Bannerless

by Carrie Vaughn

  “The old world fell because it was broken, Enid,” he said. “We left it behind because it was broken.”

  Yes, that was so. But Auntie Kath had so loved to talk about that broken world.

  She asked, “You ever been there? To the ruins?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and she didn’t know what that meant. Was the answer yes, but he didn’t want to talk about it? Or no, but he didn’t want to admit not leaping into such an obvious adventure? Was he preparing a story, some bardic tale for her?

  “I got close, once,” he said finally, pointing toward the gray gash on the horizon. “Decided I was going to march straight in and see what I could see. But—there are people living there. Rough scavengers. I didn’t like the way they looked, so I turned back.”

  “Did you think they’d hurt you?”

  “Me, or the guitar. Either way, I didn’t go.”

  The idea that he’d been scared seemed like a confession. She took his hand, sure that both of them were telling themselves stories about what the ruins were really like and about what kind of people could possibly be living there. Enid couldn’t imagine. Whoever they were, they never came to the Coast Road, and that said something about them.

  She wanted to go there. Maybe not right now—she could almost feel Dak pulling away from that hulking ghost on the horizon. Not leaning toward it, as she was doing. Someday. On the way back. Which was when she realized that she wouldn’t do this forever—she’d go back to Haven someday. She didn’t know when, but that wasn’t important.

  Oddly, the world seemed to open more, not less, knowing she had a place to go home to. It was an anchor in a safe harbor, no matter what happened. She was Enid of Haven.

  “Let’s go, hmm? We should reach Firepit by dark,” he said, tugging on her hand until she followed.

  //////////////////////////////////////////////////

  All this walking was productive, even if it wasn’t useful.

  Enid developed a long swinging stride and toned muscles that may not have been strong but could keep going as long as she needed them to. She learned how to start fires in the rain, how to look for good sources of water, and how much time they had before a storm opened up on them judging by dark clouds on the horizon. She flinched at the particularly dark clouds, even years after that last big storm. In every town they stopped at, she looked for cellar doors. A place to shelter, to stay safe.

  How much credit was all this worth, and how did she measure the experience? Could she ever use these skills, or was she being frivolous? Maybe she could be a courier, delivering messages up and down the Coast Road, dropping off packages, guiding travelers. Knowledge was a resource, and she could do a million things, learning what she was learning while traveling with Dak.

  Funny thing was, Dak didn’t seem concerned about earning his keep or contributing to the community or any of it. “We’ll just see what happens,” he’d say, and, “I’m sure it’ll work out.” They’d show up at the next village or household, Enid would say she was from Haven, and people would smile and cluck over her. They all knew about Haven, the closest thing the Coast Road had to a center. Then Dak would slip his guitar out of its case and strum a few chords, and people would come to him like hens to seed. He was always right—he’d play, and people would feed him, exactly the sort of exchange their whole world was built on. That the music was intangible, impractical, didn’t seem to matter. Dak’s arrival was special, and folk could usually afford to trade a couple of apples and a meat pie for the novelty of it. Dak was almost always a better musician than the local variety who hadn’t been practicing every day of their lives.

  Now and then they came to a household or settlement that couldn’t spare a couple of apples or anything at all. Enid learned to recognize them: the buildings were run-down, the gardens sparse. There might only be a single windmill. The people would look tired, and they didn’t smile at the sight of Dak’s guitar. A household or town might have a million reasons for not thriving—a couple of bad harvests, drought or disease, or bad management. After a couple of lean years, a place might turn around. Or it might break up, its members putting in for transfers to other settlements, scraping together credits to put toward starting over somewhere else. Asking for help. Didn’t happen often, but it did happen. Regional committees were there to make sure such folk were taken care of. No one ought to starve.

  Even if all they could do was thank him, Dak stopped and played at these settlements anyway. “It’s what I do: I play and sing,” he said, suggesting this wasn’t how he made his living, that he could earn his keep some other way. But it was good he and Enid always carried some extra food in their packs.

  One time, they encountered a turnoff and started down that path to see what households were there, but after only a mile or so, they saw a post with a sign nailed to it, driven into the middle of the road.

  QUARANTINE.

  The sign looked new, the wood freshly cut.

  Enid stood staring at it for a long time, part of her desperately wanting to run ahead to see what was wrong, see if they needed food, if there was anything at all she could do to help. Did they have a medic? Should she go get one for them? Bring medicine? Was it flu or hemorrhagic fever or something else? She wanted so much to help. Dak gently touched her shoulder and urged her back. “Enid, come on. Sign’s there for a reason; we need to go.”

  If the place needed help, they would have left a note asking for it. Enid searched and didn’t find one. So they were protecting travelers with the quarantine sign, and that was good. But she wanted to help.

  “We’ll leave word at the next way station,” she said. “Pass the news on to the regional committee if they don’t already know. Right?”

  “That’s right,” Dak said. “That’s a good idea. We should get going now.”

  They walked on.

  Sometimes, she and Dak would approach a place with that tired look, the air around it too silent—no clucking chickens, no loom beating a rhythm or blacksmith’s hammer clanging, no voices—and some instinct would tell them not to stop. They’d keep going on to the next place, or spend the night under the stars and talk about what the point of it all was, working to feed yourself and your friends if you were all just going to die in the end.

  “Humanity’s made it this far,” Dak said on one of these nights. “Might as well keep going, yeah?” Enid thought of Auntie Kath, who might have had doubts about how far humanity had really come.

  //////////////////////////////////////////////////

  Five weeks in, Enid saw the ocean for the first time. The real ocean, not a straight gray haze along the horizon as seen from the hills. Close enough to hear water shushing along the sand, splashing back in on itself. Dak knew a spot where an old town from before the Fall had just about finished rotting into sand and crabgrass, a dozen big storms over the last century pulling down buildings and dragging streets into the sea. All that lingered were some squares of concrete foundations, some rusted shells of cars, fallen poles, and symmetrical mounds of vegetation hiding whatever was underneath. The town had been there because of a beach, a slope of clean yellow sand stretching toward the water. The beach was still there, and they spent a night on it, having sex and laughing because the gritty sand got everywhere.

  At sunset Enid rolled up her pants and waded into the surf, letting the chill waves crawl over her feet, like some living thing was tasting her skin. Little translucent crabs skittered out of the way of the water; ropes of brown kelp slumped onto shore. She dug her toes in the wet sand and found bits and pieces of broken shells, and also a couple of chunks of sea glass the size of her thumb, irregularly shaped. Pale green and creamy white, rubbed smooth and frosted by endless trips through the surf.

  Not at all practical, but too beautiful and mysterious to leave behind. She tucked them in her satchel.

  Half a day’s travel from the beach, they reached the first of the fishing villages. Enid thought the place was magnificent; community buildings and vario
us households clustered on a hill above a curving harbor. A couple of wooden docks were built out on the water, and a dozen boats moored there, most with shining white hulls and tall masts, sails on them wrapped up and bundled out of sight. Some of the boats had apparently survived from before the Fall. Their hulls were fiberglass, carefully cleaned and patched and maintained over the decades. They seemed like pale birds bobbing up and down on the rippling water.

  Fintown was one of the welcoming places. The main road led down the hill, right through the middle of the town, and around the curve of the harbor. People were out on the docks coiling rope or mopping the decks of the boats. On a patio outside a long work building, a group of people cleaned a mound of silvery fish. The air reeked of fish. They knew Dak here—one of them looked up, saw the musician, and called out. Then everyone was smiling, greeting him by name. Enid had to smile, too. She felt like a hero in a story, walking in to this kind of welcome. This was likely part of why Dak traveled like he did.

  “Dak!” a particularly enthusiastic voice shouted from the dock.

  He looked for a moment and laughed when a tall man with frizzy dark hair ran up from the docks. “Xander!”

  The musician rushed forward, and the two came together in a big thumping hug, in the way of good friends who’d been too long separated. Then Dak took the other man’s face in his hands and kissed him, long and lingering, on the mouth. The other man—Xander, apparently—clutched Dak’s sides and pulled him in.

  Enid lagged behind, her smile frozen. She knew those gestures. Muscle memory in her own body could feel them, or the echo of them. Dak kissed her just like that. She had to remind herself to keep breathing.

  She had expected this. She knew, abstractly, to expect this. Tomas had been right from the start, that Dak would have lovers up and down the Coast Road. She had known that he would be right. But maybe, deep down, she hadn’t actually believed it.

  She hadn’t expected to feel so . . . angry. Her heart scrunching up into a tiny crooked ball. She had thought herself better than jealousy. But she’d had Dak all to herself for weeks now. She’d gotten used to it.

  Suddenly, she wanted to leave. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to eat fish again.

  “Been over a year, yeah?” Xander said. The man had a lopsided grin and bright dark eyes. He spotted her over Dak’s shoulder when she made her feet stroll forward to insert herself in the reunion.

  Dak then seemed to remember her and gestured. “Xander. This is Enid of Haven.”

  “Hola,” she said, smiling by remembering the sea glass in her bag and reminding herself that it really was beautiful here. Xander offered his hand, and she shook it as if she were glad to meet him.

  “Dak finally talked someone into taking to the road with him, did he?” Xander said, a laugh under his voice.

  And just what was that supposed to mean? She lifted an eyebrow at Dak.

  “I wasn’t doing anything else, much,” she said, before Dak could say anything that she wouldn’t be able to argue against.

  “It’s good he has someone looking after him, then,” Xander said, playfully cuffing Dak’s shoulder. “Keep him out of trouble.”

  “There’s no trouble,” Dak said. “None at all. Hey, think it’d be okay if we stuck around for a few days? Keep out of the next rain?”

  “Of course,” Xander said. “Always. Come on, let’s get you in to rest.”

  He led them up the road to the fourth enclave back from the shore, a household made up of a couple of cottages and a parcel of land with the usual complement of cisterns and chickens. Xander gave them an enthusiastic tour of the household, called Petula Dock. The back cottage was sleeping quarters; the front was a kitchen and workroom, clean and lit from above by a skylight in the roof. In addition to the cottages and land, the household’s folk maintained two boats, a larger fishing boat and a smaller sailboat. They fished some, but mostly worked to maintain the dock area and harbor. Xander promised to show them the docks later and take them sailing.

  The next couple of hours were a busy blur. Late in the afternoon, Petula Dock’s members drifted in from work and chores, looking for food, interested to meet the visitors. Xander told Enid their names, and she forgot them instantly—she was tired, fuzzy, and maybe hungry. The household had two kids under eighteen and a brand-new banner, but no baby for it yet and no one obviously carrying. Enid didn’t pry, but she did wonder. Most of them already knew Dak, and they all asked when he would play them something. They were polite to Enid, and she tried to stay unobtrusive, not to disturb what felt like a family reunion. Xander and Dak stayed side by side. Enid felt off balance, caught between the familiarity of the close-knit domestic scene and also not knowing anyone. Even Dak seemed like a stranger to her here.

  Fisher—Enid did remember her name, it seemed so obvious—was the head of the household, a middle-aged woman with luxurious black hair braided down her back and a billowing tunic tied in place with a multicolored woven sash. She ducked into a cupboard and emerged with a dark, enticing-looking bottle. “Guests call for brandy!” she announced, holding it high, and everyone cheered.

  “Pear brandy,” Xander leaned in to explain to Enid. She must have looked blank or confused—she’d heard of brandy but had never had any. “Sunshine household up the way’s got a still, a good one from before the Fall.”

  “Ah,” she answered politely, starting to understand. The still was a little bit of old technology that managed to survive, and the whole village was proud of it. This was special; this was important.

  And this was why everyone liked Dak. He spontaneously triggered parties wherever he went.

  Fisher poured little fingers of the brandy into cups and passed them around. Enid tried it—it burned going down and left a light, summery aftertaste of fruit and flowers that she imagined would taste best in the middle of winter, next to a hearth fire. She took seconds and started to relax. Food seemed to magically appear—a fish-based stew that had been simmering all day. The household’s youngest kid, eight years old, had to show Enid the socks she was knitting; she was just learning to knit and very proud of herself. Enid was attentive and felt like she earned her dinner just for that.

  The rain Dak had predicted started up after dark, sounding as a light pattering on the skylight overhead. They all looked up.

  “Raul, is the coop closed up?” Fisher said.

  “Yeah,” the stocky, good-natured man answered. “Did it when I came in.”

  The rattling grew heavier, and Fisher sighed. “This one’s going to last all night by the sound of it.”

  The rain’s patter was comforting, lulling. But it also made Enid feel trapped—they’d likely be here at Petula Dock until the weather broke, and who knew how long that would be.

  Dak had already left the gathering by then. First time since leaving Haven they’d been apart. Xander was gone, too. Nothing surprising about any of it. And yet. She sipped the brandy, listened to the talk around her, and tried to be content. Gratefully accepted a pallet of blankets in the common room for her bed. Curled up to sleep as Fisher banked the fire in the wood stove to embers.

  One of the benefits of walking all day: she never had any trouble sleeping. Even now, simmering in some vague emotion between anger and abandonment, her tired body pulled her under.

  //////////////////////////////////////////////////

  Gray morning light came in through the skylight, waking Enid early. She felt fuzzy and unhappy—took a moment to remember why, and missed Dak’s warm self, who should have been snugged up beside her but wasn’t. She got up and dressed to escape the reminder.

  Rustling in the kitchen drew her in, and she found Fisher starting water boiling for tea.

  “Morning,” the woman said brightly. “Get a cup from the shelf there and I’ll pour you some.”

  A shelf above the sink had a dozen or so mismatched earthenware mugs. Enid chose one. She kept looking at the door for Dak, who kept not arriving.

  “Plans for the
day?” Fisher asked.

  Enid shook her head, then belatedly thought she should maybe try to keep the conversation alive. Try not to feel quite so superfluous. “You? Anything special planned?” She winced, because the question sounded silly out loud. Sounded like a crutch.

  If Fisher thought so, she didn’t react. “The boats won’t go out today because of the rain, so I’ll mostly be doing chores and repairs around here.”

  “Can I help?” Enid asked, rather more desperately than she intended. “Anything you can teach me—I learn fast.”

  Fisher considered her, seeming to take a moment to decide whether to classify her as “guest” or “temporary household member.” Or maybe “Dak’s current accessory,” which brought Enid back to being angry so she shoved the thought away. Enid didn’t really know which category she fit in, either. This would decide.

  “Ever prep fish jerky?”

  They’d need a way to preserve the fish they caught. Right. “No. Show me?”

  “Drink up your tea and we’ll get started.”

  Getting started involved preparing four big buckets of little silvery fish from yesterday’s catch that one of the other households had spent the night cleaning, filleting, and brining. Fisher brought out a set of racks, and Enid helped arrange thin strips of fish on the racks, careful not to let them touch.

  At the back of the household, partway up the hill, sat a smokehouse, a small square shed that wasn’t big enough for much of anything else. Wood, scrap metal, and a chimney reaching up, pouring gray smoke. Fisher had already started a smoldering charcoal fire in the base. They had to deliver the racks they’d prepared to the smokehouse in a misting rain—they worked together, trotting up the hill with Fisher holding the racks while Enid held a light tarp over them, getting soaked herself. All the racks loaded into the shed. The fish would stay for a long time at a low temperature, drying out more than cooking, until the moisture burned away through strategic slats at the door. Enid took it all in.