Free The Beyond by Jeffrey Ford Page A

broke camp and started out just as a weak, diffused light began to spread across the sky. No sooner had they begun to walk than the wind that had been absent for nearly an entire day swept down from the northwest, driving the rain at an angle. Cley now carried the bow, having wrapped the rifle in a skin and stored it on the sled.
    The ground had begun to turn to mud, and the rain gathered in puddles. Wood was having a hard time pulling the sled, its runners occasionally getting stuck in the soft earth. Cley got behind and pushed the contraption in order to get it going again. The downpour never tapered off, but constantly increased in strength until it was difficult for him to see more than a few feet ahead. Once, when trying to free the sled, Cley slipped and fell in the mud. He landed only a few inches from one of the nest mounds of the flightless bird. Discovering a clutch of half a dozen good-sized eggs, he carefully gathered them and put them in his pockets.
    By the time they stopped to eat, it seemed that most of the plain was covered by an inch or two of water. In certain spots the puddles were deeper. He pitched the tent to allow them a few minutes of refuge from the storm and as a canopy beneath which he hoped to light a fire. It was difficult trying to get the demon-horn pegs to hold in the wet earth, and he had to search for a time before finding a piece of ground that was a foot or so higher and still relatively dry. Once the pegs were fixed, he slid the willow sapling rods, which gave the thing its boxlike structure, into the sinew notches sewn to the deerskin cover. The shelter was tethered in place by ropes woven from vine. He and Wood sat beneath it and rested, safe from the persistent battering of the storm.
    â€œIf you shake the water off you in here, I’ll cut your other ear off,” Cley said with a grim laugh.
    The dog moved over next to him and looked into his eyes.
    Cley petted him on the head. “A little water,” he said. “How about some eggs?”
    The hunter went outside and yanked up one of the bushes they burned nightly. Returning with it to the tent, he placed it inside to dry for a few minutes. Then he went through his pack and pulled out a small copper pot. Taking the pot, he walked a few yards away from the cover to where a deep puddle bubbled wildly beneath the driving rain. He was about to dip the pot into the water when he noticed something dark moving through the shallow pool. Leaning over, he looked more closely, past the agitation on the surface. There, swimming through the grass, was a school of tiny, black fish.
    â€œFish born of nothing;” he said. Knowing there wasn’t anything he could do about this miracle, he siphoned some water off the top of the puddle and returned to the tent.
    â€œFish in the puddles,” he told Wood.
    The dog barely lifted his head at the news.
    Cley took the stone knife out of his boot and used it to gouge a deep hole in the ground that was the floor of their shelter. He then hacked some choice branches off the bush and threw the remainder outside. Next, he dug through his pack and brought out the book.
    â€œSorry, Wood,” he said as he ripped out the first few pages.
    The dog lifted his lip and gave an unconvincing snarl.
    â€œWe’ve read them already,” said the hunter. He replaced the book, then wadded up the loose paper into balls. Placing these at the bottom of the hole, he took the cut branches of the bush and built a pyramid structure around them. As good as he had become with the stones, it was obvious that this operation called for matches. He retrieved them from the pack, and in minutes the smoke was rising, streaming out of the sides of the tent. He hoped that the branches, though still damp, would dry enough as the paper burned to then ignite. The words concerning the nature of the soul wrinkled brown and vanished in the flames. A short time later, the eggs of the flightless bird rolled in the