Chapter 31: A Taste for Blood — Part 3

Arpie and Opus, now on horseback, head north by northeast, plotting out arches where they find them, noting herds of horses, cattle, and other recently feral populations. The first generation isn’t faring well, but in time, the strength of the stock will return, the various breeds will mix and grow stronger. For now though, his concerns are not with fast hooves or fast food, but with the fact that he can map seven arches within a day’s ride of Tó Naneesdizí. He has no way of knowing where they are going, or of what might be coming through them, should something hume try to come calling.

They always approach the last arch with a bit of awe, and an instinctive sort of caution. This last arch is an odd one. It is pulling fresh water in from somewhere distant, creating a floating glob of water that compresses momentarily, and then slowly flows out into a brand new pond. The Glob itself seems to be growing, building into something both massive and threatening. They don’t know whether the pond will form a lake, or how long it will take, but it seems to have stabilized in size over the last few weeks. It has made a home for life not native to the local terrain, and has started flowing off, forming a tiny river on one side: One that might grow over time, if human intervention doesn’t come into play.

Even if the pond under it were to be drained away, the globular disk of water is roughly three hundred yards through its center, and two hundred and fifty feet from base to top, and may well be growing. To Opus, it looks like the post impact of a drop of water, frozen in a moment before its fall back to ground, while all Arpie can think about is how, when the sun is behind it, it looks like the building cloud of an atomic blast. In both cases, its sudden existence is in total contradiction to its physical stability, and the two often wonder if they aren’t taking a serious risk, being close to something so young. The thought that arches, now somehow permanent, might leave as quickly as they came, is a thought that both men try to keep out of their minds.

Opus says something incomprehensible, pulling back on his reigns. He’s been startled by a fish that has jumped free of the blue green globe of water, and appears to be coming right at him in an impossible flight. Gravity builds and the fish drops into the water of the oddly arched pond, splashing in a way that can only be described as off tone, the odd flashes of water falling weirdly, both in angle and speed. Opus giggles uncomfortably, a sound that would be just as off-setting as the water, if Arpie didn’t know him so well.

“Hungry?” Arpie asks, pulling his ready-made spear gun out from its rested holster on the saddle.

“Sure am.” Opus says.

“You want to fish? Or would you rather set the table?” Arpie asks.

Set the table is Arpie’s rather creative description for making a fire and cooking the food. It took a while Opus to get this, originally, and usually Opus will set the table, not because the idea of hunted is repulsive, but because Arpie sucks at making a fire. Opus is kind enough, however, not to comment on this. He smiles a little, knowing the fishing will be easy work: the pond and the water above it are flecked through and through with moving, living things.

“You shoot better, so I’ll gut.” Opus says, walking about and gathering wood.

In time the fire is built and burning well, and the sticks for cooking fish are gathered and ready. Arpie is cursing slightly as he adjusts his aim, missing more often than hitting, because the surface of the water is bent and distorted in ways that go against the physics of an older world. Opus hears the telltale chuckle of a solid hit, knows that Arpie has hit something, and pulled it in. Opus pulls the cooking supplies and rations from the horses, knowing he can makes something fabulous with fresh fish. Dinner, he knows, will be short in coming.