback]

Alldera crouched tensely by the river, staring at tracks in the soft mud. The water was shallow here, and something had crossed to the far side; no, two things - two strings of tracks separated and came together again.

She had not seen a living being in the months since her escape from her homeland, nor had she expected to - other than perhaps the monsters with which legend peopled the wild country, but she had not really believed in them. She looked fearfully back over her shoulder.

There rose the valley wall and then the mountains, beyond which lay the strip of coastal plain men called the Holdfast - her country. In the bloody confusion of fighting there - men killing other men and their femmish slaves, over food - she had made her lone escape. It seemed she was alone no longer.

No man of the Holdfast, no fem fleeing as she fled, had made this spoor. Trembling, she traced the shape of the deep prints with her finger. Something heavy walked on those round, blunted feet. The marks were crescent-shaped and as big as her fist, with a sharp angle sign in the middle of each. Monsters' tracks.

Weakened by months wandering as a scavenger in the Wild, she squatted there, fighting back her terror with its tinge of eagerness for contact with life, any kind of life. She tried to consider her situation clearly, turning her inner gaze back over the course of her flight.

At first she had had some faint hopes of finding other runaways, the 'free ferns' of stories, whom she could join. That hope and the first fierce exhilaration at being free had soon faded into anxiety. Choosing to cross the borders of the Holdfast into the Wild, she had chosen new dangers.

The Holdfast river, which she followed back into the mountains in search of the ruins of an Ancient shelter, unraveled into several streams. Not knowing which branch to follow, she missed the Refuge and its hoped-for stores of supplies and wandered deep into a maze of rock walls and slopes set between thorn-choked gullies.

The roads of the Ancients, dissected and smashed by landslides and floods, were now only fragmented remnants of the broad, smooth, legendary ways and sketched connections between mere patches of rubble. She avoided the jagged shards of old walls standing in their fields of broken glass; there was nothing to eat there, nothing alive.

Her food pack soon flapped empty, her stolen clothing exposed as much of her as it covered and clung in strips to her skin when there was rain. She began to realize, in bitter despair, that she was pregnant.

In her mind she cursed the fetus for a rape-cub, unwanted seed of the masters whom she had escaped. Hunger made her bold, she tasted everything she could strip from standing plants or dig out of the earth, but it was never enough; how could she make milk for a newborn cub? Doomed from the outset, the cub nonetheless functioned as a hardy and efficient little parasite, stealing from her the nourishment of whatever she could find to eat. Her bowels were in a continual state of bloat and cramp. Sometimes she chewed on roots or leaves that made her sick for days, and she hoped that one of these painful episodes would kill the cub so that she could expel it and better her own chances of survival.

But the cub seemed as tough as she was herself and would not die. She felt its heartbeat and its growing, living weight dragging at her body as she traveled. There were moments of intense pleasure at the thought that this cub, at least, the men would never have. Most often she thought, this cub will kill me, it is a weapon of the men planted in me to ruin my escape.

At length the mountains smoothed to rolling waves of earth, and a day came when she looked down not into another brambly groinin the hills but across a wide valley, a soothing sweep of green and open country with a sparkle of water down the heart of it. This was not some new stretch of the Holdfast river flowing east to the sea but a broad, sunny water rambling north to southwest. The valley was richly embroidered with dark trees along its waterways, and it seemed endlessly long under a warm, quiet sky.

Here was refuge of a kind. On the lower banks of the creeks feeding the river she found plants with sweet stems, and large-leafed vines yielding a pulpy fruit. The shining river smelled bad, though; close up she saw skeins of bright slime drifting in it and in the streams on the other side.

Water was important to her. Pregnancy did not afflict her with nausea and moods, but it did make her sweat constantly and heavily. She was thirsty all the time. Staying on the clean side of the valley so that she could drink safely, she ranged farther southward searching out food plants that she recognized and trying to stay ahead of the full bite of the coming winter. No cold weather came but the rains stopped and food grew scarcer. Sometimes, resting from her endless foraging along the banks of a stream, she would bend to stare hopefully into the empty water; according to legend edible creatures had once inhabited the waters of the world.

The water still only showed her - on this day, the day of the monster tracks - her own broad, bony face framed in a mat of dull, tangled brown hair. She glanced down at herself. The only rounded line to be seen was that of her belly. Her hands, feet and joints looked coarse and swollen, surrounding muscle having melted away. Her skin healed slowly or not at all where it was scratched or bruised. Her gums were tender. She could not pretend to be some proud free fem out of a song; the ferns' tales of running off to make a life in the Wild were dreams.

What was real were the monsters. Here was their excrement heaped on the ground like pungent dumplings - even shit reminded her of food, and rightly: without provisions she would die this winter.

There was no choice but to follow and try to find the monsters, persuade them to help her. One way or another, it would end in food: they would either feed her or eat her.

She spent a day following their tracks. She lost their trail, cast in circles for it, terrified of simply walking into them around some rollof the land. She kept stopping to catch her breath and to peer ahead as the day waned. She had to cross the river after them at the shallow place where they had crossed.

Something red caught her eye. In surroundings which provided little now but greens, browns and the black of shadows, it was stunning, not some sly earth tone passing for red but a brash flare of scarlet.

She crept closer. The red was a rag knotted around the end of some sort of bundle that was wedged into the crotch of a tree. With a stick she poked the bundle down; it was a large bag made of some supple fabric, closed with a drawstring that ran through the stitched and puckered hem. She loosened the drawstring with difficulty.

She was afraid to put her hand inside. Cautiously she raised the heavy end of the bag and eased some of its contents onto the ground: there were dark, hard lumps the size of her hand, a bundle of long, flat dried things strung together, and some smaller bags. One of the latter contained pine nuts like those she had gathered for herself from trees on the middle slopes of the mountains. The sight of the small, smooth shells spilling out onto her palm and the smell of resin on them made the unbelievable real: she had found some sort of food cache.

She sat chewing and crying, fighting to keep from bolting so much that she would vomit it up again. She slept on the spot, hugging the bag with both arms.

The next day, carrying some of the food with her, she continued westward on the monsters' trail. They had followed a faint pathway that led west from the river up the slope of the valley to its rim. Beyond, there lay a desert.

Alldera had seen smaller patches of such desolation back in the Holdfast, where it was said that they had been made by the Ancients' methods of mining or of war. This desert was a seemingly limitless stretch of dark earth, all rucked up into long rows one after the other as if the fingers of a giant hand had been drawn parallel through loose dirt. Lonely hills rose sheer-sided to dilapidated peaks, windtorn, undercut, sometimes topped with a clutch of stunted trees. Swatches of green marked isolated groves. Puffs and veils of dust rising on the breeze were all that moved.

The trail of the monsters led off the rim of the valley and angled down into the first trough of the desert. There the prints were lost ina drift of dust.

Alldera dared not try to follow them. She retreated, and made a bed of branches where she had found the supplies. They had left food; they would come back.

The nights grew cold as the moon turned through its cycle. There was no rain, the streams shrank. Her belly was bigger, she could not get around so easily; she was hungry all the time. A sun-warmed rock some distance from her sleeping place became her station; it was easier to withstand the urge to nibble more than her day's ration if she removed herself from the food during the long, idle hours. She watched to the west for signs of the monsters' return. She watched to the east, too, imagining other Holdfast fugitives finding the valley just as she had done.

If others did come, she would have to either fight for her bit of food or run. She was growing too weak to fight, too weak to run. But she did not really believe that anyone would come.

 

Sheel, scouting ahead of the other two members of the patrol, rode with one of her bows strung in her hand. She trusted only herself to keep fully alert, and besides, she liked riding apart, undistracted by conversation. It bettered her chance to be the first one to sight an enemy and kill him.

She sat forward in her saddle, giving her mount a loose rein so that it could pick its own careful way over this stony, up-and-down c...