Raging Star

by Moira Young

  I got eight other souls to consider. Standin right here. Waitin fer me to be the leader they need. To do what’s best fer all, not jest them that’s closest to my heart.

  I’ll bury this crow, I says. Creed, take Tracker once around the rock. Have a quick look fer Nero.

  I’ll go with, says Tommo.

  Tommo don’t jest lip read real good. His other senses lie higher than us who can hear. He’s got cat eyes, cat feet an a nose fer anythin outta place.

  Good idea, I says. The rest of yuz, strike camp.

  They’d wakened her at dawn yesterday. The earth songs.

  Emmi had been dreaming of such things for many nights. Of the earth and the stones and their songs. And her touching them and being able to feel and hear and know their songs with her heart and her head and her body. And the songs leading her, telling her, teaching her. Not songs with words. No. No words.

  Dreams. They were places where anything could happen. Life awake was nothing like a dream. At least, not until yesterday dawn. When she woke to a world and herself full of songs.

  She soon realized no one else could hear them. Then she knew what it was. The call. She was getting the call. Auriel Tai got the call as a young girl, too. When light—her spirit guide—sang to her. Auriel’s grandfather became her teacher. Now she needed a teacher. Auriel could help her to find one.

  All day she’d asked Auriel to come, to find them. Pressing her message into the stones with her hands, into the earth with her bare feet. Not knowing if it would work or what she was doing. But hoping they might speak to any light that touched them. The sun, the moon, the stars. That the light would then speak to Auriel. Come to me, Auriel. I need you.

  She needed her badly. There were so many songs, she couldn’t make them out one from the other. Stonesongs, earthsongs, their night songs and day songs. Their songs that sighed like air through people songs. Like when Molly sang her lullaby.

  But tonight in camp, lying there, listening, she realized one song had started to run through all the rest. Very faint, very small, but needing to be heard. If only she could understand what it meant.

  As they started to pack up to go, suddenly she knew. It was a song of below. Of dark and alone and afraid. She told her bare feet to feel their way there. To take her to where the song began.

  It don’t take long. After more’n a month of this, day after day, we got the fast come an go down pat. Slim’s carthorse, Duff, stands patient, hitched to the Cosmic. Molly an Tommo load Bean the mule with the ammo an other bits of fightin gear while the rest of us ready our horses. There ain’t much talk. We’re all shook by what’s happened.

  We can hear wolfdog howls as Tracker circles Painted Rock with Tommo an Creed in search of Nero. Though I know it ain’t likely they’ll find him, still I’m tense until they come back.

  Tommo’s face says all. Sorry, he says. No sign of him.

  Mercy’s jest about to mount Tam, her stolen pony. I hurry to give her a boost. She don’t really need my help, but it’s my first chance to speak to her since I seen Jack. The moon shades dark the tired hollows of her face. The scratches from Nero’s attack. I could count every line, every wrinkle. But she sits tall, straight-backed, a queen in her slave collar.

  I fiddle with the bridle. Keep my voice low as I says, I gotta talk to you. Alone. Soon as we git to Starlight Lanes.

  Her eyes speak assent.

  You comfortable there, Mercy? says Lugh. His voice makes me jump. I didn’t realize he was so close.

  Yer sister’s had a shock, she says. Look to her, won’t you?

  He hugs his arm around my shoulders. You don’t hafta tell me, he says. He’ll find us, Saba, he always does. He’s probly jest off on some crow business.

  As I sling my pack onto Hermes, I catch Tommo starin at me. He’s kneelin, fmessin with his bootlace. The second our eyes meet, he ducks down his head. A flush floods his cheeks. My conscience gives me a guilty start. I’d put from my head he tried to talk to me earlier. Lugh’s right. I shouldn’t of took his hand at the bridge.

  Now, you know where yer goin, says Slim. Starlight Lanes, Sector Five. He takes a deep breath. His arm goes up to point the way. You head southwest from here—

  Got it, says Ash. You told us twice already.

  Well, he says, the sign’s likely to be overgrown is the thing. There’s snakecreeper grows fast as wildfire all over the—

  We’ll be on the lookout, I says. You better git rollin.

  I told Peg the Flight all about you numberous times, he says, but, still, don’t especk no warm welcome. Peg’s a genius with the junk, but a notorious cranky old fish. Ergo, there ain’t many drop-ins at the Lanes. Ideal fer a hidey-hole. Oh, an I meant to say. There’s a Steward fella by Willowbrook’s got a bad tooth I promised to pull. I’ll swing by there an yank it out. Maybe stop a couple other places along the way. Gotta keep myself lookin bona fide. A wolf in sheep’s clothin, that’s me. A sheep’s dress, I should say. Ha ha! Wouldn’t that be a sight? A sheep in a frock.

  Slim, I says. Go.

  Walk on, Duff. He clicks at his carthorse an, with a cry of, See you anon! they’re off. Inside the Cosmic his potion bottles clank in their cupboards as they bump through the gap an outta sight.

  Eccentric he is, no question. But he’s a medicine man among few such. So Slim’s got value, he’s official in New Eden. The five circle tattoo on his right arm says so. Still, it’s curfew till sun-up fer everybody but the Tonton. An dawn’s a while off yet. He’ll hafta travel by one of the old ways till daylight. The slow, rough ones that wind an wander, that nobody much uses these days. DeMalo’s new roads is the thing. The rest of us, we’ll strike out wild. We’ll probly reach Starlight Lanes well before he does.

  I take a last glance around. The site’s clear. I won’t think about Nero. I won’t I won’t. We’re all here, we’re all ready to mount up. Apart from one. Where’s Emmi? I says.

  Nobody remembers seein her once we started breakin camp.

  Molly says, That one’s had her head in the clouds all day.

  Dammit, I says. Why cain’t she never do what she’s s’posed to?

  Lugh sighs. I’ll go, he says.

  Look who I found! It’s a shout. Emmi’s voice. We whirl around as she comes runnin through the gap. She holds Nero in her arms.

  My heart bounds. Leaps. Nero! I cry.

  Tracker makes a beeline, barkin like crazy. In the clamour of excitement that breaks out, I rush to her an take him. He greets me with caws of relief. Tellin me what happened, if only I could unnerstand. I elbow off Tracker, set to drown him with slobbery licks of joy.

  Where’d you find him? says Creed. We looked, Saba, I swear we did.

  As I check Nero to make sure he’s okay, Emmi’s breathless with the thrill of it.

  I found him in a rabbit burrow tethered to a peg, she says. His beak was tied, so’s he couldn’t call fer help. He’d nearly got it off—he’s so smart, he was rubbin aginst this sharp stone—but oh, poor Nero, it must of bin awful. He must of bin so afeared. He was sure glad to see me, I can tell you.

  Where was this? I says.

  Oh, over there a ways. She flaps a vague hand in no particular direction.

  Unnerground, says Creed. Guess that’s why Tracker didn’t sniff him out. He ain’t no burrow hound.

  How did you know where to look? I says.

  Em’s a hopeless dissembler. She tries to meet my eyes, but cain’t. Like a guilty dog that’s stole the supper.

  I dunno, she says. I jest kinda … felt where he was.

  Felt, says Lugh. Airy fairy. Come on, Em, none of yer mystical baloney.

  It ain’t baloney! I swear, she says.

  Lugh gives me a frownin look. Jest then, there’s a vexed squawk from my arms. Nero’s head feathers stick up in mad spikes all over. Tracker’s soaked him with swipes of his tongue. We laugh. I ain’t laughed fer so long, I almost fergot how it feels. I pull Emmi in fer a one-armed hug an kiss the top of her head.

  Tha
nks, Em, I says.

  I’m really really sorry I didn’t watch, she says. I feel jest awful, truly I do. But look, I brought you the tether cord. Here.

  She hands me a short length of two-ply hemp twine. Plain, workaday cord that’s seen plenty of use. The kind anybody pretty much anywhere might be likely to have on ’em. I shove it in my pocket. Where’s yer boots? I says. Go put ’em on, yer as bad as Creed. Okay, we’re on our way. Next stop, Starlight Lanes.

  Nero would have managed to free himself before long. He’d tied his beak loose enough to make sure of it. Still, he’d hated doing it. Hated himself for doing it. Taking him, frightening him.

  He’d rattled her. She thought a Tonton had followed them. That the dead crow and Nero proved they could get at her—at all of them—at any time, at any place. So what? She wasn’t going to give up. Run away in fear. Had he really thought, even for a moment, that she’d do such a thing?

  No. He’d stopped thinking. He’d lost his head. It was a shaming, stupid trick. Born of panic in the night-time woods.

  He had to stay cool. Forget about DeMalo and just stick with his plan. It was simple and it would work. He’d follow her as she went to meet Jack. He’d look for his chance. He’d take it.

  And his deal for their past and future would be done.

  Our way to Sector Five takes us through the fells, with their acid springs an unsettled tors. It’s a place of sudden echoes. Of long ago bloodshed, cold on our skins. The wind whines its claws over rock. There’s bin a fresh landslip, a big one. We hafta dismount an help the horses pick their way through the shattered slabs.

  I planted myself at the rear from the off, wantin to be alone with my thoughts. Not that I’ve had much chance. I carry Nero snug to my chest. He’s buttoned inside my coat with his head poked out to see where we’re goin. Tracker sticks like a burr, shovin his nose in, anxious to keep check on his friend.

  Ash hangs back to wait fer us. How is he? she says. Hey, Nero. How ya doin, buddy? She reaches out slowly. He chitters nervily, beaks at her. It’s okay, okay, I won’t hurt you, she says. But he won’t let her near enough to stroke him. Helluva thing, she says to me.

  You said it, I says. I go to walk Hermes on, but her hand on my arm stops me. The hostile wind circles, snatchin at her forest of plaits. Whippin the manes of the horses. She stands foursquare aginst it, tall, shadow-eyed an sharply white faced. Like a shade of some old war, rumbled from the stones by our passage. Her fingers chill through my sleeve.

  I bin thinkin, she says. An I don’t like where it’s took me.

  The liar inside me takes a cagey step back. What’re you talkin about? I says.

  Come on, she says, you must be thinkin it too. It was one of us did that to Nero. Took him an tethered him.

  I stare at her. It never crossed my mind, I says.

  I don’t wanna think that one of our own did it, she says. But I cain’t figger how else to explain it.

  DeMalo is how. But I cain’t say. I couldn’t ever say. None of us would dream of hurtin Nero, I says.

  If somebody wanted to git at you, shake you, what better way than Nero? she says. An, I mean, we ain’t ezzackly bin holdin hands an dancin in a circle. Yer in a spiky time, my friend.

  Are you talkin about Creed? I says. You an him’s best friends.

  I ain’t namin nobody, she says. I hate that I’m even sayin this. Maybe I’m wrong. But. You need to look into it. If it is one of us, we gotta know who. An why.

  You ain’t mentioned this to nobody else, I says.

  No, she says. An listen, you make sure you suspect me too, okay? It could be I’m tryin to throw you off my trail here. Mind you, if I was, it’s such a sorry attempt I’d hafta cut off my own head in shame.

  No need fer that, I says. Okay, Ash. This stays between you an me.

  She nods as she turns up her collar aginst the wind. We pick our way on through the rockfall. After a bit, Ash says, You know me, right? I ain’t crazy or nuthin an … gawd knows I ain’t got no imagination, but … I feel like she’s still here. With us.

  She don’t hafta say who she means. I know. It’s Maev.

  An I see her, Ash says. Sometimes, I’ll turn an I swear I see her. Jest fer a moment I catch a glimpse of her. An it’s so real. It’s like she’s … caught in the light. In the moonlight. The sunlight.

  Maybe she is, I says.

  She’s bin so tangled with my life, says Ash. With who I am, fer so long. It don’t seem possible she’s gone. An her an me, we had some … times together. Y’know what I’m sayin? Not heavy or nuthin—neether of us was like that—but …

  Oh, I says. I guess I thought becuz her an Lugh—

  Ash slants a smile at me. He, she … whoever, right? she says.

  I’m sorry, I says. I know we don’t talk about her enough. I jest feel too guilty.

  Don’t, she’d hate that, says Ash. She believed in you, Saba. She believed in this fight. Remember who she was, how she was, an take strength from her.

  This time, when she puts out her hand, Nero lets her stroke his head. If only crows could talk, she says.

  If only.

  Mid-mornin. The northeasternmost corner of Sector Five. Sweat wet from a sudden heavy heat, we pick our way along a forest alley. Its single track winds through the grown-over ruins of a settlement. Here, the shape of man-worked stone. There, a peek of iron. The earth creeps an seeps. A slowtime tide of moss an bushes an trees. Sunbeams straggle through branches. Like I figgered we’d be, we’re ahead of Slim. The alley’s rutted deep with long use, but nuthin’s passed along it today. It narrows as it heads fer a wall that towers high. The last gasp of some big Wrecker buildin, slowly bein swallowed by the great bloated bleb of crawlin forest.

  Emmi’s walkin jest behind me, with Tracker. I glance back. She’s stood stock still, with the strangest look on her face.

  What is it? I says.

  She don’t answer. Tracker whimpers an sniffs all around her. She’s stopped next to a great stone, shafted through its heart by a determined hazel tree. She turns her head sharply. Stares at the stone hard.

  Don’t lallygag, Em, we must nearly be there. Emmi. C’mon. Quit dreamin.

  The track ends at the high wooded wall. There ain’t no sign of no junkyard.

  Did we follow Slim’s directions? says Creed.

  Yeah, I says. But he did rabbit on. I might of missed somethin.

  Mercy says, Did I not hear him say the sign might be overgrown? She nods at the wall, smothered by rambunctious snakecreeper.

  Lugh an Creed scramble up, usin roots fer hand an footholds. They start tearin at the creeper. There’s a sudden green flurry as we all join in, haulin an pullin. Then we stand there pickin off bits of creeper as we look at what we’ve uncleared.

  A great, rusted fancywork archway. Over twenny foot high, it wracks an twists, saved from collapse by girders an logs. We stare at the sign that hangs from the middle. Hard to say what it’s made from. Nuthin that ever grew in the ground, that’s fer sure. It was brightly coloured once, but long since faded. What looks to be a comet with a tail of stars smashes into bottles an sends ’em flyin. There’s a bunch of letters that could be words.

  Star … light … Lanes, says Tommo. This is it.

  We stare at him in wonder. He reds-up furiously, shrinks from our close regard.

  You can read, I says.

  So? he says.

  You never said, says Lugh.

  You never asked, says Tommo. I got numbers, too. He reads the sign, slow an careful. Ten pin, he says. Twenny lanes. Great for a date. Come in and score. He struggles over the next bit, frownin with the effort. S, e, n, i, o, r, s. Seneyeors? Seneyeors spec-ee-al rates Mon and Thur.

  We wait.

  That’s all, he says.

  What the holy hell does that mean? says Ash.

  Who knows? It’s Wrecker speak, I says. But this is the place. Starlight Lanes.

  You read good, Tommo, says Lugh. Who learned you? Ike?

  He shrugs
. Tommo’s life is split in two. Before Ike an after Ike. Life-after-Ike he’ll talk about. Life-before-Ike he won’t, not a word. When he learned to read must come from life-before.

  Let’s find Peg the Flight. Innerduce ourselfs, I says.

  I lead us through the gates. We’re quite the gaggle. Eight of us, sundry horses, a stolen pony, Bean the mule, a wolfdog an a nervous crow perched on my shoulder. Nero’s stuck to me the whole way here. Hostile to anybody else that comes near him, quick to beak whatever bit of ’em happens to be closest.

  Oh my! says Emmi.

  The junkyard rises high in front of us. I ain’t never seen its like. Countless piles an hills of scrap metal, some small, some large, with cranky paths that wind between ’em. There’s a scatter of rackety low sheds an lean-tos. A flat-topped grassy hill rises behind the yard. In front of it stands the biggest junkpile of all.

  A shack grows from it, clings to it. Made of flotsam an crazyjunk, thisses an thats of all sizes an shapes an descriptions. At a quick glance, I see car doors, goodyears, metal sheets, barrels, boards an logs. All put together any old way. It’s a puzzle how it holds together. I never seen such a wackadoo place. Dozens of ladders an walkways sprawl out like a spider’s web from it—down to the ground, up the junkhill, sidewise an every which way. There’s ropes an chains an pulleys with buckets. Slides an chutes. Tracks an swings. Barrels an nets an wheels an flags. There’s a raggedy wash hung on a line. An there’s live birds in cages. Hunnerds of birds. Everywhere, birds. The air trembles with their trills an chatter. Nero caws to his cousins in their prison cells.

  Molly shakes her head in amazement. An I thought the Lost Cause was a dump, she says.

  So, where’s this Peg the Flight? says Ash. An what kinda name is that anyways?

  A camel mooches into view from a nearby scrapmetal hill. He’s a fleabit shambles. His hump slumps in defeat.

  Look who it is, says Em.

  Oh no, says Lugh. I fergot he was here.

  It’s Moses. He loathed us from the start. Five-time winner of the Pillawalla Camel Race, fer years he hauled the Cosmic fer Slim. When we had to take to country too tricky fer a camel, Peg the Flight took Moses on to haul his junktub. After the handover, Slim mourned through one endless, noisy night. With a keg of seed rye an long, confused songs about camels an brotherhood. We pretended sorrow, fer Slim’s sake, but secretly we celebrated. You can only take so much camel spit.