Rebel Heart

by Moira Young

  What’ll I tell Lugh? she says. He’s gonna come after you, y’know.

  That’s why I need a head start, I says. Stall him. Lie to him, whatever you gotta do. Jest buy me some time.

  I start to move Hermes, but she grabs hold of his bridle.

  Have a care fer yer brother, she says. He’s— There’s some wounds that run too deep to be seen. They’re the most dangerous. An remember what I said about Tommo, he—

  I ain’t got time fer this, Auriel. Leave go of me.

  This is important, you really—

  I said, let go!

  DeMalo, she says.

  My stummick clenches. What about him? I says.

  He’s the Pathfinder, she says. You’ll meet him agin. You ain’t ready.

  My palms go clammy. I’ll try to steer clear of him, I says.

  Saba, she says, yer only jest beginnin to know who you are, what you can do, who you can be. Remember, in the tent, in yer vision . . . yer right, DeMalo does know the shadows. His own, yers, the rest of us. We all have ’em. They’re a powerful part of you, but you must learn to—

  She stops on a breath. I can see her listenin to her voices agin, her guides. She nods. The time’s outta joint, she says. The world moves on too fast. You’ll hafta do this on yer own. Be very careful.

  I gotta go, I says.

  Nero takes off from the fence. He circles above, silent scout of the night.

  She lets go the bridle. She steps back, huggin her shawl tight around her.

  Don’t stop on the Wraithway, she says. No matter what.

  G’bye, Auriel, I says.

  An don’t lose sight of what you believe in, she says. If you do, we’re all lost.

  I nod a farewell as I leave. I set a course due north. An I don’t look back.

  Half a league outta camp, Nero circles back. He swoops past me, callin, callin, callin.

  I turn to see what’s his fuss.

  Tracker comes runnin outta the darkness. He catches up with Hermes.

  Tracker. Last seen tied to a cottonwood tree. There ain’t no sign of his tether.

  He don’t say nuthin. Not a bark, not a glance of reproach. He jest settles into a steady lope alongside Hermes.

  My heart gladdens. Lightens. It swells to fill my chest. What was it Auriel said?

  He runs with you now. The wolfdog an the crow. Fit companions fer a warrior.

  My crow. An now – it seems – my wolfdog.

  He won’t be left behind. I was wrong to do it. I won’t do it agin. I should of known he wouldn’t be tied.

  We ride through a land of stony plains. Of rock-bound lakes an spruce-choked forests, where the air stands heavy an chill. A place of the thick dark. The deep old.

  The night’s black. No stars. The moon shines white an hard. My every nerve’s hummin. Hermes ain’t easy. If I gave him his head, he’d fly. But, bad as I’d like that, I hold him steady. Steady, always steady. We got a long ways yet to go.

  His hoofs drum the ground. The sound falls dull. Muffled. Somewhere in the distance, far, far away, I think I hear the beat of drums. Or do I? Hard to tell. Then nuthin. Gone. Stoneheart country like this conjures up bogeys in a person’s mind. The Wraithway. Wrecker ghosts. Travellers who set off but never arrive.

  I know all about ghosts now. Unquiet spirits. They don’t hold no fears fer me. I reach fer the heartstone around my neck an I think . . . I think about Jack. Of how it’ll be when I see him agin. When he’s holdin me tight an I’m holdin him tighter an the heartstone’s burnin my skin.

  I think of what we might say. Him to me. Me to him. I ain’t no soft girl. I don’t know no soft words.

  Be with me, Jack. That’s what I’ll say. Burn with me. Shine with me.

  Nero flies ahead. Tracker runs behind. I check to my left an my right. I’m alert, full of purpose, free. An fer the first time in a long time, I can breathe.

  Here. Now. Alone. With none but my own heart fer witness, I’ll say it. Without Lugh, I’m able to breathe.

  He smothers me. Chokes me. Pens me in. Tethers me to him with his worry an sorrow an anger an fear.

  Once I find Jack, once we’re all together, I’ll find a way to help him. I must. I swear I will. Jack an me, we’ll find some way to help Lugh.

  I see no wraiths on the Wraithway. But there’s somethin ain’t right. There’s a deadness to the air. A flatness. It’s a place that ain’t one thing or th’other. Not quite alive, not quite dead. It waits. Like the moment between livin an dyin.

  We pass a long line of rusted-out, crumblin cars. One after another, on an on fer a league an more. Nose to tail, all facin west. Like they was headed to the same place at the same time, but stopped fer some reason when they got this far.

  Pa used to tell of when he was a boy an the winds unburied a car with four Wreckers inside. They still had their skins, shrivelled onto their bones like dry seed pods. I’m thankful there ain’t no dead inside these cars. The Wraithway’s spooked enough.

  When the night’s half-spent its darkness, the country begins to change. I start to see wide, deep gashes in the rock. Scars as big as canyons. The earth’s skin’s bin scraped away. Its body blasted open. Over an over fer league upon league. Nature took no hand in this. The hands of people did. People long since dead. The Wreckers.

  I slow Hermes to a walk. By the pale, cold of the moon, I look on their violent work. Their earth hate. The hulks of their great machines. The skellentons of their buildins. The toppled chimleys. The tangled heaps of iron an metal. All rusted. Silent.

  No tree grows here. No moss. Not like most Wrecker places, where all of this ’ud be covered up. Hidden by the years, the countless years, of dirt an grass an scrub an trees as the earth gathers in what’s dead an gone. But nuthin lives here. Only fire. Thin rivers, small lakes of fire. Wherever there’s water, it burns. Low an ugly. Slow an thick. It oozes an roils, black an red. Like poisoned blood seeps from a fatal wound.

  From the gashed ground, plumes of steam sigh.

  If restless spirits ride the Wraithway, they ain’t Wreckers. They’re nature spirits. The spirits of earth an water. Of air an plants an creatures. With every right to ride vengeance on men.

  No, Wrecker souls don’t roam the road. This place, this hell, is their home. They’re caught in their rivers of fire, always an ferever drownin. Never, ever to be free. Their voices gutter in the flames. Take pity, fergive me, have mercy on me. Prisoners of their own destruction. Trapped till the end of time.

  I hear them call. I make no answer. I turn my face from the murdered land.

  We ride into kinder country. The rocky trail softens to earth in places. There’s the open straggle of pine forests an small hills. There ain’t bin no sign of traffic this whole time – no wheelruts, beast tracks, bootprints, nuthin. Looks like Auriel was right. Nobody travels the Wraithway.

  When the sky’s still dark, but you can sense the promise of day, we come upon a tipped-over wagon. It’s blockin the trail. I slow Hermes to a walk while we go around.

  It’s bin smashed with a vengeance. There’s a few scraps of pathetic stuff scattered about. Well-used eatin tins, a man’s worn boot. Tracker noses an sniffs all around. Nero swoops down on somethin. He picks it up in his beak an shows me what it is. A child’s rag doll.

  Leave it, I says.

  Whatever went down here, it warn’t friendly. An not more’n a couple days ago, I’d say. The wheelruts still read clear. There’s the hoofprints of a panicked pony. An some other tracks . . . beast, not human, but no creature I ever seen before. Each track’s bigger’n my two hands spread out, side by side. A two-toed beast. The inside toe’s long, much longer’n the outside one. With a nail on it. It looks kinda like a hoof. But it ain’t.

  It’s called the Wraithway. Them that take it, rarely make it.

  I peer into the trees. The forest b
roods thickly on both sides of the trail, presses in, dark an unfriendly. Was that a movement, jest there? Tracker stares that way an growls. Maybe it ain’t such kind country after all.

  Tracker, c’mon! I says.

  It cain’t be far to the Yann Gap now. We hurry on. But Tracker keeps glancin to the right, into the trees on the south side of the trail. We go on another league or so. Tracker seems to relax an I can hear the rush of water up ahead.

  Sure enough, a narrow stream cuts across the trail. It hurries outta the trees, gabblin to itself in a nervous rush. Hermes starts to slow as we approach. He tosses his head in complaint when I urge him on. He slows, then comes to a stubborn halt.

  Don’t stop on the Wraithway, no matter what.

  No matter what. Well, I only got one horse an he needs a drink. Tracker too, he’s bin runnin all night. We won’t be long. A few seconds, that’s all. I slide down from Hermes.The water’s runnin fast an shallow over rocks.

  Hang on, I says. I’ll check it out, make sure it’s—

  Hermes pushes past me with a huffle as Tracker rushes into the stream an begins to drink. Nero lands on a rock an dips his beak in.

  Guess it’s okay, I says.

  We drink long an deep. The water ripples an swirls, black in this light. It’s icy cold an tastes flat, like stone. I look up at the sky as I sluice my face an arms. Dark clouds hide the moon. The last dregs of night tangle with forest shadows so’s you cain’t tell one from th’other. I squint. Looks like somebody’s cut a path into the trees on the north side of the Wraithway.

  Nero takes off with a squawk. I go fer a last scoop of water. Ow! I whip my hands out, an suck at my left wrist. The iron taste of blood. I must of nicked it on a stone. I plunge it back in the water, swish it about to wash off the blood.

  We better git goin, I says.

  In a flash, Tracker’s outta the stream. He stares at it, stiff-legged, growlin.

  I frown. What’s the matter with you? I says.

  Somethin slips around my skin. Somethin long an sleek. I snatch my hand out an peer into the stream. I cain’t see proper, the light’s so bad, the water’s so dark.

  The clouds clear the moon.

  The stream’s alive with snakes. Long, black, thick-bodied serpents, wrigglin an squirmin, more an more all the time. Suddenly, I realize my blood’s still drippin. The water starts to boil with snakes.

  Ahh! I scramble back. Tracker’s goin crazy, barkin. Hermes screams an rears. There’s a snake writhin up his front leg. I lunge an fling it off. I grab a rock an wham it down on top of the thing. As I smash it dead, Hermes bolts fer safety. With a squeal of panic, he crashes off into the trees, down the path I noticed before.

  No! I drop the rock an take off after him, Tracker at my heels.

  Tracker an me run after Hermes. He’s already well outta sight. We’re on a good, bushwhacked trail that somebody’s takin care to keep clear. Maybe hunters, maybe somebody else. It’s the first real sign of life since we started this night-time ride, but I don’t welcome it. The quicker I find Hermes an git outta here, the better.

  Our feet fall silent on the forest floor, soft an deep with fallen needle. I slide my bow off, pluck a arrow an string it as I run. I keep turnin, checkin my back, my sides, ready fer anythin. I can hear Nero above the trees, cawin to let me know he’s with us.

  The night’s startin to wane in earnest, the day gainin ground fast. It’s much easier to see now, even here among the trees. Not far ahead, I can see that they open up. Looks like it might be a clearin. To be on the safe side, I move offa the trail an slip along between the trees. Tracker keeps close to my side. A strange smell starts to tickle my nose, prickle the hairs on the back of my neck. It’s sickly, thickly sweet. Then, sure enough, we’re at the edge of a clearin.

  An lookin at a huge Wrecker temple. A mighty ruin that’s bein kept from fallin down completely by props, tarps an sheets of metal. Back when, it must of bin a sight to take yer breath away. Its stone walls still stand tall an proud, with arched window holes, fancy carvin work all around where the great door used to be. There’s a iron cross, tall as the trees around it.

  There ain’t nobody in sight. Jest Hermes. He’s standin in the doorway, takin a look.

  Hermes, I hiss.

  With a swish of his tail, he steps inside.

  I curse to myself. Bow at the ready, I start to inch my way outta the trees, checkin, checkin, checkin in every direction. That funny, sweet smell’s makin my scalp twitch.

  Nero lands on the makeshift roof, peers in through a wide gap, then drops down an disappears. Great. First my horse an now my crow gone inside. But there ain’t no sounds of alarm – beast or otherwise – so that’s somethin at least.

  I tread on silent feet across the clearin. Step around a pile of beast scat I don’t recognize. Tracker takes one sniff an backs away, whinin.

  I spot a feather, caught on a tree branch at shoulder height. White an fluffy. But not from no bird I know.

  With my back to the temple wall, I sidle myself towards the black hole of the doorway. I peer in. The faint light of grey sky slants in through holes an gaps. Nuthin moves. It’s all clear. I step inside.

  I freeze. My skin goosebumps. Every hair on my head stands on end.

  It’s full of skellentons. Big an small an every size in between. They sit close packed, side by side, on long wooden benches. They gleam whitely, dully, in the dim light. They’re all faced towards a raised stone platform at the far end. The wall behind it is covered, floor to roof, in skulls.

  I take in the temple. It’s one great room, much longer than it is wide. A long aisle splits it in half down its length, makin a straight path from where I’m standin, jest inside the door, to that high wall of skulls. The rows of benches sit both sides of the aisle. Along the side walls stand wire cages full of bones. In the middle of the stone platform, there’s a shallow pit with a fire burnin. A heavy metal drum sits on a grill on top of the flames. Steam rises from the drum. That’s where the hair-frazzlin reek’s comin from.

  It’s also where Hermes is. He stands at the foot of the platform, helpin hisself to a pile of dried timbergrass heaped there.

  I start up the aisle towards him, on tiptoes. My head turns from side to side, takin in the skellentons on the benches. There’s hunnerds of ’em. Wires run through each of ’em, tetherin bone to bone. They sit neatly on their bony backsides. Patiently. Fer all the world like they’re waitin fer somethin. Well, they ain’t none of ’em in a hurry no more, that’s fer certain.

  Some rest their hands on their knees. Some of the big ones hold hands with little ones. I keep espectin ’em to turn an stare at me with their hollow eyes. Nero hops from skull to skull, stoppin every now an then to stick his beak somewhere unspeakable. Tracker’s close, lookin up at me with anxious eyes, whinin till I hush him with a finger to my lips.

  Whatever’s in the drum, it’s bubblin like fury. The stink of it’s jest about curdlin my liver. I step onto the platform to check it out.

  The top of the drum comes to my chest. I cain’t see in. On the ground nearby, there’s a long pole with a tin bucket lashed to one end. A dipper. I pick it up. I lower it into the drum an fish around. Suddenly, it gits heavier. I got somethin. I lift the dipper out. I hand-over-hand the pole, bringin the bucket towards me. The smell’s makin me gag now.

  I stare into the bucket. Foamy water. With globby white bits in it. Somethin large bobs to the surface. It turns over. Lazy. Casual. A face looks at me. A human face.

  Aaaah! I yell. I drop the dipper an stagger back. The head surfs out an plops at my feet. I leap aside, stumblin, aimin my bow at it without thinkin. At this . . . this nightmare that used to be a man. My hands shake as I stare down at it.

  No nose. No eyes. No lips. One ear, with a silver hoop ring. A thick patch of long dark hairs. Some flesh boiled away to the bone. The skin that’s left look
s like a bloated, dead fish, drippin offa the skull in watery shreds.

  Tracker’s barkin like mad.

  Somethin black swoops at me. I cry out an duck. It’s Nero. Gawdammit, Nero! I says.

  He caw caws as he flies to the wall of skulls in front of me. He perches on one. They grin down at me. Stare madly from their empty eye holes.

  A temple full of skellentons. Cages of bones. A head bein boiled clean. A wall of skull trophies. The old stories that Auriel spoke of. Spirits an strange beasts. An skull collectors. Headhunters.

  The fire. It’s burnin hot an brisk. Somebody’s tendin it. Somebody who ain’t gone far an could come back any second. They could be watchin me right now.

  I grab Hermes’ reins an hurry back up the aisle towards the door. My head turns, my eyes scan everywhere.

  Suddenly, a door opens in the wall of skulls. Somebody comes through it.

  I read him in a flash. Barefoot. Bald. Painted white all over, but fer black slashes at his eyes an mouth. Dressed in a thick flutter of rag strips. Shrivelled scalps hang around his waist. A blowgun around his neck. My bow’s up. I aim. I shoot.

  The second I spot him, he spots me. He grabs his blowgun an blows.

  He’s fast. But I’m faster. I duck. The dart zings over my head. I feel its wind in my hair. My arrow hits. It’s a heartstrike. Perfect. He flies backwards. Crashes into the wall of skulls an thumps to the floor. Skulls rain down on top of him, around him, smashin on the stone floor with a fearsome racket.

  Then. As the sound dies away, I hear ’em.

  Drums.

  Drumbeats. From the north. Comin this way. They mean one thing an one thing only. Fear an pain an a place in the skull wall.

  No bogey. All too real.

  Nero! I yell.

  I turn an run. I belt outta that temple an onto the trail as fast as I can. Runnin faster’n I ever run before. I’m flyin, my feet hardly touchin the ground. I can hear Hermes an Tracker crashin along, well ahead of me. Nero screeches above the treetops. I burst outta the trees an hit the Wraithway at top speed. Damn. Hermes an Tracker’s headed back the way we jest come. I holler at ’em as I pound the trail east.