The Rifts of Psyche, Kyle West [i love reading .txt] 📗

It looked like lard. It seemed Elder Ytrib had been quite serious about the beard coming off tonight.

Lucian shaved using the paltry light of the candles. He had applied the animal fat and got the idea to use the surface of the lake outside to see his reflection. The water was smooth enough to somewhat see what he was doing, though he had to stream a light sphere again to do it. He had to go slowly, to ensure he didn’t cut himself. He tried to ignore some women drawing water near the waterfall who seemed to be looking his way. Well, he was downstream, so his hair wouldn’t float toward them. He had already lost most of it to the dark void of the cave.

Once done, he was surprised at how clean-shaven he was. The stone blade was sharp and well-made. The face staring back from the lake’s surface shocked him. He was rail-thin, with new lines that made him look five years older. How had Fergus ever thought he was sixteen? He looked thirty. The man staring back was no longer the boy who had left Earth. He’d come a long way, but he still had so much farther to go.

That was, of course, only if he could survive the Mad Moon.

The two women by the waterfall had left, leaving the lakefront empty. He retrieved his clean clothes from inside the hut and placed them on the shore, letting his light sphere wink out. Then, in the darkness, he stripped off his clothes and slipped into the lake. The water was colder than anything he had ever felt since Volsung, but he needed a bath. He washed himself as best as he could without the aid of soap. Once done, he went to the shore and stood naked and shivering, wondering how he would dry himself. He settled for swiping with his hands. He couldn’t stand the cold air any longer, so he stepped into his new clothes. They were rough and itchy, but infinitely better than the disgusting prison jumpsuit he had been wearing. He wasn’t sure what to do with his old clothes. They needed to be burned, but he set them on the chair in the hut. Maybe someone could find a use for them.

Lucian donned a pair of socks along with his new leather boots. The rough, flaxen shirt felt scratchy on his skin, but he supposed he’d have to get used to that. The outfit was colorless, looking like something out of medieval times. There was no auto-tailoring here with nanotech, no changing colors. It would have to do.

He judged about half an hour had passed since Fergus left, but it would be wise to be early. He was no longer cold from his dip, and was actually feeling refreshed, if exhausted. As he walked up the shoreline toward the main village, he couldn’t help but feel as if he were in a dream.

He ascended the stairs leading to the main part of the village, brushing past people on his way. No one talked to him. He was still an off-worlder, and apparently unwelcome. Even if people didn’t talk to him, he could see they were talking about him – from porches, from inside homes, from narrow alleys. There were even people pointing from across the stream on the opposite end of the village. It seemed all of Kiro knew he was here.

He headed to the rope bridge spanning the stream. It swung back and forth as he walked across carefully, trying to ignore the frothing white water beneath. He heaved a sigh of relief once he reached the other side.

He wasn’t the only one heading toward the meeting hall. There were young people about his age, middle-aged laborers, and older folks as well. There was an entire community here, probably one of many taking up residence in Psyche’s rifts. And in a tight-knit community like this, Lucian knew it was hard to be accepted. They had likely known each other all their lives.

And yet, this was what was expected of him. And he needed to stay alive. He knew he should try to be more friendly, but he was just too exhausted. When he looked directly at the townsfolk, it seemed as if they were focusing on anything else. And yet when his eyes went forward, he could feel their eyes return to him. The only exception were two girls about his age, who giggled when they saw him. They walked on ahead, laughing the entire time. Well, it seemed no matter where he went, girls would be girls. It was a strange thing to find comfort in.

A hand clapped on his shoulder, causing him to jump. He turned to see a balding, bearded man in his middle years, with a swarthy gut and hairy forearms. How a man of his heft could sneak up on him, Lucian could never guess.

“Were you looking at my daughter?”

Lucian sputtered. “Err, no sir. They were just laughing at me, so it drew my attention.”

The man gave him a deadened glare, and then suddenly broke into a laugh. “I’m just messing with you, son.” He nodded ahead. “Bonfire’s that way. Need me to show you there?”

Lucian nodded, still reeling. “Yeah, sure.”

“Keep your head forward, and your eyes focused on those flames,” the man counseled. “And stop making eyes at the girls here.”

Making eyes? He wanted to protest but he knew it was useless to argue.

“Name’s Kieron Wardley. I’m the village smith.”

Lucian almost said he could tell from his burly appearance and hairy forearms, but he refrained. He was getting too tired for his own good. Unfortunately, he would have to speak at length soon while not sticking his foot in his mouth.

Lucian and Kieron passed some of the nicer buildings of Kiro, including the smithy Kieron must have owned. He could feel the heat emanating from the open-air forge. Lucian wondered just what kind of things he made here. He hadn’t seen much in the way