Pathways - Jeri Taylor [225]
But by morning, the dark brown sehlat was still with him, trotting steadily toward the mountain. Again, Tuvok was uncertain. The sun was already warming the morning air, and it was time for him to rest. But if he fell asleep, there was every chance the beast would pounce, ripping out his throat and devouring him.
He stopped and sat down on the sands, creating a berm, as was his custom, to shelter him from the sun. The sehlat had proceeded on his way until he sensed Tuvok was no longer behind him, and then he stopped, turned, and stared at him. He no longer bared his teeth, and seemed to Tuvok almost quizzical.
“I must rest,” said Tuvok. “You must be weary, as well. Let us sleep now, and proceed again at nightfall.”
The beast eyed him briefly, then dropped on his stomach and began digging in a curious fashion in the sand. Presently his body was submerged, except for his nose, which extruded from the sand, barely noticeable. Tuvok wondered how many sleeping sehlats he might have walked near, or over, without realizing it.
Now a dilemma presented itself. He was thirsty and hungry. The sehlat would make several meals, and its blood would slake his thirst. Now was the time to creep up upon it, to plunge his knife into its skull. That was the logical course of action.
But something stayed his hand. He did not actually think the animal capable of thought, or decision, or loyalty, and yet it had not attacked him, had traveled with him for most of the night, and now seemed content to bed down in the sand while Tuvok himself slept. He didn’t intend to romanticize the situation, but he couldn’t avoid the sense that they had bonded, the sehlat and he, and that to kill it now was to violate some canon of the desert. And surely that would doom his venture.
And so he lay down behind his berm and closed his eyes against the sun, and trusted that he would be alive when the sun set.
For four days he and the sehlat traveled together, sleeping by day and walking by night. It was another mystery with which the desert had presented him, but Tuvok found that he no longer cared to struggle to solve these conundrums. Why the sehlat had chosen to accompany him might remain an unanswerable question, and here in the unfathomed expanse of white sand, that seemed perfectly acceptable. It simply was.
There was a growing problem, however: he had seen no signs of other animal life, and the need for food and fluid was becoming urgent. “We are both growing weaker, sehlat,” Tuvok said, and the effort hurt his parched throat and lips. “This is your domain. I ask your help.”
This was as he lay down behind the berm he had created and closed his eyes. Sleep came more easily every day.
When he woke it was from a dream that had promised to show him the answers to his questions: a dark presence, a black form, shapeless, hovered in his dream, the repository of knowledge. Tuvok longed to plunge within its depths, to know the unknowable, to be lost forever in its tenebrous folds. But the more he struggled toward it, the more quickly it receded, until it was gone like a shadow dissolving in the morning sun.
His eyes opened and the sehlat was standing over him, snout dripping with blood, and Tuvok startled awake, jumping to his feet.
Lying in the sand near him was the half-eaten body of a lematya, blood still unclotted and dripping onto the sand. Tuvok took it quickly and sliced other veins, drinking greedily of the thick liquid which poured out, thinking he had never tasted anything so sweet. He then devoured the flesh, ripping meat from the bones without using his knife, even as the sehlat had fed.
When he was done, his face was covered in blood, and he suddenly felt the overpowering need to cry out, to howl at the setting sun, and he did, an ancient baying that took flight on the still desert air and disappeared into its depths.
The sehlat cocked its head and regarded him; had Tuvok not known better, he would have thought the creature was mocking him.
On the