A Choice of Gods

32

He came down the ridge that ran above the river, striding in the crisp, moonlit autumn night, and came to the edge of a cornfield where the shocks stood like ghostly wigwams. Behind him the mewling creature humped along, hurrying to keep pace with him, tagging at his heels. From somewhere across the field a coon made lonesome whickering.

David Hunt was coming back to the great house that stood above the rivers; now he could come back because he knew the answer or at least the beginning of an answer. Evening Star would be waiting for him—at least, he hoped she would. He should, he realized, have told her of his going and the reason for it, but he'd not been able, for some reason he did not understand, to find the words and would have been embarrassed to speak even if he had known what to say.

He still carried the bow and the quiver of arrows was slung across his shoulder, although now he knew he carried them from habit; he no longer needed them. He wondered, as he strode along, how long he may have carried them beyond the time of need.

Above the trees he could see the topmost stories and the chimney-studded roof of the great house, a blur of darkness against the nighttime sky, and as he rounded a small tongue of timber that jutted out into the field, he saw the gleaming, metallic object that squatted there.

The sight of it brought him to a halt and he half crouched, as if the gleaming object might be an unknown danger, although even as he crouched, he knew what it was—a machine that brought men from the stars. Evening Star had told him of the threat posed to the Earth by such a ship that even then was heading toward the planet. And here it was; in the short time he'd been gone, it had arrived. But even so he felt a shiver of fear reach out and touch him and, touched by the fear, it seemed that he could see the indistinct outline of a shape that lurked behind the ship.

He moved backward a step and at the step, the shape moved out from behind the ship and it was strange that it should have been hidden by the ship, for it was larger than the ship. It was huge and, shadowy as it was, there was a brutality about it and as it lurched toward him he knew he had not outrun it, for all the miles he had covered. There was no outrunning it, he knew. He never should have tried.

The Dark Walker lurched another ponderous step and David turned to run, then spun back again to face the oncoming shadow-thing. If he ran now, he knew, he'd keep running and he would never quit. He'd go through life poised and set to run—as his people had run and run and run again.

Now, perhaps, there was no need to run.

It was closer now and he could see it better, although it bent forward, reaching for him, and the string came back, legs like tree trunks, a massive torso, a tiny head, clawed hands reaching out.

And in that moment it became, not the Dark Walker, but the grizzly bear rising from its bed and towering over him, too close to shoot, far too close to shoot. Without even thinking of it, his hand went back to grasp an arrow and the bow came up and his mind—or the thing inside his mind, the power inside his mind—went crashing out.

It did not drop as the grizzly had dropped. It faltered, bent forward, reaching for him, and the string came back, almost to the bowman's ear, with the arrow steady. The Walker dropped away and the arrow whistled and struck against the gleaming ship with a clanging sound. The Walker was no longer there.

David Hunt lowered the bow and stood shaking. He slumped to his knees and huddled, muscles twitching, nerves as taut as bowstrings. The can of worms moved closer to him, pressed hard against him, grew a tentacle and held him tight, broadcasting unheard comfort.