Master of Blood and Bone

by Craig Saunders

  Holland held on for a long time, and when the mists parted, before them, through her own tears, or the tears of David, they all saw a land devoid of humanity, but one, too, of impossible beauty.

  Before them lay Pripyat in the morning sun. They were out…through…to the other side.

  The place where it would end…or they would.

  76

  In the near silence, there were no people at all, and the animals were shy of man. At first, Ank was aware of no sensation but Holland’s warm arms around her (and David) at the prow of the boat, then, sound came to her….

  The sound, finally, of a boat on water.

  And, looking down, she saw, not water like she understood. But something pure, beautiful…the water…

  It’s perfect…she thought, almost dizzy with revelation, coming from David’s terrible memory, to this, this pristine river that flowed beneath them.

  Sluggish and cold, but not frozen over. It moved like vodka from a freezer, like it was in no hurry to get anywhere. But it was so clear. Water, untouched.

  She reached out to taste it, but Holland pulled her back.

  “More dangerous than the water of the Styx itself, Ank,” said Holland. “I don’t think it could hurt you…but better not. Better not, I think.”

  Ank sat back, the hunger for that river in the pit of her belly.

  She settled her eyes into the distance. Told herself the river was not for her, despite her thirst for it.

  The town before her was a frozen fairy tale, a city with trees and plants growing through buildings. Here, decay and birth existed at the same time.

  “My God…” said Ank, her voice returned. “It’s…beautiful. A wonder…a kind of twisted paradise…”

  “Some people would call this Hell on Earth,” said Holland. “But I’m glad you see the beauty. It’s kind of like Disneyland. But better, eh?”

  She nodded. He smiled.

  “I knew it would call to you. This place is where Hell and Earth meet, Ank.”

  “What is it? Where is it? How the hell could people forget this?!”

  “It’s called Pripyat,” said Holland. “We’re in Ukraine. People haven’t forgotten it, Ank…this isn’t, any longer, a place for people…”

  Ten feet from the shore, the Night Boat slowed, and Charon ceased pushing against the water, or whatever lay beneath. The Ferryman let the vessel coast toward the banks of the river.

  “You know what today is?” said Holland, quietly, hushed by the dead city.

  “Cold?”

  “Good. No, smartass. It’s your birthday. I…see you becoming a woman…shit, you are a woman. You’re eighteen. You never played, never had friends, never had a childhood.”

  “I’m happy with you.”

  Holland put his head down for a moment. He wasn’t going to be around forever. But it was her birthday. He didn’t want to talk about that. He really didn’t.

  “I fucked up, Ank. It’s not easy for me…I’m a killer, Ank. A hard bastard, a wanker with a gun…and all the time I’ve been out in the world, killing men and monsters…I…wanted you safe. You know? Not nearly eighteen years…I’ve been killing. For you, Ank. Wanted you to become a woman who could look after herself…but I tried to make you into another me…I did it all wrong.”

  Ank shook her head.

  “No, Holland…Dad. You didn’t. You did it right…doing it right. You know? We’re not, you know, Sally and Daddy or something. We’re different. Always had to be different. I get that.”

  Holland sighed. He still had his arm around his daughter. Talking to her. He knew David could hear, too, though.

  And things were different again, weren’t they?

  “Letting me off the hook, Ank?”

  Ank laughed as the sound of the boat’s hull on rock came from beneath.

  “Yeah, guess I am.”

  “Thanks…daughter. Just, you know…I think…David…he’s good for you, you know?”

  “You think?”

  Holland nodded. “Weird, you were never going to be friends with, you know, Channel, Chardonnay, whatever…wasn’t going to happen.”

  “It might…”

  “Don’t think…I think your mother’s too strong, in you, Ank. Stronger than me. Just…you know…”

  Ank was listening, reveling in her father’s arm around her. But she was listening, alright.

  “What, Dad?”

  “Soon…remember what it’s like, okay? Remember you’re human, too.”

  “You? You remember?”

  “I’m all human, Ank.”

  “But something else, Dad. You’re something else.”

  “Sweet, Ank…thank you. But I’m just a man who’s good with death. And David? Is he there?”

  “He’s here, Dad. He’s always here.”

  “David? You, too. Remember what it’s like to be human. Just asking…I’m just asking.”

  Ank nodded for him. “He says he will.”

  Holland had to remember, too. Remember David was not a child, nor a book. David was over two thousand years old and more terrible than he, or Ank, or that which they faced. Holland knew David would try. That would have to be good enough.

  “He’s coming, isn’t he?” said Ank, still within Holland’s broad arms. “Janus. And Solomon?”

  Holland nodded. He was troubled, but he kept his eyes light. He even managed to force a little smile.

  “Holland…” his daughter said, after a time. “How do you kill a God?”

  “There’s always someone bigger and meaner, Ank,” said Holland.

  The child inside her was silent for a moment, as was Ank.

  Then David spoke in her mind.

  “What do we do when there are no bigger Gods, Ank? What then? When we get to the end, and only death remains?”

  Ank didn’t know. She didn’t think Holland did, either.

  The boat rocked up onto the shore, then, stilled.

  “We’re here,” said Charon.

  But Ank did not speak to him, but Holland.

  “I’m ready. I’m ready to not go slow any longer.”

  Holland smiled true, this time. A big, wide, good smile. He feared for Ank, like a father. But, fuck it if he wasn’t proud enough to burst, too.

  “Me, too,” he said, grinning.

  “Thank you, Charon,” said Holland, then, Ank and David, too.

  Ank took her first step onto foreign soil, and went forward.

  Charon took Holland’s shoulder in his strong hand before Holland could follow. Charon’s eyes were intent and serious.

  “Remember, Holland,” he said. “Death is not always one way.”

  Holland took Charon’s cold, wet hand from his shoulder and shook it. Felt strange, holding one of Death’s hands in his. But right.

  Right.

  Charon knows, Holland thought, ever thinking.

  Holland, you twat. He’s the Ferryman. Of course he knows.

  “Thank you,” said Holland, knowledge just as solid in himself. Charon wasn’t the only one who was smart…they were all lighter for the journey.

  But only Holland was down a piece of silver.

  V. THE MASTERS OF WAR

  I hope that you die

  And your death’ll come soon

  I will follow your casket

  In the pale afternoon

  And I’ll watch while you’re lowered

  Down to your deathbed

  And I’ll stand o’er your grave

  ‘Til I’m sure that you’re dead

  —Bob Dylan/”Masters of War” 1963/Warner Music

  77

  Holland’s foot never touched the ground.

  Something big and heavy, like a boulder, but more…designed…hit the ferry. Something a hell of a lot faster than Holland. He didn’t even see it.

  One second his foot hovered above Ukrainian soil. The next, Holland had the sense he was flying.

  Missile, said his smart mind.

  Cool, his idiot mind said.

/>   Not cool, though. It really wasn’t cool. It was, in fact, hot. Instant heat that should have been terrifying, or painful, but in the freezing, sudden cold, coming from Charon’s boat to the Ukrainian winter, being on fire was actually a kind of relief.

  No, Holland…you’re on fire. Being on fire is not cool. It’s a damn good way to die.

  His coat was aflame and he was in the air, tumbling. He didn’t know which way he was going to come down and he couldn’t do a thing about it, even if he did.

  Pieces of rotten green wood, splinters and larger chunks, were flung all around him.

  Charon’ll be fine. Boat’s fucked though.

  Holland’s mind never switched off. He figured explosive, like a shell or a missile, for sure. Something big. Plane, tank.

  I’m on fire, he thought again, spinning through the air. He caught a glimpse of a Ferris wheel, stationary, in the distance, before the river Pripyat put him out.

  78

  The boat behind Ank was in pieces, some of which were in the air, and some already smoldering in the deep snow at her feet. Charon and Holland were nowhere.

  “She’ll be proud of you,” she thought…but didn’t know why. Couldn’t remember, but then it was just a random, fleeting thought in the midst of the sudden confusion of an explosion.

  But him? Holland? What about him?

  Would he be proud of me?

  He’s not dead. He’s in the river. That’s all.

  The explosion was deafening. It was by far the loudest thing Ank had ever heard, and she’d been standing not twenty feet away.

  Shocked (shell-shocked, she thought) she turned this way and that, looking for Holland or Charon…or any sign of life, other than her own rampaging heart.

  He’s not dead. Can’t die. He’s the bastard that Death fears.

  He’s my fucking dad.

  There was nothing but the remnants of the Night Boat. Long, wicked shards in the water, or burning or smoking on the riverbank, or jutting from the snow.

  “Holland?”

  Deaf, she couldn’t tell if she was shouting or whispering.

  “Holland?!”

  Turning this way and that, Ank caught a glimpse of a wisp of smoke through the trees, maybe half a mile distant. Near the wisp of smoke, she thought she saw a bright flash.

  Like fire…a short fire. Like something that might come from a big gun.

  “Move, Ank,” said David from within her mind. “Move now.”

  Something splashed into the river behind and blew. Water filled the air, and as it rained down, Ank moved. She ran toward the trees, but then David picked her up and put her in the woods so fast she was still running. When she landed, Ank ran straight into a tree, bounced off, and lay still.

  79

  Holland sank like a stone. One second he burned. His thick green coat engulfed in flame. The next, his heart stopped for a second as he hit the freezing water.

  He sank, his coat, his heavy sweater with suede patches on the elbows, his jeans, his boots…all dragging him under.

  The Pripyat River…swallowing him.

  His heart kicked back in, and his eyes opened beneath the crystal waters of the river.

  River saved me…was going to burn up…

  No, Holland, he thought, as he looked up at the sky through the water.

  No, it didn’t. Might as well bathe in the Styx.

  For a second, just a second, he wondered what it would be like to let the river just…swallow him.

  I could do it. Give in now. Suck the water in and hold it in and sink and never come back, never come up.

  I could see my wife again.

  And damn him if that thought didn’t have power.

  Either way, I’m dead.

  Holland drifted lower, into the radioactive poison of the Pripyat River.

  Fucking Janus. Shot me with a fucking tank.

  Cunt.

  Holland’s mind didn’t, couldn’t stop working.

  I’m sucking poison in. Must have swallowed a Hiroshima’s worth of radiation already.

  What the fuck, he thought, on the heels of that. You knew you weren’t coming back.

  Holland’s body hit the bottom of the river. It wasn’t especially deep. He could strip, swim up. Live a little longer.

  His eyes closed. He opened his mouth. Let the river in.

  Something was bugging him, though, because even as he was killing himself, giving in to the cold and despair and the certainty that the river was killing him…had killed him…

  Something bugged him. Like, here he was, in the Styx (Pripyat…) and still, his mind wouldn’t still.

  Down there, in the cold and the peace, the earth wasn’t still. He could feel it beneath his back.

  Fuck off, he told the annoyance. Fuck off and leave me in peace. This is nice. I just want to float. To rest.

  Let me rest.

  The thing kept right on, though. A little like being in a car, or a vehicle. A car going over a bumpy road. Like the ground was jumping, bouncing him around, even there, under the weight of water.

  Fuck’s sake. Can’t I even die in peace?

  Holland…you’re dying. Right now. You want to die?

  River’s beguiling you, you daft cunt, thought Holland through the malaise of the cold and the wet. You’re not comfortable. You’re drowning in freezing, irradiated water.

  Going to give up for that?

  Fuck off, brain, thought Holland. Just…fuck…off.

  But the rumbling at his back, way down there under the water, wouldn’t let him in peace.

  Take your coat off. Take your jumper off. You’re burning up.

  I am hot, he thought. Uncomfortably hot. Fucking boiling.

  Shit. Fucking water’s boiling. I’m boiling. I don’t want to boil alive.

  Holland opened his eyes. He wasn’t in bubbling water, like a lobster, ready to turn red…he was in clear water. Not that much of it.

  His thoughts were going in circles. His body was burning.

  Strip off, you dozy fat bastard. Hypothermia gives the illusion of heat. It’s why you’re hot. You’re not hot. You think you’re hot. You’re dying, drowning, freezing. Strip. Get out. Get fucking out.

  Beneath the water, Holland tore with numb hands at his coat. Thing wouldn’t come off and the weight of it held him down. His hands weren’t just numb. They were useless.

  Don’t die, Holland. Don’t die.

  Fucking make your mind up.

  Don’t want to boil.

  You’re so cold you think you’re hot. Just chill.

  Fuck.

  The coat came off. One of his boots had come off in the blast, and the other came away in an idiot hand with disobedient fingers that flailed away in the poisonous water.

  It was enough. Holland moved, like a crawling lobster from a spilled pot, toward the shore. Not up, because he was still too heavy, but he used his numb hands like pinchers to drag his body toward the shore.

  His head came clear. Holland dragged himself up the bank to the snow and rolled in it. His chest heaved now he was out of the water, and he was sick with it, throwing everything out into the once-pristine snow. Black bile, from a gut five months stuck and stuffed with shit a man didn’t need.

  He puked. He screamed with agony as the snow, warmer than the waters of the river, burned him. He tore off his water-heavy sweater as he rolled in the snow, tore off his jeans and socks and pants until he was entirely naked.

  Holland rolled and wallowed in his agony and his pain, still feeling that rumbling below him, until finally he looked up and realized what it was that made the riverbed, and now the ground, shake.

  Not his own girth, or his fear of dying, frozen in the poisonous water or the snow.

  There, coming toward him, were tanks. A hundred…a thousand…a field of tanks.

  And there, in the center, Janus, Lord of War.

  Even Holland, in his burning-cold agony, could not have missed him. Janus was huge, ugly, and rode upon the dumbest thron
e in the history of the world.

  Janus, on his throne of tanks, laughing like thunder at Holland.

  Holland wanted to say something clever, something stupid, anything, but he was so cold his mouth wouldn’t work. Couldn’t even get his middle finger to work.

  Should’ve stayed in the river, he thought.

  But then he smiled. That was wrong, wasn’t it? Because he knew he wouldn’t have missed this for the world…

  Ank’s out there…somewhere, and I ain’t dead. Not yet.

  …not for the entire world.

  80

  The rumbling slowed…a great cacophony of screeching, tortured metal, heavy tread upon snow-covered dirt…then…nothing.

  Silence.

  And there, in the forefront, leading the army of tanks, was Janus.

  Holland looked up at the swollen face, seated upon his stupid throne of tanks. He didn’t say anything clever. He was too fucking cold. He just stood in front of the God of War and shivered. Thought about cupping his balls, but cold was cold. Sometimes there was nothing for it but to shiver and hope for a coat, somewhere down the line.

  “Got some balls, Holland,” said Janus. “I see why she fell for you…well, you know…guess you’re a bit cold at the moment. Metaphorically speaking, eh?”

  A man stands before a God, stripped bare, he’s either comfortable with himself or he can try for modest. Holland didn’t give a shit. He wasn’t modest. He was just cold.

  That’s a lot of tanks. And a God. And a wizard.

  Holland, despite being cold enough to just die right there, was…ticking.

  I’m in the nude.

  The nude.

  He thought for a while. Thought as hard as a frozen mind and body would allow.

  A person, a man, or woman, gets cold enough, their mind shuts down most of the way. Holland’s thinking, though, wasn’t exactly a thing dependent on blood or brain.

  So, Holland, what are you going to do?

  His teeth were chattering, and his jaw felt as though it were actually frozen. But he managed it. Managed to make the words in his head, then, push them out of his icy mouth.