He raised his head, only to be nudged forward one more time. "You... you're sending me away?" He was already standing on the far side of the group. He could see them butchering Charmer's body. He had witnessed such scenes all of his life, but only now did he feel sickened by it. That should be me! One of the Clawfolk kept pushing him farther and farther away, until eventually, he found the strength to turn around and walk off of his own accord.
CHAPTER 5: Moss
Alone and helpless and old, Whistlenose had no idea where he should be going. I'm supposed to be a Volunteer. He couldn't stay out in the open, that was for sure. A friendless human was little better than a free meal. So he ducked into the first abandoned house he found.
He was thirsty again already, but he needed to think this through. He had a duty. He had to persuade the Clawfolk to take him back, even if it meant killing himself in front of them. Surely they wouldn't let his flesh go to waste?
He wrapped his arms over his head, hearing the wheezing of his nose working in time to the pulse of pain in his bad leg. The problem was that he still wanted to live. He had done everything he was supposed to do, had offered himself up. It wasn't his fault he had been rejected.
So, why not just go home and explain what had happened? He could be with his family again and feel their warm skin against his. Except... nobody would believe his story. They would think he had run away. And even if the Chief used his Talker to ask the Clawfolk for the truth of the matter, his leg would get no better, his arm no faster, and Aagam would still be living in Centre Square, demanding his death.
All paths ended in the pot as far as he could see.
The least awful result he could hope for, was that his own Tribe would get the benefit of his flesh. His own wife and child. He would try for that.
The walk home was a nightmare. Many creatures had been attracted by the disaster that had struck the Clawfolk. Guards were fewer, and everywhere, hunting parties haunted the alleys and staked out the sources of water Whistlenose so desperately needed. He spent a full day and half a night on a journey that should have lasted no more than a few tenths, passing through all of ClawWays and the no-man's land that lay between it and home. He avoided Pios, with their thin, sharp beaks, and padded around the tracks left behind by a pack of supposedly-extinct Climbers. Useful news, at least, for those back home.
Finally, the outer walls that had protected the old 'Ways of his youth swallowed him up. Humans no longer controlled these streets, but the older ones like Whistlenose knew them better than any enemy.
"I'll have one last night with Ashsweeper," he muttered. They'd grant him that much at least, before sending him off again.
He stopped uncertainly in the shadow of a building, cool with Roofsweat, utterly exhausted. Starving. What if he got home for that final night only to waste it by sleeping right through as he had done when he had returned with Aagam? The thought filled him with sadness. No, he would go into an old house. His old house. The one where he had grown up with an older brother and two sisters. He would rest on the same floor he had been born on and return home refreshed.
He found it without difficulty. The old place had seen better times. Parts of the walls had been scavenged to build the newer defences closer to Centre Square, leaving the ceiling to cave in and the first floor to collapse. Whistlenose crawled in through a gap that remained in the rubble, into what was left of the family room. He had not the energy to check it out for enemies or even to pound the stinging juices out of a bit of moss so that he might make a pillow for himself. He used his loincloth—the only thing he possessed in the world other than his flesh, and even that, he had stolen from his Tribe. You can have me back, though. You can have me back tomorrow.
Daylight woke him—a single beam swirling with dust, coming through a hole in the ceiling. Midday again already, by the looks of it. This time two days before, he had passed into the slaughterhouse of the Clawfolk to die. Chafe marks and scabs on his thighs showed where he had almost slid from the arch. It had really happened. A piece of the Roof had actually fallen to the ground with no provocation, to smash entire buildings.
Looking around the ruin in which he had spent the night, with its collapsed ceiling, he wondered for the first time if the greatest threat to his people might be something other than the Diggers. Aagam had said the world was ending, hadn't he? And who would know better than a Roofman?
Well, there's nothing I can do about that, now, is there? His one remaining responsibility was to turn himself in and win another last night with his family.
And yet, he stayed where he was. He found he was breathing hard. He kept hearing the screams of the slaughterhouse in the dark. His mind's eye returned again and again to the scene of Charmer's death and that of the nameless girl. He even found splashes of their blood on his skin. He had to force himself to lick it clean so as not to dishonour his fellow Volunteers.
And still he did not rise to turn himself in.
"Don't be a fool, boy. After all you've seen in your life!" He'd killed beasts himself, many times, for all he wasn't much of a hunter. He had hacked and chopped; stabbed and bludgeoned and crushed them. He had tripped them so others could finish the job. He had seen hunters die a dozen times and had been part of honour guards escorting old friends and members of his own family as Volunteers to the creatures who would end their lives. It had all been so normal. Yet now, his body refused to take its turn.
He froze. He heard human voices out in the street, all women.
Hunting parties would use hand signals and whispers to communicate. Voices—and the laughter that came next—could only mean large numbers. It meant safety. He pulled himself up onto his knees and crawled to the shadowy gap that was the only way in or out of his refuge. He saw the backs of two women. One had a sleeping child strapped to her chest—another sign that there must be a cordon of guards not too far away. Both of them wore the wraparound sheets of Hopper hide that women used when collecting moss or rubble.
"No, Chinwagger." said the taller of the two. She had black hair, tied in ligament twine to keep it out of her face. The shorter woman, the one with the child, had just struck at something with a rock. "No, I said! What are you doing?"
"What does it look like? I'm getting the juice out."
"He said not to do that, Chinwagger. The Chief!"
The shorter one threw the rock at the ground so that it bounced away. "That makes no sense! Who ever heard of not pounding moss? I don't want to bring all that poison home with me."
"Well, he was very careful to say he wanted it unpounded and to bring only the red stuff too."
"Ancestors, he's mad! The red stuff? Sure it's only good for smoking meat!"
The black haired woman looked around to see if anybody else stood nearby. Luckily, she didn't lower her eyes to where Whistlenose crouched, less than three spear-lengths away. But he had caught a glimpse of her face at least, and had identified her as Drumdancer, a friend of the Chief's first wife. "It's that new Roofman he's adopted. Aagam. What does that name mean, anyway?"
"If he even is a man!" said Chinwagger. "That skin... like the false woman he took for a wife, remember? She fell from the Roof too. He's obsessed with them. She was no more a woman than he's a man, if you ask me."
"Oh, Aagam is a man, all right. Poor Ashsweeper had to marry him the very same day Whistlenose did his duty. Whoever heard of such a thing unless it was one of the man's own brothers?" She pointed up at the Roof. "I bet Whistlenose is up there now, fuming with anger."
"Well, he won't be the only one," said Drumdancer. "That new beast from the Roof wants more wives, and the Chief is going to let him have them."
Whistlenose didn't hear what came next. His ears were ringing, his vision blurred. He found himself lying in the dust of his old house, weeping. Some instinct made him smother the sounds of it in the flesh of his arms.
Ashweeper, made to marry without the proper mourning! He remembered the way the hairy Roofman had looked at his wife when they had
returned together into ManWays. Of course. That's the real reason. That's why he was so keen to have me killed. His hands found his loincloth and throttled it between them. Die, monster! He fell back, sick and dizzy with hunger and despair.
He had no plan and no more strength. Less than a thousand paces from the place where he cowered, his family had passed into the hands of a Waster and there was nothing he could do about it.
"No more red moss here," said Chinwagger. "Stupid task anyway. Come on..."
Whistlenose barely noticed. His chest felt like it was in the grip of an ever-tightening noose. He gasped and a sob escaped that had been building and building since, who knew how long? Since the moment he had been Volunteered, perhaps.
"I heard something!" said Chinwagger, suddenly frightened. And then, the women's running footsteps slapped off down the street. No doubt they'd be back in a few heartbeats with a hunting party that would scrape him out of his shell.
But what then? There'd be no last night with Ashsweeper for him. There'd be no revenge. Aagam would have the pleasure of seeing him die, not once, but twice. Only this time there would be none of the honour of the willing Volunteer. Only the humiliation of a husband with no wife. And shame too for Ashsweeper, for he was sure now that Wallbreaker would say he had run away from the Clawfolk, regardless of truth.
Whistlenose staggered out into the light and the air. The hunters would be nearby now, signalling to each other, using moss to silence their footfalls. He had no idea even from which direction they would come. But presumably, the two women had been foraging within a cordon of protection, which would have extended out from the new walls. So, he turned in the direction of Centre Square slipping down narrow alleys, as fast as his exhaustion would allow.
All of these streets had been safe by day when he was growing up. But now, traps filled them and hidden pits. He had to keep stopping, to search his memory for a safe route, while sweat ran into his eyes and mossbeasts swarmed in colourful clouds from house to house.
Here a Flim skull hung above the doorway of a house he had played in as a child. Near it, some long-dead woman had practised drawing a tattoo in charcoal—the faint image of three six-legged beasts, each with a spear in them, could still be seen faintly under a generation of dust. He wanted to linger, to trace the outline of the picture with his hand. But a combination of inattention and a stray rock underfoot knocked him against the far wall of the alley to trigger a rain of pebbles.
"Down there!" someone cried, forgetting hunt discipline entirely. A youngster, then.
Whistlenose tried to stand up again as footsteps reached the mouth of the alley behind him. "Oh," somebody said, full of disappointment. A boy's voice. "I thought for sure it had come this way. Hey! Hey, you there!"
Whistlenose didn't turn around. "Clear off, lads," he said, his voice remarkably steady. "You'll catch it down towards the Wetlane if you hurry."
The tattoos on his back must be invisible under layers of filth by now, for the boy asked, "Who are you? I—"
But the others were already turning away, by the sounds of them, too excited to care about somebody who looked just about ready for the pot. As soon as they'd gone, he fell to his knees.
He had survived, but only because nobody was looking for a runaway Volunteer. He had been seen two days before, after all, walking right into the slaughterhouse. As long as nobody got a good look at his face or tattoos, Whistlenose could happily wander around these streets until he died of hunger and thirst. But the guards would identify him as soon as he tried to pass through the gates, and once caught, Wallbreaker wouldn't be foolish enough to let him approach his family. Not with Aagam there. Feasting and drinking in Whistlenose's house! Sleeping with a wife too kind for him. Poisoning their son with unworthy thoughts and hatred of his real father...
But then, the Ancestors took pity and gave the ageing hunter the plan he needed.
Less than a tenth later, he had gathered up such a large pile of red moss that it filled his two arms and covered most of his face. There was barely a gap left for his eyes. Men did not do women's work unless they were too injured to hunt, but not so badly injured that the only cure was to Volunteer. So, he exaggerated his limp and stepped up to the new gates.
Of course, one of the guards, another youngster, asked him who he was. However, the moss muffled his reply, and the fact that everybody was still on the lookout for a "beast" that the women had spotted in the streets, allowed him to pass into the 'Ways unmolested.
As he walked, sharp fumes from the moss stung the inside of his nostrils and made his head spin. He managed to ignore it until he found himself in front of the steps leading down to his cellar home. Very few people were around. It looked as if the Chief had ordered the entire population outside the walls in the crazy search for a moss so full of poison, it couldn't even be pounded into blankets or ropes.
He dumped the bundle he had gathered in front of the door. The whole street seemed to be spinning and he found himself leaning against the doorway, drawing in huge gulps of clean air. And then, it was down the familiar steps and into the rooms he shared with Ashsweeper.
He found her there alone. She gasped, backing away, covering her mouth.
"It's me," he said.
"No."
"It is. Where's the boy?"
She didn't answer, still staring at him in horror.
"I'm not a ghost," he said. "I swear it! I'm not! And I didn't run away. You know me, love. I wouldn't do that!"
Slowly, she nodded, wiping the corners of her eyes. She did know him. A poor provider of few tattoos. But he was a tryer, too. Always doing his best. She must have known that. And when the day had come to offer himself up for the Tribe, she had seen, everybody had seen, how smartly he had stepped forward.
She came to him and made him sit, cradling him in her arms and crying. She never asked him for an explanation, but offered one instead, "The boy is off gathering. I was allowed to stay because..."
"I heard," he said. "They made you marry him. The monster."
She snarled all of a sudden and he jumped, for he had never, in more than two thousand days together heard such a noise from her throat. "I didn't let him touch me. That's why the boy is out gathering and him so young. Aagam went crying to the Chief with a bruise on each eye. At least that's what I think happened, because I can't understand a word of his mumbling. He is weak as a child, too. I punched him here," she patted Whistlenose's belly. "You wouldn't believe how soft it was! And he couldn't breathe then and I thought he would die and we would be Volunteered." She laughed and he felt himself laughing with her.
Then, they were hugging again. "You're trembling," she said. "You can barely stand, can you?"
"I'm fine, don't worry. It might be nice to sit, though. For a heartbeat or two."
"We have food, you know? For him, I think. He tried to eat some, but he must be sick, because he spat it out and crouched over for a long time in the corner. I... I could give you some of it." She knew what she was saying was wrong. But that didn't matter to Whistlenose. His stomach lurched. He wanted the flesh the stranger had rejected. Wanted it terribly and his head turned away from his beloved wife and towards the corner as though pulled to it by a rope. The food was right there, wrapped in pounded moss. The shape of it told him it was a joint of Bloodskin. His little boy's favourite. And now that those beasts had been destroyed by the Diggers, there would never be any more of it. Whistlenose's mouth watered for the smoky flavour he knew so well, for the crispy, fat-rich skin.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I... I shouldn't have offered." For she knew, as he did, that he could be of no further use to the family or the Tribe. The flesh that might keep somebody else alive would only be wasted on him.
Except that wasn't true.
"I need the strength," he said at last. "The Ancestors saved me for a reason and that reason is to kill him."
"Who? You mean Aagam?"
He was already moving away from her. He fell upon the moss-wrapped parcel bef
ore ripping into the flesh beneath to the point of choking on it. Ashsweeper saved embarrassment by handing him a skull of water. He could feel her watching him. He stopped, amazed at his own thoughtlessness, and offered her the remaining scraps, but she shook her head.
"You can't, you know?" she said sadly. "You can't kill him."
"I thought you... I hoped you hated him."
Ashsweeper's face glittered with tears and he felt a catch in his own throat. "You're clumsy, Whistlenose, and I was never supposed to marry you. I wanted Surestep to pay my bride-price, you remember him? But then, he broke his shoulder and it wouldn't fix right."
"I remember," he whispered. "Nobody had to ask him to Volunteer. He had a thousand days left. Ten thousand."
She nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "And then you came along. The oaf, I called you," but she was smiling as she spoke, her voice fond.
"You did everything you could to discourage me."
"Of course I did! You already had one living wife! No way you could have supported the two of us with that shaky spear of yours. Or so I thought. But she was so lovely, wasn't she? Dear Sleepyeyes who saved us all."
"She was, she was. She watches over us still."
Ashsweeper sniffled. "But we can't waste what she's done, or what you've done, my sweet husband. If you kill Aagam, you might as well truss up our son and strand him out in no-man's land. The Chief... the Chief announced before the wedding that... that Aagam will save us all from the end of the world. I didn't believe it. But right then, the whole Roof went dark! Did you see that? The light... I was so frightened. I couldn't find the boy. Didn't know where he'd gone! And then... then a piece of the Roof fell down after the light came back. I didn't see it myself, but..."
"Oh, I saw it," he whispered. It had saved his life.
He didn't know what to do. He wanted to apologise for bringing Aagam into the 'Ways. For allowing the man to see his wife and fall for her... And yet, it was true what she had said. Removing the stranger would bring about the death of his family, and worse—infinitely worse—it might doom the whole Tribe. He shuddered, fighting against the hatred and the fear and the guilt.
The Volunteer (The Bone World Trilogy) Page 5
