The Becoming, Chapter 4

Chapter 4
WHERE ATLAS STANDS


He strained his mind to recall whether he'd ever felt a drier breeze. No, definitely never before had he encountered a wind so empty; so hot that it seemed to pull every bodily fluid painfully out of every inch of exposed flesh. Each breath pulled a hot gust of hurt into his lungs, wringing them dry, and then leaving a fiery sting in his nostrils as he exhaled. He was sure his eyes were yearning to water, but each drop was immediately overtaken, leaving his eyes feeling harsh, and ragged.

There definitely was a reason Royhofi seemed to be brown everywhere. The soil, the plants, the sky, even the man-made structures had been made brown. Seldom an extended rain in these parts...it was a wonder and a mystery that life could exist here at all.

Yet there they were, the countless and seemingly lifeless strands of ragai brushing against his hands with every gale. In a moment of reflection, he chuckled at how similarly his jet black hair felt to the rough blades of ragai beneath his crossed legs. With that thought he straightened himself, stretched quickly, and hopped to his feet.

Another hot wind hit him squarely in the face, forcing his eyes shut and his mouth to twist into a grimace of discomfort.

Yes, he thought, It is coming.

Below him, in a small valley that lay crested by three small hills he saw the machines rolling dutifully into the fields, the only sign of life from a small compound tucked comfortably away at the foot of the largest hill. The machines glistened a lively silver in the rays of the stronger sun. They were large -- huge monsters of metal with blades and thrashers that could be noticed evem from the distance at which he was standing.

The machines, three altogether, moved in precise tracks, with the long razors flailing before them, giving the appearance of angry creatures swinging fearsome tenctacles in a frenzied attack. Each swipe undoubtedly collected ten pounds of the dry grass.

Yes, the ragai. The grain omnipotent. Unique to Royhofi, ragai could be smoked for pleasure, woven into strong fabric, and it also wa incredibly nourishing. Ragai contained nearly everything essential to human existence, and some even suggested that it added years to life. Of course, that is often said of anything that one can eat but tastes like dung.

Ragai was arguably Royhofi's only outlet to the civilised world. Nearly all of the United Planets Armed Forces lived on a diet of ragai and water. It was the ragai and the profit that came with it that the machines now collected, wolfing down the long blades at an incredible rate; but not worrying, for the fields would grow back almost completely before the day was gone.

He chuckled, a sound as dry as the air around him. If only they knew. If only they had an IDEA.

Without taking his attention from the eerie harvesters working relentlessly below him, he bent down and lifted the large bag at his feet to his right shoulder. Turning his face to the sun and closing his eyes he felt the hot breaths of air rake across his bare throat.

I must try, he thought. They will not hear me. They will not like me. They will not let me live; but I must try.

Overhead a deep rumble echoed through the swirling brown clouds. The clouds of Royhofi during a storm were also unique. They had no definite shape, they rolled and spiraled this way, then that in beautiful snakelike forms much like oil bending and curling in water. He watched one particular cloud conduct its formless dance until it whisped away and could be seen no more and another cloud bloomed up beside it to take its place.

Beneath his feet the ground trembled - ever so slightly - moaning in tune to the thunder overhead. Soon, he knew, the lightning would come, cutting through the dull colours with sensational fury, looking as a rip in the very fabric of the atmosphere itself Yes, the thunder would clap and the lightning would tear angrily across the sky. But rain? No, not here.

A strong wind sent a wiry strand of his own hair across his face and the sting reminded him that he was on the ground. His thoughts had wandered, focusing on the beauty of the storm, but now he was aware that he had to get moving soon.

It is time, he thought, I can feel it.
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Stepping with ginger, experienced steps he started down the hill, cutting a diagonal path easier for him to circle the valley, avoiding the harvesters and the compound. He moved easily.....almost gliding. He blended into the sides of the hills with all their brown patches so well that not even the most trained eye could have isolated his figure from beyond forty feet.

The first flash of lighning streaked through the sky, a fiery violet stitch, snaking through the spinning pale clouds. It was the lightning that made the traveller apparent; only the lightning. As the sky lit up over him his eyes reflected a dark red upon the earth. A haunting crimson luminescence that glowed in two distinct orbs in his expressionless weathered face.

It is coming, he thought, and continued on.

The next explosion of thunder exlploded so quickly and roared so loudly that his hands flew to his ears, and he needed to stand still a moment to steady himself.

As if acting on cue and in competition a purple flash burned a streak in the sky that he still saw when he squeezed his eyes shut, dizzying red-yellow likeness etched into the backs of his eyelids. He spent the next several seconds rubbing first his eyes, then gently cupping his ears. The crimson hue in his eyes lingered this time, a bioluminescent symbol marking him as a native.

A dangerous storm, he thought. If this lightning keeps up my eyes will shine for days.

He was relieved to reach the bottom of the hill a short while later. Now he could stop the awkward, halting steps of a descent and fall into his quicker, easier stride. Coming into the taller grasses and onto the flat ground the figure who was nigh-invisible blended even more with the planet.