by Moira Young
Emmi gave it to me, she says. When Mercy told me she left you fast to sleep, I came to cover you, make sure you didn’t die of sunstroke.
I stare at her dully. I didn’t mean to drop off, I says.
I’m bone weary. My head feels thick. My body’s heavy, like I’m weighed down by stones.
I’m sorry, says Molly. I didn’t mean to disturb you.
No, no, I says. It’s good that you did. I got thinkin to do. A lot to work out.
You hardly sleep at all these days, she says. You bein tired won’t be good fer none of us. Here, lie down. Cover yerself with this. She slips the knot on her headscarf an hands it to me. It smells richly of the rose oil that softens her skin, that scents her hair. As she shakes out her curls, I make a point of not lookin at the W brand on her forehead. She sees me not lookin. She says, It ain’t often I git a chance to air the war wound these days.
How can you make light of it? I says.
What should I do? she says. Cry fer the rest of my life? Molly of the Many Sorrows?
No, but—after everythin else … Gracie an Ike an then—I dunno how you bear it.
You got battle scars. This is mine, she says. You know what it tells me? I’m a survivor. An if I ever need remindin why I’m here right now, why I’m doin this? One look in the glass does it. Not that I don’t got plenty of other reasons. Ike, of course. An Jack. She hesitates a moment, then she says, You never talk about him. Since he died, you ain’t so much as mentioned his name, not even in passin. I know you gotta guard what you say with the others, but you know you don’t need to with me. The hurt puzzlement in her eyes makes my colour rise. I know Jack’s impossible, she says. Was … impossible. I know it was complicated between him an you. An maybe yer feelins warn’t as strong fer him as his was fer you—I dunno, yer heart ain’t none of my business an love ain’t easy, I sure know that. What I mean to say is … what I’d really like, what I really need, is to talk about him. With you. That’s all.
I’m silent. I sit starin at my boots while heat flags my cheeks. That was a sidewise reminder that Molly knows one secret of mine. She knows that the first man I lay with warn’t Jack. But she don’t know who. She’d never dream it was DeMalo.
The thing is? she says. The thought of Jack dyin never once occurred to me. Not once. Fer all the trouble he found or that found him. An the other thing is, besides me, Jack’s th’only one who ever knew Gracie.
Her voice falters. Fat tears spill down her cheeks. Damn, she says. Sorry. She fumbles in her pocket.
I hate this. That I lie to everybody. Most of all, I hate lyin to Molly about Jack. She’s our greatest guilt, him an me. Our biggest regret in this necessary deception. She, his dearest friend, who mourns him so deep. But she has to believe that he’s dead. The more people who know a secret, the more likely it is to slip out. Jest a glance from her to me at the wrong time could git someone thinkin. I’d trust my little Free Hawk gang with my own life. But not Jack’s.
An the fact is, I hardly dare mention his name myself fer fear I let somethin slip that I shouldn’t. How I ache to unburden myself to her. To tell her everythin. About Jack, yes, of course. But, if I’m honest, about DeMalo too. Of anybody in the world, I think Molly’s the one person who might unnerstand, who could help me make sense of it. Make sense of him an me. I want her to be my friend. I wanna be a friend to her. But it cain’t be. Not now. Not yet.
Sorry, I never cry. Molly blows her nose on one of her useless little scraps of hanky. Well, I better head back, she says. Creed’s probly lookin fer me to apologize fer the umpteenth time. He don’t do nuthin by halfs, I’ll give him that. I dunno if it was me slappin his face or what you said to him after, but the boy’s contrite. No more declarations of love, no more proposals. Don’t tell him I said so, but I quite like him now he’s actin more normal with me.
She gits to her feet an dithers with brushin off grassy bits, tidyin her skirts an petticoat. I can tell that she’s hopin I’ll ask her to stay. To talk about Jack, as she so badly wants to. I sit, silent, with a miserable heart.
She’s holdin the shawl in her arms. It’s a shame you don’t like it, she says. The colour suits you.
Shawls ain’t me, I says. An I ain’t easy with this one.
That’s the truth, near enough. But it’s a fishy excuse fer all the fuss I made. If Molly thinks so, she don’t let on.
Who’d of thought? she says. The Angel of Death, shy of a shawl. Don’t worry, yer secret’s safe with me.
I couldn’t begin to try an explain it to her. I cain’t explain it to myself. Why Auriel Tai’s blood red shawl has wrapped through my dreams from the moment I met her. Why it’s always swaddled round the head of a body. A faceless warrior in a gravepit. Or Lugh or Jack or DeMalo. An then, the unnerve of findin it in my pack. When Auriel an me parted at the Snake River camp, the shawl was draped around her shoulders. Then somehow—some strange impossible how—when I was leagues an hours an more leagues away, I found it in my bag. It was hers, no mistake. One of her hairs was caught on it. Long an fine, the colour of pale fire.
Saba? Molly’s watchin me with a little frown. If you really don’t want it, I’ll have it, she says.
I take it from her. No, it’s mine, I says. See you later.
Dismissed, rebuffed, she leaves me. With a smile an a wave an a grace that I do not deserve.
Alone, I stare at the shawl. It is mine. Fer some reason, it seems to be mine.
I curl in the grass by the pool, my head pillowed by Molly’s rose-scented scarf. Beside me, Nero nests hisself into the red shawl.
I tip into sleep an wake with a start. Like I’m on a cliff edge then fall off. Over an over. Agin an agin. My heart slams me awake each time I fall. Dark dreams trap me in shallow circles. Round an round. On an on.
Me on the hill above the bridge in the night. The Steward girl in the cart. Her face. Her smile. Her spotted kercheef at her neck. The sound of the blast an the sound of screams an blood rains down upon me.
While Mercy’s voice repeats an repeats. Paired with a boy you don’t know. Pregnant to a boy you don’t know.
Me an DeMalo. In the pool above the bridge. I’m in the water, in his arms. We twist an turn below the surface. Sunlight sparkles above. His white shirt billows. His voice whispers. Think of it. A child. Yours and mine.
From each place he kisses me, each place he touches me, a stream of blood starts to flow. The water turns red. Hands pull me down. Down down, the darkest depths beckon me down.
I go deeper, darker, as Molly’s voice sings. Hush now, my baby, an sleep without fear. Dream Angus will bring you a dream, my dear.
Strands of hair wind from darkness towards me. Long an fair, my mother’s hair, like weeds it winds around me. Then she, her ghost self, my white fog dead mother, wraps her arms around me an down we go, down down down.
Dream Angus will bring you a dream my dear.
As I bleed. As I drown. As I drift away to black.
I come to with a shudder. Sit up quickly. Too quick. A sleep of such dreams ain’t no sleep at all. My skin’s bumped with cold. The day’s fuggy swill is gone. The wind’s changed. A brisk easterly is busy at work, sweepin the dregs of day into night.
I bundle Nero in the shawl, any old way, with him squawkin protest till he struggles free an flies. I walk fast, brisk, to wake myself. In the hope that my dreamtime cain’t keep up. I collect Hermes from the cottonwood glade. I’ll need him fer the ride to meet Jack tonight.
The racket from Peg’s caged birds grows louder as I near the junkyard. I can hear music. Faint at first. As we follow its trail through the yard, it settles to a wistful lament. Somebody on a stringbox. A good player. Must be Peg. None of our lot scrapes the strings. It ain’t long before the deep smell of cooked meat joins in. My mouth waters. There’s a shout of laughter.
The music an smells an voices tumble through the open door of a ramshackle shed. Outside, there’s a roastpit. The spit’s empty, the rocks grow cool. Tracker slinks among the j
unkheaps, on watchdog duty. He greets us with a raised head an swish of his tail, then disappears agin, nose down, on his patrol.
Me an Nero go in. Rush lanterns hang on the walls of the shed. Splash warm pools of light over the dusty clutter. There’s a big space bin cleared in the middle of it all. Peg hunches over a battered stringbox. Her skinny old arm’s at one with her bow, haulin that mournful tune from its guts. Creed shakes his head in admiration as he plays along on his squeezebox. Molly an Slim an Mercy perch, uncomfortable, on barrels and whatnot. They’re tryin to eat, but without much success. Emmi’s in the grip of giddy excitement. She jigs an hops all around ’em, with her tongue goin clickety clack. They smile an nod. The fools. They don’t know not to give her encouragement. They’ll be trapped now till she tires or death takes ’em. Ash an Tommo know better. They don’t meet her eyes, but keep their heads down an fill their bellies.
Lugh’s right by the door. Eat tin in hand, he’s pickin over the ravaged carcass of a spread you might dream of. An he’s bein so fussy, he must be on thirds. There’s woodchuck roasted to tender flesh an crispy skin, boiled lilybulb with onions, nettlecake an more. I’m used to livin low, to hard fare. I’m only confused by plenty. Nero dives at the table. Lugh cries, No!, but too late. Nero’s done a snatch an grab. He shrieks defiance as he settles on a rafter with a big piece of woodchuck.
What’s all this in aid of? I says. What’s got Em in such a fizz?
Ah, there you are! Lugh turns quickly. It’s a birthday party. Molly pulled it together. Ain’t she a wonder?
Molly’s birthday? I says.
No, stupid, Emmi’s. She’s ten.
What? I says. Today?
Last month, he says. You fergot, bad sister.
Ten, I says, good grief. Anyways, bad brother, you fergot too. Why didn’t you come git me? You got grease on yer face.
You needed to sleep. He swipes with his sleeve an inspects me, narrow-eyed. I see you didn’t, he says. Yer startin to give old Peg the Flight some serious competition in the ugly bag stakes. All tired an wrinkly an big dark circles—
I slap his arm. I am not wrinkly, you—
He plugs my mouth with a wodge of cake. You what? He blinks blue-eyed innocence at me as he nibbles on a lilybulb. Sorry, cain’t hear you.
Saba, hey Saba! Emmi comes runnin. She pulls at my hands, hoppin an turnin me in circles. She gabbles full tilt, while I choke down the cake. Molly gimme a comb fer my hair—her very own favourite comb—an she says if I use it twice a day it’ll make my hair grow beautiful jest like hers. I cain’t wait, I already bin combin, can you tell? An Creed—guess what? He ate fire, he truly did, you should of seen! An then he pulled a button from my ear by magic. Here it is, look, he said it’s mine to keep. An Ash gimme a gizmo knife an Slim gimme this special medicine necklace to stop the rickets an—
Rheumatics, not rickets, says Lugh.
I should know, it’s my necklace, an it’s rickets, she says. An Mercy says she’ll make me a new shirt jest as soon as she finds one to cut down an we’re gonna have dancin in a bit an—
Emmi! Tommo calls. C’mere!
She dashes off agin an me an Lugh follow. She stands in front of Tommo, her eyes shinin. He puts his empty eat tin on the ground. Creed an Peg stop playin to watch.
Keep still, Tommo tells her. Hands out. Eyes shut.
She squeezes ’em tight an stretches her arms straight in front of her. He reaches behind him. He brings out the dainty little birdcage with the tiny metal finch that sings. He places it gently in her hands.
Open, he says.
She opens her eyes. A gasp of wonder. Joy lights her face. Fer a second. A breath. Then it darkens to shocked dismay.
There’s puzzlement all around. Raised eyebrows an baffled smiles. The cage is a rarely fine object. The best Tommo’s got in his trade bag is a buckle.
That’s quite the present, I says. It must of cost dear. What did you take fer it, Peg?
She waggles her head an shakes her bow. Never you mind, she says. The boy offered, I took, it’s business, our business, his an mine, Miss Nosy Poke, not yers.
Tommo, you didn’t. Emmi breathes the words in disbelief. It’s clear she knows full well what he’s traded. An she don’t like it, not one little bit. An Tommo don’t like her reaction. He scowls darkly. His cheeks flush.
No, says Emmi. You cain’t.
C’mon, says Ash. What is it?
Tommo’s glarin at Emmi. She glares back at him, her face scrinched with fury. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. I notice Nero makin free with the food table.
At last Mercy says, When somebody gifts you, Emmi, it’s only good manners to accept with thanks.
Thank you, she says flatly. It’s the best present I’ll ever have.
No kiss, no hug, not even a smile. Fer the best present she’ll ever have. Then Peg swings into a sweet old waltz an the strange moment breaks. Mercy starts collectin the eatin tins. Molly pounces on Nero to rescue the food. As she scolds him fer a thief, she feeds him tidbits.
Lugh says to me, What was that about? An how did he manage it? Tommo ain’t got nuthin.
I know, I says. I ain’t got the faintest idea.
Ash saves Tommo from his humiliation. She grabs him to show him how to waltz an then he’s busy dodgin her clod-hoppin boots, countin one-two-three over an over. With a courtly bow, Slim bids Emmi to dance. Despitin his bulk, he glides her around in elegant twirls an swoops. Emmi makes a big show of ignorin Tommo. Her pleasure in her first ever party is gone.
Did you speak to her like we talked about? I says to Lugh.
He grimaces. Sorry, I fergot. But, c’mon, let her be. Now ain’t the time.
Now’s jest the time, I says. I’ll do it—don’t worry, I’ll be nice to her—but you owe me. We cain’t be th’only ones don’t gift her. Go rustle somethin up.
Where from? he says.
I dunno, look around, ask Peg, I says. We’re in a junkyard, fergawdsake. I managed to find you that necklace in a landfill an I’d say it’s pretty fine.
He grabs hold of it. The little green glass circle on a leather string that I gave him fer our last birthday. Eighteen year. He gives me a hopeful look as he says, Maybe I could—
You are not givin that to her, I says. Ungrateful swine. An don’t go givin her yer spare bootlaces neether.
He wanders off an I ain’t surprised to see him peer hopefully into a filthy old barrel. Like a birthday gift fer a ten-year-old girl might be found in such a place. It’ll fall to me to sort out but I’ll make him sweat a bit first.
I catch Creed’s attention an give him the nod. It’s jest gone dark outside. Time fer him to join Tracker on patrol duty. As he sets aside his squeezbox an heads my way, Peg rackets into a lively reel. She saws at the strings, stompin time on a board with gusto. Poor Slim lets out a pained wail. Lugh takes pity on him an Em shrieks with startled delight as he grabs her an starts reelin her about the room. Good man, big brother. Slim staggers to a stool to mop his brow.
Creed’s got me in his sights. His chin’s set determined, like a man on a mission. I think him an me’s about to have further words, probly on the subject of my character flaws. My body twitches to flee, but I stand my ground. I’ll hafta put him off. I gotta leave to meet Jack at Weepin Water.
Molly’s foot taps time as she helps Mercy clear the table. Creed passes by them an she touches his hand. She don’t look at him. It’s the briefest of touches an the light ain’t good, but I know I didn’t imagine it. An she was the one to reach. She was the one to touch. In the gloom, she must of thought she wouldn’t be seen.
Creed looks dazed. Like from a knockout punch, jest before you hit the ground. He walks straight past me. I stare at Molly. She smiles an chats to Mercy as they work. She makes like she cain’t abide him. Well. She did say it herself.
Life ain’t black an white. People ain’t neether. Family, friends, lovers. The longer I live, the more that I see, the less I know fer sure. Especially when it comes t
o matters of the heart.
So many secrets. Emmi an Tommo an now Molly an Creed. What else don’t I know about? Far too much, I fear.
Emmi! I wave at her, shoutin over the fidget of Peg’s fiddle. C’mere!
Molly, calls Lugh. We’re two down. Help us out.
This tame old jig? She shrugs. Why not? With a swish of red petticoat, she sashays over an he swings her into a dizzy whirl.
Emmi snails her way to me, in sullen obedience. What? she says.
Don’t you what me, Miss Ten Year Old. C’mon, I says, you can help me saddle Hermes.
Hermes whinnies when he sees me carryin his reed mat an bridle. The wind hurries thin shreds of cloud across the sky. They shine whitely aginst the blue black of early night. The weather’s changed. Feels like it’s gonna be a cold one.
Em plunks herself down on a tangle of rusty iron. Nero’s followed us outside. He busies hisself tryin to steal her new medicine necklace. I bin noticin how he is with everybody since he got caught an trapped in that burrow. He’s okay with me an Em, but that’s it. All others git pretty sharp shrift an he’s most needle-tempered with the boys. Even Lugh that he’s known all his life. That would jibe with a man snatchin him. My idea that DeMalo sent a Tonton to do the deed. To try an frighten me off. Push me towards early surrender.
Cut it out, Nero! Em gathers him onto her lap. She’s got her shoulders hunched, like she’s espectin trouble. Whaddya want? she says. I ain’t tall enough to saddle Hermes, an you know it.
Oh? I thought you might be now yer ten, I says. Listen, Em, I got a special job fer you. Where I’m goin tonight, Nero cain’t come. I’m leavin you in charge of him.
She brightens. I won’t let him outta my sight, not fer a moment, she says. She gives him a hug. Poor Nero, it was awful, what happened to you. An that other poor crow. You know who done it, doncha? she says to me. I seen yer face.
Maybe I do, I says. I twitch the mat into place.
Are you goin after ’em now?
That ain’t yer trouble, I got things in hand, I says. But listen, Em, you gotta unnerstand that I need to know everythin that’s goin on. No matter how small, no matter if you think it ain’t important, you need to tell me. What did Tommo trade fer the cage?
