Rebel Heart

by Moira Young

  I was sleepwalkin, I lie.

  Yer lyin, he says. I always know when yer lyin. Why’d you do it? Why would you do that?

  I says naught.

  Don’t jest stand there, he yells, tell me, gawdammit! Why’d you break yer gawdamn bow?

  The horses shy an whinny. Lugh looks at me, his face tight with worry an . . . somethin else. Fear. I cain’t burden him no more. An if I tell him about Epona, he’ll think I’m crazy. I ain’t. I ain’t crazy. She was there.

  I was sleepwalkin, I says.

  I’m jest tryin to keep us all together, he says, to give us a better life than Pa did an all you seem to care about is yerself or . . . I dunno, I got no idea what yer thinkin. I feel like I don’t know you no more. He shakes his head. Fine. Whatever. What the hell, it ain’t like you use the damn thing. It ain’t like me an Tommo don’t do all the huntin anyways.

  We mount up. Nero sails down an lands on my shoulder.

  Yer gittin more like Pa every day, says Lugh.

  How d’you mean? I says.

  You figger it out.

  He heels Buck an pushes past. Tommo’s right behind him. Em looks at me a moment, her face like a worried old woman, then she hurries after ’em.

  I sit there on Hermes. The pines murmur to each other.

  More like Pa every day. I favour him in looks – black hair, brown eyes – but that ain’t what Lugh meant. No. What he means is I’m goin crazy. Jest like Pa. Our hopeless, helpless father, his reason snatched by death. The death of Ma, who breathed her last as Emmi breathed her first. Pa was left a broke soul with a broke mind. He got worse an worse as time went on.

  I ain’t like Pa. Nuthin like Pa.

  Please.

  Don’t let me be like Pa.

  Somethin’s followin me. Somethin or . . . somebody. It’s bin there most of the day. It’s mid-afternoon now.

  I could turn around an look. If I did that once, I did it a hunnerd times already. The feelin that somethin’s there . . . it’s kept me checkin back over my shoulder, agin an agin. Every time I don’t see a thing but where we jest come from.

  Still. There’s this heaviness in the air behind me. Like somethin’s settled there. Like somethin’s takin up space.

  I feel it on the back of my neck. My skin prickles with it. I know it’s there. I jest cain’t see it.

  Not yet, anyways.

  Now I hear hoofs. The dry thud of hoofs on hard ground. There’s a horse behind me. Not in a hurry. Keepin pace. Keepin me company.

  A shiver ripples through me. My hands feel so cold. Even though today’s the kinda day when the world shimmers white with heat. I huddle inside my sheema.

  I gotta take a look.

  I hold my breath. I look over my right shoulder.

  A little ways behind me, a shape lies jagged along the ground. It’s black. Like it’s bin cut out of the night sky. It’s a horse. An a rider.

  My heart starts bangin aginst my ribs. I stare. This ain’t the time of day fer shadows. I look away quick. A heavy, sick feelin grips my stummick. Hermes snorts an tosses his head. He’s nervous. That ain’t like him. I press with my heels an he picks up speed. The hoofbeats behind us quicken. I glance back.

  The black shape’s keepin pace.

  I know the line of that neck. That head. Many times before, when she still drew breath, we’d be ridin an I’d look over my shoulder, jest like now. She’d smile or say somethin to cheer me up.

  Epona.

  I bring Hermes to a halt. The shadow rider stops too. I stare down at my hands. They tremble on the reins.

  Epona, I says. Whaddya want from me?

  Silence. Nero flies above. He caw caw caws. Does he see her too?

  Breakin my bow warn’t enough. I gotta pay proper fer what I did. She’ll pace me. Stalk me. Haunt my nights an dog my days till I lay myself down, bare my throat an beg her to finish me off. She must be paid in kind fer her lost life.

  Why should I be alive when yer dead? I says. That’s it, ain’t it? I know I got no right to be.

  The jangle of her horse’s bridle. Hermes sidesteps, his eyes rollin as he tosses his head. I grip the reins harder.

  Tell me what to do, I says. Please, Epona. Say somethin.

  My whole body’s shakin. I’m cold to the bone. Slow, oh so slowly, I turn to look behind me.

  She’s gone.

  Epona’s bin ridin with me fer the past two days. An now it ain’t jest her. There’s more of ’em.

  One by one, they appeared. But these ones ain’t on horseback, like Epona. They’re on foot. They hide, jest at the edge of my sight. Or I catch a glimpse of somethin – a flash of light, a rush of dark – as they dart behind a rock or a tree. I hear the sound of runnin feet. Laughter. It’s like they’re playin a game.

  I cain’t never git a proper look. They move so quick.

  I know who they are. It’s Helen. Helen an the rest of ’em from Hopetown. Every girl I ever fought in the Cage. Every girl I beat. An I beat them all.

  They call me the Angel of Death. That’s cuz I ain’t never lost a fight.

  If you lost three times, you ran the gauntlet. Nobody survived the gauntlet. The frantic hands of the crowd, tearin at you, pullin you down. I used to turn my back so’s I couldn’t see. But I could hear. I heard everythin. It all went in. Every touch an smell an taste an sound. Every girl I fought is part of me now. I’m the terror in her eyes, her hunger to live, the scent of death-so-near on her skin.

  An here they are. It’s a relief to see them. At last, I know who the shades are. Who’s bin whisperin on the wind ever since we come to the Waste. They’re waitin fer their moment to git me. To take me. I’m so tired. I cain’t hold ’em off much longer.

  They’re bold. Emmi could be ridin beside me, or Lugh or Tommo, an they’ll still git up to their tricks. Earlier today, one of ’em even dashed right in front of Hermes. If I hadn’t of hauled on his reins, he would of trampled her.

  I try not to sleep at night. If I don’t sleep, nobody can come an take me. Take me away from Lugh an Emmi an Tommo. Or take them away from me. We’ll all be safe as long as I stay awake.

  But sometimes, sheer exhaustion snatches me. Not fer long, but when it does, I dream of Jack. Fevered, shallow dreams or . . . or maybe they’re visions, I dunno. They’re always the same. He’s trapped in the darkness. No, that ain’t right – he’s trapped by the darkness. Down the corridors I run, up the stairs. I open the door. An I search fer him. I search an I call his name, but I never find him.

  I can never find my way to Jack.

  Dark dreams by night. Dark shadows by day.

  The days an nights melt, one into th’other, till it’s hard to tell sleepin from wakin. If the sun didn’t rise an set, I might not know at all.

  I’m runnin. I gotta find Jack. I know he’s here.

  Down a long, dark corridor. Torches throw ragged shadows across the stone walls. The only sound is me. My footsteps. My breathin. I got the heartstone in my hand. It’s warm. That means Jack’s close by.

  Saba.

  The voice brushes past me on a gust of cold air. The wall torches flicker. I stop. I’m at the bottom of a stone staircase. It’s steep, winds sharply upwards.

  Saba. Saba.

  The voice runs along the walls an up my spine. It settles in the dark places, deep inside of me. Like it belongs there. Jack’s voice. Or . . . no, I cain’t be certain. All I know is, I heard it before. But I cain’t remember where or when.

  I clutch the heartstone even tighter.

  Jack! I grab a wall torch, shine it up the staircase. Is that you? Stay there, I’m comin!

  Hurry, hurry, hurry. The voice sighs down my neck, prickles my arms. I start to climb the stairs. When I git to the top, there’s a wooden door. Old, scarred.

  I hold up the heartstone. It’s burnin hot n
ow. He’s on th’other side. The sound of a heartbeat. In my head, all around me, everywhere. So loud.

  Jack, I says. Are you there?

  I turn the handle. I open the door.

  It’s ripped from my hand. I cry out. Brace myself. The wind tears the door from its hinges an it flies off into the darkness.

  It’s a doorway to nowhere.

  I’m at the top of a tower. Jagged mountains rise around me. A great chasm yawns below. All is emptiness, vastness, blackness.

  I cling to the door frame. The wind sucks at me, plucks at me, shriekin its rage.

  Jack! I scream. Jack!

  Then I’m fallin. Fallin. Fallin.

  Lugh pushed us on today. We travelled long an hard. It was dark by the time we set up camp behind the rusted hulk of a great boat, stranded in ancient times when the waters it sailed on dried to dust. It’s the best shelter fer miles around, but still the sharpwinds find us. They come whinin, stingin our faces with their fiery bite. Clouds scud across the sky. Break over the face of the moon. There ain’t no stars tonight. A wolfdog howls not far away.

  I’m crouched on the edge of the campsite. I keep my back to the rest of ’em. If they see, they’ll come sniffin around, askin questions. They watch me all the time. I cain’t do nuthin without somebody pokin their nose in.

  I gotta git it off. This blood on my hands. Soap leaf in boilin water, horsetail . . . it ain’t none of it worked. The blood’s dried so dark it’s almost black. Unner my nails too. I noticed it today, while I was talkin to Epona. They must of got stained when I butchered the wolfdogs. Gotta git ’em clean before Lugh sees. He’s ever so particular. He always said Pa might not care but that didn’t mean us kids couldn’t be decent.

  I’m diggin unner my nails with a stick. C’mon, I mutter, c’mon, shift, you bastard. But it won’t. I grab a rough stone an start scrubbin at my arms, the palms of my hand. Dammit, why won’t it come out? I grit my teeth an scrub harder. I glance over my shoulder. Check to make sure nobody ain’t noticed.

  They’re all starin at me. Tommo, Lugh an Emmi. Sittin there by the fire with their eatin tins.

  What? I says.

  Tommo’s called you three times, says Lugh.

  I go to join ’em. They’re almost finished. Tommo serves prairie dog stew into my eatin tin. Hey, I says, don’t this look good, Tommo. I’m that hungry I could eat my boots.

  It’s a lie. I ain’t hungry. I ain’t never hungry these days. I tip most of it to Nero on the sly.

  As I go to take my food, Tommo says, Saba! Yer hands!

  I shove ’em behind my back. I’ve gone hot. My face, my neck, my chest. Tommo knows. He seen the stains, he knows what it is. Now they’ll all know.

  Emmi an Lugh’s both jumped up at Tommo’s words. Lugh reaches behind me. Grabs my hands an turns ’em over. They all exclaim.

  Ohmigawd, Saba! says Lugh. You got blood all over ’em. What’ve you done?

  I tried to clean ’em, I says. I bin scrubbin an scrubbin, but they . . . they won’t come out, the bloodstains won’t come out. I’m sorry, Lugh.

  You poor fool, he says. There ain’t no bloodstains. You scrubbed ’em raw.

  I stare down at the palms of my hands. He’s right. I scraped the skin off. Scraped ’em to a bloody mess. There ain’t no dark bloodstains. None at all, not unner my nails, nowhere.

  They was there, I says. I swear they was.

  Okay, says Lugh. That’s it, that’s enough. Emmi, git the medicine bag. Tommo, bring some hot water. C’mere, Saba, c’mon. He makes me sit on the ground. He drapes a blanket around my shoulders.

  Emmi bustles back with our little skinbag of remedies. Herbs an leafs, tinctures an ointments. Tommo brings a basin of water. Emmi kneels beside me an commences to clean my hands with a soft cloth. I’ll try not to hurt you, she says.

  Lugh an Tommo crouch in close. Watch me close.

  Such serious faces, I says. Am I in trouble?

  What’s goin on, Saba? says Lugh. An I don’t want no snow job. The truth this time.

  We wanna help you, says Tommo.

  I don’t need no help, I says.

  You jest tried to scrub away bloodstains that ain’t there, says Lugh.

  You sleepwalk, says Tommo.

  Yer seein things. Emmi don’t look at me as she speaks. Her gentle fingers spread sagewort salve on my raw hands, tie strips of cloth around. Like today, she says, when you jumped all of a sudden. You seen somethin. Somethin or somebody. They ran in front of the horses, didn’t they? I couldn’t see nuthin cuz there warn’t nuthin there to see. But you do. You see things all the time.

  What is it you see? says Lugh. Who do you see?

  My chest’s startin to feel tight. Like there’s a band around it. Nobody, I says. Nuthin. I dunno what yer on about.

  We all seen you, he says. You talk to the air, like somebody’s there, beside you. Who is it?

  Nobody, I says. Leave me alone.

  It’s yer dead friend, ain’t it? he says. Epona. You see the dead, Saba. You talk to the dead.

  I snatch my hands from Emmi. Glare at her. I knew I couldn’t trust you! I says.

  I warn’t gonna say nuthin, she says, truly I warn’t, but . . . yer gittin worser an worser all the time. I’m worried about you, Saba. We all are. You need help.

  You think I’m crazy, I says. Nobody says naught. Nobody lets their eyes meet mine. Then, Yeah, says Lugh. We do.

  Suddenly, rage takes me. It’s nowhere. Then it’s everywhere. The red hot. It floods me, blinds me, chokes me. I leap at Lugh. I knock him backwards. We roll on the ground. I punch, I kick, I claw.

  From a long ways off, I can hear Emmi screamin. Tommo shoutin. Hands pullin at me. Screamin. Yellin. Lugh kicks an struggles beneath me. I’m sittin on his chest.

  Emmi’s sobbin. Stop it, Saba! Stop it! You’ll kill him!

  The red hot starts to fade. I come to. My hands is tight around Lugh’s throat. My thumbs pressin on his windpipe. He’s got his hands on mine, tryin to pull ’em away. His eyes wide with panic an fear.

  Lugh’s afeared of me.

  I let go. He gasps. Drags desperate air into his lungs.

  My shakin hand reaches out. I touch his throat. The marks of my fingers pressed deep into his flesh. The necklace I made him fer our eighteen year birthday. I touch the little ring of shiny green glass. The memory of our lost selfs. Jest barely do I touch it. In case it disappears.

  I climb off. I kneel in the dirt at his side.

  I almost killed him. I tried to kill Lugh.

  Emmi’s weepin. Lugh’s chest heaves, his eyes dark with shock. I’ve blooded his nose.

  The red hot’s gone. Jest as quick as it come, it went. I’m limp. Exhausted. Numb. I turn my head so’s I don’t hafta look at him.

  He gits slowly to his feet. He reaches down a hand to help me up. We stand there. He swipes his nose with his sleeve.

  Tears start to roll down my cheeks. He wipes ’em away, but they keep on comin. Silent. Never endin. They splash in the dust at my feet. But I ain’t cryin.

  You jest gotta hang on a bit longer, he says. Jest a few more weeks an we’ll be at the Big Water an . . . when we git there, when we . . . git out west, it’s all gonna be okay. We got such a good life waitin fer us there.

  The words halt from him. On a hoarse whisper. Like a story bein told fer the very last time. With nobody there to hear it.

  Did I say how the, uh . . . I tell you, Saba, the land out there’s so rich . . . all you gotta do is shove a stick in the ground, an the next day there’s a full-grown nut tree, right where that stick went in. Wouldn’t that be a . . . a wondrous sight? If you seen that, you’d think it was a dream, wouldn’t you? I’d sure like to see that. Emmi an Tommo too, we’d . . . we’d all like to see that. An we will. We will.

  I watch his lips move. I hear hi
s words. His voice sounds muffled, like he’s unner water. He puts his arms around me. He hangs onto me. His whole body’s shakin.

  Whatever’s broke, he says, I can fix it. I’ll fix it all. I promise.

  The land’s bare of tree. White of rock. No clouds. No shade. No shelter. The sun grills. The earth bakes. Sullen dust dogs our heels.

  We plod along, Hermes an me. We lag well behind the rest. I stare at my hands on the reins. Inside my head, I’m more’n halfways to somewhere else. Somewhere blank an white an endless. My brain’s flat. I don’t care if we ride the Waste ferever.

  Somethin dashes in front of us. Cuts across Hermes. He rears an squeals, his forelegs beatin high in the air. I grab the reins to stop from fallin. Sounds crash at me. Slam me. Shock me to life.

  It’s a blue-eyed wolfdog. With one droopy ear. It’s him. It’s Tracker. He’s here.

  He darts at Hermes. In an out. In an out. Hermes shies an dances an squeals. I grip hard with my knees. Hang on the reins. I’m only jest managin to keep my seat.

  Up ahead, I can hear Lugh yellin, Wolfdog! The three of ’em wheel around an start gallopin back towards us. Emmi’s screamin, Tracker! It’s Tracker!

  He makes one last dash. Hermes bolts. Then we’re racin, flat out, headed due north. I lay low aginst his neck an hang on tight. Tracker chases behind us, a lean grey streak.

  He’s real. No figment. No dream. The rest of ’em shouted, Emmi called his name, so he ain’t jest in my mind.

  I glance back over my shoulder. He’s still there.

  He turned us. No. He turned me. He turned me from the westward trail. On purpose. Like he wants me to go this way. An now he’s stickin to my tail, makin sure I stay on course till I git there.

  Wherever there is.

  We stand on top of a bluff, lookin out over a wide, flat valley. Dry but fer the ribbon of water that loops its way through the middle. Like a thin, silver-skinned snake, it glints in the late afternoon sun. The last, sleepy memory of a once-mighty river.

  There’s one straight stretch of the river. On the near-side, two rows of ragtag tents, tepees an flotsam skellies straggle along the bank. They’re shaded by some good-sized cottonwood trees. What look to be funeral pyres – three, side by side – burn an smoke some distance from the camp.