Year's Best Fantasy 1 by David G. Hartwell

Author:David G. Hartwell [Hartwell, David G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction, Fantasy, Short Stories, Short Stories; American, Fantasy Fiction; American
ISBN: 9780380818402
Publisher: Eos
Published: 2001-07-03T06:00:00+00:00

Mark Dewling had a dead goat draped over his shoulder as he entered the wide gorge. He walked over to the four-wheel-drive he’d left parked in the shade of some gum trees.

“Uncle!” he called, heaving the goat’s carcass up to the roof racks. Although summer had not yet set in, the shade was refreshingly cool. He pulled a rag out of the boot and rubbed away the worst of the dried blood that had dripped onto his legs.

Then he stopped. There had been no answer from the old man.

Bags had been placed near the vehicle, and he looked inside. As he’d expected, they contained ochre powder, eight or ten different colors, which the old man used for painting. He raised his eyes to the slopes, quickly picking out the spots where the old man had scraped his powders from the rocks.

The old man was sitting near a deep mauve rock, his collecting bag discarded next to him, his gaze unfocused. Dewling climbed up quickly, heart racing with fear. The old man did not look around, but sat immobile like the rocks.

“Uncle,” Dewling whispered as he knelt next to him. He reached out a tentative hand and dared to touch the old, dry skin. There was a coldness to the touch, and Dewling’s heart skipped a beat, but the old eyes regained their focus and a sere smile was turned to him.

“Ah, little lizard, you’ve come back.” The old man’s voice was as dry as the land, crackling with the effort. The eyes drifted away, again. “I had a feeling—something I thought was all finished. Bloody near buggered my feet trying to stop it.” The grey mane shook. “Help me to the car. You have to take me somewhere.”

Dewling helped the old man to his feet. He seemed unsteady, as if he’d aged suddenly, not at all like the sprightly man Dewling knew him to be. They slid and crawled down the slope, and walked slowly to the car. He helped the old man into the front seat and strapped him in.

“Where are we going, Uncle?” he asked.

The eyes turned on him, shining with moisture. “I’ll show you,” whispered the reedy voice.

Dewling nodded, not daring to ask more. He drove out of the gorge and turned onto the dirt road, turning the vehicle towards Hawker. He was unsettled by the old man’s apparent weakness. Although no one knew his true age, he had never been fragile. Dewling just thought of him as being, an immortal who never seemed to age.

“Turn here.” The order was whispered, as if with effort. Dewling turned the wheel, although his heart gave a thump.

“No, Uncle,” he pleaded, “please don’t go there!”

The old man said nothing, his eyes lost in the distance, ignoring Dewling’s outburst. The young man bit his lip and drove on. As they neared the parking area, he kept his eyes on the road, hoping that the old man wanted to go past.

“Stop here.”

Dewling pulled off the road and into the carpark. There were already two cars there, and he groaned at the thought of meeting white tourists.

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