So that's the latrine. Simon munched his bracken fern and tried not to think about what Bogg was doing, but the sounds coming from over there made that impossible.
Simon cast about more for lichen.
"The lee of the rock," said Bogg from his invisible throne. "Find the lichen on the lee of the rock. Like moss."
Simon looked around --
"Godzooks, pup, that means the sept side. The sept side! Don't you know sept from aust and eost from hest?"
Simon kicked a boulder. "Eos means dawn, so it tells you where the sun comes up. Hest comes from Hesperos, the Evening Star, which appears in the sky where the sun sets. Sept means seven, and comes from Septentrionalis, the seven stars of Arctos, which are always in that direction. And aust comes from Australis, which means a kind of wind."
Bogg gathered up some leaves, reached underneath himself, and did an unmentionable thing with them. "That sounded pretty enough, but it's all vine and no 'taters if it don't help you find what you're looking for." He dropped the soiled leaves into the hole under him.
Simon tried to remember where the sun had gone down, and turned right from there. The lee of the rock... it was so dark now that he could only feel the boulders. His fingers found soft soldier's lichen. He scraped and scraped, and shoved it in his mouth. Then he scraped another rock, and another.
"Attaboy." Bogg hitched up his trousers and tied his belt. "Wait a minute -- I ain't rooting for you. Go home before those horses wander off."
Simon chewed and swallowed. "Are you really going to deny me food?"
Bogg stared hard at him for moment, then looked down at his boots. "Go home, son. It's over."
Simon marched to the lean-to and yanked off the green saddle blanket that had been on Jouster's back all day.
He shook it out -- it was nearly as tall as he was -- and laid it on the ground beside the fire pit. He sprawled himself on it and gazed down into the flames for a few minutes, then he gripped the edge of the blanket and rolled himself up in it. "See you in the morning."
Simon closed his eyes, but he could feel Bogg staring at him, and heard Bogg chuckling. He smelled ashcake and salt pork as Bogg made dinner for himself, and it made his mouth water and his stomach hurt. He plugged his nose and breathed through his mouth, but he could still hear that ashcake sizzle on the coals, and his mind's eye showed him no mercy. He imagined apples, rye bread, potatoes, corn, cowpeas, yams, salt bacon, salt beef, salt fish, molasses and maple syrup, venison, rabbit, prawns...
#
Chapter 7
Simon slept, and dreamt of being terribly cold.
Simon slept, and dreamt of being chased.
Simon lay awake, aware that the night was indeed freezing. Through the black branches above him, the stars glimmered. He saw Arctos the Bear (a new constellation spoken of only in Mira; Algolans called it the Sickle), realized that direction was sept, and tried to fix in his mind the lee of the rocks, in the darkness around him. He saw the three stars of the belt of Diana the Hunter, and thought they could pass for Bogg's rope, with the middle star as the knot.
Simon slept, and dreamt of being home.
#
Bogg lay awake, wondering how it could be that trying to do the right thing could make a body feel so wrong. Bogg didn't try to cause suffering. He tried to save the boy's life. It was simple. Wasn't it?
Just the same, there were three times during the night that Bogg nearly roused himself to take the lad some food. And three times he stopped himself.
There was the slightest outside chance that sending the kid away was more akin to what Bogg wanted than what was right. Ornery old Bogg, no-manners Bogg, doing what needed to be done to keep himself alone because that's the way he liked it. Unfit to carry guts to a bear.
#
Simon lay awake, his nose and ears numb with cold. The night was dark and quiet. His eyes focused, and the stars reappeared. Diana the Hunter had moved. Simon dozed, and woke again. His arms and legs, wrapped in the horse blanket, were stiff and without feeling, and the numbness of the cold pressed on him. He closed his eyes, and began to lose track of whether he was awake or not.
He couldn't quite recall where he was. This didn't feel like his bed at home. Memories came to him, dreamlike, but not dreams.
He remembered a time last year, at the docks of Fort Sanctuary. It had been almost noon, and the sun had beaten down on him mercilessly. The sea had sparkled and lapped at the docks, and the cutting scent of the salt air had mixed with the pungent smell of the parchment under his nose.
The stack of paper he carried was too high, too heavy. He teetered under the load. It pulled at his fingertips until they were numb and clawlike, and was so tall that it pressed against his chin. It leaned against his shoulders, tipping him back, and he stepped a wobbly path down the muddy road without being able to see his feet.
Simon had to get the paper to his father's printing house. He was already late. He could have taken Main Street, it would have been faster, but dodging bullies had become instinctive for him, and Simon couldn't walk a direct and obvious course even if he tried. It was ridiculous of him. This time of day, Marshall Dunster and Yohann Gordon were in school.
But not Simon. Simon had learned to read around the time he learned to walk. His earliest memories were of his father (and, hazy and dim, his mother) reading stories to him. By the time he was old enough to attend maven Sigrid Minder's one-room school, his father had already taught him everything he needed to know to help full-time in the printing house. Simon had never gone to school, not even a day.
Over the paper, Simon saw sloops and pinnaces, sails furled, rocking on the water and pulling lazily at their moorings. All was quiet. It was lunchtime, and most of the longshoremen were probably eating haggis and shepherd's pie in the Mermaid or the Drake.
There was just one fellow in sight, sitting at the end of a dock and fishing, his felt hat tipped low over his eyes. The line lay slack in the water, and the fellow lazily turned at the sound of Simon's steps and tipped back the wide brim of his hat.
It was Marshall Dunster.
Simon's blood chilled and his fingers nearly gave out.
Marshall grinned a hungry grin. "Well, well. All I figured I'd get out of a day of playing hooky was a sardine or two. And who do I find?" He reeled in his line. "You're a real prize. Like a shiny new copper."
Simon wanted to drop his stack and run. He knew he was faster than Marshall in an open sprint. But to drop the paper in the dirty street... for Marshall to stomp and kick off the edge of the wharf... Simon couldn't. His father would miss a printing deadline and tan Simon's hide for it. And Simon would end up working late hours to pay for the paper.
Simon scooted backward, panicking, desperate for distance between he and Marshall. The paper suddenly felt twice as heavy. He was numb to his elbows and his neck was cramping from pinning the stack with his chin.
"Hey," Marshall called sweetly. "Where are you off to?" He stood at the dock's end, still holding the fishing rod in both hands.
Maybe all was not lost. Marshall would have to run the length of the dock to the street, then up the street, to catch Simon. Maybe Simon could slip between a couple of clapboard warehouses on the street's other side. Simon turned his back on Marshall and scooted that way.
Simon began to feel he would make it. He didn't hear the shoes-on-wood clatter of Marshall sprinting along the dock to catch him. Instead, he heard the whizz of the line cast from Marshall's fishing pole. Simon saw the weight, bob, and glistening hook flash by, and his stack of paper teetered.
As Simon recovered his balance, a slicing pain struck his ear.
"Gotcha!" called Marshall.
The jabbing in his ear got worse. Simon spun around. Marshall had hooked him! The line arced from his ear, across the street, over the water to Marshall's pole at the end of the dock. Marshall reeled him in.
Simon winced and tried to s
tand his ground. His ear stretched and he felt blood drip down his neck. No good -- he staggered closer to the water's edge. "Help!" he cried through clenched teeth.
Marshall laughed. "I like that. Keep it up. Yell a little more." He kept reeling, and the fishing line stayed taut. The weight and bob danced on the line and tugged viciously at Simon's ear. Simon barely kept his feet under him. He couldn't reach the place where Marshall's dock met the street -- Marshall was pulling him diagonally, toward the shining water between them.
Simon could see what would happen. Marshall would pull him off the edge of the wharf and into the sea -- paper, bloody ear, and all. His ear bled on his shirt. The pain raged in his head, as if the hook would pull through, or rip his ear off. Simon winced and scanned up and down the street, desperate for help or escape, as he was drawn step by step toward the water.
"Good heavens," came a familiar voice, crackling with indignation. "What's this?" Simon's father, Oliver Jones, suddenly appeared at Simon's side. With the little pen knife he usually used for cutting through parchment bindings and prying loose the frisket on the printing press, he snipped the fishing line. The remainder hung limp at Simon's side. Simon was free!
Marshall's face fell as the line flopped in the water. "Aw! What did you do that for, you old paper-pusher?"
Oliver glowered at Marshall over the spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and the veins on his high forehead pulsed with red rage. "Barbarian!" He pointed. "You're hardly a child any longer, Marshall Dunster. And what is unseemly for a child is often criminal for an adult. Keep up this sort of abuse, and you'll be clapped in irons soon enough!"
Marshall looked sour. "Drop dead, old man."
"Get thee hence!" roared Oliver. "I shall tell your father of this."
"Go ahead. He don't care."
Oliver strode toward him. "I'm sure he doesn't. That explains a great deal about your behavior. But let me assure you that while an uncaring father seems to you a asset, it is in fact the greatest of liabilities. Would he care if you fell down a well, or were kicked by a horse? What if you were shang-haied to Algolus? Numerous misfortunes come to mind, all easily arranged by someone suitably resourceful."
Marshall scowled deeply, and Simon could see the wheels in his mind struggling to turn.
"Away with you," said Simon's father. "If I find another mark on my son, I assure you, your stars will change. Away now!"
Marshall Dunster's head seemed to be too full for him to argue. He wandered off, frowning, the severed line from his pole dragging in the street behind him.
Somehow, the pain in Simon's ear dulled to a sharp pinching, and the stack felt a bit lighter. "Thank you, father."
Oliver stooped to Simon's ear. "We shall have to cut the loop from the hook and push it through." He shook his head. "How could you be so foolish? Lift your chin." He took the top half of Simon's stack. "This is vellum, you know. The most expensive there is. Think, child! Make two trips next time, if you must."
Simon refirmed his grip on the blessedly lighter stack in his arms and hung his head. "Yes, father."
"Hurry to the printing house, now, and we'll tend to that ear."
"Yes, father." Simon marched on, miserable and grateful all at once.
#
The memory of his father faded, and the pain faded with it. Memories of yesterday came back. Jouster. Uncle. Hidebehind. The lee of the rock. Simon stirred, breathing the cold air, feeling his hunger and the roughness of the horse blanket. Diana the Hunter had nearly set.
Simon slept, and now dreamt of trekking alone through woods so dark and deep that even Bogg had been left behind. Simon listened and kept his eyes on the ground, so he wouldn't lose the trail.
He must not lose the trail, he knew with the cool certainty that came to him in dreams. For the tracks he followed were not the tracks of the quarry.
#
Chapter 8
Bogg woke, and there was light enough to see the lean-to branches over his head. What a fine morning! He would check the deadfall, piss like a draft horse, fry up something and--
He remembered the pup, and his cheery mood plumb vanished. He threw off his black cloak and peered past the remaining horse blanket that hung from the cross branch above him.
The lad was gone.
The green horse blanket he'd wrapped himself in was still there, empty.
Godzooks! He'd wandered off and gotten himself killed already! Bogg hated being right. His body went on edge and his ears woke up, to tell whether the predator that et Simon was still on the premises.
Bogg heard something all right. Rustling in the bushes, some ways off. He tied his cloak on, gripped the handle of his sabertooth knife, and crawled out to look around.
Simon was alive and standing twenty yards away, throttling a branch on a big green bush. He noticed Bogg right off and smiled at him, holding up something small in his fingers.
A blackberry. Juice was running down the lad's chin.
Bogg hadn't noticed the bush yesterday. Neither had the pup, obviously, but here it was now, clear as daylight.
That was the key to why they'd missed it, too. Morning sun. The light was different, shadows all the other way.
Bogg grinned, and whistled a tone through his toothhole. He had to hand it to the pup--
Suddenly the pup crouched, eyebrows high, and held a purple finger to his purple lips. He'd seen something. He pointed at the three sticks and propped-up rock of the deadfall.
Bogg hushed.
A coneybuck picked its way through the camp. Its ears had caught Bogg's whistle, and they pivoted to him, tall and white. Its nose wiggled and its black eyes stared. Bogg calmly held his breath and tried to think of nothing, as he usually did in the presence of an animal that he wanted to forget about him.
The coneybuck decided Bogg was all right, and went back to sniffing its way to the deadfall. It was a fine big one, with tawny fur, six points, and oversized back legs that kicked its snowy bobtail in the air with each hop.
Simon was watching too, still as a post.
When it reached the samp stick, its long ears lay flat on its neck and it took a good sniff. It nibbled for a few seconds before the stick gave way, and when it did, the critter knew something was wrong. Its whole furry body tensed and those powerful back legs seemed to coil up like a spring. Then the rock hit it, and little bones crunched.
Bogg let out a cheer. He was there in a second, staking the critter through the exposed hindquarters with his fang dagger and rolling the rock off. The thing was stark dead.
Bogg picked it up by a twiglike antler -- nice weight to it -- and let out a whoop. "How about that! Flat as a flounder!"
Bogg could see Simon try to hold in his laugh. Bogg judged that, like most civilized folk, the pup didn't like to see or dwell on the suffering of nature's creatures. But Bogg knew that hunger trounced all that kind of thought. And sure enough, the pup started giggling. It was a high, fine sound, like a mockingbird.
Bogg had a grim thought. He was waving this coneybuck in front of Simon's face as if he'd be giving the boy some. His arm sagged, and the animal's hind feet touched the ground. He was heartlessly forgetful at times. He'd clean it and eat quickly, salt the remainder... and give it to the boy to take with him. Yes, that was just.
Simon came to face him, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, making a purple streak on the white cotton. "You look awfully grumpy, sir."
Bogg nodded. He picked up the three sticks of his deadfall. "I just don't mean to mock you with it."
Simon smiled. "Is that because you won't give me any?"
"That's right," Bogg grumbled. He had to be firm.
"Fine with me. I've been watching that coneybuck and munching berries for an hour at least. I couldn't eat another bite of anything."
"That so?"
"Yes, indeed. And here's another matter for you to consider." Simon pointed past Bog
g. Bogg turned.
Daisy and Jouster lazily wandered up the trail. They were still here! Bogg couldn't figure it -- they must be parched and fit to starve.
Bogg was startled out of his amazement by the queer sensation of the coneybuck springing to life in his hand. It jerked free--
-- and Simon ran off with it. He had grabbed it, the sticky-fingered fox! Bogg stood there flustering, listening to the boy holler as he ran, "I'm rich! I'm rich! Look Uncle, I'm rich! What do you think, Uncle? Uncle, Uncle, Uncle!"
Bogg tore after the pup.
Simon tucked the coneybuck under his arm and sprinted straight down the trail, the way they had come the day before. What in tarnation did the lad plan to do? Did he think he could get a good distance between he and Bogg, so he could start up a nice roasting fire and have breakfast before Bogg could catch him? It plumb made no sense -- didn't answer at all.
Bogg ran and roared at him. "Why you stinking puddle of piss, I'm going to beat you into bad health!" He realized that hollering slowed him up, so he concentrated on running. Sure enough, Bogg closed on the little beggar, and just when Bogg was ready to reach for him, Simon tossed the coneybuck up in a birch tree and scooted around Bogg.
Simon raced back toward the camp.
The coneybuck hung up on some branches over Bogg's head.
Bogg looked at the coneybuck, then at Simon, back to the coneybuck, to Daisy and Jouster, who were just a few feet away. Jouster whinnied at him, and never had Bogg felt so sure he was being laughed at.
By the time Bogg fetched the coneybuck and reached camp, Simon had eaten half the salt pork and now stood among the trees, ready to run if Bogg should give chase, grinning like a fool, chewing on a wedge of venison.
Bogg was quiet as he restoked the fire pit and bled the coneybuck into a pan. He eyed Simon meanly as he cleaned the carcass, split the skin with Dunster's steel and ripped it free. Simon kept his distance all that time. Once the meat was roasting on a stick, he called to Simon, "That trick won't work a second time."
New World: a Frontier Fantasy Novel Page 4
