Descending Road - HER WORDS FELL TO THE SOIL by Dana W. Paxson

HER WORDS FELL TO THE SOIL

1563 4D

Arlen tried to bring his beamer to bear, but Luce was on him like a beast of the old stories, flashing a scarred grin in his face. “Luce,” Arlen said, but the face was gone; pain sank its knives into his gut.

He was about to die. Four hundred fifty years of life, and this little peasant was taking it from him, ending it, and there was nothing he could do; he started to raise his hands protectively, and his arms snapped.

He stood unharmed in a garden. He stared around and up, a surge of relief rising in him; somehow he had landed in his refuge. But what had saved him?

A shining naked figure, glistening all over with raindrops made of light itself, stood face to face with him. It did not speak, but breathed a soft, slow, continuous laugh. A woman.

“Arlen.” A second feminine figure, her face effulgent with radiance, stood at his left.

“Arlen.” A third woman, her face also shedding light, flanked him on the right.

“Who are you?” he said. “What are you doing in my garden?”

“This is not your garden, Arlen,” the third woman said.

Agony seized Arlen‘s spine. He fell, flailing, into a bed of flowers.

“This is our place of pleasure, not yours,” the second woman said. Her words fell to the soil and sprouted up into a thorny vine that instantly cradled Arlen‘s body in an immobilizing web of searing metal.

“This is qaqanhialh,” the second woman said, kneeling over Arlen. “For you we have prepared a special experience.”

“What are you?” Arlen asked, his wonder almost overriding his spasms of horror and pain.

The first woman only laughed, and sunshine danced from her mouth like spilled wine.

The second woman bowed her head; dark-red fluid ran from her eyes and ears, shadowing her brilliance in ruby. “I am Turiosten, your former slave. For you I was forced to eat sentattar, and endure the sanctions forever.”

“I am Onnhasshakh,” the third woman said, bending near. “Since Turhnusthenh was given eternal suffering at your hands, we will not leave you to die and be free. Here is your home for all time.” She held up a pinprick of blackness, reached out and placed it in the center of Arlen‘s forehead. Its weight sucked at him; it sank into his brain.

Everything slowed except the voice, and the agony. “You will approach the moment of your death ever more slowly. You will never reach it. We will continue on, but you will lie forever here, and the teeth of your victims will slow as they devour you. The teeth will slow, but not the pain.”

“Why?” Arlen gasped out this most important word through the rictus that gripped him. He had to know more, to beat back all this with knowing; he would deal as he always had. These were aliens. They were all so greedy—

“Defiler.” Turiosten spoke now. “Your tortures and your destructions and your games with precious life have damaged the world. It must be healed. You will remain here.”

“But I can help heal any damage,” Arlen gasped. Surely they would understand this. He could give them anything—

The first figure, the unspeaking one, pointed to a constellation of birds in the bright sky, beckoned to the others. Turiosten smiled and cocked her head to one side. “We leave you now.” With those words, all three figures vanished, and hot teeth gnawed at Arlen‘s gut as he lay encased, desperately staring at the ever-more-slowly-moving flowers, in the alien innerspace sunlight in a breeze that thickened and hardened around him to an eternal crystal shriek.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	HER WORDS FELL TO THE SOIL 1563 4D Arlen tried to bring his beamer to bear, but Luce was on him like a beast of the old stories, flashing a scarred grin in his face. “Luce,” Arlen said, but the face was gone; pain sank its knives into his gut. He was about to die. Four hundred fifty years of life, and this little peasant was taking it from him, ending it, and there was nothing he could do; he started to raise his hands protectively, and his arms snapped. He stood unharmed in a garden. He stared around and up, a surge of relief rising in him; somehow he had landed in his refuge. But what had saved him? A shining naked figure, glistening all over with raindrops made of light itself, stood face to face with him. It did not speak, but breathed a soft, slow, continuous laugh. A woman. “Arlen.” A second feminine figure, her face effulgent with radiance, stood at his left. “Arlen.” A third woman, her face also shedding light, flanked him on the right. “Who are you?” he said. “What are you doing in my garden?” “This is not your garden, Arlen,” the third woman said. Agony seized Arlen‘s spine. He fell, flailing, into a bed of flowers. “This is our place of pleasure, not yours,” the second woman said. Her words fell to the soil and sprouted up into a thorny vine that instantly cradled Arlen‘s body in an immobilizing web of searing metal. “This is qaqanhialh,” the second woman said, kneeling over Arlen. “For you we have prepared a special experience.” “What are you?” Arlen asked, his wonder almost overriding his spasms of horror and pain. The first woman only laughed, and sunshine danced from her mouth like spilled wine. The second woman bowed her head; dark-red fluid ran from her eyes and ears, shadowing her brilliance in ruby. “I am Turiosten, your former slave. For you I was forced to eat sentattar, and endure the sanctions forever.” “I am Onnhasshakh,” the third woman said, bending near. “Since Turhnusthenh was given eternal suffering at your hands, we will not leave you to die and be free. Here is your home for all time.” She held up a pinprick of blackness, reached out and placed it in the center of Arlen‘s forehead. Its weight sucked at him; it sank into his brain. Everything slowed except the voice, and the agony. “You will approach the moment of your death ever more slowly. You will never reach it. We will continue on, but you will lie forever here, and the teeth of your victims will slow as they devour you. The teeth will slow, but not the pain.” “Why?” Arlen gasped out this most important word through the rictus that gripped him. He had to know more, to beat back all this with knowing; he would deal as he always had. These were aliens. They were all so greedy— “Defiler.” Turiosten spoke now. “Your tortures and your destructions and your games with precious life have damaged the world. It must be healed. You will remain here.” “But I can help heal any damage,” Arlen gasped. Surely they would understand this. He could give them anything— The first figure, the unspeaking one, pointed to a constellation of birds in the bright sky, beckoned to the others. Turiosten smiled and cocked her head to one side. “We leave you now.” With those words, all three figures vanished, and hot teeth gnawed at Arlen‘s gut as he lay encased, desperately staring at the ever-more-slowly-moving flowers, in the alien innerspace sunlight in a breeze that thickened and hardened around him to an eternal crystal shriek.