Shaman knelt before the weathered blue pole and prayed to El. Dante knelt slightly behind and to its right, praying to Gaia. The wraith floated in the middle of the clearing, waiting. If it prayed, it gave no sign.
Dante had watched the hita religious ceremonies, eventually participating as he came to believe that neutral El, female Gaia, even the male God in the hermit’s odd black book, symbolized the same overriding consciousness -- a trinity of all the aspects of the eternal. Still he felt most comfortable praying to Gaia, morning, evening, at supper, as he always had; first with Nanny, then with Martha.
As the days of the walkabout had turned into weeks, Dante found himself talking more and more to Gaia in his mind, for the wraith talked little and Shaman ignored him. He felt her close to him with a Mother’s comfort when his fears overwhelmed in the long wilderness nights filled with the roar of thunder lizards. She encouraged him when the way became full of biting insects and tearing brambles. When the loneliness pressed down, he saw her face in the clouds and her eyes in the jeweled leaves .
Shaman rose, gathered its pack and wandered off into the dry forest. The towering succulents, gray brush and cactus blossomed with a multitude of flowers brought on by the brief rain shower Dante had teased out of the dry air. Attraction spells glowed and twinkled at the gossamer faery flies gathering nectar and magic. Within the nooks and crannies, lizards hummed their dewlaps, fluttered their wings and chased each other with romantic ardor.
The hita hacked open a succulent with its machete and drank deeply from a cactus flagon, then collected petals and buds, giving Dante time to catch up. Shaman imaged to itself, revealing a use for the plants as a rare perfume used during the mating dance. The musky, flowery smell made Dante think of Martha’s lavender for a painful second, then of Gaia in ways that he tried to avoid due to the wonder and hilarity of the other hita at the ups and downs of his sometimes unruly member.
The first time he had peed from the cave opening, they had circled him in amazement. Embarrassing, then he had shared a trick he used to drunkenly perform to fit in with his fake friends in the Old World, spraying onto the rocks words that turned red, blue and green. A one man sideshow.
A moment of worry for the safety of Friend and the clan flashed through Dante’s mind.
Shaman glanced at him. The thought of this particular hita laughing at him quenched any budding erotic thoughts. Dante drank the left over liquid in the cactus cup then picked some of the blossoms, a wizard needed a good love potion, and tucked them into his pack. He had learned many potions and spells by observing and imitating Shaman as he used to watch and copy William.
They finished culling the bushes and headed over a few dry hills. Beyond a drought stunted meadow, chrome waves wrinkled across an inland sea bordered by mist shrouded mountains.
Shaman’s thoughts indicated that it looked for a fresh, unenchanted stream to quench its thirst and fill the almost empty bladder pouches hanging from its pack. Yellow grass crackled underfoot as they tramped to the edge of the cliffs lining the shore and looked down into a small fjord.
Giant ghost flowers pulsated through the air, flicking neon tentacles in and out of the water.
"Beautiful," murmured Dante.
"Deadly," imaged Shaman, plodding up beside him. Dante sent a sideways glance at this sudden communication. "No magic. Quiet."
The wraith floated up beside them. Down below, a shimmer ran through the translucent jellies. One began to drift upwards.
"They sense my presence," the wraith remarked. "I’ll return when the danger is past."
"No magic snout," imaged Shaman. Dante nodded as he caught the deflating cloak over his stump and rolled it up with his real hand.
The ghost flower slowed then continued its rise, a death mushroom flowing up an air current. Human and hita backed away from the cliff then broke into a run. A pale thunder head boiled over the edge. Tentacles whipped around the hita’s ankles. Shaman tripped and fell face down. The monster tugged, pulling the hita along the ground towards the pulsating mass. Shaman’s terror engulfed Dante’s mind.
He jumped onto the struggling hita and wrestled the machete from the side of its pack. A tentacle coiled around his feet. Shaman’s snouts grabbed uselessly at the brittle grass as the phantom beast reeled them in. Dante slashed and chopped. Shaman fell free in a writhing mass of dying tentacles.
A silent scream rent the air. The jelly flowed back over the cliff, stumps waving. The tentacle around Dante tightened, bumping and scraping him over the rough ground towards the sheer edge.
New tentacles wrapped under his armpits and tugged him back the other way. He was splitting in two. Dante bellowed and sliced down with a mighty blow. Gel spurted up. He jerked free, tumbling onto Shaman. The ghost flower toppled back over the edge. Invisible shrieks, then silence.
Hita and human lay panting, coated with sticky, scrape-stinging goo. "You O.K.?" asked Dante catching his breath. A wheezing Shaman nodded, using a human form of communication for the first time.
Vultures wheeled in the sky then descended into the quiet fjord. Dante crept up to the edge of the cliff and peeked over. The water sparkled clear of ghost flowers. The scavengers feasted on a mountain of phosphorus gel. Dante crawled back to the hita.
"Praise Gaia, they’re gone," he said.
Shaman reached over to one of the tentacles, popped an end in its mouth and began to suck. "Food and drink," it offered, showing a scene of hita using a net to capture a small ghost flower.
"Yeah. Not the best way to hunt though," said Dante. He collapsed beside Shaman with a sigh of relief, picked up a tentacle and, to his delight, sucked in a thick warm melon drink. "Eat or be eaten. Thank you Gaia for this food and drink."
"Eat or be eaten. Bad as the vultures," snorted the wraith as the cloak unfolded itself from Dante’s pack.
Shaman sent it a wave of annoyance. "This is your fault." The being ignored the hita, floating and watching. Dante pounded a tentacle and sticky paste sprayed all over the Shine. "Join the club," he laughed. The cloak billowed in annoyance and Shaman sent a wave of hilarity his way.
"Dirty barbarians," muttered the wraith.
"A bath would go down well right now," chuckled Dante as he imitated Shaman by wrapping a tentacle in the broad leathery leaves of a lone bush and storing it in his pack.
"The goo keeps away disease and bugs," imaged Shaman. It closed the ends of its trunks. "Human smells, clean or dirty."
Dante wrinkled his nose, "Not as much as a hita. Thought I fell in thunder lizard droppings."
"At least we have a smell. Unlike some." Shaman
imaged a sickening sweet scent wafting around the wraith. The
being ignored them.
"You barbarian. You hurt its invisible feelings. It stinks just the same as we do. I sleep in that cloak, it’s every bit as ripe as me. " Dante visioned a closer look at the stains and dust embedded in the garment.
The wraith muttered to itself. Hita and human laughed, shouldered their packs and started the long walk to the mountains and cleansing streams.