by Blake, Bruce
The sky shimmered emerald.
It lasted for the space o’ a heartbeat or two, but no more. The shimmerin’ made Horace stop his breathin’ and, after it vanished, he doubted he’d seen it at all. Must’ve been a trick played on his tired eyes, a result o’ the sun and water and salt. He started his breath again and blinked to clear the mist from his eyes.
Blinked.
Horace’s heart skittered like an excited child, but he refused to trust what his peepers’d seen, so he blinked again. His eyes hurt as the lids dragged across their surface gratin’ salt o’er them. He blinked again and again and, when the hurtin’ didn’t stop, he raised a hand to his face and rubbed at them with a knuckle.
The unexpected action stopped him, the knuckle pressed against his eye. Horace flapped his other arm in the water, the movement propelling him forward. He tilted his head starboard, sucked seawater into his mouth and coughed it out in a splatter o’ salty spit. When he’d cleared the offendin’ brine from his throat, he opened his eyes and spied the beach, noted it were farther away now’n it’d been before.
Horace took his knuckle outta his eye and, with a great effort from his now-aching body, rolled himself onto his front and began swimmin’ for the shore.
As a sailor, Horace’d always been a competent swimmer—he took care makin’ sure he were strong enough to tread water a long time or swim a considerable distance, because you never knew when a slow-witted swabby might knock you o’erboard or a livin’ statue might set you driftin’ out to sea. Felt good to be swimmin’, but it were also the most difficult strokin’ he’d done in his life.
His arms and legs ached as though he’d spent all the time he’d been floatin’ in the ocean workin’ hard rather’n bobbin’ ‘bout in the manner o’ a dead thing. His eyes refused to see the way they should—the result o’ bein’ stuck open so long. His lungs seemed like they’d shrunk, his mouth were dry as sand, his head threatened to burst open.
But his weary arms and burnin’ legs carried him steadily, if slowly, toward the shore.
Ev’ry few strokes, he pulled his face outta the water and looked at where he were goin’, saw the land gettin’ closer, and his near-their-end limbs found a little more energy to carry on. If he made his goal o’ the sandy beach, it didn’t just mean his life’d go on once more when he thought it’d surely end, but he also might have a chance to find the little gray feller. Maybe he could rescue him.
For what could’ve been half the day, Horace forced his legs to keep kickin’, his arms to keep strokin’. Sometimes he suspected they didn’t do no more’n splash water about his head.
Stroke, stroke, stroke, raise his face. Stroke, stroke, stroke, raise his face.
After a while, he stopped lookin’. His progress were so slow, seein’ the shore became a deterrent to continuin’ rather’n a reason to go on. The kickin’ o’ his feet slowed. He twisted his body to throw an arm up o’er his head, his shoulder screamin’ with pain. The next stroke, his arm didn’t find enough energy to come outta the water and he knew that, after survivin’ the God o’ the Deep, a Small God fallin’ on him, and two towns what wasn’t wantin’ to let him go, he’d prob’bly drown a few boat-lengths from salvation.
He heaved his arm forward one more time. It splooshed into the ocean, pulled him forward, and his fingers brushed against grainy sand.
With an effort, Horace raised his head outta the sea to find the beach close enough he might’ve been able to spit on it had he the means to brew up a mouthful o’ saliva. Since he didn’t, he scrambled forward instead and collapsed with his cheek pressed in the sand.
***
The ol’ sailor raised his head and blinked. He weren’t sure how much’d gone, but time’d passed while he lay with his face on the beach and the surf gurglin’ ‘round his legs. It all seemed too familiar, like he’d been here before—mostly because he had, though the other time’d been somewhere else. Washin’ up on unknown beaches were becomin’ a habit for Horace Seaman; fine by him, seein’ as it were a better habit’n drownin’ or gettin’ ate by sea creatures or angry gods.
He peered along the sandy beach at the scatterin’ o’ rocks and driftwood littered across it like any other bit o’ shore. It didn’t appear no different than the last beach he’d washed up upon.
Maybe it were a dream. Maybe this be the same patch o’ shore.
The thought gave him both relief and disappointment together at once. If the bunch o’ sunrises since his last beachin’ had been a dream, it meant there weren’t no magical villages, no man made o’ clay, and chances’d be good he weren’t where he suspected he might be. Course, if he’d dreamed ev’rythin’, it meant the little gray feller weren’t real, neither.
He wanted Thorn to’ve been real.
Horace dragged his tongue o’er his lips then spit out the sand it’d collected off them. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and wiped more grit and pebbles away what stuck to his cheek where he’d been restin’ it on the beach. In the distance, he spied the bright ball o’ the sun sittin’ on the horizon as if it might roll off should someone give it a push. Above it, the sky flared orange and pink and red. The ol’ sailor’d seen enough sunrises and sunsets to know this were the end o’ the day he were watchin’, which meant night and the darkness was comin’ soon.
Despite the protestation o’ ev’ry muscle and joint he possessed, Horace clambered to his feet. Sand and seaweed clung to the front o’ his damp clothes, a briny ocean scent forcin’ its way up his nose but not turnin’ his stomach like it did floatin’ in the salty water for so long. He didn’t bother brushin’ it off as he dragged his gaze away from the sun creepin’ downward into the ocean.
His gaze swept o’er a wide swath o’ sand bordered by stacks o’ driftwood and wayward branches what looked like someone’d placed them just so on purpose rather’n bein’ washed up by the tides. Beyond that, tangled brush led to tall trees with broad trunks towerin’ skyward, everythin’ underneath them already hidden in gatherin’ shadow.
Horace weren’t no lover o’ a dark forest at night, but what lay behind him from whence he came demanded his attention. He completed his hesitant turn and what he saw choked his breath off in his throat.
The emerald wall shimmered and glowed, undulatin’ and flowin’ as though a reflection o’ the sea. Only the wall weren’t just in the sea, but continued on across the beach and into the forest, gleamin’ and waverin’ all the way.
The ol’ sailor opened his mouth in the manner o’ a man what had somethin’ to say, but he didn’t have no intention o’ speakin’. If he’d tried, he didn’t suspect nothin’ more’n a squeak’d find its way out, and he had no one to talk to, besides. No, the openin’ o’ his gob expressed the awe grippin’ him at what he were seein’.
And the fear at knowin’ what it meant.
Horace stumbled forward on wobbly legs, not particul’rly wantin’ to get closer to the thing Thorn’d called the veil, but feelin’ like the settin’ sun pushed him into doin’ it. His feet squelched inside the soggy boots what were too tight on his toes as he dragged them through the sand. No more’n twenty paces separated him from the green partition keepin’ one world out or the other one in, but it seemed to Horace he had to move his legs a lot more times’n that to get close enough to touch it.
He stopped, exhausted arms hangin’ at his sides, breath what’d started again wheezin’ in and outta his chest. His teeth grated, his lips pressed together tight, and he tilted his head back, starin’ up the side o’ the emerald curtain shimmerin’ high into the sky.
His brain told his hand to touch the thing, but his arm refused to do what were needed to obey. He reasoned that, since he’d passed through it on his floatin’ journey here, he’d be able to do the same goin’ the other way despite Thorn’s story o’ needin’ the giant raven to carry him o’er the top.
Its magic only works to keep folk like the little gray feller in.
He lowered his gaze to stare straight ahead, his own
mind not believin’ what it’d come up with. Beyond the translucent green wall, Horace made out the shoreline on the other side, the darkness o’ night creepin’ across the sand. He shivered and finally convinced his arm to move.
Shakin’ and tremblin’, his hand crossed the space between him and the shimmery thing, pausin’ the width o’ a hair away. He licked his lips again, this time findin’ only dry skin and no grit, then moved forward the last bit.
Bright green lightnin’ shot out from where Horace touched, runnin’ across the surface o’ the wall.
“Ahhh!”
He shrieked and fell back, his buttocks strikin’ the beach with a thump what jarred his molars. The emerald surface smoothed, the jagged lines disappearin’ as quick as they’d come. Horace stared for the space o’ three regular heart beats—about ten o’ his currently accelerated ones—before raisin’ his hand to stare at his fingertips.
They didn’t look no different, nor did they hurt or tingle or sting. The ol’ sailor gulped a mouthful o’ fearful spit and climbed up offa his ass. He rubbed his palms on the front o’ his wet shirt, knockin’ sand and seaweed off without noticin’ as he stared at the shimmerin’ veil.
He reached out again, hand stretched open and palm flat, sand still clingin’ to his skin. The first time he touched it, it’d startled him, but caused him no pain. This time, he didn’t hesitate before layin’ his hand flat against it.
The bright green lightnin’ flickered, shootin’ out from his hand in a rough circle, but Horace didn’t pull away. Instead, he pushed.
He might as well’ve been pushin’ against a cliff made outta stone.
It were real: Thorn, the clay man, the veil. Ev’rythin’.
The ol’ sailor let his hand fall and the green wall returned to its gentle shimmerin’. With a shudder what shook along his spine and through his shoulders, Horace shuffled his feet, spinnin’ himself about to peer back toward sunset.
The sun’d sunk halfway below the distant horizon, the sky darkenin’ to the red o’ fresh blood. Had he been aship, Horace’d’ve been glad to see the sky bleedin’ this way—it signified good weather and a calm sea for the night. But his too-small boots wasn’t standin’ on the deck o’ the Devil o’ the Deep or any o’ the others of the king’s ships and merchants he’d spent so many seasons upon.
Instead, he stood on a sandy beach behind what a Small God’d called the veil, on the shores o’ the Green. To port lay a land known to man only through legend and stories told at taverns along the coast, and none o’ them he’d ever heard involved happy endin’s or tales o’ riches. Horror, creatures, and death were the stuff o’ them stories.
Horace dragged his gaze away from the settin’ sun and a breeze rustled through the leaves o’ the brush leadin’ to the forest. He squinted, starin’ hard to see what might be hidden within its foliage. He spied nothin’ but shapes what might’ve been stumps and bushes, or beasts he couldn’t even imagine.
Skin goin’ clammy, Horace stumbled back a step. His shoulders touched the shimmerin’ veil and lightnin’ shot along its surface, castin’ green light on the beach what illuminated driftwood and rocks in a witchy glow.
The ol’ sailor’s legs gave up on him and he sank to the sand, his back draggin’ along the emerald wall. He pulled his knees up tight against his chest and buried his face in his crossed arms, prayin’ to any god what might listen—small or otherwise—that he’d make it through the night without discoverin’ if the stories told at taverns along the coast was true.
V Stirk—The Horse Doctor
Stirk found himself halfway home before realizing what an ill-informed idea it might be returning to the place they’d found him. Could be he’d discover more of the king’s men awaiting him, plus they’d taken the door off, anyway. Even he realized a place without a door provided a poor hideout.
He stopped shy of the border between Sunset and Riverside to consider his options, of which he saw few. Bieta knew people—too many people, Stirk would have said—but not him. He’d recognize most of them because he was usually around when his mother brought her work home. She’d send him away most times, but he often returned before they finished. Stirk hadn’t learned to figure out the time by looking at either sun or hourglass, so he frequently showed up earlier than he intended or she wanted. The men never acted happy at his arrival, so he thought they’d be less than good choices to enlist for help in his quest for revenge. Beyond them, only Flenge the tanner came to mind. He doubted he’d want to offer aid, what with the broken door and all.
The big man raised his left arm, intending to wipe sweat from his head with his hand, forgetting a stump held the spot where it used to be. The smooth skin left by the healer brushed against his forehead and Stirk jerked away from the touch. He stared at it a second, anger that Enin even suggested such a thing brewing in his chest.
“Enin,” he said and nodded to himself. “The horse doctor owes me for this. He’ll help.”
One corner of Stirk’s mouth tilted up in a smile as he held the stump in front of his face a moment longer. Setting out, he amended his path to carry him straight toward the river. There, he’d cross the bridge to the other side, then find his way to the horse doctor’s.
If Enin wasn’t willing to help of his own accord, Stirk decided he’d make him.
***
Stirk waited at the end of the block, biding his time and watching the horse doctor’s door from around the corner. Nobody came or went and he wondered whether or not he’d find Enin within.
As he leaned against the wall out of view of the door, he peered toward the sky. The sun had dipped low enough to touch the roofs of the surrounding structures; even without the ability to estimate time, Stirk knew night wasn’t far off.
And with night came the darkness.
He shivered at the prospect. Not knowing what might hide unseen in the dark always caused unease in the big man—one thing Bieta had made better for him. Most times, she’d made sure he didn’t stay alone at night. But she wouldn’t be around for him tonight, or any other night.
A nervous breath rattled into his lungs. He held it for a few heartbeats, attempting to calm himself but finding no success, then let it out with a huff.
I don’t need to be alone in the night.
Stirk peeked around the corner again; the horse doctor’s door remained closed. Despite the lack of movement or visitors, a surety crept into him he’d find Enin inside, probably hiding from Stirk himself. The thought angered him, pushed him to action. He narrowed his eyes, balled his fist, and set out toward the door.
Broken cobblestones grated beneath the sole of his boot. His toe struck a piece and sent it skittering across the street and into the wall of the building beside the horse doctor’s. He ignored it, intent on his destination. When he reached it, Stirk hesitated, hand raised in preparation to grasp the handle and fling the door open. As he stood there, it occurred to him it could’ve been Enin who sent the one-armed man and his soldiers to find him and Bieta. Maybe as much responsibility for her death rested with him as with the fellow who dropped the axe on her neck.
The muscles in Stirk’s jaw flexed and released, flexed and released as he fought the anger building inside him. As much as he might want to make him pay like the others, he needed the horse doctor’s help.
Punishing him would have to wait.
Stirk sucked a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the scent of hay and manure wafting from the doctor’s place. He wondered briefly how someone lived in such conditions, forgetting the stink of the tanner’s back room. He let out the chest full of air and laid his hand on the door handle, gave it a push.
It didn’t budge.
He’s barred it because he knew I’d come for him.
He tried it again with the same result, so he released the handle. His brow furrowed as he considered what to do next. Wait for Enin to emerge? Leave and let him be?
No, his patience had worn thin. He needed both the horse doctor’s help and the s
atisfaction of seeing him beg for forgiveness when the time came to punish him for his part in Bieta’s death. Leaving wasn’t a choice.
But what, then?
He spun on his heel, intending to return to his hiding place around the corner, when an idea came to him. He returned to the door and rapped his knuckles sharply on the wood. A moment passed with no sounds from within. Rather than assume it meant the horse doctor wasn’t home, he knocked again.
“Who’s there?”
The door’s thickness muffled the words, but Stirk recognized Enin’s voice. He coughed into his fist and raised the tone of his own voice when he replied in an attempt to disguise it.
“I need your help, horse doctor. M’horse is…sick.”
A pause. Worried goosebumps crawled along Stirk’s arm. Did Enin recognize him?
“I’m closed. Come back on the morrow.”
“But poor…” he almost said Bieta, but caught himself. “Poor Nellie is so sick. I don’t think she’ll make it through the night.”
Another pause, then Stirk thought he heard the faint sound of a sigh through the door.
“Do you have the horse with you?”
Stirk hesitated. Would someone bring their sick horse to the horse doctor or expect the horse doctor to go to the sick horse? If he answered wrong, he worried it might expose his ruse.
“She’s here.”
He pressed his lips together, waiting to see if he’d chosen the correct response. A few heartbeats passed and he considered knocking again, perhaps even changing his answer, but the sound of wood rubbing against wood stopped him. Hinges creaked, the door opened a crack, and Enin’s face appeared in the space.
For an instant, seeing the horse doctor froze Stirk. Imagining him part of the machinations leading to his mother’s death had transformed the man into a monster in his mind, yet here he stood, gaunt-faced and sallow-cheeked as ever. In the same instant, Enin recognized Stirk—someone he obviously did not expect to see ever again. His eyes went wide with surprise, then the door swung shut.
