Copyright 1989(c)

                             KEEPER
                          By Duke Davis
     Chanor trimmed the fin sail shorter into the light wind. 
     The white sea was fairly smooth and the little craft was 
racing across the water. The Graken were so high they were       
almost out of sight, both birds were as anxious as Chanor to 
return to the Keep. 
     This had been a long hunt. Game was becoming scarce in      
close to the Keep. Chanor had traveled for nine days before 
coming to one of the floating islands where he could hunt. 
     This was the manhood trip, his first trip alone. He had 
trained his entire life for this trip. Now he would be a man in the
eyes of the tribe. He could select a mate and start his own Keep. 
Chanor was tall, his lean hard body comfortable covered with pads
of strong muscle. Both sets of arms were fully developed for
hunting. He could pull the Master Hunter's double bow with ease. 
     The needle sailer cut through the water with the grace 
of a Graken through the sky. Both moons were up now, shading 
the night a bright lavender. Chanor sent a thought to the       
Graken, the communications between the bird and man were not 
understood. The Graken communicated with only the Keepers 
they chose and no one else. He told them to join him on the 
sailer, the Keep was in sight on the horizon now. The Graken 
turned in a slow glide and started for the needle sailer. 
     With a rush of wings and scales they landed on the bow, they
still wanted to be the first home. Chanor had found the Graken as
chicks, their mother killed by a net worm. They were male and
female; the female would be leaving him soon to find a mate. 
Chanor was being graced with her company only because her nestling
was with him. The female Graken did not much care for life around
the Keep. The males, however, seemed to take to hunting with the
tribe as a natural function. Snap, the male Graken, sent a thought
to him; There was a maseor near. 
     The Graken were the only creatures that linked their 
minds with the tribe. They could link with all the other airborne
creatures, all the land creatures, and some of the sea creatures. 
The maseor was the most vicious of the sea creatures. It seemed to
prefer tribe and Graken meat to any other. Behind him Chanor heard
a rushing in the sea. A quick turn and he caught the flash of the
maseor as it dived. 
     The maseor consisted of mouth, teeth, and stomach, not the 
kind of thing you wanted to meet on a needle sailer well out 
from the Keep. The maseor would stay clear of the small boat 
until it was sure it would face no problems. Once it decided its
prey was edible, it would attack. The Graken were starting to
jitter around on the needle, causing it to rock and become
unstable. With a releasing thought from Chanor, a thunder of wings
sent both Graken into the air, straining for height. Chanor picked
up his remaining spears, only two chances if the maseor attacked. 
He still had both tusk knives, but they wouldn't be much use
against a maseor.  The fin sail was as tight into the wind as he
could get it, but he could set another sail in front of it. With
the ease of many hours of practice, he lashed a free sail to the
base of the mast and ran a quick line to the masthead. With a bang
the sail filled out, a tug on the line trimmed it smooth. 
     Chanor should make the Keep in less than one period now. 
     Listening with part of his mind to Snap, who was complaining
as usual, Chanor focused another part of his mind to contact 
the Keep. He was still a long way out but it was possible 
that he could make contact. They needed to be warned that a 
maseor was this close. A maseor had not been seen this close 
to a Keep in his lifetime. 
     The maseor was slowly moving in on the needle sailer, 
coming closer with every pass. At this rate it would be on top of
him before he could contact the Keep. Chanor was not afraid of
dying; no Keeper was. When a Keeper passed on to the next life, his
thoughts and mental-self stayed with the Master. His worry was that
if he died while alone there would be no guides to show him the
way. His trip to the land of the Master could be long indeed. 
     A swirl of water next to the hull of the sailer jerked 
his mind back to the business at hand. With the maseor still 
visible, what was this next to the hull now? He could see nothing
but the milky water. Whatever had made the splash was keeping out
of his sight. Snap had seen nothing. He could not contact whatever
had made the splash. Probably just another fish trying to get away
from the maseor. 
     Chanor gripped the ribs of the needle sailer with his toes,
each right hand holding a spear, each left hand filled with a tusk
knife, his stomach felt strange, his hands sweaty. The maseor was
coming closer. Chanor could see the blank black eyes measuring him,
deciding if he was a meal or a danger. With a splash of fins the
maseor started toward him. It would ram the sailer, shattering the
hull, then get him when he was in the water. Beyond spear reach,
the maseor dove to come up under the hull. A quick count to four
and Chanor plunged both spears deep into the water under the 
hull. He jammed the spears down so hard that he nearly lost 
his balance when they contacted nothing. The maseor had not
completed its run! With a quick yank, he pulled the spears back and
waited, scanning the water, looking for the next run. The water was
quiet; there was no sign of the maseor. He stayed poised with his
spears until he started getting cramps in his arms. The maseor had
left. This was unheard of; there was not a known case of a maseor
breaking off an attack for any reason other than death. 
     He sent a thought to Snap, trying to calm him down. The    
Graken was circling the sailer, his battle scream now quiet, 
a puzzled thought echoing from his mind. The maseor was gone, but
there was something else there, something he did not know. Spalla,
the female Graken, was much higher than Snap, circling the sailer,
watching. When Graken hunted, one hunted while the other stood
watch. No single creature on Parnar could stand up to a pair of
grown Graken and hope to come out victorious. The only way the
Graken lost to a maseor was in trying to protect one from the
tribe. This had happened before, Chanor's own father had been lost
to a  maseor along with his female Graken. The female's mate was
still in the Keep, but could not fly. It had lost one wing when
father had died. Now nearly blind with age, Spit was the leader of
the Keep Graken. Snap landed on the bow of the sailer with a rush
and clatter of wings, sending questions to Chanor about what lay
under the sailer. Spalla still circled above. She would not come
down until Snap and Chanor were safe. What seemed to be bothering
Snap the most was what had run the maseor off. The only things on
Parnar that could defeat a maseor was a Keeper or a Graken. 
     Chanor could pick up no thoughts, either animal or Keeper from
under the sailer. There were no thoughts anywhere except for Snap's
and Spalla's. This would be a tale to be told around the Keep fires
for many years to come; it would also be something new to
investigate. 
     The needle sailer was moving through the water at a fast 
pace now. He placed the spears in the bottom of the sailer and
returned the knives to his belt. The maseor might still be around,
and he didn't want to take the chance that it would come back. 
When he reached the shallows around the Keep he would be safe. 
     Spalla circled lower and lower, as if she might land on 
the sailer herself. If she did there was no possibility of 
danger; if she didn't, then he couldn't return to the Keep. 
He would not lead danger to his family. With only a short distance
to go, he could see the shallow water, the fires at the Keep
entrance, even the cook fires inside the Keep. He had not eaten
for a day and the sight of the cook fires reminded him of how
hungry he was. The sailer reached shallow water, and he immediately
dropped both sails. From here on in he would have to use his
paddles. 
     Chanor turned to look back over his recent path. The water was
calm, nothing broke the now grey expanse of sea. 
     With a mumbled prayer to the Master for protecting him on his
journey, he turned to pick up his paddles. Then he saw it. A light,
a small light on the sea, getting bigger as he watched. It wasn't
a fire; it didn't flicker. Fires would not burn lying on the sea
anyway. He froze. Spalla came down with a flurry of wings.  She sat
next to Snap. The male Graken was quieter than he had been since
he was a chick. 
     Spalla was even quieter than he. The light came closer, 
neither Graken moved. 
     The light moved slowly now; it was much closer, it came 
to a stop. Chanor could see nothing but the light. He had never
seen the Graken so still; but here was something strange, and no
response from them. The light was small and he could now see it
was attached to something round, the size of a Graken egg.  This
was like no egg he had ever seen. Slowly the light started rising
above the water. Soon it was as high as his eyes. He could now see
that there was something behind the light, but could not tell what
it was. 
     The light dimmed. The shape behind it began to look a bit like
a Keeper, but there weren't enough arms, and unless it  
was a child, it was too small. Suddenly the light seemed to come
from everywhere, the sea was aglow. In front of Chanor there was
a strange shape; it was holding a dead maseor. The color of the
creature was the same as the sea, the head was shiny. Chanor's
knees were trembling, his breathing becoming very fast. Calming
thoughts from the Graken was all that kept him from screaming. 
     The creature holding the maseor slowly moved toward him. It
lay the dead maseor in the stern of the sailer, then backed up to
where it had been before. This must be one of the Gods, come to
show me a vision. I must give the God something in return he
thought. A Keeper's most valued possession is his Tusk knife.  With
trembling hands, Chanor removed the Tusk knives from his belt and
held them out to the God. 
     A hand shaped like his own but with five fingers instead 
of four reached out and took one of the tusk knives. In the 
glow that lit up the area he could see more and more of the God. 
There were some strange things attached to the God's body, little
packs and bags, as if this was a traveler. To his surprise the God
handed him back his tusk knife, then stuck its hand out in what the
tribe used as a greeting. 
     Chanor was not afraid of the God any longer. Had it been
intending to do him harm it would have done so by now. 
     He reached out with his massive hand and laid his palm on the
God's palm. Chanor still didn't understand how the God was able to
stand in the air above the sea, but that was the way of a God. 
     Looking closely at the God, he could see marks on its chest,
which looked like symbols, probably holy symbols used to call the
God when needed. The God pulled back its hand and slowly sank into
the sea. Chanor sang a farewell to the God as it turned away and
with great speed went out away from the Keep. 
     Kneeling in the bottom of the sailer, Chanor took blood 
from the maseor and copied the symbols onto the bottom of the 
boat. These symbols must be copied correctly, all the keeps would
want to see them. With a sigh and a stretch, Chanor picked up his
paddles and started for home, the cookfires, and his mate to be.
Once in a while his glance would drop to the symbols at his feet;
"CCCP-USA DET1". 
                               END