Evan Burl and the Falling, Vol. 1-2

by Justin Blaney

CHAPTER SIX

  A melon-size fist broke through the solid koa-wood door like it was made of match sticks. Five cracked-stone fingers unclenched, ripping away what was left of the door. The jamb and part of the wall disappeared into a cloud of dust.

  Light flooded in, drowning us. I blinked, swearing at myself for waiting that last second. Three shadows rose, silhouetted against the towering windows behind them. The only adults I'd ever really known: Uncle Mazol, Ballard, and Yesler. The Warts.

  Ballard reached through the dust, yanking Henri by the hair. She dissolved into the light, screaming.

  I jumped up, plunging blindly after her. Pain shot through my leg, a constant reminder of the night I fell off the tower with Pike. Ballard's free hand became a wall in front of me. I made out the outline of Henri's body crumpled at Mazol's feet.

  I fought to reach Henri. Ballard caught me by the neck. Uncle Mazol yanked Henri's arm. Twisting it behind her back, he forced Henri to her feet.

  "You canis." Mazol shook her. "Made us miss a full half-day of processing."

  She sobbed.

  Mazol squeezed her mouth. "This if for your own good, can't you see that?"

  I pried at Ballard's fingers but might as well have been trying to rip roots from the ground. "You're hurting her!"

  Yesler backhanded me across the face. The sting of his gaudy rings cut my cheek. I tasted blood.

  "That's enough." My uncle was particular about who got to beat me and when. "All of you, follow me."

  Mazol dragged Henri by the arm. She tripped to keep up. Ballard pulled me along by the back of my shirt. My bad leg screamed with every step. Yesler followed last; unblinking, eyes grinning through his porcelain mask. As we turned toward the castle's domed entrance hall, I caught a glimpse into a room I hadn't seen in years.

  For a moment, I was taken back to playing with toys, pretending to fight off bad guys with sticks and Mazol smiling like a man who enjoyed kids but didn't know how to show it. Now Mazol was the bad guy.

  We stopped in the center of a towering room. Carved marble staircases swept up both sides of the room to a balcony. The front wall was lined with windows and two large doors that led to the stairs and courtyard. The windows were covered with velvet curtains that allowed only cracks of sun to pass around their edges. Dozens of statues and tables and bookshelves covered in white dust sheets surrounded us like ghosts.

  Mazol released Henri and began to search under sheets. "Someone find me a stool."

  Yesler took a turn around Henri. I imagined him inspecting a defective clanker in much the same way. Slipping a knife slowly from his belt, he licked the blade then pressed it to her throat. "Like stealing food? Skipping out on work all day?" Yesler glanced in Mazol's direction. He pressed the dagger deeper into Henri's skin. A trickle of blood ran down the edge. Henri squirmed and cried out. He pushed harder.

  "Does it hurt?"

  I lunged at him, but Ballard yanked me back.

  Pulling a dusty white sheet off a set of brightly painted tables, Mazol looked over his shoulder. "Cut it out."

  Yesler put his knife away but didn't turn away from Henri. Mazol dragged a burnt orange stool across the mosaic tile floor. The screech seemed to linger long after the stool had stopped moving.

  "Uncle Mazol," I said, fighting against Ballard's grip.

  He ignored me.

  "I stole the food."

  Mazol waved his hand at me for silence. Yesler pulled Henri to the stool.

  "She didn't do anything wrong!"

  There was barely room for both of Henri's feet on the stool. "Stand here until sun-up. You'll have plenty of time to think about your selfishness."

  "A full day—" I said.

  "If you make it that long," Mazol continued, "I won't be giving you no lashes for your thievery."

  I wriggled away from Ballard. "Let me do it instead."

  "The gimp wants to be a hero, does he?" Mazol said.

  "You can't stand for five minutes without your crutch," Yesler said.

  "I can do it."

  "You're needed in the Caldroen," Mazol said. "Just what exactly do you think will happen to us if we don't get our work done each week? The deliveries will stop coming. Then we'll be immanis worse than hungry."

  An enormous mechanized clanker arrived on the cart with Ballard and Yesler the day I fell from the tower. A replacement for one of the forty-eight steam operated machines that had since become our sole reason for living. The Caldroen is where we spend most of our waking hours now—a six-floor, glass-domed, hollow tower at the center of the castle—where sooty iron walkways and clankers and spiral staircases cling to the walls like spider webs.

  "You'll get your chance, gimp," Yesler said "Still got yours coming." He turned to Henri and whispered, "We could have had some fun with that shiv, you and I."

  He ran his finger along the scar where he cut her neck. Like the other Roslings, Henri healed fast. Yesler wiped the last drop of blood off her neck and licked his finger.

  "She was starving!" I yelled.

  "It's only in her head," Mazol said.

  "We wouldn't have to steal if you fed us more."

  "Enough! If I catch you sneaking in here tonight, I'll double her time." He turned to Henri. "And if you so much as take one step off this stool, you'll get a lash for every hour remaining until sunup. I expect you to show up for work tomorrow morning all the brighter. Clear?"

  She nodded weakly. As Mazol walked from the room, I found Henri's eyes. Shrouded statues towered around her. Tears dried in patchwork on her blushed cheeks. Her glasses, crooked. Dirty rags hung about her skinny body.

  "I'll get you out of this," I whispered. "I'll make it right—"

  Behind me, Mazol laughed. I felt like a fool.

  "What do you think a worthless gimp like you can do to make anything right?" Mazol stopped in the threshold, staring back at us. I said nothing.

  "All you do is make life miserable. Why do you think I'm stuck taking care of you? Your own father couldn't even stand to have you around."

  The beast inside told me to tear his head off. I stepped toward Mazol, my fist clenched.

  He grinned. "Got something to say, gimp?"

  I ground my teeth. He'd just take it out on Henri. "Nothing."

  "That's what I thought." He waved away a giant red fly that landed on his forehead.

  I turned back to Henri. There was something about her, a look in her eyes, like a puzzle I couldn't fit together.

  Mazol's voice droned on in the back of my mind. "...what you should be doing is thinking about how you're gonna make up for all the lost work you've caused. If we don't get our orders done, none of us is gonna eat..."

  She must have been frightened, furious, even disappointed I had let her down. But she only looked guilty. I hung my head as Ballard started to pull me from the room. Glancing back, I kept eye contact with Henri for as long as I could, limping along as she grew smaller and smaller behind me.

  I was about to grant Henri's wish—to make her disappear—into the shadows. Yesler offered a stick to me with a smile. "Here gimp. Left your cane back in the closet didn't you?"

  I eyed him and held out my hand for the cane. He tossed it across the room. Yesler put out his foot as I stepped forward. My left knee cracked against the stone as I hit the floor.

  "Watch your step, gimp." He caught up with Mazol in the hall. "Who gets to give Henri the beating if she falls off the stool?"

  "You're sick, know that?" Mazol said.

  "How about we make the gimp do it?" Yesler said.

  "You hear that, gimp?" Mazol said over his shoulder. "You're swinging the belt if she don't stay on that stool all night."

  "Don't you think he's had enough?" Ballard said.

  Yesler grinned. "It's perfect. Only way to keep him from helping her."

  "You know the gimp," Mazol said. "Always trying to be a hero."

  Ballard's heavy feet pounded the stone methodically as we walked away. Turning, Ye
sler took a long look back at Henri. "I hope she falls."