Peart - To the Left of Your North Star

Published by ManifoldPress

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ISBN:978-1-908312-45-7

Text: Michelle Peart2016

Cover image: AstroStar | shutterstock.com

Cover design: Michelle Peart 2016

Ebook format: Manifold Press 2016

Proof-reading andline-editing: Two Marshmallows twomarshmallows.net

Editor: JulieBozza

For further details oftitles both in print and forthcoming see manifoldpress.co.uk

Characters andsituations described in this book are fictional and not intended toportray real persons or situations whatsoever; any resemblances toliving persons are purely coincidental.

With thanks toLucy and Helen because without them this book would still be in myhead.

With thanks toSonny and Julie for showing me the way.

With love toRobin and Holly for their encouragement.

The door to mycrannog creaked open. "Time to go," the native boy said.

Finally, Icould get the fuck off this godforsaken planet.

Unfortunately,my father had neglected to tell me that the best way to the LandingPlains, where his heap-of-junk spaceship waited, was by river. Theblister-popping trek across what could've easily been anywhere onEarth to get to the Fire Glade had been bad enough. It had takenthree long weeks to move my father's scientific team a biologist,a geographer, a botanist, and an ecologist plus all theirequipment from his ship to the village. It struck me that the mostboring people on Earth would fit well into the most boring place onAbaytor.

During thatwhole time, my father and I only exchanged a handful of words, ashe either had his head stuck in a book or his nose in a flowerstudying bees. Being Herb's son was a lonely and unhappy life andsometimes a little frightening. When I was six, he left me alone bythe side of a lake. He told me he wanted to look at a flower andthat he'd be just a minute. I fell into the water and couldn'tswim. A passer-by pulled me out. We never talked about it.

My father'sstudies had shown the bees were resistant to our insecticides andthis, apparently, was significant. So I developed a loathing forthe fuzzy little dive-bombers simply because they were important tomy father.

Those threeweeks were on top of the month-long journey in my father'sscrapheap spaceship. There are only so many times you canooh and aah at the billions of star clusters. Towardsthe end, with no privacy, no real heating, and fuck-all to do, itseemed preferable to open a hatch and float off into those stars.One particularly boring day, when I'd felt like I was asleep withmy eyes open, I had pretended to spin the locking wheel and open adoor, but nobody had noticed what I was doing so I'd sulked back tomy corner.

Stepping out ofthe crannog, I pulled on a jumper. I wouldn't miss this odd copy ofEarth, with its cold mornings and sweltering days, or the smokyfish smell that penetrated my expensive clothing or the goddamncheerfulness of the locals, or the list was endless.

The expeditionwould take six months, my father had said. I'd managed two andthought I'd done pretty well, considering the brain-numbing boredomand my strained relationship with him.

Slinging my bagon my back, I strolled to the end of the rickety walkway thatconnected the little thatched house on stilts to the land.Shielding my eyes from the sun, I looked for the native boy, Burn.He was by the river, stacking wooden crates on top of each other.The water shone copper in the morning light, with little flashes ofgolden fish darting in and out of the shallows. Jumping on to thesandy bank, I gave the crannog one last glance. Why would anybodybuild a house that creaks alarmingly when the river rages? As faras I was concerned, these people had a lot to learn.

Burn grinnedand waved a long hand. I ignored his greeting, dropped my head, andstamped across the soft sand towards him. "Ready?" I muttered.

He pointedtowards his creation bobbing eagerly at the water's edge. "It isall yours."

"Lovely." Iplaced a foot on to the wooden raft and immediately stepped back."It wobbles." When Burn sniggered, I glared at him. "Seriously.It's not funny."

"I am notlaughing, Ed."

"It'sEdward, you dim-witted native."

Burn's cheeryface was fucking annoying. "Do not worry, I built the raft myself,and it is safe."

I scowled andturned my attention from the native boy back to the floating pieceof junk. It had a broad base of long thin logs knotted togetherwith twine. On this was a triangular structure with a mucky browncanvas slung over it. The whole thing looked like a bad attempt ata Boy Scout's tent sitting upon a piece of flotsam.

"Here." Burnreached out. "If the raft scares you, I will hold your hand."

"Sod off, Burn.It doesn't." Yet there was a knot in my stomach as I marched on tothe deck. The entire contraption reared like an unbroken horse.Swinging my arms in circles, I had to do a crazy dance to stayupright. I couldn't fall in; I still couldn't swim. My father neverhad the time to teach me and my mother hadn't liked to get her hairwet.

"Careful, youwill have her over."

"Her?"

"Yes, I havecalled her The Copper Queen."

I turned toface the boy again, but as I moved, the raft listed to one side,unbalancing me. I hopped on one foot across the deck, and then withthe grace of a new-born foal, I fell into the shallows. Littleflashes of gold surrounded me. Batting them away, I stood up in theknee-deep water. "For fuck's sake." The water was as frigid as themorning air.

Burn stepped onto his Queen and she remained steady. "I was born on a raftlike this." He reached out a long hand and dragged me aboard. "Igrew up on the Copper River."

"Howinteresting." I sat on a barrel, took off my sneakers, tipped outthe water, and glowered at my new transport. Burn's people wereobsessed with living on or over water. The Copper River was a bigdeal to the people who lived in the Fire Glade. It was their road,their larder and one of their gods. I, on the other hand, hated it the roar of the water scared me and the colour was worrying. I'dinsisted on boiling my drinking water three times over. I heaved asigh.

Stacked on thedeck under the canvas tent were a bundle of furs, six woodencrates, and two honey barrels for seats. Heaped at my feet were aleather bag, containing what I presumed to be Burn's personalitems, and my own rucksack a top of the range Silverstrak withbuilt-in music player.

Humming anout-of-key tune, Burn gestured towards his village. "Are youready?"

Turning around,I glared at my father. This was entirely his fault the raft, theannoying native boy, and the backwards planet. He was standing onthe walkway of his crannog, fingers gripping the rail and toweringabove Naylor, the tribal elder. I liked Naylor; he had been kind tome during my stay in the Fire Glade and was one of the few peoplewho'd even talk to the strange alien boy. He had a naughty sense ofhumour, which I loved, and many partners, which he loved. I had afeeling that most of the kids in the Glade were Naylor's.