Pathways - Jeri Taylor [57]
The march, when O’Connell had been with them, was at least full of a certain energized spirit. He was voluble and witty, and kept them all amused with stories of his ancient ancestors, of their poetry and passion, of the “terrible beauty” that was Ireland. O’Connell was a natural storyteller, and the hours seemed to pass quickly as he chattered on.
Now, a tense silence bound Tagar and Harry. Only the sound of their footsteps through the chaparral and manzanita of the western Sierras competed with the occasional bird call. The tall conifers were well behind them now, as were the mountain streams. Here, in the foothills, on the final descending slope toward the staging area, there was only scrubby vegetation, which ripped at them, scratching exposed skin and leaving it susceptible to insects and infection.
They walked for over four hours without exchanging a word. Then Harry signaled that they would stop for a midday meal—if you could designate more berries and water as a meal. He had kept his eyes roaming for other edible plants all morning, but had seen nothing in this sere vegetation that would provide nourishment.
He sat and opened his pack, pulling out the few berries that remained from his collecting efforts of several days ago. He lifted his hand, offering some to Tagar, but the Klingon was standing above him, looking at the meager offerings with disdain. He shook his head brusquely and marched off, presumably to find something else. Harry nibbled at the berries, trying to savor each one, but felt his stomach recoil as the bits of dry fruit reached it. He drank a tiny swallow of water; Tagar’s solar still hadn’t produced much the previous day, and they were strictly rationed.
He heard Tagar pushing toward him through the underbrush, and looked up to see what he’d found. Tagar’s hands held a squirming mass of what looked like white maggots, and Harry’s stomach soured. Tagar held out the writhing mound to him, and Harry saw they were grubs, beetle larvae. He knew they could be a good source of protein, but he couldn’t imagine at this point putting any of that pale, gelatinous, undulating cluster into his already queasy stomach. The driest of berries would be preferable.
“This will feed both of us for several meals,” pronounced Tagar.
Harry shook his head. “I’ll pass,” he replied.
“That is not an attitude conducive to survival.”
“I’m doing fine, thank you.”
Tagar grunted and began shoveling the grubs, still squirming, into his mouth. Harry felt gorge rising in his throat and he turned away.
“Are all your people this squeamish?” Tagar challenged, the words somewhat obscured because of the mass of larvae in his mouth.
Harry whirled on him, a retort on his tongue, but suddenly Tagar shimmered and dematerialized.
Harry was alone, having lost every member of his squad, every cadet who had agreed he would be their leader, and who looked to him to get them out of the wilderness. Every one of them had been “killed.”
He was in despair. He sat on a stone and held his head in his hands, trying once more to determine what he was doing wrong. On the ground, a few grubs that had dropped from Tagar’s hands still twitched, until, with a heavy buzz, flies began to swarm around them.
Harry stood and stalwartly moved off, determined to continue his trek and complete the assignment. Better to walk into the staging area alone than to wait for his own humiliating dematerialization. If he could keep a steady pace, he estimated he would arrive at the base camp no later than midmorning tomorrow.
By late afternoon he was weak and stumbling. The berries had provided little in the way of nourishment, and he’d had only tiny sips of water. The October sun was uncomfortably warm now that he’d left the sheltering bowers of the tall pines, and he knew he was becoming dehydrated. His mind was fuzzy,