by J. Thorn
Seren could tell that Sorcha didn’t share her curiosity; she seemed uneasy. The wolf had been lowering her head as they passed each building or junction, sniffing the ground and jumping each time the voice spoke from the devices attached to the buildings.
That was a puzzling one, Seren thought. The boxes were everywhere. They were on every street corner, it seemed, and sometimes halfway down a street if it was particularly long. They were high up on the roof, or low down, or attached to one of the ancient metal poles that lined the street. Seren had seen the tall metal poles before, though there were few left standing. She marveled at the explanation Logan had given her once, long ago.
“They say the things used to light up at night,” he had said. “Bright as anything, and bright enough that you could see the whole road. I seen pictures of it in one of them magazines too, so I reckon it was true.”
Seren wondered if Logan was still alive. Then it occurred to her why she wasn’t scared of the voice. It sounded just like Logan. Not in the way it spoke, or even the tone. No, this was something deeper. It was the thoughtfulness behind the voice, like every word was carefully chosen and meant to express exactly what was said.
She and Sorcha had travelled a winding path through the ruins, following the voice, passing at least thirty of the boxes already. And now she stood, opposite the building the voice had described, in the middle of the road. She looked left and then right, and then walked until she stood in front of a particularly large building.
Double doors faced the crossing, and the windows were still intact, as were the curtains behind them—heavy drapes colored a dark red that reminded her of blood, the hem lined with bright, shiny gold patterns. It was a strange building, she thought. Many of the others had signs above them, but this one had a massive, stained, white billboard displaying the words MATINEE SHOW 3PM in large, black lettering. The main doors were also still intact—huge, sturdy wooden things with ornate carvings depicting something she couldn’t comprehend, that looked, in some way, like the wall devices the voice spoke through, except larger.
She stopped at the front of the building and reached out, carefully pushing the left side of the double doors a little. The door swung open slowly, seeming weightless, to reveal a large room fitted with rotten water-stained blue carpet and dark mahogany walls. Dust floated through the air, as though recently disturbed but gradually returning to its slumber.
Seren stepped into the interior room, ignoring a soft whine from Sorcha.
This is the building, she thought. The voice had guided her to this place.
Directly across the room from the entrance was a surprisingly well-preserved large wooden counter. It stretched thirty feet from one end to the other, it’s surface cracked but unbroken, though it was caked with the grime of centuries. Behind the counter, broken things stood on shelves that had also been mostly undisturbed, but the shelves themselves hadn’t bore the weight. Some sections had collapsed completely, and now lay on the floor among other debris, but some still hung from the back wall. One section that was still intact held up a strange cylindrical object that sat atop a box that had several levers sticking out of the front. Seren couldn’t make out what was inside the plastic cylinder, but whatever it had been, it had rotted and dried up a long time ago.
She turned to Sorcha, who was still standing near the entrance, not quite committing herself to entering the building. The wolf glanced backward at the street and then peered into the gloom of the interior.
“What you think?” Seren asked.
Sorcha huffed in reply and moved away from the doorway, taking a few steps into the building, sniffing the ground as she went. Seren sniffed the air, more out of instinct than any expectation that she would smell whatever Sorcha could detect.
Beyond the open area inside the entrance, past the counter, was the foot of a set of stairs that were so wide that Seren thought six people could walk up them in a line. Why they needed to be that big she didn’t know, and she frowned. The place seemed grand just for the sake of it, the interior decoration overdone.
“We should get out of here,” Seren said. “This was stupid.” She shook her head and started toward the entrance. “What was I thinking, really? Anyone could be in here.”
Sorcha perked up at this and turned to follow.
“Let’s get the hell away—”
“You are not in danger,” called a voice from the top of the stairs.
Seren spun around to face the voice, one hand snatching her bow from her shoulder and the other pulling an arrow from the quiver at her waist. Two seconds was all it took for the arrow to be notched and pulled back, fully drawn and aiming into the darkness at the top of the stairs.
“I mean it,” said the voice. “You have no need to worry here. You’re not in danger.”
Seren recognized the voice, though it sounded a little different. It had been given a metallic edge to it when speaking from the loudspeakers out in the city, but she was sure it was the same man.
Almost as if his moment had been timed, the man stepped out from the shadows. As Seren had suspected, he was not a young man. He was old—maybe even as old as Logan or older. He looked frail and his skin had a pale tone to it.
“We wanted to meet you. We get so few visitors here, and those that do come here tend to pass through without stopping for long. We ignore most. Especially if they look like trouble, which is most of the time.”
Seren glanced at the open door behind her, and was about to take another step in that direction, but she paused. The old man appeared unarmed. She could handle him if needed, and he certainly couldn’t chase her if she decided to run. Both she and Sorcha were fast on their feet. He wouldn’t be able to keep up with them.
And then there was Sorcha, a wolf. No. The old man was no threat.
“Then why me?” she asked. “Why contact me, if you ignore most people?”
The old man chuckled at this. “Well, for starters, you are the only young person we have seen a while, and I’ve never seen anyone capable of befriending a wolf. Even one so young.”
Seren glanced at Sorcha, who tilted her head to one side, almost as though she understood the conversation.
“Why would that be of interest to you? She isn’t for trade.”
The man at the top of the stairs laughed louder at this. “Oh no, no. We have no intentions of trying to buy your wolf from you, my dear. Gods, whatever would we do with it, if we had it? It would be chaos.” He took a step forward and leaned on the banister rail that lined the stairs. “No, my dear, we found the idea of a human able to befriend one most intriguing. Also, we are all old—well, nearly all of us. It is refreshing and says something of your nature. If an animal naturally wild can trust you, and be taught to obey and to interact, then surely we can trust you, too. They are such beautiful creatures, don’t you think? Wild as nature itself. They always were, even in the old days. To become friends with one is quite remarkable.”
“She’s not a pet,” said Seren.
“No, I believe she probably isn’t,” said the man with a smile. “That is maybe why it’s fascinating. She’s become your friend.”
The man took a few steps forward until he was at the top of the stairs. “We watched you both from a distance as you travelled around our city, and it is obvious that you travel together as equals. Though, I would put money on it that she would obey your command if you were to issue one?”
Seren frowned again and looked back at Sorcha, realizing that the man did have a point. Yes, Sorcha constantly reacted to her words.
“I suppose. But not like an attack dog.”
“No? Are you sure? If you commanded her to attack me now, would she not?”
Seren knew the man was right. “Yes, I guess she would. Don’t worry, I won’t set her on you.”
Sorcha sniffed.
“Well, that’s a relief. Come, let me show you something of the old world.” He indicated that she should join him. “This place is fascinating, and you will find f
ew places in this world today that have left so many ghosts of the past left behind.”
Chapter 44
Sasha stood by as Keana tied and wrapped their belongings. Several times, she had wanted to jump in and correct the girl and show her the right way to do it. But Sasha knew her daughter would never learn if she didn’t make her own mistakes. The basket of grain would tumble and spill once they were back on the road. Sasha was sure of it. And they’d be hungry for days because of Keana’s poor packing. Learning from natural consequences was the only education left in this world.
“You have that bundled up properly?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Sasha bit her lip and nodded. Keana stacked several bags, which were sure to topple as soon as they hit the old, rutted pavement, on the cart.
“I’m not crazy about you crossing the bridge.”
“We all have to. The whole clan. What do you mean?”
She looked into Keana’s eyes; her husband’s strength reflected back. “It’s dangerous. There hasn’t been enough time to make sure it’s secure for an entire clan to cross, let alone several.”
“I don’t understand,” Keana said, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. “We can’t stay on this side of the breach. We can’t not cross the bridge.”
Sasha paused, trying to decide how to bring up the old woman. “Who is walking with you and our cart?”
“Leta.”
“You keep your eye on that old hag.”
“Mother, please.” Keana rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not a little girl, anymore. I can handle myself.”
“That’s not what worries me.”
You’re lying to her. That is exactly what worries you.
“She’s a thief. And proud of it. People don’t change. Especially people that old.”
“She scavenges.”
“She steals.”
Sasha watched Keana blow a puff of air over her bottom lip to push a lock of hair from her face. The girl took a step back and shook her head. “Anything else?”
“No. Nothing else. Please be careful, and make sure you let Solomon know where you are once you get to the other side. I have some other things to attend to here. I will not cross the bridge with you and the old woman.”
“Leta.”
Sasha leaned forward and gave Keana a kiss on the forehead. The girl wrapped her arms around her mother and squeezed her quickly before stepping back again. Sasha decided it was best to let the girl go. She would speak to Jonah about Leta later. She could still see the look of pure delight on the old hag’s face when she had carved up the Cygoa.
***
“The wheels.”
Leta looked down at the cart, to the bridge, and back to Keana.
“It’s a cart, dear. What would you expect to be on the bottom?”
“They’ll get stuck. The bridge isn’t one from the old world. They had to make it. The wheels of the cart will get stuck in the space between the logs. It’s not going to work.”
The girl was right. None of the men, not even Jonah, had thought much about the movement of an entire clan across the bridge. Getting men across on their feet was one thing, but wheeling a cart loaded with goods or metal plates was something else entirely.
“So, what do we do, smarty-pants? How do we wheel the carts across?”
Leta watched as Keana stared at the lashed together logs that spanned the breach. The girl walked around the cart and mumbled, as if having a conversation with someone else inside of her head.
“We have to wheel them. They are too heavy, and there are too many, to do much else.”
A few Elk warriors walked past. They nodded at Leta but smiled at Keana. It would not be long before Jonah would be fighting a different battle, one that all fathers of daughters fought.
“Jonah instructed Ghafir and his men to put more logs on top. It’ll hold.”
“It probably will. But my father is not a master of the cart. He does not see what we see. Trying to push the carts across the bridge will be slow. We’ll be targets.”
Leta smiled and winked at the girl. “So, what do you want to do?”
“Untie four of the metal panels and I’ll help you lay them on the ground.”
Leta wrinkled her nose and turned her head sideways. “You mean the ones we use for defense?”
“Yes, silly. What other panels do we have?”
The old woman ignored the soft insult and grabbed a knot with her right hand. Her knuckles had become gnarled years ago, but the Ritis was getting worse. Most folks she knew hadn’t lived long enough to deal with joint stiffening, so she wasn’t sure if hers was a curse or a badge of honor.
“Let me help.”
Keana’s hands flashed as she undid the knots holding the panels on the carts. She used both hands to grab one end of a panel and began sliding it toward the front of their cart, which sat at the edge of the bridge. Leta ran around and grabbed the other side. They side stepped and grunted, the weight of the panel causing a fiery flare of pain in Leta’s shoulder. Keana dropped her end and Leta did the same.
“That’s for one side. I’ll get the other.”
Leta didn’t protest. She used her right fist to massage her left shoulder while Keana dragged a second panel forward. Now, both panels lay before the cart, one in front of each wheel, with two-thirds of the panel lying on top of the bridge. Keana grabbed the reins of the cart and yanked hard until the front wheels popped up onto the panel. Once they were on, she leaned back with her weight and the cart rolled smoothly across the panels until the wheels rolled off them on the other side.
“Wow. Not bad, kid. One problem, though. We don’t have enough panels to run the length of the bridge. So…”
“I’m not done,” Keana said.
The girl ran behind the cart and dragged each panel back to the front of the cart. She repeated the process and pulled the cart forward another ten feet.
“Each cart puller can be responsible for their own. They can cross at their own pace, with their own panels.”
“I’ll be a witch’s tit.”
Keana giggled and smiled at the old woman.
“Let the Elk know. Show them, if you must. I need to wait here and rub me shoulder. Old ladies shouldn’t be carrying panels.”
Leta waited for Keana to run off and explain her solution to the rest of the clan. When the girl was out of sight, Leta turned her attention to the woods across the breach. Something there felt wrong. Off. She squinted, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
The leaves on the ground on the west side of the breach had been disturbed. Normal folk wouldn’t have even noticed. Probably not even a hunter. But Leta saw the tracks as clear as clouds in a summer sky. Their mark was unmistakable.
Wolves.
Chapter 45
Donast, clan leader of the Nikkt, stood upon the crest of the mound north of his clan’s new encampment and watched the horizon. Behind him, the clan was a buzzing hive as his people hurried to secure the remainder of the roughly built defenses left behind by the Elk, a job, he knew, that required more hands than he had. Even with over a hundred warriors in his clan, they would probably not have a secure perimeter by nightfall.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and spat into the dirt, cursing. Their camp in the city had walls nearly all the way around, and he had been pleased when they claimed it, thinking it almost impenetrable. For once, they would have an advantage over the other clans instead of making do. But it was not meant to be. The damn grumbles, and the collapse of buildings across the city, had sent all the clans scrambling for the wilderness.
Still, he thought, you have fared better than others. Many smaller clans had vanished during the last few days, collapsing during the exodus, their warriors lost, and he could see this among the many that now followed the Elk and the other Wytheville clans toward the rumored new bridge to the west. Endless stragglers and newly clanless folk hoped to hide among the great mass of people.
> And where was that damn scout group? He squinted into the sun, grateful for the warmth that increased daily but cursing how its brightness hurt his eyes.
There, he saw them. At last. The small group headed toward them from the west, against the dwindling throng, pushing their way back through the line of refugees. Ten minutes and they would be there, but it was too slow for Donast. He strode down the mound and paced along the side of the crowd, unwilling to be slowed down by their amble.
The scouts looked tired and battered.
“What goes?” he asked the first as they stumbled toward him. “What happened?”
“Nothing to worry about,” said the scout. “We had a scuffle with some scavengers is all. No one damaged beyond repair.”
Donast nodded and patted the man on his shoulder. “Come, get back to camp. Drink, eat.”
They made their way against the crowd, though many of the weary wanderers on the road moved aside when they realized who was walking their way. Donast was a half a foot taller than most men, with bright red hair and a multitude of scars across his face, a man whom one did not forget easily.
Back at the camp, the scouts slumped next to the campfire. Donast stood as patiently as he could and waited.
“Nearly all have crossed the new bridge,” said the young man. “The Elk at least, and the other clans with them, but there are so many more heading that way, moving out of the plains and into the forest. And not ones who come from there, either. We saw the Cold Ones’ clan among them, and some of the Nitari, and they have lost numbers greatly.”
Donast frowned at this. Both names were well known to him. Large clans, maybe half the size of the Nikkt, with many warriors before, and not always friendly toward them. “Nitari and Cold Ones have broken?”
