Me
* * *
In time, she came to awareness. There was no sense of it, no real sense of herself or who or what she was. But she was; she did exist. This was a fact self evident by her existing, and by the slow but growing awareness that there was a her, that it was a her, that she was familiar with her herness, with her being a her.
I am me.
She ached. There was pain in her wrists, her ankles. They were part of her herness, of her being. She found with much effort that she could move them, that in the inky darkness of her own closed eyelids she could rub one sore wrist with her hand, with her fingers. There was some pain in this, but in it also there was some relief.
She was lying on her side, her knees drawn up, her position fetal. It was hard where she lay, yet giving, and in time she had a word for this surface.
Sand.
She opened her eyes.
Only one, the left, obeyed.
She brought her hand to her face, felt the pain there, the swelling of a deep bruise, the dried blood that had sealed her right eye.
With a groan she pushed herself up. A spasm of pain shot through her side.
Ribs. Probably broken.
Not dead.
This came slowly; there was a dim glow where she was, and she fought the confusion. I was sitting on a rock above the valley. They took me. I awakened and it was dark and it hurt.
Is that time, that memory, now?
It was hard to remember, hard to make things clear in her head.
No. There was more. There were the things, dark, with three red eyes.
Like the one watching her now.
"You live," it said.
She stared back with her single working eye. And then it came to her.
Dad. Falling, leaping. And something hard, hard and sharp, striking her on the forehead, the sharp pain of it making her gasp in the sudden roar. The cave around her crumbling as she cried out to him, crumbling with a growing roar that was only more terror in the sudden darkness.
Did he make it?
The thing still watched her.
Claws, many claws, gripping her. Lifting her. A sense of motion as bits of falling rock fell on her, a sudden spasm of pain as something hit her side. Motion downwards in the roar, in the fear, in her own helplessness, motion as the roar quieted and then was suddenly gone with a sharp pain in her skull.
And now here, in the stillness and the gloom, the thing, just there, staring.
"You live," it said again.
This was, she supposed, a good thing. In theory, at least, life was better than death.
Death. Did Dad make it?
Had this thing, by kidnapping her, killed her father?
Penny Robinson reached for a stone, felt her fingers close about one, tried to raise it to throw at the thing.
And failed. Her side spasmed and the air went out of her lungs.
But the thing, sensing what she intended, backed away.
"You would hurt us again?" it asked.
"Shut up," she growled through the pain. "Just shut up."
The stone fell from her fingers.
#
For a time the thing just sat, just watched her. It was hard to stay sitting, so finally Penny lowered herself to the sand again, resting on her uninjured side.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked finally.
It moved a bit closer.
"It is the balance," it said. "You have injured us, and we injure you."
"You're killing me," she said.
It moved its head, the three eyes still tracking in her.
"No. You are only injured. We allowed to you escape, because of the balance."
She fought confusion.
"What are you talking about?"
"We allowed you to escape. It is the balance. You have injured us, and we injure you. If we die, then you must die."
"I don't understand," she said softly. "Please help me understand why I have to die."
It watched her silently. When it spoke its tone had changed.
"You carry a weapon, you deal death with such enthusiasm, and yet you are not willing to pay the price of death? What savagery you have!"
"I didn't kill anything!" she cried.
"No. We were fortunate. You only injured. But you meant to kill. You have no place for protest."
Penny moaned, the exertion of sitting up beginning to show. But an anger, slow in coming but now here, kept her focused.
"I have no place for protest? You talk, that's all. You kidnapped me and brought me here and now you talk. But you know, I don't believe you. You're lying. You aren't hurt at all."
The thing hissed and she could sense its anger. And then it lept at her, the force of its impact pushing her back against the cavern wall. She cried out in pain, went to her side again.
"You see?" she said. "Who is the savage, you or I? Don't waste my time anymore; if you're going to kill me, then just do it."
#
It didn't answer, not for a long time, and Penny lay unmoving, watching it. At last it came forward, its red eyes on her, watching close. When it spoke the hiss was gone.
"You do not believe we suffer?"
"You look perfectly all right to me," she growled.
"Follow, then," it said, and it moved away.
* * *
In time, she came to awareness. There was no sense of it, no real sense of herself or who or what she was. But she was; she did exist. This was a fact self evident by her existing, and by the slow but growing awareness that there was a her, that it was a her, that she was familiar with her herness, with her being a her.
I am me.
She ached. There was pain in her wrists, her ankles. They were part of her herness, of her being. She found with much effort that she could move them, that in the inky darkness of her own closed eyelids she could rub one sore wrist with her hand, with her fingers. There was some pain in this, but in it also there was some relief.
She was lying on her side, her knees drawn up, her position fetal. It was hard where she lay, yet giving, and in time she had a word for this surface.
Sand.
She opened her eyes.
Only one, the left, obeyed.
She brought her hand to her face, felt the pain there, the swelling of a deep bruise, the dried blood that had sealed her right eye.
With a groan she pushed herself up. A spasm of pain shot through her side.
Ribs. Probably broken.
Not dead.
This came slowly; there was a dim glow where she was, and she fought the confusion. I was sitting on a rock above the valley. They took me. I awakened and it was dark and it hurt.
Is that time, that memory, now?
It was hard to remember, hard to make things clear in her head.
No. There was more. There were the things, dark, with three red eyes.
Like the one watching her now.
"You live," it said.
She stared back with her single working eye. And then it came to her.
Dad. Falling, leaping. And something hard, hard and sharp, striking her on the forehead, the sharp pain of it making her gasp in the sudden roar. The cave around her crumbling as she cried out to him, crumbling with a growing roar that was only more terror in the sudden darkness.
Did he make it?
The thing still watched her.
Claws, many claws, gripping her. Lifting her. A sense of motion as bits of falling rock fell on her, a sudden spasm of pain as something hit her side. Motion downwards in the roar, in the fear, in her own helplessness, motion as the roar quieted and then was suddenly gone with a sharp pain in her skull.
And now here, in the stillness and the gloom, the thing, just there, staring.
"You live," it said again.
This was, she supposed, a good thing. In theory, at least, life was better than death.
Death. Did Dad make it?
Had this thing, by kidnapping her, killed her father?
Penny Robinson reached for a stone, felt her fingers close about one, tried to raise it to throw at the thing.
And failed. Her side spasmed and the air went out of her lungs.
But the thing, sensing what she intended, backed away.
"You would hurt us again?" it asked.
"Shut up," she growled through the pain. "Just shut up."
The stone fell from her fingers.
#
For a time the thing just sat, just watched her. It was hard to stay sitting, so finally Penny lowered herself to the sand again, resting on her uninjured side.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked finally.
It moved a bit closer.
"It is the balance," it said. "You have injured us, and we injure you."
"You're killing me," she said.
It moved its head, the three eyes still tracking in her.
"No. You are only injured. We allowed to you escape, because of the balance."
She fought confusion.
"What are you talking about?"
"We allowed you to escape. It is the balance. You have injured us, and we injure you. If we die, then you must die."
"I don't understand," she said softly. "Please help me understand why I have to die."
It watched her silently. When it spoke its tone had changed.
"You carry a weapon, you deal death with such enthusiasm, and yet you are not willing to pay the price of death? What savagery you have!"
"I didn't kill anything!" she cried.
"No. We were fortunate. You only injured. But you meant to kill. You have no place for protest."
Penny moaned, the exertion of sitting up beginning to show. But an anger, slow in coming but now here, kept her focused.
"I have no place for protest? You talk, that's all. You kidnapped me and brought me here and now you talk. But you know, I don't believe you. You're lying. You aren't hurt at all."
The thing hissed and she could sense its anger. And then it lept at her, the force of its impact pushing her back against the cavern wall. She cried out in pain, went to her side again.
"You see?" she said. "Who is the savage, you or I? Don't waste my time anymore; if you're going to kill me, then just do it."
#
It didn't answer, not for a long time, and Penny lay unmoving, watching it. At last it came forward, its red eyes on her, watching close. When it spoke the hiss was gone.
"You do not believe we suffer?"
"You look perfectly all right to me," she growled.
"Follow, then," it said, and it moved away.