Sugar Rain

by Paul Park

  And there were people, too. There were people in the hills, returning to farms and villages abandoned by their grandparents, trying to scratch some living off the rocks. In a town of fifty houses, nestled in a rock ravine near the Caladonian frontier, half a dozen families had made new homes. They had raised new rooftops, repaired old walls. Dry all winter, the creek was full of water, and on the morning of December 1st, Charity Starbridge stepped from rock to rock above the stream, trying to find purchase on the heavy sugar crust. Off balance, she waved her hands in the air. Upstream, up ahead, a small boy waved back.

  She had left the village at first light, well rested and carrying a pack. It was twenty miles to the Whisper Bridge where she would cross to Caladon: two days’ journey over that terrain. The village had provided a guide, a young boy, the youngest child of the family who had first taken her in. Four weeks before, when she had first come up from underground, they had nursed her and fed her with a kindness that had seemed bewildering in that stark land.

  She had stayed in the village longer than she had intended. It had taken her a long time to regain her strength. And the villagers had been so kind; some days she had thought that she might stay forever. They had begged her to stay, and sometimes she had thought, What’s Caladon to me? My cousin may be dead.

  Sometimes, lying in bed, or walking with the shepherds as they took their flocks into the canyons, she had been tempted to stay. She had been lulled into a sense of peace. But in the last week of November, there were rumors of new soldiers in the area. A skirmish had been fought at Axel’s Cross, between the League and Aspe’s troops, and then the League was scattering northwards, refugees themselves. On the evening of the 98th, boys from the village had seen fires on the ridge. On the 99th, the village elders had brought the princess gifts: a shagweed blanket, a steel knife, and a new coat. They had knelt to kiss her hands.

  Up ahead the trail left the creek and wandered up a slope of barren scree. Her guide waved back at her, and she stopped, resting, pushing the sugar from her eyes. She tilted her head, turning away from him and looking towards the ridge, searching for the music that she thought she had heard all morning, above the sound of water and the pounding of the rain. Throughout her whole stay at the village she had sought for it, the music of the copper flute. Sometimes she was sure the antinomial was keeping with her, unseen among the rocks, coming down in darkness, playing music just beyond the limit of her ears. Sometimes Charity was sure that she had gone. Why would she stay? Once Charity had taken food up to the ledge above the village, new potatoes wrapped in grass; in the morning they were gone, proving nothing.

  She wiped the rain out of her eyes and clambered up the slope. At noon she rested with her guide, and again at four o’clock. At sundown they stood upon the highest ridge, under the shelter of a pinnacle of rock.

  “Look,” said the boy. He pointed out over the valley, and in the distance she could see the Whisper Bridge, a single, arching span of metal, built in the reign of the nineteenth bishop to commemorate some victory. Half-hidden in the mist, it rose up on the far horizon, joining the lips of a deep crevasse. On the other side lay Caladon, shrouded in darkness. For thirty miles in each direction, the bridge was the only place to cross, for the Moldau River was impassable that season, swollen by the rain.

  The bridge itself, a metal span not five feet wide, was dangerous. It had been built for purposes of ceremonial, back when the road through the crevasse was dry, and it had supported a great lantern, a beacon of victory, hanging from the middle of the arch. The light had been extinct for generations, but there still existed, clamped to the outside of the span, the steel rungs that the lamplighters had used, up one slope and down the other. On still nights, travelers had been known to slip across.

  In the shelter of the pinnacle, in a cave hollowed from the rock, Charity made camp. She sat with her back against the stones, exhausted, looking out towards the bridge. There she fell asleep, curled in her blanket while the boy sat guard. He was proud of his responsibility, but in the morning he was fast asleep. At dawn Charity left him behind, curled up among the rocks, and she left the steel knife, too, determined not to find a use for it. She felt lighthearted, safe: the trail ran straight and true down to the bridge, or so she thought. But by midmorning she was lost, for the rain had washed away the route. The boulders were the size of houses, and the scree was slippery and loose. At one point a whole slope of it started to move, and she fell down to her knees in bitter sand and shards of silicon.

  Cursing with frustration, she continued on, choosing the way at random, searching for higher ground. And when she heard a noise behind her, she turned around, hoping that the boy had followed her. But it was not he. Down below, at the bottom of the ravine, a man was leading a horse.

  He was a soldier, dressed in high boots and stiff black pants. He wore a vest of some quilted material, which left his arms and shoulders bare. His hair was long under a studded steel cap, and he was carrying a rifle on his back. His horse was a good one, sleek and well fed, its horns sharp and gilded. It was heavily loaded, with a high, wooden saddle and many odd-shaped bundles.

  Charity crouched down behind some rocks. She was too far away to see the soldier’s hands, but he was wearing an ensign, a tattered orange scarf tied to his naked bicep. It was the token of the League, and when she saw it, she staggered back, twisting her foot between two stones. Dislodged by her heel, one clattered down the slope, a rock the size of a man’s head, and it came to rest between the soldier’s boots.

  He raised his face. Charity ducked down out of sight, but the movement betrayed her. Other stones followed the first. Peering through the sticky rain, the soldier took his rifle from his back. “Come out,” he said. “Come out where I can see you.”

  Charity stayed low. But when the soldier started towards her up the slope, she turned and ran. Leaving her refuge in the boulders, she clambered on all fours over the uncertain shale, diagonally up the wall of the ravine. She trusted that the soldier would not leave his horse; nevertheless, her back felt cold and big. She was hoping that his rifle might misfire in the rain. It often happened, but in fact he never raised his gun. He just stood there, up to his ankles in the slippery rock, while she scampered on up the ravine. But after a few yards the shale gave out onto a slope of powdered silicon, and the rock was mixed with mud and shards of rain. She slipped and fell, and then the whole slope subsided downwards, so that she lost her balance and fell down, sinking to her elbows in the sticky marl. The soldier never moved. He waited, and in time she came to him, sliding downwards in a clatter of small stones.

  “What have we here?” said the soldier. She did not look up. But he reached down and put his fingers underneath her jaw, and Charity could smell the dust on his hand, the cinnabar dye that the soldiers used to cover their tattoos. It left a mark upon her cheek. He used no force; he didn’t have to. But she could feel his strength, and so she turned her face to look at him.

  It had been a young, trim soldier who had accosted her with the same gesture, upon the stair in Mrs. Soapwood’s house, the brothel in the Python Road. This man was younger still, but he looked tired. There was sugar crusted in the corners of his eyes, and a bandage on his collarbone. He had broken his front tooth. But his smile was the same, and the courtesy with which he helped her to her feet.

  “What have we here?” he repeated, and then he pushed the hair back from her face.

  As she had upon the staircase, she had knotted her hands into fists. But with insinuating ease he coaxed open her fingers and rubbed away some of the mud. And when he saw the silver rose, he clicked his tongue. Once more he touched her face, polluting the skin next to her eye while she said nothing. But then his smile widened to a grin. He took her hand again and rubbed the skin under her thumb. Then, with a movement that was neither fast nor slow, he forced her hand behind her, turning her around so that he stood in back of her. He forced her hand up between her shoulderblades and then let go, almost before she felt the pain
. She stumbled forward and the soldier followed her, stopping, when they passed his horse, to pick up the end of the halter. The horse had wandered a few feet away, searching for insects among the rocks.

  “Straight on,” said the soldier. “Don’t talk.” He touched her on the back with the barrel of his rifle, and pointed up the bowl of the ravine. It was a different way than Charity had chosen; she had been aiming for the ridge, up to the right. The soldier’s way was easier, more suitable for horses. In time they reached the banks of a small stream. It had been flowing through the rocks beneath their feet. She had heard it gurgling and coughing for many minutes before it rose up through a pile of rock debris.

  Behind her the soldier was singing in a sweet, gentle voice. It was a love song, but he had forgotten many of the words, and so he filled the gaps with nonsense syllables, laughing to himself. He stopped at the stream to let the horse refresh itself. Charity moved ahead, and he didn’t try to restrain her, only followed her when he was through, up over the saddle of the land, and into a small valley.

  In time they came to a small camp: five tents in a circle next to a clear pool. The sky was threatening and overcast, but the rain had stopped. Charity was grateful for the quiet. She ran her fingers through her hair. “Where is your commander?” she said suddenly. The valley seemed deserted.

  “He was killed at Axel’s Cross. We are equals—six of us. The rest are foraging.” The soldier squinted at the sky. “I don’t expect them back tonight.”

  Charity sat down on a rock above the pool. “I was lucky,” said the soldier. “Look at this—real wood. I found it in a mine shaft, south of here.” As he spoke, he was unloading the bundles from his horse.

  Charity looked down into the pool. She took off her quilted cap and reached down into the pool to wash her face. “Wash yourself,” suggested the soldier. “You can’t be used to this.” Then he laughed. “What are you doing here? Starbridge, aren’t you?” The soldier smiled and returned to work.

  He heaved the saddle off his horse’s back, and from the mouth of a nearby tent he pulled a long, quilted blanket. After rubbing down the horse and combing out its tail and mane with a steel comb, he hauled the blanket over the beast’s head. The cloth was fitted into sections. Long flaps hung down over the animal’s flanks and legs, but they were tied up tight around its buttocks and its neck. Over its head the soldier fitted a kind of hood, covering its eyes but leaving its beak exposed, protruding through a hole in the material. Then he walked around the animal, fastening buckles, opening and closing zippers, until the beast was swaddled to his satisfaction. Then, last of all, he pulled a plastic bucket from his tent, and Charity could see that it was full of slugs.

  All that time Charity had been washing herself as best she could, at first more out of nervousness than any desire to be clean. But it felt good to wipe the sugar from her face, to wash the mud out of her hair. As she did so, the familiar movements took on a kind of rhythm that was comforting. It soothed her and made her feel more powerful, as if she were preparing herself physically for what she had to do. When the soldier is asleep, she thought, I will break away. I will break away in darkness, before his friends come back.

  At that moment came a groaning, tearing sound from far away, a metallic creaking on the wind. The soldier stopped and looked up towards the east, holding the bucket of slugs between his hands. “The Whisper Bridge,” he said. “Is that where you were headed?”

  “And you?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve got a lot to carry. And a horse. Besides, I can’t imagine that I’d be welcome at the border, scum like me.”

  As he spoke, he reached one hand in through the hole over the horse’s mouth, and he was fussing with the bridle there. A hook was sewn into the blanket underneath the horse’s head; he brought the bucket up and hooked it by its handle.

  Through the open hole, Charity could see the thick, cruel beak dig down into the meat. Sick to her stomach, she turned her face away and watched the soldier rummage through her pack. He was clicking his tongue in pleasure over her small bag of food. The villagers had given her potatoes and a container filled with isinglass.

  “This is good,” he said, looking up at her and smiling. “We’ll have a feast. I’ve got chocolates and candied ginger, and of course all kinds of wine, but no food—where did you find this? I’ve been eating candy for two days.”

  In the open space between the tents, the soldier made a fire. As evening fell, slowly the flames became visible to Charity as she sat by the pool. The rain had stopped, and at intervals there was a breath of wind, accompanied always by the music of the bridge. At other times the soldier sang, as he pulled wood from his canvas bags and broke it into shards, as he watered his horse and tethered it outside the circle of the light. He was boiling the potatoes in a bucket on the fire.

  Yet all the time he was watching Charity closely, and his gun was always near to hand. Once, while he was squatting by the fire, he bent down with his back to her. She got up quickly, silently, but then she noticed he was staring back at her, even while his hands were busy with the fire. He was grinning back at her through his own legs, his face framed by his own body, upside down.

  Then, when it was almost dark, he called to her. He came out from the brightness of the fire to stand near where she was sitting. He was carrying some clothing in his hands. She couldn’t see the color, but it seemed light and insubstantial. He laid it carefully upon a rock. “Put this on,” he said, and when she made no motion, he frowned. “Do as I say. People can be brutal. I want to be kind.” He had a knife in his belt, a cruel, hooked blade.

  Charity took the dress into her hands, unfolded it, and laid it out. It was made of spider gossamer and gold embroidery, miraculous and beautiful. “Besides,” said the soldier. “I didn’t think you’d be offended. It is part of the wardrobe of the bishop of Charn.”

  Charity bowed her head. “No,” she murmured softly. “I can’t wear her clothes. She’s dead.”

  Again the soldier put his hand out to touch her cheek. “You’ll do as I say,” he told her, his voice no louder than her own. “You will. How can I know that I exist? By what I make you do.” He was playing with her hair.

  “Go change,” he said. “There.” He gestured towards the entrance of the largest tent, but she did nothing, only sat there with the bishop’s dress upon her lap.

  “Besides,” the soldier said after a moment. “If it makes you feel better, she may not be dead.”

  He had a pouch of canvas hanging from his belt. He reached into it and pulled out a small silver ball. It was streaked with dirt and sugar, but when he knelt down by Charity she could see how fine it was, the silver apple of the world, with the continents engraved in silver gilt.

  “We were the first in Kindness and Repair,” continued the soldier. “Jonas and me. When we broke in, her funeral pyre was still smoking, and Earnest Darkheart offered us a hundred dollars to comb through the ashes. There was nothing there. No bones, nothing. Then we broke into the grave where they had laid her lover. The heretic. The cannibal. But it was empty.”

  Charity shrugged, but he went on: “I know that doesn’t prove a thing. But we must have taken close to a thousand prisoners. Not one had seen her die—actually seen her burning in the flesh. They all said that they had seen a vision, a fruit tree on fire in the middle of the courtyard.”

  The soldier was excited. He was rubbing the silver apple on his pants, smudging its surface with his dirty fingers. “This is the fruit I found,” he said. “I found it in her prison cell, in Kindness and Repair. The door was standing open and the room was wrecked. I found it underneath her bed.”

  A wind had sprung up from the south, full of sugar grit. Charity hugged her arms around her chest. “Tell me what it says,” resumed the soldier. He turned the apple in his hand. “Summer continents,” he said. “The shorelines are all different. Tell me what it says.” Charity could make out a line of Starbridge script in the ocean underneath his thumb.

 
; “ ‘Look for me among the days to come,’ ” she read.

  “There!” the man exulted, rising to his feet. He tossed the apple in the air and then replaced it in his pouch. He was smiling and laughing, and then his face turned cruel. “There,” he said, drawing his knife. “And here you are. You be the bishop now.” With his other hand he pointed to the tent.

  It was a rectangular structure perhaps twelve feet long. Outside, a small lamp was burning, a kerosene lantern with a wire handle.

  Charity took it with her when she stepped inside. She ducked under the flap, but in fact the tent was almost tall enough for her to stand erect. And when she lifted up the lantern, she was astonished, for the light fell crookedly on an enormous pile of wealth: carpets, ingots, tapestries, and loose jewels; rolled-up canvases, and balls of musk; vials of attar, and carved gold. It was loot from the temples and the palaces of Charn, her family’s wealth, and to Charity the sight of it was heartbreaking in a way she couldn’t analyze. She sat down upon a roll of silk brocade and began to cry.

  But in a little while she felt stronger, less afraid. Thousands had died, yet she was still alive. Surely that could not have been by chance—surely she was not meant to die here, after all? She put the lantern down upon an empty section of the floor.

  The soldier shouted at her from outside the tent, something she couldn’t hear. She blocked it from her mind. She picked up an embroidered linen towel from a pile, and with it she rubbed the sugar from her hair, and wiped her face and arms. She stripped off her wet clothes and rubbed her body clean, until her skin felt fresh and hot. Then she unrolled the bishop’s dress. It was in two parts, a loose outer garment and a sheer white slip. Made for a smaller woman, it fit well enough, though it was snug around her breasts and hips. And the softness of the silk made her feel better just to touch it. Her skin remembered the old feeling. All through her journey she had dressed in borrowed clothes; this, finally, was a garment suitable for her. Putting it on, she felt a flush of strength.