Heat of the Night

By Gareth D. Jones

BANNOCK PUSHED OPEN THE shutters to feel the first cold rays of dawn eking into his bedroom, washing away the heat of the night from his uncomfortably warm face. It was late winter, when the homeworld was at its farthest point from the endothermic reaction mass of their sun. The oppressive heat of the cosmic background baked them every night, and Bannock suffered more than most.

In the kitchen, he shuffled around the familiar morning routine, making an icy brew of tea and opening the other shutters. He moved slowly, creaking as he went. His hardened tegument made any action difficult, as well as limiting the rate of heat expulsion from his body.

A small figure approached along the path, wrapped up against the pre-dawn heat, bearing the day’s news tract. The lad was gone again by the time Bannock made it to his front door. He bent painfully and retrieved the single sheet from where it had been tossed on the step. He glanced at it as he shuffled to the kitchen: births, deaths, civic celebrations, crime, rampant wild vegetons. The usual dull selection of news items.

The morning passed in the way that they had for the previous several years of Bannock’s dotage: full of meaningless routine and quiet despondency. In some ways similar to his career in physics. By noon it had cooled down nicely and he ventured into the garden, where strictly tame vegetons grazed on the undergrowth of animalcules. He settled into his garden chair to doze away the afternoon in comfort.

He was woken by a shadow falling across him and the sudden warmth as the sun’s cooling rays were blocked from his ailing body. He looked up into a wavering mass of tentacular branches that overshadowed his entire garden and several measures beyond. A gigantic vegeton had decided to take up residence in his grounds.

“Clear off,” Bannock grumbled, then louder, “You’re in my light!”

The huge tree did not, of course, pay him any heed. Some said you should talk to vegetons, or even sing to them, and you could train them. It was utter tosh, as far as he was concerned.

That did not help with the build-up of heat that was starting to make him feel uncomfortable. He struggled to his feet and shuffled over to the base of its leathery trunk where he gave it an experimental prod. The creature was two or three times wider than he was; there was no way he could physically get it to move. Its branches rustled pleasantly above him.

Bannock exited his garden and took several paces along the lane until he was out of the vegeton’s shadow and could start to feel cool again. He looked up and down the lane to see who might be available to assist. The newsboy was long gone; his nearest neighbour was a bit of a trek, and would be out at work anyway; there was nobody in the neighbouring fields; none of the semi-regular hikers were approaching in either direction. Even before he started to seize up, Bannock could not see the appeal of walking in the wild for fun. He turned round to stare at the enormous invader.

Nobody knew what inspired the huge creatures to suddenly move elsewhere, or what affected their choice of a new location, but when they stopped they tended to stay for days at a time. Which was bad news for Bannock’s overheating problem. They thrived on the potential energy difference between their cold upper branches and the heat of their lower trunk, shaded by their own bulk. It would probably be happy to stay all week as long as its base was warm; if vegetons could be happy, which was also still under debate.

Bannock went to make more tea.

He was very slow, shuffling back and forth from the kitchen to the garden, but by the fifth pot he seemed to be having an effect. He came back with the sixth pot and poured it liberally across the big tree’s base. A shiver travelled up the great trunk as the temperature gradient finally reduced enough to make the creature uncomfortable. Its stabilising tendrils thrashed, caught at Bannock’s feet, and he fell heavily.

It was a while before he got his breath back. His skin was uncomfortably warm and he felt even more sluggish than usual. He tried to get back to his feet but found himself stranded by his own inflexibility.

“Great. I’ll just overheat and die then, shall I?” He glared at the tendrils that lay close to his face. “In my own garden.”

There was no reply.

He turned to look the other way, where the teapot lay on its side. He grabbed for it and poured the dregs of cool tea into his mouth. The liquid diffused into his soft interior flesh, bringing welcome relief. Inspired by the thought of more tea rather than revitalised by those few drops, Bannock began a slow, dragging crawl towards his door. Here, with the aid of the door frame, he regained his feet. Once upright, his own stiffness served to keep him that way. He shuffled to the kitchen.

Two slow pots later, being very careful to avoid the support tendrils, he splashed the frosty beverage at the vegeton’s base. With a rustling rumble, it ambled away, out of Bannock’s garden and across the neighbouring field.

“Thank you,” Bannock said, and poured the remains of icy tea into a beaker.

He relaxed into his garden chair and settled down to enjoy the late afternoon coolth. 

Gareth D. Jones is an environmental scientist from the U.K. His stories have appeared in over forty publications. His latest in “Abyss & Apex” and “Daily Science Fiction.” His last story for “Perihelion” was in the 12-MAY-2015 issue.