Fossil Hunter

  And occasionally bird fossils, such as the one in this sketch of Babnol’s, showed some kind of bizarre frayed body covering, like stiff fern leaves with inflexible spines. This was completely unlike the simple leathery hide or scales or plates of reptiles, and completely unlike the filaments of hair that insulated wingfingers.

  Toroca and others guessed that birds might have flown, but no one knew for sure, for no living bird had ever been seen. They were known only from the fossil record.

  Toroca studied the sketch minutely. Babnol was talented indeed.

  The cliffs along the eastern shore of Fra’toolar were the tallest in all of Land. They rose up out of the great world-spanning body of water like giant brown walls, towering toward the purple sky. A thin beach ran between them and the churning waves. Scattered along the beach were ragged chucks of rock, pebbles, and fine sands.

  The entire height of the cliff face was made of thin horizontal bands, almost as if the whole thing were some impossibly thick book, and each band represented a separate page seen edge on. The bands were all brown or brownish-gray until near the top, where some white layers appeared.

  Wingfingers nested in crooks in the rocks, their reptilian heads poking out, their membranous wings covered with silky fur wrapped tightly against their bodies to protect against the chill wind. The only thing marring the neat horizontal banding of the rocks was the countless white streaks caused by their droppings. But these were washed away by the frequent storms, leaving the book of stone layers scrubbed clean for a short time.

  Toroca and Babnol arrived on the beach shortly after noon. Overhead, the sun, tiny and white, was visible through the silvery clouds, but none of the thirteen moons was bright enough in the daytime to be visible through the haze.

  Far up ahead, they could see two other Quintaglios, barely more than green knots against the long expanse of beach, the vast cliffs, and the churning gray waters.

  Toroca cupped his hands to his muzzle and called out, “Ho!” There was no response, the wind whisking the word out over the waters. He shrugged, and they trudged on farther. Eventually, Toroca sang out again, and this time the distant figures did hear him. They turned around and waved. Toroca waved back and, although exhausted from five days of hiking, picked up his pace, trotting along to join his friends. Babnol followed alongside. She stopped about fifteen paces away from the others, an appropriate distance when approaching individuals one has not met before. Toroca, though, surged in as close as six paces from the nearest of them, a distance too close by anyone’s standards. Reflexively, the other Quintaglios backed up a couple of steps.

  It was Delplas and Spalton, the madness of dagamant long forgotten, Spalton’s arm regenerating nicely. “Who’s this?” said Delplas. “Surely not Dak-Forgool?”

  Toroca shook his head. “Forgool is dead. Wab-Babnol here has come to join us in his place. Babnol, meet two of the best surveyors in all of Land.” His voice was full of warmth. “This reprobate is Gan-Spalton. He has a sly sense of humor, so watch yourself when around him—and only listen to him in the light of day.”

  Babnol bowed. “I cast a shadow in your presence, Gan-Spalton.”

  Spalton looked as though he was going to make some comment, possibly about Babnol’s horn. But, perhaps catching the expression on Toroca’s face, he said nothing, and simply bowed deeply.

  “And this is Bar-Delplas.”

  “Greetings,” said Babnol.

  “What?” said Delplas with a click of her teeth. “No shadow-casting?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Babnol. “I cast a—”

  Delplas held up her hand. “If you really want to cast something near me,” she said, “let it be a net. The waters are rough here, but the fishing is excellent nonetheless. Do you like fish, Babnol?”

  “I’ve rarely had any; I’m from an inland Pack.”

  “Well, then you’ve only had freshwater fish. Wait till you taste true River fish!”

  Babnol dipped her head. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  The four of them began to amble down the beach. “You’ll meet the other four surveyors later,” Toroca said to Babnol. Then he turned to face Delplas. “Babnol is an experienced fossil hunter,” said Toroca.

  “Whom did you study under?” asked Delplas.

  “I’m self-taught,” said Babnol, her head once again tilted up in that haughty way.

  Delplas turned toward Toroca, her face a question.

  “She’s not a trained geologist,” he said, “but she’s very experienced. And she’s eager to learn.”

  Delplas considered for a moment, then: “Would that more of our people shared your passion for learning, Babnol.” She bowed deeply. “Welcome to the Geological Survey of Land.”

  “I’m delighted to be a part of it,” Babnol replied warmly.

  “You’ll be even more delighted when you see what wonders we’ve found,” said Toroca. He faced Spalton. “Still nothing below the Bookmark layer?”

  “Nothing. We’ve taken thousands of samples, and still not a single find.”

  “The Bookmark layer?” said Babnol.

  “Come,” said Toroca. “We’ll show you.”

  They hiked farther along the beach, a few wingfingers circling overhead, and a crab occasionally scuttling across their path. Streamers of waterweeds were strewn here and there along the sands.

  At last they came to a small encampment consisting of a cluster of eleven small tents made out of thunderbeast hide arranged in a loose circle. A semicircular wall of stones had been built to shield them from the wind.

  “This is home, at least for the next few dekadays,” said Toroca. “After that, we’ll be heading to the south pole by sailing ship; we’ve recently requisitioned one for that journey. I don’t know which ship Novato will send, but I’m sure it will be a major vessel.”

  Babnol nodded.

  The cliffs rose up in front of them. Babnol hadn’t been aware that her tail had been swishing back and forth to generate heat until they got here, in the lee of the stone crescent, and it suddenly stopped moving. Out of the biting wind, it was actually fairly pleasant. The sun was even peeking out from behind the clouds now.

  Toroca gestured at the cliff, and Babnol let her eyes wander over its surface. She was startled to realize that way, way up the face, there were two Quintaglios, looking like tiny green spiders. “Those are two more members of our team,” said Toroca. “You’ll meet them later.”

  “What are they doing?” said Babnol.

  “Looking for fossils,” said Toroca.

  “And is the looking good here?”

  “Depends,” said Toroca, a mischievous tone in his voice. “I can tell you right now that Tralen—that’s the fellow higher up the cliff face—will find plenty, but Greeblo, the one lower down, will come up empty-handed.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Babnol.

  “Do you know what superposition is?” asked Spalton.

  Babnol shook her head.

  “My predecessor, Irb-Falpom, spent most of her life developing the theory of it,” said Toroca. “It seems intuitively obvious once it’s explained, but until Falpom, no one had understood it.” He gestured at the cliff. “You see the layers of rock?”

  “Yes,” said Babnol.

  “There are two main types of rock: uprock and downrock. Uprock is thrust up from the ground as lava. Basalt is an uprock.”

  She nodded.

  “But rain and wind and the pounding of waves cause uprock to crumble into dust. That dust is carried down to the bottom of rivers and lakes and gets compressed into downrocks, such as shale and sandstone.”

  “All right.”

  “Well, Falpom made the great leap: she realized that when you look at downrock layers, like the sandstone of these cliffs, the layers on the bottom are the oldest and the ones on the top are the youngest.”

  “How can that be?” said Babnol. “I thought all rocks came from the second egg of creation.”

  “That’s right, but t
hey’ve changed in the time since that egg hatched. The way the rocks look today isn’t the way they were when the world was formed.”

  She looked skeptical, but let him continue.

  “It’s really very simple,” said Toroca. “I don’t know whether you’re a tidy person or not. I’m a bit of a slob myself, I’m sorry to say. My desk back in Capital City is covered with writing leathers and books. But I know if I’m looking for something I put on my desk recently, it will be near the top of the clutter, whereas something I set down dekadays ago will be near the bottom. It’s the same with rock layers.”

  “All right,” said Babnol.

  “Well, the rock layers we see here are the finest sequence in all of Land. The height of the cliffs from top to bottom represents an enormous span of kilodays, with the rock layers at the bottom representing truly ancient times.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He pointed again. “You see that all the lower layers are brown or gray. If you look up, way, way up, almost nine-tenths of the way to the top, you’ll find the first layer that’s white. See it? Just a thin line?”

  “Not really.”

  “We’ll climb up tomorrow, and I’ll show you. The layer in question is still a good fifteen paces from the top, of course, this being a big cliff, but—ah!” Spalton had disappeared a few moments ago into one of the tents and had now emerged holding a brass tube with an ornate crest on one end. “Thank you, Spalton,” said Toroca, taking the object.

  “A far-seer,” said Babnol, her voice full of wonder. “I’ve heard of them, but never seen one up close.”

  “Not just any far-seer,” said Delplas, jerking her head at the instrument Toroca now held. “That’s the one Wab-Novato gave to Sal-Afsan the morning after Toroca was conceived.”

  Toroca looked embarrassed. “It meant a great deal to my father,” he said, “but once he was blinded, he could no longer use it. He wanted it to still be employed in the search for knowledge, and gave it to me when I embarked on my first expedition as leader of the Geological Survey.” He proffered the device to Babnol.

  She took it reverently, held the cool length in front of her with both hands, felt its weight, the weight of history. “Afsan’s far-seer…” she said with awe.

  “Go ahead,” said Toroca. “Put it to your eye. Look at the cliff.”

  She raised the tube. “Everything looks tiny!” she said.

  Clicking of teeth from Spalton and Delplas. “That’s the wrong end,” said Toroca gently. “Try it the other way.”

  She reversed the tube. “Spectacular!” She turned slowly through a half-circle. “That’s amazing!”

  “You can sharpen the image by rotating the other part,” Toroca said.

  “Wonderful,” breathed Babnol.

  “Now, look at the cliff face.”

  She turned back to the towering wall of layered downrock. “Hey! There’s—what did you say his name was?”

  “If it’s the fellow in the blue sash, it’s Tralen.”

  “Tralen, yes.”

  “All right. Scan up the cliff face until you come to a layer of white rock. Not light brown, but actual white. You can’t miss it.”

  “I don’t—wait a beat! There it is!”

  “Right,” said Toroca. “That’s what we call the Bookmark layer. It’s white because it’s made of chalk. There are no chalk layers below it because there are no shells of aquatic animals below it.”

  Babnol lowered the far-seer. “I don’t see the connection.”

  “Chalk is made of fossilized shells,” said Delplas. “We often find beautiful shell pieces in chalk layers.”

  “Oh. We have no chalk in Arj’toolar. Lots of limestone, though—which is also made from shells.”

  Delplas nodded. “That’s right.”

  “But here,” said Toroca, “there are no fossil shells below that first white layer.” He leaned forward. “In fact, there are no fossils of any kind beneath that first white layer.”

  Babnol lifted the far-seer again, letting her circular view slide up and down the cliff face. “No fossils below,” she said slowly.

  “But plenty above,” said Toroca. “There’s nothing gradual about it. Starting with that white layer, and in every subsequent layer, the rock is full of fossils.”

  “Then the—what did you call it?—the Bookmark layer…”

  Toroca nodded. “The Bookmark layer marks the point in our world’s history at which life was created. Drink in the sight, Babnol. You’re seeing the beginning of it all!”

  Chapter 6

  A Quintaglio’s Diary

  I get tired of spending time with my siblings. It’s strange, because I have no idea how I should react. With others, my territorial instinct seems to operate properly. I know, without thinking, when I should get out of someone’s way and when I can reasonably expect someone to yield to me. But with my brothers and sisters, it’s different. Sometimes I feel as though their presence, no matter how close, doesn’t bother me in the least. At other times, I find myself challenging their territory for no good reason at all. That they are exactly the same age as me—neither younger nor older, neither bigger nor smaller—makes all standard protocols based on age and size meaningless.

  It’s confusing, so very confusing. I wish I knew how to behave.

  Rockscape, near Capital City

  It was an eerie place, a place of the dead.

  Ancient cathedral, ancient cemetery, ancient calendar—the debates raged on among the academics. All that remained were ninety-four granite boulders, strewn—or so it seemed at first glance—across a field of tall grasses, a field that ended in a sheer drop, edged with crumbling marl, plummeting to the great world-spanning body of water far below.

  But the boulders, as one could clearly see when their positions were plotted, were not strewn. They were arranged, laid out in geometric patterns, lines drawn between them forming hexagons and pentagons, triangles, and perfect squares.

  Rockscape, it was called: a minor tourist attraction, a site that most first-time visitors to Capital City made sure to see, proof that long before the current city had been built, Quintaglios had inhabited this area. Some claimed the rocks represented sacrificial altars on which the earliest Lubalites had practiced their cannibalistic ways. That was an easy theory to believe. The wind sometimes shrieked across the field like the doleful wails of those offered up to placate a God who was making the land tremble.

  Afsan often came here, straddling a particular boulder, the one the historians referred to as Sun/Swift-Runner/4 but that everyone else had come to call simply Afsan’s rock. This was his place, a place for quiet contemplation, introspection, and deep thought.

  Afsan could find his way here as easily at night as in the day, but he never did so. Indeed, he rarely came out at all after sunset. It was unbearable for him. To know that the stars—the glorious, glorious stars—were arching overhead was too much. Of all the sights he would never see again, Afsan missed the night sky most.

  The great landquake of kiloday 7110 had left much of Capital City in ruins. In its aftermath, most of the Lubalites had gone into hiding again. Officially, no record was kept of who had been identified as a member of that ancient sect, and even unofficially little concern was paid to it. Oh, there were those who called for retribution, but Dybo declared an amnesty. After all, when he made the public announcement that he agreed with Afsan that Larsk was a false prophet, he couldn’t very well penalize those who had refused to worship Larsk earlier. Jal-Tetex was permitted to remain on as imperial hunt leader, although she died eventually, in exactly the way she would have liked to—on the hunt. The lanky Pal-Cadool stayed in favor with the palace, although he was reassigned from being chief butcher to personal assistant to Afsan, a role he had unofficially held anyway since the blinded Afsan had been released from prison.

  Afsan, whom some had called The One, the hunter foretold by Lubal, who would lead the Quintaglios on the greatest hunt of all.

  Some still believed Afsan
to be this—and, indeed, some took the exodus to be the hunt Lubal had spoken of. Others who had believed it once, had grown less and less convinced of it as time went by. Afsan, after all, had not hunted in kilodays. And others still, of course, had always scoffed at the suggestion that Afsan was The One.

  Cadool did his best to make Afsan’s life comfortable. Afsan often sent Cadool to run errands or do things that he could not himself, and that meant that Afsan was often alone.

  Alone, that is, except for Gork.

  “It’ll help look after you,” Cadool had said. Afsan had been dubious. As a youngster with Pack Carno, he had kept pet lizards, but Gork was awfully big to be considered a pet. It was about half Afsan’s own size. Afsan had never seen such a creature before he had been blinded, so he really had only an approximate idea of what Gork looked like. Its hide was dark gray, like slate, according to Cadool, and it constantly tasted the air with a flicking bifurcated tongue. Gork was quite tame, and Afsan had petted it up and down its leathery hide. The reptile’s limbs sprawled out in a push-up posture. Its head was flat and elongated. Its tail was thick and flattened, and it worked from side to side as Gork walked.

  Gork gladly wore a leather harness and led Afsan around, always choosing a safe path for its master, avoiding rocks and gutters and dung. Afsan found himself growing inordinately fond of the beast and ascribed to it all sorts of advanced qualities, including at least a rudimentary intelligence.

  He was surprised that such pets weren’t more common. It was in some ways pleasant to spend time with another living, breathing creature that didn’t trigger the territorial instinct. Although Gork was cold-blooded, and therefore not very energetic, it was still fast enough as a guide for Afsan, given how slowly Afsan walked most of the time, nervous about tripping.

  Afsan and Gork, alone, out among the ancient boulders, wind whipping over them, until—