by Moira Young
You want the future to belong to DeMalo an his spawn?
Of course not, that ain’t what I—
Cuz that’s what’ll happen if we all stand back goin, it ain’t down to me, what could I do anyways, I’m too weak, he’s too strong. You didn’t do that when you was searchin fer Lugh. You took on the world single-handed to git him back. But … oh right, that was about family, warn’t it? An, let’s be honest, that’s where it ends fer you, ain’t it? When push comes to shove.
No, I says.
You should of left when I told you to, he says. After Resurrection. Yer jest holdin us back. You should leave us to it. His eyes glint ice, not silver. I take a quick swig of wine. Sweetness an fire, it burns his words down to my gut. There they churn thickly, sickly. We’re silent, tight hearted, tight lipped. Then, not lookin at me, he says,
You want me to say the word, Saba? Give you permission to go? he says. Fine. Go, the three of yuz, an good luck. There ain’t no shame in it. You tried, but this kinda fight ain’t fer you. Yer tied to yer family by blood an love. That means you’ll rush to their rescue, no matter what, an that’s dangerous to the rest of us. What happened today with Lugh? That jest proves it. Love don’t make a good leader. It weakens you.
Jack’s words click a trigger. In my head. In my gut. An I’m suddenly hot, my heart thumpin. Brothers. Sisters. Family. Blood ties. Mothers, fathers, children. Somethin new, unknown, starts to breathe deep inside me. With a tremble of excitement. A shiver of possibility.
Love weakens me. I repeat it, unner my breath, to myself.
That’s what Lugh’s always said. What I never really believed.
Love weakens, I says aloud. Maybe not. Maybe … it makes me different. From you. From the rest of ’em. From DeMalo.
Okay, says Jack, but I don’t see what this has to do with—
DeMalo knows about us now, I says. After today, he knows our drill—the quick hit an run—so he’ll be thinkin what he’d do if he was us. He’ll start thinkin like us. He’ll probly even enjoy it, treat it like a game. After all, we are playin his kinda game. The violent kind. That’s what we’ve all bin playin, all this time.
So? says Jack.
We did wrong today at the bridge. An DeMalo’s wrong. What’s right must lie somewhere else. Between us maybe. Or beyond us.
Or maybe not. Maybe what’s right lies much closer to home.
So … I says slowly, what if we stop thinkin like him … an start thinkin … like me.
Like you? Jack’s eyes narrow with sudden innerest. Go on, he says.
He’ll be espectin us to blow another bridge, or a road or a checkpoint, I says. What if we don’t? What if we change the game? Do somethin else? Somethin completely different?
Like what? says Jack.
I stole a horse today, I says.
Mischief, he says. Tricks.
No, I says, no, that ain’t what I mean. It’s more’n that, much more. Mercy said somethin … what was it? I know.
It won’t take much to make their house crumble. It don’t stand on strong foundations. DeMalo ain’t built New Eden on strong foundations, Jack. No families. No fathers an mothers with their children. He’s split them all apart. It ain’t natural. There ain’t no … heart to it. To New Eden. It’s jest this … idea. His idea. D’you see?
Okay, he says, but how does that change what we do?
I dunno ezzackly, I says. I gotta work this out. I gotta strong feelin, Jack. An I don’t jest feel it in my gut. It’s my heart an my head too … all of me. Whatever this is, there’s meat in it, I know there is. I gotta talk to Mercy. Yer right, she’ll know things. I need to go.
Hey, hey, hang on. As I start to move, he grabs my arm. I’m a great believer in goin with yer instinct, he says. But you got me thinkin too. Thanks to yer blunder at the bridge today, our hand’s bin well tipped. Yer right, DeMalo will try to outfox us. I would if I was him. But here’s what I think. He’s the lodestone, Saba. The power here rests in him an him alone. One man. The Pathfinder, with his miraculous visions. This ain’t the same as crazy Vicar Pinch an Hopetown. Without DeMalo, New Eden collapses. It’s his plan, his ideas, the force of his will. Yeah, let’s change the game. Let’s cut it short right now. I’ll go back inside the Tonton. I’ll move quick before I’m discovered. I’m gonna kill him.
Another click of the trigger in my head. Say agin? I says.
I’m gonna kill him, says Jack. The sooner the better.
No, no, the bit before, I says. The Pathfinder with his miraculous visions.
Visions at sunrise. I seen ’em myself. Another secret I hold close in my heart. DeMalo led me there by the hand. To the bunker in the hill, to the room with white walls. Where he shared his miraculous vision. A vision of the earth before the Wreckers destroyed her. Sights wondrous beyond all imagination. Unfergettable as long as I live.
I says, You seen ’em, right? The visions, I mean. Don’t all Stewards an Tonton go there, as part of, y’know, what’s it called—
—initiation, sure, says Jack. I was set to go, but I got killed before I could. It all happens at this hill, at dawn. Hard by a place called Weepin Water. Nobody’s allowed to talk about what they see an nobody ever does but—I tell you—afterwards, they all look at DeMalo like he’s the sun itself. It must be somethin pretty amazin.
He is the lodestone, yer right, I says. An if there’s any heart to New Eden, that hill is it. We gotta go there, Jack. Right now.
Right now? he says. No way. Look at you, yer completely wired. No wonder with all that happened today, an you cain’t tell me you got any shut-eye last night in that cave.
Sleep’s a waste of time, I says.
Don’t be stupid, he says.
All right, tomorrow. Weepin Water. I’ll meet you at that hill jest after middle night. Bring torches. We’re gonna git inside there somehow.
To do what? he says.
You said it yerself, information is power. We’ll find out what there is to know about that place. It ain’t figgered in our thinkin before. It should of.
Fair enough, he says.
An don’t you do nuthin till then, I says. Not a thing. None of yer sneakin around, no dressin like the enemy. Promise me.
He smiles. Cross my heart an hope to die, he says.
His eyes gleam silver intent. As I start to git up, he grabs my hand, gives it a tug an I fall to him, deep in the fir boughs. How could I ever mistake him fer DeMalo? His scent is so surely of none but him. Warm skin an, faintly, warm sage. Like a whisper of wider lands. His end of day beard shades his face. I smooth its rasp with gentle fingers.
See? he says. We can be calm. Quiet.
I gotta go, I says.
You remember earlier? he says. When them flathead pigs was about to trample you an I swung down like a he-man to save yer life …
In yer dreams, I says.
… at great peril to my own, he says. I’d jest like to point out that’s the third time I’ve saved you from certain death. You see, there’s this thing—I dunno if you remember—it’s called the Rule of Three … have I mentioned it before?
Once or twice, I says. I linger down his nose. Slightly crooked. Completely gorgeous. I’m glad I didn’t punch yer nose, I says. I like it.
Don’t distract me, he says. How it works is, you save somebody’s life three times—
—their life belongs to you. I know, Jack.
All I’m sayin is, the pigs made it three to me. I win.
Yer pathetic, I says. Desperate. I trail around his lips, so smooth an warm. Them pigs warn’t nowhere near me, I says. We’re still two all.
He gathers me in. Desperate, huh? he says. I’ll show you desperate. Our fingers twine, our legs tangle an his lips ramble roses all over me. Till I shiver an tremble with want fer him. Who’s kissin you? he says. Who’s touchin you?
You are, I says.
Say my name, he says.
Jack, I whisper. Jack. Jack.
Now kiss me, he says.
I
kiss his name to his lips. His smooth, wine-sweet lips. I should go, I says.
You better go, he says.
Our kisses grow hungry. Our bodies heat.
There’s a bark from below. It’s Tracker. I break away with a gasp an peer through the branches at the sky. Jupiter hangs low in the east. The night’s half spent already. I need to git back, I says. I push him off, sit up an start puttin my clothes to rights. He’s made a heroic effort to undress me. You work fast, I says.
Yer a movin target, I hafta. Here, he says, lemme help.
I button, he unbuttons. I tuck, he untucks. I slap his hand. I’ll do it myself, I says.
As I jump to my feet an do the job proper, he leans back on his elbows. I never do know what to espect when I’m with you, he says. But even so, I gotta say tonight’s bin particularly unpredictable.
We live in unpredictable times, I says. Tomorrow night. Weepin Water. Don’t be late.
I take hold of the rubber rope an whistle at Tracker to warn him. Then I leap from the platform. I let go as the ground speeds at me. I fall an land in a crouch. Tracker dives outta the way, startled. I scoop the spilled arrows, fill my quiver an shoulder my bow.
Take a different route back to camp, says Jack. An watch yer back.
I glance up. He’s lookin down at me through the curtain of moss an branches.
How many nights to the blood moon? I says.
Countin tonight? He looks at the moon. I’d say … seven. Why?
I was hopin he’d say different. I was hopin Slim was wrong. Seven nights an our fates will be decided. It’s all in my hands. It’s all down to me. Tomorrow night, I says. Don’t be late.
As I pass the bushes trampled by the pigs, I remember the mosstails from earlier. The panicky way they crashed from the woods across our path. Jack’s words echo in me.
Somethin startled ’em. Use yer head.
If there was somebody followin us, Tracker would of found them. He’d of let me know. He’d of warned me.
Nero don’t show.
As Tracker an me run through the woods, on a roundabout route back to camp, I look fer him. Seek fer him. Hope fer a sight of him. In the trees, in the sky, aginst the moon.
He should of come with Tracker to Irontree. It’s strange he didn’t. He loves Jack with true devotion. An he knew we was headed to meet him. Jack’s the only one we ever run to in the middle of the night.
I stop to take breath atop a bare escarpment. From here, I can see fer leagues all around. It’s a restless ocean of treetops. Frosted by the sharpness of the moon, they murmur of winter to come.
There’s millions upon millions of stars in the sky. Night after night, they rush their brightness to the earth.
But Nero’s shinin dark ain’t nowhere to be seen.
I cain’t really say this time’s that much different from all the many times before that he’s disappeared fer hours. More’n once, he’s bin gone fer a couple of days. Nero’s always had his own life, apart from me. A winged life of secrets an ancient crow ways, that calls him to do what he must. Still, this time, his absence gnaws at me. I’m jittered with unease. Why, I couldn’t say.
I lay a hand on Tracker’s head. Where is he? I ask him. Where’s Nero?
He tips back his head an howls. A full-throated wail to the heart of the night. Three times he calls to his friend.
As the sound dies away, we wait. An we wait.
But there ain’t no answer.
So on we go.
As we near Painted Rock an our feet start to slow, I signal our approach to the watch. Slim’s creaky rustheap of a voice replies. You cain’t ever mistake his birdcalls.
Tracker bounds on ahead, outta my view. Suddenly, the most unholy noise cracks the night. A shocked yelp that shatters to a high-pitched yammer. I run in fear towards the sound.
In a little clearin stands a tall bull pine. Tracker circles frantic in front of it. There’s a crow spiked to the trunk. Jest above head height. Wings spread wide. Dead.
Nero.
My heart seizes. I stop. I fall to my knees.
Everybody’s come runnin, weapons in hand. Their sleep broke by the racket. Ash lights the way with a torch.
Emmi screams when she sees him. Nero! No! She rushes to the tree, scrabblin to git at him. It’s Nero, please, somebody help him!
I choke out one word. Lugh!
Molly runs to Em an grabs her, sayin, Hush now, honey, he’s dead, poor thing. Come away.
An Lugh’s here. On his knees. Holdin me. I cain’t breathe. Cain’t breathe. Nero. No. Ash, he says. Take him down, please.
She’s the tallest of us all. Gawdamnmit, I’ll kill whoever did this, she says. Light me, Tommo. He holds the torch close. With her pocket knife, she starts to prise the spikes from his wings. Fergawdsake, she says. Somebody shut Tracker up.
He’s still howlin an yammerin his distress. Mercy soothes him with soft words, soft hands. He quiets to a pitiful whimper.
Creed helps Ash, foldin each wing as she frees it. They’re so careful. So tender. Makin sure they don’t hurt him. They cain’t. He’s dead. He cain’t be mustn’t be cain’t be please. Lugh holds me to him.
Hey Saba? says Ash. C’mere.
There’s somethin in her voice. Tight caution. I stumble over to her. She lays him gently in my hands. He’s a limp, heavy weight. Take a look, she says.
Tommo lights him with the torch. His sleek black body. His soft smooth breast. My heart lurches. The breast feathers shine full an glossy. Nero’s breast don’t look like this. His feathers is still growin back. From the wound that DeMalo’s hawk dealt him. Fer a moment, I cain’t take in what I see. Then the truth starts to smoulder.
Well? says Ash.
It ain’t him, I says. This ain’t him. The breast feathers. It ain’t Nero.
They exclaim an crowd in to look. I couldn’t hide that Nero’d bin injured. So I fixed on a likely tale of a hawk attack on him an me sneakin into a Settler’s hut to steal a medicine bag to patch him up. More secrets, half-truths an outright lies. They all listened with one ear, if that. At the time, we had much bigger things to concern us.
My brain starts to tick. Clear an calm. This crow died natural, I says. Look, he’s got a lump in his neck. Seems to be some kinda bubo.
Emmi shudders from weepin so fierce. Tears wet her face. Yer right, she says. It ain’t him. But I don’t unnerstand.
Somebody wanted us to think it was him, says Mercy.
But why? Em says. Who would do such a cruel thing?
The Tonton, says Tommo. They’re the only ones spike like this.
If it was Tonton, we’d be dead, says Ash. Another Darktrees.
But I’m thinkin to myself, No, this is jest the kinda thing DeMalo would do. To send me a message. Prove to me how close he can git. How easily he could kill us the moment he wanted to. The next move in our endgame? Here it is.
Maybe it was one guy on his own, says Tommo.
That makes sense, says Molly. One guy couldn’t take us all on, but he could leave a message. A warnin. You’ll be the ones spiked next time. I’d say Tommo’s right.
DeMalo could of had us followed from the bridge, I think. Or a lone man might of acted on his own. If there was somebody hid here in the woods, waitin fer their moment to play this foul trick, surely Tracker would of sniffed ’em out earlier. We beat patrols with him regular an often.
Ash, I says. You an Tracker did a sweep soon as you got here, right?
She nods. An there’s bin one of us on watch the whole time, she says.
Not the whole time, says Creed. When I got back, there warn’t no one on watch. Everybody was in camp.
It’s my fault. Emmi’s face crumples in misery. Saba told me to go back, she says, but then Lugh came an I didn’t. I didn’t. I’m sorry, it’s all my fault.
Never give a child a grown-up’s work, says Creed.
Lugh turns to him with a frown. You must of bin followed, he says.
I cain’t see how, says Creed. I
took a seriously snaky route back here.
We’ll check jest the same, I says. Emmi an Mercy stay here. The rest of yuz, take yer track.
I whistle fer Slim to come down as we fan out an run circles around Painted Rock. It don’t take long. It’s all clear. Jest as we gather back at the campfire, Slim rushes through the gap, chest heavin from hustlin from the top of the Rock.
What’s happened? he gasps. I heard the dog howlin an then all the commotion—oh lordy, no! He’s seen the dead crow on the ground.
It’s okay, it ain’t Nero, I says.
Somebody wanted to frighten us, says Lugh. They managed pretty good, too.
You must of seen somethin, Slim, says Ash.
Not a thing, he says. It’s bin quiet, I swear. Jest Saba an Tracker comin back, jest now.
Creed rounds on him. Stabs him in the chest with a finger. You must of missed ’em, he says. Stupid old man, yer useless, y’know that? You an yer gawdamnn dress. The Tonton was right here an you didn’t see ’em.
Creed, stop it. Molly snaps, hot as fire. Don’t you dare talk to Slim like that.
Enough, I says. Who, why an where can wait fer later. We’re outta here. I’m thinkin Starlight Lanes, I says. Yer friend Peg the Flight. What about it?
Good idea, he says.
Besides Slim, we don’t none of us know his junkjimmy pal Peg. But he’s friendly to our cause an his place, Starlight Lanes, is in Sector Five. That ain’t too far from Weepin Water an DeMalo’s bunker in the hill. Good for meetin Jack tomorrow night.
But Nero, says Emmi. Saba, we gotta find him! We cain’t go without him! She clutches my hand, her eyes big with pleadin.
Nero’s bin with me his whole life. He was huddled on the ground when I found him. A helpless scrap of skin an fuzz. He’d fell from the nest, his ma nowhere in sight. As I held him, his tiny heart beat quick time in my hands. He looked at me, I looked at him an I swear, he knew I didn’t have no ma neether. We joined souls at that moment an fer always.
But Jack’s voice speaks to me, Jack’s words run in me.
Yer tied to yer family by blood an love. That means you’ll rush to their rescue, no matter what, an that’s dangerous to the rest of us. Love don’t make a good leader. It weakens you.
