Two of the other traders, young Ellary and a gangling fellow named Frazier, sat beside them, making desultory conversation and replenishing each other’s mugs. Rae had counted on their talk to save her from the awfulness of her thoughts, but they were making it obvious through winks and innuendo that they weren’t going to butt in on whatever she and Baird supposedly had going.
She couldn’t reject his attentions. It was impossible. Now that Crispin had deserted her, and the trickster women had proved false, Baird was her only hope, though he did not know it. Anthea, Liesl, and even Hannah had all gone over to the other side. They threatened her like a row of red queens across the chessboard, promising certain destruction before the game was up. Baird remained on her side, an unlikely white knight with a wife and children in Valestock.
But she could not surrender to him!
Would he be repulsed? Like Crispin? Or would he laugh tenderly, dispelling the fears of nineteen years, and kiss her poor pale stump just as he was kissing her neck, with expert tongue-tip teases? It seemed inevitable that she would find out. But her courage was insufficient to overcome her fear. And a voice inside her cried, Crispin...
He was probably a hundred miles away by now. He had given up on her. And who could blame him? She had deserted him, that day in the daemon dell.
But back then she hadn’t known how this was going to end! Transcendence had not played her false. But circumstances had. And there, circumstances govern us all, even the Children of the Dynasty—
When Baird first led her into the clearing, all the trickster women, even Mother, had presented brilliant smiles to her and pressed mugs of ale into her hand, and she had wondered if maybe it did not matter after all, if she had been wrong, if they were going to give her another chance. But then Sally and Millie had drawn her aside and told her it was no good.
“You’d better leave.”
They both started to cry as Millie said it. Their tears shone red as blood in the firelight.
“They’ve made their decision.”
“But how do you know? Where can I go?” Rae was panicking.
“Away!”
“Away from here.”
“Tonight.”
“Rae, we don’t want anything bad to happen to you!”
“What?” Rae said. They had pulled her away from the fire, into the cold, crunchy forest. The three of them huddled together like refugees trying to console each other over some terrible loss. The darkness disguised the lines on the twins’ wet faces. For once their youth was obvious. “What’s going to happen to me?”
Sally wiped her nose. “Same thing happened to Sarah from the cult, and Anna from the south, and our cousin Jillie, when she wanted to be a trickster woman! We told her she should come, we planned it for months, we sent her secret letters, but when she got here it was no good, she wasn’t strong like us... Oh Rae, we’re trying to warn you, you didn’t listen to us before, but if you know what’s good for you, you’d better listen now We could show you what’s going to happen to you, we have scars you wouldn’t believe—”
I’m in danger of my life, Rae thought, because I made the mistake of trusting them, because they seemed kind! How naive can I be?!
But the illusion was shattered for good now. She remembered what Anthea had said to her that first night, when she, Rae, had been deaf with tiredness: Not many travelers come this far into the Wraithwaste, unless they’re coming to us! And none of them ever leave.
When the three of them returned to the fire she saw very clearly that the bright chatter Anthea, Liesl, and Hannah directed at her was no more sincere than the patter of shopgirls. They seemed interested in nothing but the traders they had hypnotized. But Rae did not miss the darting, snakelike glances that they directed at Sally and Millie, who had gone, barely controlling their sniffles, to sit with Mother.
Rae had excused herself from the three in a shaky voice. She had gone to the other side of the fire and sank down, grateful for Baird’s ready embrace.
What was going to happen to her now? She dared not move from his side in case they meant to dispose of her right here, in front of everyone, though in that case she didn’t know what he could do to protect her, anyhow. The way Anthea had disposed of Nemanes convinced Rae that death was the most likely probability.
But Baird would save her. He had to.
Fear sat like a lump of snow in her belly, melted only a little by mug after mug of ale.
And it was late, late, and nothing had happened, and Hannah and Liesl had retired, leaving Mother, and the twins, and Anthea, the most dangerous of the three. There were loud, sporadic cracklings in the forest, and Rae was certain that from time to time she saw eyes gleaming in the trees. She mentioned it half-jokingly to Baird, and he muttered something about the Wraiths coming when they smelt alcohol.
Thank transcendence I didn’t make a run for it then! Hannah had told her, both in words and in the language which did not lie, how much the Wraiths hated Ferupians. And what could be more Ferupian than this drinking party? It was a release from the obsessive austerities that governed Holstead House during the day. And like the parties that had happened occasionally at the Seventeenth Mansion, it was going to end with everyone pairing off. Would the Wraiths take advantage of Holstead House’s vulnerability then? Or were they too much diminished to be anything but spectators at the feast? Rae felt in her heart that they were not half as toothless as Hannah had tried to make them sound.
The wind moaned like a storm in the branches overhead.
On the far side of the clearing, Anthea and her paramour Hepplewhite were snuggling, their bodies making a spider that twitched its great legs in the light of the dying flames. Sally, Millie, and Mother sat with two young traders, Greengate and Puriss, who seemed hypnotized by the twins. They had danced attendance on them all night and were only now, with respectful restraint, claiming their property: a hand on a thigh, another stroking flaxen hair. The twins sat passive under their caresses, like show horses being groomed by their trainers. Mother gazed off into the distance with a smile on her face, rocking back and forth, apparently unaware of the courtship taking place on either side of her.
“Someone’s gonna have fun tonight,” Ellary said for the fourth or fifth time, and drained his mug.
Frazier stared morosely at the fire. Suddenly he tossed his mug into the embers, where it burst, and stood up, stretching his long limbs. “C’mon, Jem. Time for you and me to hit the sack. Got a busy day coming up.”
“Wasn’t hired to be no stockboy,” Jem Ellary muttered without malice. Staggering upright, he slapped Baird on the shoulder. “What ‘bout you, fella?”
Rae closed her hand over Baird’s. “I’ll look after him.” She smiled at Ellary, crinkling her eyes to suggest that the two of them had a private joke. “I don’t think he’s going to be good for much tomorrow morning, though.”
Frazier and Ellary chuckled drunkenly. Ellary said, swaying and hiccuping, “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Always happens like this. We plan on starting to unload the minute we get here, and we end up drinkin’ all night. Witches. They’re witches. They do it to us, oh, what do they do to us?” he began to sing mournfully.
“Shut it,” Frazier said, and wrapping his arm around the stumbling man, led him off. “Night.”
“Night,” Rae called, somewhat taken aback.
The clearing was quiet now but for the crackling of the fire and the surreptitious noises in the forest. Baird’s kisses moved from Rae’s neck to her mouth. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she let herself go. His tongue entered her mouth. He drew back and whispered, “Where? Where can we go?”
Danger seemed far away, and at the same time she felt its breath on her face. Her head was, spinning. She could not face the forest, or the house: for all she knew, the bones of Sarah, Anna, and Jillie, who had also failed the trickster women’s tests, were boarded up in the walls. By comparison, the scene of this evening’s humiliation seemed attractive.
“The menagerie
,” she murmured, letting her hands fly over his shoulders, inside his coat.
She had never had an admirer who was this much older than she—or at any rate never encouraged one. She had always had more attractive offers. Not that Baird wasn’t attractive, of course (and in the dark, you couldn’t see his blue eyes, those blank spots in the pale face that reminded her of uncurtained windows onto an empty room). “Do you know the way?”
He pulled her to her feet. They meandered back toward the house, stopping every now and then to kiss. To distract herself from the flickers in the corners of her eyes, Rae asked Baird about the truck she had recognized.
“Stolen,” he grunted. “Taken possession of by Fewman and Fewman. Believed to be original property of Lemonde Daemon Dealers of Cherry Hills.” That was a domain near Plum Valley. The heartlands were home to the richest companies in Ferupe—heartlanders had more business sense than westerners, who were handed wealth on a platter every day, but did not know enough to hold on to it. “Compensation paid to Lemonde, minus costs of repairs.”
“But how does anyone steal a truck?” she asked.
“Not that difficult if you know daemons.” Baird pressed kisses into her ear. “Why?”
“I’m—I’m just curious.” She twisted to avoid getting a tree branch in her ribs. “Everything you do interests me, Baird!”
He laughed indulgently. “Follow this then! Darky traveler stole the truck from outside of an eatery in Valestock, same night there was a fire in the armory on Main Street, all the police distracted. Rain washed away traces of escape. Truck later discovered stripped of fittings, primary daemon gone, contents of trailer missing, near a hamlet on the edge of the Wraithwaste, about a hundred miles from Valestock. Darky never seen again. Most of missing fittings discovered on search of nearby hamlet. Daemon lost; peasants have no idea what’s really valuable, they just like bright, shiny metal. Thieving magpies!” He laughed uproariously. “Boys taught ‘em a lesson they won’t forget!”
“Hilarious!” Rae laughed. “The darky stole it, and then had it stolen from him! And later, the girl he had rescued from the fire deserted him without so much as a thank-you, and a daemon was set on him, and if he isn’t dead by now I expect he’s halfway to the war front! And I’ll never see him again. I can’t bear it. never see him again—”
“What’re you blathering about? You a storyteller or somethin? You a gypsy? No, no.” Baird pinched her cheek, then kissed her hard on the mouth. “Too fair, too daisy daisy pretty—”
“I’m a little drunk, I think,” Rae said meekly. Her heart was pounding inside her chest. “Oh, Baird!” They were at the door. The heavy slab of oak swung inward and they moved into a warm night that smelled of flowers. Rae was too grateful for the dark to question it; only in the back of her mind she thought, Should close the door... should close...
They came on Liesl and Hannah in the darkest corner of the menagerie, where tiny daemons grew like grass. Liesl’s pale body shone in the night; Hannah was her shadow come to life. Her lips suckled greedily at Liesl’s small breasts. Liesl’s fingers clenched spasmodically on Hannah’s buttocks. Despite her shock and disgust, Rae felt something twitching deep inside her at the sight. Baird clapped a hand over her mouth and pulled her away, crashing through the daemon growths. The two women were too absorbed in each other to notice the intrusion, or the noisy retreat. Nonetheless, to Rae, it would have been the worst breach of decorum to stay a moment longer in the menagerie. But Baird seemed to have been set on fire by the scene they had witnessed. Growling softly, he pulled her down near the door and started undoing her dress. Rae tried to push him away, but it was no good; she could not resist muscles that could keep a sixty-ton truck on the road for hours on end. He forced her back down onto the soil.
She imagined she could feel the rhythm of Hannah and Liesl’s lovemaking pulsing through the earth. She had never guessed that that was what lay between the pair. Although really, she should have; she had seen the same kind of thing in similar circumstances, and it explained a good deal.
A warm wind blew over her, tickling her face as if it were thick with dust. It was going in the wrong direction. Not into the menagerie, but out. What was wrong? She could not think, could not act. She caressed Baird’s hair. Now that it had started she did not want it to stop even for a moment. She did not want to think about what she was doing. Kneeling between her thighs, Baird pulled off his coat and shirt. His chest was soft with ginger curls. He squeezed her breasts, flicking the nipples expertly with his index fingers. The sweet disability of surrender washed over her. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, pulling him down on top of her, kissing him.
And rearing up, he shuddered and went limp, crashing facefirst into the earth beside her. For one absurd moment she thought he had finished, and he couldn’t have yet, not a man in the prime of his life—but then she sat up and shook him, and he did not move, and there was a knife hilt standing out of his back, and she screamed. It came out as a whimper.
“Get away from him!” It was Crispin, standing huge and solid and black in the doorway. There was—could it be?—a child behind him, peering around his legs. “I think I’ve killed him. Queen!” He came forward and collected his knife, kneeling to wipe it on the daemon grass. “You’re bloody lucky I came when I did!” He peered into her face. “He looks a real bastard!”
He had come. He would save her. But her mind was empty of all but the sweeping waves of blackness that were the wings of the razor-pinioned bird. She crouched transfixed. Intermittently, stars replaced the roof, and replaced Crispin’s face, replaced the doorway. But the black wings beat even faster. Soon the wings would come close enough to slash her. She whimpered again, not in relief but terror.
“Say the words!” repeated the voice. Cuddlepie was stiff with fear. He couldn’t remember one word, yet he had said them over and over all the way. “Too late! Eat him!” shouted the voice fiercely.
—May Gibbs, The Complete Adventures of Snugglepot and Cuddlepie
Undone
Earlier that evening, Crispin had seen Jacithrew Humdroner break his neck. There was no gore, no screaming or thrashing. Only the body in the wreckage of the flying machine, rearranged into the shape of a dead, twisted thing.
Orpaan had been too hysterical to do anything except curl up and scream. Crispin straightened out the corpse as best he could, carried it off into the Waste, and laid it under the pines, on a bier which he made by ripping apart the flying machine. As he turned to leave, his hair stood on end. The twilit air looked empty, but shadows danced and scudded across the carpet of fallen needles. Scavenger daemons were gathering.
It was a stupid death which could easily have been avoided. Crispin himself could have prevented it from happening, had he believed for one moment that the madman was really going to jump off the top of the big pine. But rationality made him stand and watch, sneering, until the very last moment, when it was too late, and he scrambled for the rope ladder. The flying machine did not go anywhere at all, though the daemons in it roared mightily. It plummeted straight down, crashed into the earth, and kept going through the roof of the root room, coming to rest in a jumble of soil and furniture.
Crispin, who had seen several fatal falls—most recently Prettie’s—was less shaken by the death than he was by Orpaan’s hysteria. The child howled and screamed, seemingly inconsolable, until Crispin, growing desperate, slapped him in the face. After that, the boy clung to him and would not let go. Hitting him was probably exactly what Jacithrew would have done.
The moment when, looking up, Crispin had thought, Strike me, he’s really going to—the moment of the fall—neither one replayed itself in his mind as he led Orpaan through the woods. Instead, he could not forget what Jacithrew had said as he started up the rope ladder. The words had not really registered on Crispin’s mind until after the old hermit was dead. Jacithrew’s manic grin never left his face, but, interspersed with gibberish about the south, Crispin heard distinctly: “Look after my o
rphan, boy! He’s a good child, and you’ll be a better guardian for him than I was. At least”— Jacithrew sniggered— “he won’t have to live on charity any longer—”
Jacithrew had cared for Orpaan, but not enough to keep on living for his sake. Crispin wondered if he had known the flying machine wouldn’t work. If, like an old soldier, having lost sight of everything except his own inflated notions of pride and honor, he had planned his own grand tragedy.
But, no, he had been mad. What must have happened was that Crispin’s arrival had liberated Jacithrew from his responsibility to the child, freeing him to take the risks he must have known testing the flying machine involved. And indeed, although Jacithrew could have completed the machine at any time over the past five years or so, he had only started working on it in earnest after Crispin stumbled through the roof trap.
A trap, indeed!
Crispin had not known he was becoming an accomplice to the old man’s death. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t responsible for its consequences.
What with one thing and another, he and Orpaan did not leave the ruin of the root room until much later than he had intended. It must have been nearly 5 A.M. by the time they set out. There had been a high wind most of the night, though the air was bone-dry: it would be a fair dawn. But the sky was still tarry. Crispin gripped Orpaan’s wrist tightly as they slipped through the roaring trees toward Holstead House. In his mind he was going over the things he would say to Rae once he found her. Of course all that structure and tradition and shit seems pretty damn attractive—I know what a hard life you’ve led, even if you won’t tell me anything about it—but how can you choose it over what I’m offering you? How can you?
The War in the Waste Page 27
