Soul Catcher by Frank Herbert Read Free Book Online

all around
him, glanced down at Hoquat sprawled in a bracken clump, a picture
of complete fatigue.
    What a hue and cry would be raised for this
one. What a prize! What headlines! A message that could not be
denied.
    Katsuk glanced up at the pale sky. The
pursuers would use helicopters and other aircraft, of course. They
would be starting out soon. Just about now, they would be
discovering at the camp what had been done to them. The serious,
futile hoquat with their ready-made lives, their plastic
justifications for existence, would come upon something new and
terrifying: a note from Katsuk. They would know that the place
of safety in which their spirits cowered had been breached.
    He tugged at the thong that linked him to
Hoquat, got only a lifted head and questioning stare from eyes
bright with fear and fatigue. Tear streaks lined the boy’s
face.
    Katsuk steeled himself against sympathy. His
thoughts went to all the innocents of his own people who had died
beneath guns and sabers, died of starvation, of germ-laden blankets
deliberately sold to the tribes to kill them off.
    “Get up,” Katsuk said.
    Hoquat struggled to his feet, stood swaying,
shivering. His clothes were wet with trail dew.
    Katsuk said: “We are going to climb this
rock slope. It is a dangerous climb. Watch where I put my feet. Put
your feet exactly where I have. If you make a mistake, you will
start a slide. I will save myself. You will be buried in the slide.
Is this understood?”
    Hoquat nodded. Katsuk hesitated. Did the boy
have sufficient reserves of strength to do this? The nod of
agreement could have been fearful obedience without
understanding.
    But what did it matter? The spirits would
preserve this innocent for the consecrated arrow, or they would
take him. Either way, the message would be heard. There was no
reprieve.
    The boy stood waiting for the nightmare
journey to continue. A dangerous climb? All right. What difference
did it make? Except that he must survive this, must live to escape.
The madman had called him Hoquat, had forced him to answer to that
name. More than anything else, this concentrated a core of fury in
the boy.
    He thought: My name is David. David, not
Hoquat. David-not-Hoquat.
    His legs ached. His feet were wet and sore.
He felt that if he could just close his eyes right here he could
sleep standing up. When he blinked, his eyelids felt rough against
his eyes. His left arm was sore where a long red abrasion had been
dragged across his skin by the rough bark of a tree. It had torn
both his jacket and shirt. The madman had cursed him then: a savage
voice out of darkness.
    The night had been a cold nightmare in a
black pit of trees. Now he saw morning’s rose vapors on the peaks,
but the nightmare continued.
    Katsuk gave a commanding tug on the thong,
studied the boy’s response. Too slow. The fool would kill them both
on that slide.
    “What is your name?” Katsuk asked.
    The voice was low, defiant: “David
Marshall.”
    Without change of expression, Katsuk
delivered a sharp backhand blow to the boy’s cheek, measuring it to
sting but not injure. “What is your name?”
    “You know my name!”
    “Say your name.”
    “It’s Dav—” Again, Katsuk struck him. The
boy stared at him, defiant, fighting back tears. Katsuk thought: No reprieve ... no reprieve ...
    “I know what you want me to say,” the boy
muttered. His jaws pulsed with the effort of holding back
tears.
    No reprieve.
    “Your name,” Katsuk insisted, touching the
knife at his waist. The boy’s eyes followed the movement.
    “Hoquat.” It was muttered, almost
unintelligible. “Louder .” The boy opened his mouth, screamed:
“Hoquat!” Katsuk said: “Now, we will climb.”
    He turned, went up the shale slope. He
placed each foot with care: now on a flat slab jutting from the
slide, now on a sloping buttress which seemed anchored in the
mountain. Once, a rock shifted under his testing foot. Pebbles
bounded down into the trees while he waited,