by Jules Hedger
Cirrus stacked the kindling on the fire, each stick of wood piling up like the day’s list of glorious events, and he played back the last hour as a show reel in his brain to savor each glorious moment.
The desert had been quiet. The air was mercifully mild and the stars of the Wilds shone above the party to celebrate the occasion. There were no clouds in the sky, not even the infamous purple one, as Cirrus had landed about a mile away to appreciate the march across the sand. I am going to enjoy this, he thought. He had been waiting for an excuse to do this for years. But now that it had finally come, he drew out the experience like foreplay.
As the leader of the group, Cirrus formed the tip of the flock of figures crossing the sand. He had brought with him a few of his men: Simon, Terrick and Albion. Three very strong, very loyal men who also didn’t speak. He didn’t need to take many precautions. He was the Dream Catcher, after all. He couldn’t even remember the last time anyone had questioned him. But when anyone makes the choice to do business in the dead of night with three men who wouldn’t tell anyone, Cirrus reasoned, perhaps what they're doing isn’t so kosher. It never hurts to step a little lighter. And if the Council found out, it would mean paperwork. Messy, bloody paperwork.
The logs stacked up one by one in the grate. One by one.
Step by step . . .
Cirrus turned his neck to look over his shoulder at the man being hauled behind him. So much bigger than he, gifted at birth to be broader and darker. He could never be from the same father, which was painfully obvious. There was an air of myth about Lucan, everyone always said so.
Cirrus blew angrily through his nose and spat in the sand, trying to dispel the horrible feeling of shame that crept downwards into his gut when he thought about the unfairness of it all. And to add insult to injury he had to deal with this additional blow. His own family. His own blood. And all because of some stupid little git of a girl, his half-brother had left his post and left the Painter.
Lucan must have sensed his gaze, because his ocean-blue eyes shot up from following his feet and caught Cirrus smack in the middle of his disdain. They were angry and vengeful, like the sea during a storm, and Cirrus felt his bravery and power quell slightly at the sight. He quickly looked back to the horizon and walked faster.
"Where are we going, brother mine?" Cirrus heard the words float mockingly up to his hearing. He gritted his teeth and kept walking, ignoring Lucan. "Cirrus, I am being marched to a certain death. You can at least tell me where that will be."
"Wherever it is, it cannot come soon enough," Cirrus shot back over his shoulder. He heard Lucan scoff loudly.
"Oh, come on. This is a performance. You could have shot me in cold blood and wrapped me in the sheets you found me in. But you didn't."
"Your mistake," Cirrus breathed, "resulted in the most extreme case of neglect in my entire term as Dream Catcher. It was selfish and insulting and –"
"And you're jealous." Lucan interjected snidely. Cirrus turned sharply around, his fists clenched in quivering billiard balls, and looked squarely into his brother's eyes. It was blue versus green, courage and envy; the sky inked with the oncoming night facing off with the murky depths at the bottom of a cold lake.
"I am not . . . jealous," hissed Cirrus. Albion and Terrik looked sideways at each other, each wondering when, if at all, it would be appropriate to unhand Lucan before he burst outwards like a cyclone.
"Oh Cirrus, what a joke!" Lucan crowed. "I’ve heard your dreams, the whispers that slither out of your throat like vipers when you allow yourself to sleep. You are positively aching.” Lucan leaned in closed and Cirrus felt his breath catch in his throat. "Maggie, Maggie. My darling, my angel." He paused. "My love."
Cirrus's hand smacked against Lucan's cheek so suddenly it startled both of them. It echoed off the sky and pounded with heat against Cirrus's palm. Lucan twisted his face slowly back up, and even in the dark Cirrus could see his hand had left a burning mark, red as a dying star.
"You know nothing, bastard brother," Cirrus said. "You are an attention-seeking, lustful, useless bag of skin. And I cannot wait to see you hang like the dog you are."
Lucan's eyes were furious but Cirrus had turned away swiftly, motioning for the group to walk on . . .
His palm still stung faintly with the memory and back in the light of his office, Cirrus knew his shouldn't have lost his temper. It did not bode well.
He struck a match with a small crack. The light flared up and he considered the flame as it wavered, inching slowly down the match stick until it was only a hairsbreadth away from the tips of his fingers. Throwing it into the fireplace, it immediately caught on the dry kindling and newspapers. Cirrus gingerly blew on his singed fingertips. Today was all about fire, it seemed.
The fire had flared up earlier inside of his chest when the Painter died. He had raised a hand and allowed the group to pause as he stood still, face raised to the sky while wave upon wave of molten heat coursed through his veins. With a quick gasp he staggered back a step, feeling like a brand had been seared into his chest and quickened his heart like a shot of adrenaline. And as he breathed the feeling deeper, relishing in the crescendo of death, small bits of his joints started to pop and sizzle.
His knees buckled and crashed down hard against the cool sand. He could barely see as his eyes clouded over with fluid and blood and the dying dreams of a man still reeling from hallucinations. It was one giant explosion of pain and color and suddenly –
Suddenly.
Suddenly it stopped.
It was as if his mother had laid a cool hand on his brow. Or like a window had been opened to release the pent-up frustrations of a boiling room. He could still sense the life retreating, but it was the acceptance that was taking over now. The body was giving up and opening its arms to the relief of death. Cirrus’s eyes cleared and as he and the Painter took their last connected breath, the sounds and smells of the desert Wilds gently came back.
Cirrus lifted his hands from the sand and sat back on his heels. He trembled like a piece of fine tissue paper and felt just as likely to tear.
A cough sounded from behind him and Cirrus turned around to see his men frozen like gormless statues. Lucan was breathing heavily and his face showed that he knew.
“Cirrus, brother –”
“Let’s keep moving,” Cirrus croaked, fumbling in the sand to find his feet and walk forward as confidently as he could. He heard Lucan struggling anew behind him.
“That was it, wasn’t it? Cirrus, you must tell me!” Lucan grunted and strained against his captors – he was positively frantic.
“What just happened doesn’t change anything.”
“But it must!” Lucan cried. “The Painter, the Painter is –”
“Shut up!” Cirrus said, whirling around again and rearing up in Lucan’s face so close he could count the pores on his nose. “Shut your traitorous mouth. You think you deserve to know? You think you were anything to him?” Cirrus threw his head back, barking with sudden, jarring laughter. “The connection was mine. The responsibility was mine. You gave that up the moment you listened to your cock instead of to your boss.”
“What do you think you’re going to do, Cirrus? What right do you have, either?”
Cirrus smiled and swiftly smoothed over his ashen hair. Taking a step back he pulled out a pocket watch from his waistcoat. Lucan watched it spin around in a circle, his eyes widening as the meaning sunk in.
“You cannot possibly mean –”
“I am not going to explain myself to you,” Cirrus murmured. “This is between me and his niece.”
“You are a deluded man,” Lucan said. “And you will fail.”
The pocket watch twirled once, twice and a third time through the air. Cirrus caught it smoothly with his right hand and stroked the glass surface of the face tenderly, the finely wrought design of a dream catcher almost imperceptible against the pad of his thumb.
“I will have everything I ever wished for,” he said as
he slipped the watch back into his pocket. “And all you will have is sand and sun.”
Rising up from his knees from in front of the smoking fire, Cirrus reached into his pocket to find the small layer of sand that had spread across the bottom of the silk lining. He felt an ounce of comfort at the thought of Lucan, trussed and tied high at the top of the pole. He would need to find a place for his keepsake, a little box or a locket. And in a week when the body is finally discovered, well . . . he would need to practice being particularly mournful.
The thought made him think. He left the fire and strode back through the front hallway to the main office. Cindy, who might have been booking appointments or doing a crossword puzzle, looked up nervously from her desk and gulped.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Cindy, I need the Caretaker summoned urgently."
"Mr. Kleizenberg?" The way in which Cindy said the name made it obvious that she didn't approve of the person in question. Her lips pursed in disapproval, but Cirrus heard a few papers rustle and her pen click. "What shall I tell him is the reason? He's out on duty at the moment."
"Yes, I know that," Cirrus said. "But this is a state emergency. Tell him these words exactly . . ." He paused a short moment for effect. "Painter compromised. Report back immediately. Apprehend niece." There was silence as Cindy scribbled down his note. "Did you get that, Cindy?"
"Yes, Sir, there wasn't much, was there? Is that all?"
"Yes, Cindy, that is – " Cirrus blew his breath out in frustration and glared at her. The color drained from Cindy's face. "That is quite enough, don't you think?"
"Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. I'll summon him immediately."
"Thank you, Cindy,” Cirrus said through gritted teeth. “Accommodating as ever."
The door to his office burst open with a resounding bang as a disheveled and windswept man stumbled to the floor. Cindy and Cirrus stilled and watched in surprise as the man crawled back and kick the door shut.
He looked a fright: suit shirt untucked, jacket blown over his head and tie wrapped around his neck nearly four times. Cirrus could hardly help the smile that teased the edges of his mouth. Sometimes having a house that moved was the most ridiculous inconvenience the Painter could have dreamt up. But at times like this, when Council members tried to reach the dizzying heights while retaining any sense of dignity, he absolutely loved it.
The man stood up, straightening out of his disarray, and made a beeline for Cirrus.
“Cirrus, have you heard?!”
Cirrus glanced sideways at Cindy and placed a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Shall we take his into the privacy of my office? Cindy, please send that message. Now.”
Walking down the hallway, Cirrus sensed the panic emanating from the man behind him. Typical of the Council to send an utter mess to deal with the fall of the country’s king and god. But they were all incompetent, so perhaps the pickings were slim.
It didn’t take but a moment for the man to throw down his briefcase and wait for Cirrus to close the office door before losing all sense of control.
“What are we going to do?” the Council Man cried.
“You need to calm down,” Cirrus said, pouring a drink from the side board and placing it pointedly in the man’s hands.
“You must have heard, you must!” He knocked back the drink and held out his empty glass at Cirrus’s ready pour. “We never thought it would be our generation that had to deal with this. I never thought I would be alive to see –”
“It is all being taken care of,” Cirrus said loudly. The Council Man took a trembling sip from his glass and gazed at Cirrus hopefully.
“You have the heir?”
“She is on her way here as you panic,” Cirrus replied with a shiver. Even saying those words made his stomach flip. The Council Man sagged in relief and collapsed into the chair by the fire.
“You have no idea, Cirrus. That is such a relief.” He passed a hand over his face and felt in his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe his brow. “Is she prepared for the Walk?”
“She is not aware of it yet. I just needed to get her here,” Cirrus said.
“Well, it’s not like she has much of a choice, after all.”
“No, indeed,” Cirrus whispered as he watched the man pull himself up and look around for his brief case. Making his way to the door the Council Man turned back suddenly and looked searchingly at Cirrus.
“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” he whispered. Cirrus nodded. “Does she look as a . . . queen should look like?”
Cirrus thought about the amber eyes and thick, wild hair, the torn jeans and the one time he spotted ink on the inside of her thigh.
“No,” he said. The man nodded resignedly and walked back into the hallways.
Cirrus took a moment, listening out for the sound of his front door, until turning slowly around and facing the wall mirror. She didn’t look like a queen. She looked like a lost girl. So what should a king look like, really? He took off his spectacles and studied his face without them. Green eyes. Pale cheeks with a slight dusting of pink. Lips the color of a ripe pear. That was it. Lucan looked dangerous and he just looked disappointingly normal.
But then again, so was she. That connection was another feeling that swept through him like a dam had just burst. He still remembered the first time he saw her. Just a small glance, as they would always be. She was watching her uncle paint and braiding her dark hair into a side plait. Her mouth was creased down in thought, making her forehead crinkle over the top of her small nose. And that was all. But those small flashes were hits of nicotine. There was something about her that made Cirrus lose his breath. Her darkness, perhaps. Or her freckles.
And each time he saw her, he tried to look deeper than her face, catch some detail, some clue as to why she was gifted with such uninterrupted sleep. There must be a fracture somewhere, Cirrus had always thought. But there was nothing, and yet she drew him towards her like a black hole, giving nothing but taking and bending all matter that crossed her path until spitting him back out on the floor of his office.
The mirror showed a man who was airy and pale. Beside him there appeared a girl who was dark and fiery. The yin to his yang; a mystery as indefinable as dark matter and yet the answer to all of his life’s equations.
Cirrus opened the top drawer of his desk and looked down at the contract staring at him from the top of the pile. It looked simple and professional, no small print and no flourishes. Once signed, there could be no loopholes. He had gone over it a hundred times looking for one. It wouldn’t do for Maggie to have a way out.
No, Cirrus thought. When she signs this it is win, lose or burn. He was being fair. Damn it, he was being traditional. The masses would love it and love her. Just like they would love him one day.
As Cirrus made his way across the room and sank down close to the now roaring fire, he knew she would be on her way.
"Maggie, Maggie. My darling, my angel." He paused. "My love."
Lucan
The Call of the Wilds
A Rider’s Vow
Suns will rise and sons may fall
The fight is just as certain, just as sweet
I ride on through the darkness and the sprawl
Ne'er will I halt, ne'er will I retreat
And if I fall, as ghost I shall return
And carry with me sword of iron blue
As cinders fill the air and fires burn
Riders ride on and in and through
There are only three ways on which you can enter into Palet. The first is through the marbles. Those that take this route are usually government workers. Saying that, it is not highly recommended; the drugs leave a bad taste in your mouth and an ache in your gut.
The second is through dreaming. Only the Painter himself and those newly dreamt-up can enter this way as, after all, they are his dreams alone. Nevertheless, it must be mentioned.
And the third is through the Painter himself, by his own will if he were ever to
realize it was finite possibility. Many philosophers have argued that paths two and three are basically the same and that the lack of human consciousness doesn’t matter in the end.
However, that lack of control opens up a dangerous door. And if you found that there was a possibly entryway into the head of God where you could poke around in their brain, wouldn’t you try? This slightly off-putting reasoning is precisely why the Painter instated Dream Catchers.
Is it also exactly how Lucan found himself sagging at the top of the ten foot pole in the middle of the Wilds, watching clouds gather on the horizon that heralded the beginning of a mighty and ferocious sand storm.
The wind whipped his dark hair across his brow and he shut his eyes to stop the grit from blinding him. Not for the first time in his short years, he reasoned life would have been much simpler had he never been born. For one, he would not be up a pole. And he wouldn't have a complete asshole for a half-brother.
Another stellar reason for not being born was the shameful feeling that the Painter would never have died. Presumably it had something to do with the dream he let through that did it. Lucan shook his head and, as the wind died down for a short moment, eyed the oncoming clouds. If it was so, this entire situation was all his fault: the upcoming Reign Walk, the rise of a tyrant, these fucking sand burns. Really, things in Palet would have been much better had he not been born.
Cirrus told him so all the time. His mother did too, until the two brothers started to grow up and she saw that while one had a healthy fascination in books and animals, the other kept to himself and was sometimes seen talking to the air.
Guess which one was the loner?
Yeah, not the one who, at the cusp of adulthood, suddenly grew like a live mountain into a handsome, blue-eyed Lothario. No, it was the one who grew up just as strange as when he was born, whose white hair reminded people of cold climates and who could move as silently as a stalking owl.
