Webbready

As much as I love to write, I hate to write junk. Unfortuntately, the same urge that bids me to write bids me to share this junk to the world. This is not self-depreciation. What follows is junk. It is fan fiction, which makes it in the gray area of what is acceptable and proper as a writer. There is even a risk that I may ruin my reputation because of this entry. Nevertless, after re-reading Patternmaster, this scene came to mind, and has been haunting me all weekend. This short clip of derivative junk is based on the work of Octavia Butler, and is set around two years after the conclusion of the novel mentioned previously. All concepts are ideas are from the brilliant mind of Butler, although the narrative is that of my own words. Nevertheless, I post this.

Andre sat in the shade of a large oak tree with his legs crossed beneath him, while similar shadow of worry had been cast over his mind. It had been a little over a year since the last Clayarks’ raid on Patternist territory. For so much of his life, he had only known of the danger of Clayark attacks and the vigilance that had been indoctrinated into the core of his being. The few older Patternists he had known had told him about the old days, days filled with such peace that mutes were able to travel unassisted from sector to sector. Those days had passed long ago, but it appeared that with the business of the Patternmaster’s succession concluded, peace cautiously crawled out of the shell of war. Yet even under a calmness that seemed to extend from one end of the cloudless sky to the other, Andre could not be at ease. Perhaps if he had been stronger, he mused, he would not have been so fearful of the unknown. His weakness prevented him from actively engaging in House politics and in turn, being distracted by those matters.

His eyes fell toward the jubilant men and women in the distance. Men, women, and children were playing, laughing, and sitting under the hot light of the sun, yet the dry air wiped away any sweat with a quick breeze. Although he had been given charge over these people, they were programmed not to wander out of his sight, and to approach him in case any matter arose that needed his attention. As a result, he did not need to actively monitor their behavior, even though he often watched them more out of curiosity rather than supervision. Indeed, part of him could sense that they welcomed his absence. Andre knew this was not because they hated his presence — they were not allowed to hate him — but because mutes, far more than Patternists, required variety to thrive. Yet, his desire to experience their feelings grew and with hesitation he took in a portion of the mutes’ euphoria. The muteherd enjoyed their day of respite in ignorance, not knowing that their caretaker could never share their ease.

Instead he set his mind on the learning stone in front of him, brushing aside these concerns as swiftly as he waved away a few flying insects. Today was the Fourth of July, one of the few ceremonial days from the society that the mutes had run long ago. Most Patternists no longer took heed of it, and he knew next to nothing about this holiday. Still, he hoped to learn more about it. As he closed his eyes to concentrate, he prepared himself to receive the knowledge placed within the object and understand the jubilation of the herd, even if he were unable to create his own sense of peace.

“Help!”

His ears picked up the distant cry and instantly he scanned the minds of the mutes. Yet the quick overview only reinforced what he felt. None of the mutes were in any distress, nor would any Patternist vocalize a plea for aid. There was only one type of sentient being that would use such an audible cry: a Clayark.

As quickly as he thought of the possibility, his mind began to dismiss it. Clayarks had an accent that coated their verbal entrance into Patternist language, and this cry was unmistakably Patternist. Furthermore, a lone Clayark would not sneak into Patternist territory. Even prior to the Patternmaster’s ascent, Clayarks attacked in groups, as a single Clayark would be vulnerable to any single Patternist, even one as weak as Andre. Still Andre knew that one Clayark could prove a challenge for him, and he was tempted to send a distress signal to the Housemaster.

Quickly, reason brushed aside his momentary panic. He could easily determine if there were any Clayarks in the area. Closing his eyes, he spread his awareness as far as he could, then compressed it slowly. He felt nothing other than the mutes far too distant to have heard the yell. He exhaled in both frustration and disappointment. He had hoped that this day of rest would not have been filled with boredom. As much as he enjoyed the opportunity to study and grow closer to those he had been charged to care for, he would not have minded a surprise. But as the sun peeked through the canopy of leaves, the ease of the day bid him to return his attention to the stone and the flow of information he was ready to absorb.

“Help!”

The cry was sharper, closer, and louder than before, as well as unmistakably female. He saw the issuer of the cry racing toward him. Her attire was strange. She wore pants that were once the color of the sky, but were now stained with dirt, mud, and blood. Yet her torso and chest were covered by the torn vestiges of an upper garment. Its pink tattered remains did not completely cover her modesty, but her undergarments provided adequate protection in this regard. She was in her late teens, her body more developed than her youthful face indicated. Yet most importantly, in her arms, she carried an infant. With horror, Andre jumped up as he realized that baby she cradled as she ran was a Patterist child.

She was upon him far sooner than expected, and quickly she gesticulated, yelling so incoherently that the disarray of her words rendered them babble. Her actions were not that of a programmed mute, nor were they of a Clayark collaborator. Strangely, the baby this woman held did not lash out at him with her wild emotions. In fact she was near unconsciousness, yet the slight weakness and pain he felt revealed the reason behind this child’s lethargy. This baby had not been fed in over a day. Otherwise, though, the child was fine.

The woman on the other hand was far from fine from what he could tell. Yet dread filled him as she stood before him, her sweat soaking her braids and carrying its smell to his nose. He couldn’t read her thoughts. If she hadn’t been standing there, screaming and pulling on his chest, he would have believed her to be an illusion planted in his mind by a more poweful Patternist. But the distress of her cries touched his ear, and eventually her words became clear.

“She’s sick!” the young woman yelled. “She’s dying.”

“Don’t worry,” he answered at last. “We’ll take care of her.” As he spoke, he mentally summoned a topless mute woman from the herd who had been feeding her baby. She ran over to Andre, who extended his hands to receive the young child. The teenager gave the child to him almost gleeflelly, visibly relieved of the burden of holding a being she could not care for. In response, Andre gave the Patternist baby to the mute mother.

“Nurse her,” he instructed the mute, who quickly departed with the child. In the same instant, he alerted the Housemaster of these events. He then swiftly sent a thought to the teenager, hoping against hope that she would reply mentally.

Who are you?

Yet he received nothing, no confirmation of his communication. He then issued her a mental command to fall asleep, but likewise there was no reaction from her. It was as though he sent his thoughts into thin air.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

“I just thought you may have needed some rest,” he answered, hoping his words could persuade her more effectively than his thoughts. In response, she yawned, her breath sour from hunger.

“Actually, I am a little tired. I feel like I’ve been running for days.”

Andre didn’t answer her, and instead watched her warily as he sensed the approach of two outsiders. Their strength unnerved him slightly, but he was close enough to them in the Pattern to tolerate the difference in power, and he had been long accustomed to their presence.

“These men will show you inside. Please wait there for a moment. We have a few questions for you.” They began to escort her away from him, and she did not struggle with her body. After a moment, she turned around towards him, her countenance was covered with confusion.

“Wait,” she said. The two men did not stop and neither did she, but Andre approached them, drawn by her uniquness.

“What is it?” he asked, walking along with her captors.

“Thank you.”

He smilled bittersweetly at the experession of gratitude and stopped walking, letting the distance between them grow. He had knowingly handed her over to her doom. If she were lucky, she would live to see the night and no further. He returned to the tree and sat down, a new unease lapping at the edges of his mind.