The Edge of Everything

by Jeff Giles

  The beatings soon grew fiercer. X forced his mind to drift. He remembered building the Lowlands out of snow and toys. He pictured Zoe, Jonah, and their mother crowded around him in a yard fringed by waving pines.

  He was jolted out of his reverie by a voice he recognized.

  “Dude, wake up! This shit is nuts.”

  It was Banger, peering worriedly into his face. Ripper stood next to him. She was swaying in her filthy golden dress as if she were at a high-society ball in London.

  “Why should I wake?” said X. “I wake only to a nightmare. Nothing can stop these men from doing what they will.”

  “Shut up,” said Banger. “That’s just negative thinking.”

  “Shut up, indeed,” said Ripper. She stopped midtwirl and fixed X with her eyes. “You are dousing what promises to be a quite thrilling rescue!”

  X had always suspected that Ripper’s mania was largely a pretense. It was as if she still expected to be put on trial for murdering her servant with that boiling teakettle, and planned to use madness as a defense. Despite the flights of lunacy, X could see in Ripper the steely woman who had trained him. A dozen bounty hunters stood close by her now, their faces all wounded like X’s from the lords’ fingers. Ripper had mentored them all—and they had come when she called.

  “I am grateful for your friendship,” said X. “But if you free me, you merely postpone my punishment till another day—and endanger yourselves. I will endure this now, and be done with it.”

  “Don’t be so bloody noble,” Ripper said. “You’ll bore the arse off me.” She paused, her brain spinning in search of a plan. “If you won’t let us free you,” she said, at length, “then we can at least place our bodies between you and the threat. You are one of us, and we will not stand by while they make pulp of you.”

  Ripper called to the bounty hunters.

  “Form a ring, my daisies!” she shouted. “And do try to look at least a little fierce?”

  The hunters made a human chain around the tree. Banger and Ripper paced in front of them, the first line of defense. X was surprised—and moved—that so many of his fellow bounty hunters had come to his aid.

  Prisoners spilled forward in greater numbers. The chance to scrap with a bounty hunter or two was too tempting to pass up, and they all wanted to try their luck at getting through to X. The human chain may have been intended as a protective measure, but it took on the air of a challenge.

  Banger alone trounced half a dozen men, but soon the prisoners attacked him two at a time. Ripper came to his aid repeatedly, jumping on their backs, gouging at their eyes, and trying to tear their fingers off with her teeth. (She actually succeeded once, tossing the finger at her dazed victim’s chest and exclaiming, “Oh, don’t weep, you infant! Your nanny can sew it back on!”) Soon, the prisoners grew bored of losing. They attacked the tree in one vicious mass, surging past Banger and Ripper and assaulting the chain of bounty hunters with rocks and branches.

  X strained at the rope, but it only cut deeper into his skin. A handful of men were raining down blows on him now: A bearded giant crashed a rock against the side of his skull. A tiny pink worm of a man jabbed him with a stick over and over in the very place that Stan had stabbed him with the scissors. X was losing consciousness when he heard a voice so furious and commanding that it could only belong to a lord.

  “Enough! The next man to deliver a blow will receive a hundred back from me!”

  It was Regent, the princely lord. A hush fell over the plain. Exhausted, Banger put his hands on his knees and tried to steady his breathing. Ripper wiped blood from her mouth, looking irked that she could not detach any more fingers.

  As Regent approached X, the bounty hunters disbanded and sank back into the crowd. The lord wore his royal blue robe, but no jewels or bangles. He had stolen nothing from his charges. He alone of all the lords seemed to remember that he had once been a prisoner himself.

  Regent shouted for the guards to drive the mob back up to the cells. The prisoners complained loudly, but knew better than to resist. Only Banger and Ripper remained. They would not abandon their friend, and the guards let them be.

  Regent tore away the rope that bound X and, when his bruised body fell forward, caught him and eased him to the ground.

  “I am sorry for the evil done to you,” he said. “Dervish is a villain for engineering this torture, and he will shortly have a conversation with my fists.”

  “You have my thanks,” said X. “Yet I broke the laws of this place, and was deserving of punishment.”

  The lord shook his head.

  “You were not deserving of this,” he said. “Never of this.”

  From behind them there came a wordless holler.

  It could only be Dervish.

  Banger saw him and groaned: “This guy sucks.”

  Ripper turned to Regent.

  “Say the word,” she said, “and I will relieve this crazed lord of his fingers.”

  “Do nothing,” he told her. “I shall settle the matter myself.”

  Immediately upon his arrival, Dervish began berating Regent.

  “How DARE you set my prisoner free?” he said. “How dare you even call yourself a lord? Do you really imagine yourself my equal, you filthy creature?”

  Without a word, Regent struck Dervish across the mouth, sending him flying onto the rocky plain.

  The prisoners, still rumbling up the staircases, stopped to watch the confrontation. Soon, a dozen other lords streamed in from the tunnels, moving so quickly they seemed to fly.

  “I told your little friend that your bones would soon swim in his soup,” said Dervish. “And now I shall drink it down myself.”

  Ripper laughed at the threat.

  “Please,” she said to Regent. “His fingers? May I?”

  “Your proposal has its merits,” he said. “But no.”

  The other lords poured in around X now, men and women in a riot of wildly colored garments and gems. Up on the steps, the prisoners were stunned to see so many lords roosting in one place, like brightly feathered birds. Even the guards were mesmerized.

  The cavern grew silent as the lords took in the strange scene before them. Regent stood in front of X, protectively. When Dervish tried to stand, he nudged him back to the ground with the heel of his boot, causing the prisoners and guards—and even some of the lords—to titter. X was relieved to find that his champion had such standing, yet feared that humiliation would only strengthen Dervish’s resolve. He wanted no enemies here, no celebrity—no scrutiny of any kind that might endanger his return to the Overworld and to Zoe.

  The lords broke into debate about what was to be done. They murmured in low voices so the prisoners could not hear.

  Dervish was outraged at the delay. He pointed at Regent and shouted, “Strike down this rough beast!”

  The lords ignored him.

  “Why do you tarry, fools?” he screamed. “I will have satisfaction!”

  Regent cleared his throat, and addressed the lords, not caring if the prisoners on the steps listened.

  “This man has been most horribly abused,” he said, motioning toward X. “Did he violate our laws? He did. Did his actions cry out for punishment? They did. But he did not deserve the horrors that this hateful forgery of a man”—now he was pointing at Dervish—“devised for him. I would defend any soul against such abuses, and this man is not just any soul.”

  X had no idea what Regent meant by that last statement, and was shocked to hear other lords murmur their assent.

  Dervish finally stood. He screwed up his face, as if he had a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “What could you possibly mean by such nonsense?” he said. “If X here—you do realize, by the way, that he has given himself a name, which is an outrage all its own—if this troglodyte before me is better than the basest of souls, I should like to hear why.”

  “You know very well why,” said Regent. “Do not pretend to be even more slow-witted than you are. Your stupidity is al
ready a towering achievement.”

  “Well, if I know why he’s so special and you know why he’s so special,” Dervish goaded him, “then why not simply speak it aloud?”

  “Because, as you are certainly aware, the law of the Lowlands forbids it,” Regent said coolly. “Yet you seem quite blustery today. Perhaps you would like to educate everyone yourself.”

  “You think I am too frightened?” said Dervish. He gestured at the lords, who were drawing closer and flashing him looks of warning. “You think I am scared of them? They are weak. They cannot so much as scratch their asses unless it is voted upon and approved on high!”

  X could not hold his silence.

  “What can be so shocking about me that no one dares speak of it?” he said.

  Dervish looked ready to answer. The lords threatened him with their eyes.

  “This disgrace you call Regent believes you are special,” Dervish said, “because he believes your mother was special.”

  At this, the lords swarmed forward and began dragging Dervish away. He struggled and kicked, outraged that they dared to touch him.

  “Who was my mother?” cried X, to anyone who would answer.

  He looked at Regent.

  “Who was my mother?” he said. “Please.”

  Regent looked at him regretfully, but did not speak.

  Dervish made himself heard a final time.

  “She was nothing and no one, just as your father was,” he screamed. “Your father was less than dirt. Your mother was a traitor—and a whore.”

  Then his voice was muffled and lost.

  X needed to know more. His chest was heaving. He found himself near tears.

  Regent must have pitied him, for he took his arm and began walking him slowly toward the great stone steps.

  “Does he speak the truth about my parents?” X asked him.

  “That desiccated mouse has no idea who your father was,” Regent said quietly. “I can assure you, however, that your mother was no whore. She is now a prisoner in a secret corner of this place—but, once, she was a true friend to me. Dervish is correct when he says that she is the reason I believe there is hope for you yet.”

  He paused, and all the world seemed to pause with him.

  “Your mother was a lord.”

  eleven

  X woke with his head on Ripper’s lap, as she tended to his wounds. He was shocked to find her in his cell, with no guards in attendance. He’d never known two prisoners to be left together for even an instant. Regent must have made it possible.

  Ripper sat with her legs folded under her, the ruined golden gown spilling everywhere. Beside her, there was a stone bowl filled with healing water. She dabbed at X’s face with a cloth, humming a dreamy tune as she worked. A crude metal lantern threw her silhouette against the wall.

  Something about the shadow and the song awakened a memory in X.

  “You have ministered to me before,” he said. “When I was a child. You sang that very song.”

  Ripper submerged the cloth, then twisted it over the bowl.

  X winced at the sight of her hands: They were all bone and knuckle. What fingernails she had were ingrown and crusted with blood. Still, there was a gentleness to her, a glow, that he hadn’t witnessed since he was small.

  “It is one of the few tunes I remember,” she said. “And do not inquire after the words, for they have gone poof out of my brain. Something insufferable about a sparrow, no doubt.”

  She pressed the cloth to X’s brow.

  “They never told you my mother was a lord?” he asked her. “Truly?”

  “Never, I swear it,” said Ripper. “I knew there was something special about you, and I told you as much. You were a finer and fiercer bounty hunter than I by the time you were seventeen—and, as you know, I am a veritable legend.”

  Once she’d cleaned X’s wounds, Ripper began to bandage the more severe ones, beginning with the gash on his leg. X did not have the strength to lift his head and survey the damage. Still, he knew it must be profound, because his friend frowned at the sight of it.

  “This nastiness on your leg concerns me,” she said. “It is a jagged valley of tissue and blood. Does it burn?”

  “Yes,” said X. “As if with white flames. And please do not describe it again.”

  “My apologies,” said Ripper. “I fear it may be infected, though I am not a doctor, merely a murderess.”

  X ground his teeth to distract himself from the discomfort, and looked up at Ripper. Her skin had hardly suffered from centuries in the Lowlands, and she was still beautiful by any measure. She had strong, clean features, a sturdy, dimpled chin, and ageless blue eyes. Because it had been decades since she had hunted a soul, even the bruises beneath her eyes had faded. Today, her dark hair was swept up in a knot atop her head, a single silver lock weaving through it like tinsel.

  “Do you miss being a mother?” X asked her, after a time.

  Conversation was a welcome relief, and he saw that he would have to feed it, as one feeds a fire.

  Ripper nodded.

  “I was a good one,” she said. “Alfie and Belinda were always rosy and plump. Unfortunately, one’s children grow distant after they’ve seen one bash a servant’s skull with a teakettle.”

  X asked if she’d ever looked in on them—peeked in their windows, or stood across the road in disguise—when she had been out collecting souls.

  Ripper shook her head wearily.

  “I could not see my children without embracing them,” she said. “I could not have survived it.” For a moment, she was lost in thought. “A hundred years after I was brought here, another bounty hunter discovered for me what had become of my family. My husband took a new bride—an American, of all things—and they sailed for New England, like those ghastly pilgrims. When Alfie was eleven—”

  Ripper stopped for a moment, deciding whether to continue.

  “When Alfie was eleven,” she said, “he perished in a fire in a stable. He was trapped under a post or a beam or the like. Belinda tried to push it off his chest, but she was only nine and had not the strength for it. She never recovered from the grief, I was told. She was deposited in some asylum, because my husband’s new wife could not countenance her wailing.”

  “Your husband,” said X. “Did you love him?”

  The question seemed to break Ripper’s cloudy mood.

  “Good god, no,” she said. “When he refrained from talking—and from putting his sweaty hands on me—he was an amiable enough companion. Yet I suppose a tall plant could have served the same purpose.”

  X closed his eyes. He listened as she tore a length of bandage.

  “I believe—” he began, but stopped when he felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

  “Yes?” said Ripper. “What is it that you believe?”

  “I believe that I … I believe that I may be in love,” he said.

  If Ripper had laughed, or smirked, or even paused to let his words ring, he would have clamped his mouth shut.

  She did neither.

  “Yes, I thought it must be something like that,” she said. “Else you wouldn’t have broken so many of the laws I taught you. I half-expected the lords to punish me for your transgressions, you know. If they did not think me irretrievably mad, they might well have.”

  “Even I have thought you mad,” said X.

  “Yes, well, I nearly was for a time,” Ripper said. “After I learned of that fire in the stable, I mean. And in that interval I learned that the appearance of madness has its uses.”

  She stood and, with a dramatic flourish, tossed the contents of the bowl into the corridor. The water splashed the prisoners down below, and there was a chorus of profanity, which caused Ripper to titter.

  She sat beside X once more.

  “Tell me about this girl you love,” she said. “Quickly now—before the guard comes to eject me.”

  “Had you told me such a person existed,” he said, “I would have called you a liar.”


  “Is that so?” said Ripper, arching an eyebrow. “Without pausing to think, tell me three things you especially love about this astounding creature.”

  X thought for a moment.

  “Without pausing to think,” said Ripper. “I should have thought the rules of this game were plain enough.”

  “Her strength,” X began. “But three is too few—I cannot do her justice.”

  “Oh, do stop your whinging,” said Ripper.

  “Very well,” said X. “Her strength. Her blurting. Her face.”

  “Her blurting?”

  “I cannot describe it.”

  “Please don’t,” said Ripper. “Yes, well, all that does indeed sound like love—at least as it was described to me once upon a time. As I have said, love was not a sea I myself ever swam in.”

  A guard loped down the corridor now, rattling his club against the bars. Ripper readied her things to leave, and X rose up on his elbows to gaze around the cell.

  The purple shirt with the wild white stitching had been returned to him. It lay folded on the ground by the door. He was shocked to see it again.

  “A guard returned it while you slept,” said Ripper. “The fact that your mother was a lord is now a well-traveled secret.”

  X lowered himself to the ground again. The footsteps outside grew louder. He knew, from the scrape of a dragging foot, that it was the Russian.

  “What do you think the lords will do with me?” said X.

  “There will be a trial of some sort, I would think,” said Ripper. “Dervish will insist that you be shredded by lions, or something equally theatrical. Still, you are an innocent soul—and the son of a lord. That makes you a special case. In truth, I wonder if the lords even have the authority to punish the likes of you. As you know, there is a Higher Power that rules this place, and the lords quake before Him—or Her, as I like to imagine it.”

  The guard drew close. Ripper spoke quickly.

  “At the trial, you will be allowed to speak but once,” she said. “Apologize for your actions in words as honeyed as you can manage. Perhaps they will let you remain a bounty hunter—and, eventually, turn their back on you long enough for you to visit your blurting girl. You are aging, unlike the rest of us. I should hate to see you rot in this cell until there is no skin left to make a bag for your bones.”