Free Gods of Earth by Craig DeLancey

“Keep your mouth shut, witch boy.”
    Seth finally calmed enough to sit at Chance’s side.
    “I… I hoped to see something of the Lakes,” Chance explained. It was in vain: to the south and east there lay only unbroken forest covering alien hills.
    “Too far-far,” Seth said. “Over horizon.”
    “Over the horizon,” Chance repeated. So this is it, he thought. The realm of the Purimen was beyond the horizon, and new horizons surrounded him. He was without the guidance of Elders, without the counsel of another Puriman, without a map, without any familiar path. It seemed that every choice would require him to violate his creed, to move a step farther not only from home but from his faith. Everything here was wrong: to be above the trees, ready to fall to the Earth; the dull inanimate sounds of engines; the strange smells of the room; the white light that bled from the ceiling. He was uprooted, lifted from the Earth and set adrift.
    And all this while, Sarah was in danger, Sarah might be suffering something horrible, and he was, most likely, flying away from her.
    Gone suddenly was the conviction that came upon him the night before, that he was doing the right thing to accept the Guardian’s guidance. He looked uneasily toward the ominous gray figure, hulking over the landscape in the front of the ship. Who was he? What did he really want?
    “What may I call you?” Mimir asked. She had walked up behind him. Chance turned and looked at her frankly now. She still betrayed no emotion. Her silver eyes looked like ice in the reflected sunlight.
    “Chance. Chance Kyrien. Of the Purimen.”
    “This is an unusual nomination for a Puriman, is it not, Chance Kyrien? My limited understanding was that all Purimen took Biblical names.”
    Chance looked back in the direction of Walking Man Lake. “It is traditional for adopted children. An unsought child is a lucky chance, the Elders say.”
    “And you, sir?” She faced Seth.
    “Seth.” He lay on the deck, making a coyote bow.
    Mimir bowed and smiled in response, the first human gesture that Chance had seen her use.
    She pointed at Chance’s feet. “Your shoes appear to be in disrepair. This ship could mend them.”
    Chance looked around, confused. How could a ship fix shoes? It was a strange place. Nothing in it looked to be made by hand. It smelled unnatural. The feel of the seats lining the cabin unnerved him: soft but firm, made of neither metal nor wood nor anything he had ever touched. One corner of the cabin was walled off by white panels, but windows lined the rest of the cabin. And outside, when they stood by the river, the sound of the great fans that propelled the ship had roared, but inside he could hear only a distant, quiet hum. A dull vibration that he felt in his teeth made the whole place throb. Suddenly, the cabin seemed small and close.
    He frowned. “Unless you have leather cord and a hand-made awl, I cannot accept your help.”
    Mimir said nothing. But then Chance’s hands began to shake. His legs felt suddenly weak, and trembled. He turned and uneasily sat on the low bench before the window.
    “Hungry,” Seth barked.
    Mimir looked at the coyote, then turned her expressionless silver eyes back on Chance. “The Seth is observant. You are manifesting symptoms resulting from dehydration and inadequate nutrition. I have sustenance. It was manufactured by Makine, but I would advise you to consume it.”
    Chance nodded. It had been more than a day since he had eaten, and eating their food seemed somehow less of a sacrifice, food not being a machine itself. He imagined the sources and making of food could not be much different from Puriman strictures, no matter from whom it came.
    Mimir went to the back of the cabin and returned with four brown bricks of what looked to him like beeswax. She handed two to Chance and placed the others in Seth’s mouth.
    “What is it?”
    “The appearance, and the taste, will probably disappoint. However, it has all