by Dean Wells
Jacsen looked at the girl, more out of shock than anything, but still he blushed, ashamed to have looked and looked away. The boy wore only one shoe. It was a good shoe, seldom worn. His left foot was bare. It was badly clubbed, twisted in and sharply upturned. He stood on his ankle where a thick ugly callus had formed. Why his foot hadn’t been treated, Jacsen couldn’t figure, except that maybe there hadn’t been a surgeon nearby no more than there’d been a witch to retouch the faded hex sign over the door.
Jacsen had stared too long. The man said, “Boy ain’t worth nothing. You like him better, you can take him for free.”
“I don’t want your boy.”
“No. Nobody does. That’s why they left him.”
The boy was expressionless. How often had he heard that? How much had it chipped away at him? Still, he held his sister safely behind him.
“He’s your boy,” Jacsen said.
“My boy?” The man closed on Jacsen, stopping just short of pressing the rifle into Jacsen’s chest, and Jacsen went still. “Your kind took all my boys! You gave them guns. You forced them to fight. Then when they died you gave me a coin for each one and called it done! And that’s what you left me with.”
The boy stood like a stone.
“And now you come for him too? Take him, then.”
Jacsen saw the hastily loaded cart.
“Why didn’t you just take him the first time if that’s all you wanted?”
Jacsen saw the children in their holiday best.
“Take them!”
The children like fetters, like ghosts.
And Jacsen’s fear of the rifle dried away. The man was only pointing it at him because he had to point it somewhere and was too much the coward to turn it on himself.
Jacsen pushed the rifle away.
The man faltered back. Jacsen didn’t look into his eyes. He didn’t care what was there. He had no pity for the man, only a deeper broader resentment for what fathers did to sons.
“I’m sorry,” Jacsen said. He turned away. He swung up onto his horse. “I only wanted the water.”
* * *
Fifty yards later the rifle shot cracked.
Jacsen wheeled, kicked his spurs and lashed the reins, praying the man had shot himself and not either of the children. But no, he hadn’t been that kind of man.
The little girl lay crumpled on the ground.
The man held the boy by the collar in his left hand, the rifle in his right, but he couldn’t hold the boy and reload at once, so he had to let go of one or the other. He let go of the boy.
The man’s eyes shot open wide at Jacsen thundering down on him. He started to raise the rifle to fend off Jacsen’s saber, but he hesitated. Jacsen cut the man down like wheat.
He flew past and hauled on the reins. His horse kicked up dirt and nearly fell, stopping so short. Jacsen threw himself down and scrambled over to the man. Breathing heavy, he stood over the body in a blood frenzy, ready for more, as if the man might rise even with his head attached only by a thread. That sort of thing had happened before.
Then he saw the boy pressed against the cart’s wheel, clutching it white-knuckled, drenched crimson in his father’s blood. Jacsen dropped his saber to the muddied ground and went to him.
The boy shrieked out of sheer terror and fought him like a hellcat. Jacsen couldn’t touch him. It was an hour before the boy would listen at all.
* * *
III
The number of soldiers on the field below had tripled. But the soldiers didn’t matter. The new battery of four siege howitzers, that was what mattered.
The witch would bless them. The Grange would fall.
From the witch’s wagon stepped a boy. The witch came after, clawing at the boy’s hand for support. They were dressed alike in black frock coats and top hats. The witch was a man, and he had a prentice.
“I didn’t know men could be witches,” the boy said.
The witch and the prentice stood side by side. Dressed like that, they looked to be father and son.
* * *
IV
Their first night on the road, Jacsen had half expected the boy to never speak again. He sat at the very edge of the campfire light, as far from Jacsen as he could. He glared at Jacsen. And when Jacsen returned the look, the boy said, “You’d better not touch me. I’ll fight you if you touch me.”
“I ain’t going to touch you.”
“I know what Pa meant. What he thought I was good for. I ain’t slow.”
“I said I ain’t going to touch you.” Jacsen tore at the leather ties that held his knife to his thigh then flung it, sleeve, bindings and all, to the ground before the boy. “Take it. If I try to touch you, then you use it. Understand?”
The boy looked at it, doubtful, and at Jacsen, suspicious.
“Either take it or give it back,” Jacsen said.
The boy snagged one of the leather ties and dragged it to him. He pulled the knife from its sheath. In the boy’s hand it was ridiculously large.
“I could kill you while you’re sleeping,” the boy said.
And Jacsen said, “Then you’d be alone.”
* * *
V
The sun had set and they were descending into the canyon as fast as they could without causing a landslide behind them. The boy’s arms were tight around Jacsen’s neck.
At the bottom, in the debris of fallen rock, he found a good hole and tucked the boy in there. “You’re going to leave me here?” the boy asked. And Jacsen told him it would be alright and gave him his pistol and made sure he knew how to use it. “What are you going to use?” the boy asked. They’d left the carbine with the horses on the plain above.
“Sword. Always use blades on witches. Never guns.”
“Why?”
“Because they light up the gunpowder with their magic and blow your damn hand off.”
“How?”
And now the boy was stalling. “It’ll be alright. A few hours is all I’ll be. Just stay here and keep quiet. Don’t come out until I come get you.”
He was only fifty yards away when the pistol went off. The sound ricocheted off the canyon walls again and again.
He sprinted back, blind with anger because he knew the boy hadn’t wanted to be left alone and had fired the pistol to make Jacsen come back for him.
He found the boy where he’d left him, and Jacsen was already cursing him because the whole damn camp would have heard the shots and scouts would be on their way. “Damn you,” he said. “God damn you.”
Jacsen may as well have slapped him, the look that was on the boy’s face.
Not two feet away from the boy was a dead diamondback, shot through.
Jacsen grabbed the boy’s arms rougher than he meant and scoured his sleeves for rips or blood. “Are you bit? Did it bite you?”
The boy said, “I’m sorry,” and began to tear up.
“Did it bite you?”
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“No. I shouldn’t have cussed you. I should have known you wouldn’t just—” Looking around for torchlight and patrols, he said, “You can’t stay here now. You’ll have to come with me. Arms around my neck. Let’s go.”
Jacsen ran, bent low, with the boy clinging tightly to him, the revolver still in his hand. He didn’t weigh a thing.
* * *
VI
Their second night on the road, Jacsen and the boy and their weedy fire had felt like the only life left under cold stars. The world was burning away and the ground was too hard and dry. It held no heat.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“There’s an orphanage in Agoniste, Enston too if it’s closer. They’re Imperial orphanages but they’ll take Marchers. They’re good places. I’ll find one that will take you.”
“We’re going the wrong way for Enston or Agoniste.”
“Got some business south first, just like I told your pa.”
“What kind of business?”
Jacsen poked at the fire and didn’t answer. He didn’t want to scare the boy any more than he already had.
In the chill small hours, Jacsen, sleepless, watched the boy shiver. Anyone else and Jacsen would have curled around them to share his heat and keep them warm. Instead, he unrolled his greatcoat from his pack, and he emptied his pockets of the things he’d rather not lose: a slim leather wallet with his picks, a box of matches, and other things. And finally the hexed skull. He spread the coat over the boy.
He sat and cupped the skull in his hands. It was a raccoon’s skull. On the skull’s crown some witch had carved a starburst swirl. It seemed to shift around, and gazing into it was like watching a candle flame. He lost himself in it for a good long time.
It didn’t speak to him. It had only ever spoken the once when it had told him about Cesler Grange and the murdering witch.
Another witch, one he trusted or thought he could, had given it to him. “This is one of yours,” she had said. “Be careful.” And when Jacsen had told her he didn’t own a hexed skull, she’d only shrugged and walked away.
Jacsen shook it and held it to his ear. He closed his eyes and listened. He held it close to his lips and whispered hello. He shook it harder and thought to berate it, though that had never worked before either.
Then he felt watched, and he looked up.
The boy was sitting up, bleary-eyed. “What are you looking at?” the boy asked.
Jacsen hid the skull away. “Nothing, go to sleep.”
“Okay.” And the boy was out as if he’d never awoken.
Jacsen watched him sleep. The boy clutched at the greatcoat, pulling it toward his chest. His other hand held Jacsen’s knife, tight.
* * *
VII
Soldiers were coming.
Jacsen didn’t blame the boy after his scare at the rockfall, but there was no time to be afraid now.
The command tent had been raised on a wooden platform, the better to keep out scorpions and snakes. The cramped space beneath it made a perfect place to hide. Perfect also for snakes.
The boy pulled away and hissed no. The soldiers rounded the corner. No time left, Jacsen yanked him under, into the gap, and held his hand over the boy’s mouth. “They’ll hear you! Hush!”
And one of the soldiers turned and looked directly into Jacsen’s eyes.
Jacsen went stone still, locked with the soldier’s eyes. His hand went slowly for his gun but his gun wasn’t there.
The soldier picked up a stone and flung it at Jacsen. “Go on!” he shouted, “Get!” and a second stone bounced and struck Jacsen in the cheek. Stunned and blinking Jacsen scrambled deeper into the darkness.
“It’s your eyes,” the boy said as the soldiers moved on. “He thinks you’re a coyote. Your eyes, they shine silver.”
* * *
VIII
Their third night on the road, the night before they’d reach the canyon’s edge, a creosote fire, and the boy finally asked, “What’s wrong with your eyes?”
“Nothing,” Jacsen snapped. “What’s wrong with your foot?”
“Clubbed,” the boy said matter of fact, but he folded his leg beneath him so that his foot was hidden and Jacsen felt like an ass. “My sister, she thought you were magic. Are you magic? Is that why your eyes are marked like that?”
“I’m not magic. It’s just a birthmark.”
The boy squinted. “Take off your hat.”
“Show me your foot,” Jacsen said. Like an ass. His ears went hot. He cursed himself. Then he took off his hat so the boy could see the shadowy mask that ringed his eyes and swept back across his cheeks. “It looks kind of funny, don’t it? Like a raccoon’s mask?” Jacsen said.
“Ain’t never seen a raccoon,” said the boy, looking close.
Then he unfolded his leg so that Jacsen could see his clubbed foot. The boy studied it awhile himself. “My brothers, they told me I was only a half-brother,” he said. “Told me my real pa was a wicked spirit and that’s why I came out wrong.”
“They were lying,” Jacsen said. “It’s a story people tell. I ain’t magic and you ain’t magic. They’re lying and you didn’t come out wrong.”
God, but it looked painful.
“There’s nothing wrong with you. I’ll give you a horse. I’ll give you a horse and a goddamn gun and we’ll show them what’s wrong with you. There ain’t nothing goddamn wrong with you.”
The boy was quiet. He looked away. He pushed himself to his feet with his crutch and limped away from the firelight. In the safety of darkness, the pale ghost line of his shoulders began to shake.
Too late, Jacsen realized that half-brother was as much as the boy had wanted to be.
* * *
IX
At midnight the witch began to bless the cannons. Most of the soldiers watched on. Jacsen told the boy to stay put and slipped out among the tents.
He’d thought to leave the witch’s wagon alone. It was likely cursed. From the cliff, Jacsen had watched the soldiers pitch the witch’s tent then unload a large cartload of crates into it. Those crates were far more than the witch needed to bless a few cannons. Jacsen wanted to know what they held. But the wagon’s door stood open a crack and in the end his curiosity overwhelmed his better sense. He’d touch nothing. He’d only look. And he slipped inside.
Jacsen saw fine in the gloom.
To his left and right, against the wagon’s walls, were cabinets and cupboards and narrow counter-tops. Before him was a beaded curtain which separated off the sleeping space.
Above him, along the ceiling, ran twine from one side to the other. In every witch’s wagon he’d ever been in, bundled herbs had hung from these lines. Here, hung the tails of beasts. Horse tails and ox tails. Rat tails. Raccoon tails. They hung so low they brushed his hat.
In the cabinets to his left were clear jars filled with animal organs. Some held tiny hearts and eyes, but most held coiled tubes of ragged flesh ending in knobs. Severed genitalia. The witch dealt in fertility spells.
But there were none of the other things he’d thought to find. No clover, no sage, no poppies, no herbs or flowers or bark or roots at all. Everything here, every charm and material, was the dismembered part of an animal.
He saw the necklace. It hung from a peg in the corner. From it were strung scores of slender comma-shaped bacula, the penis bones of raccoons. Folk wore them for fertility and luck. They sharpened their tips to pick their teeth. Common enough.
But there were so many of them. A hundred. More.
It was too warm in here.
He stumbled against the cabinet behind him. The cabinet rattled and its door fell ajar and he thought he heard his name said. He turned to look. On its shelves were skulls. Raccoon skulls. Each carved with a starburst swirl.
He stumbled free from the wagon and breathed deep the open air.
* * *
Jacsen drew up cold inside the witch’s tent.
In the center was a butcher’s block. The walls of the tent were lined with cages, each locked with an iron padlock. They were stacked high. There were nearly eighty of them and each one held a raccoon.
Their silvery eyes were all fixed on him.
His heart was thundering and he went without thinking to one of the cages and fumbled his picks on the lock, his hands shaking so badly. And why were they shaking? His hands never shook. And why should he care? But he did, he cared deeply.
And there!
The hasp slipped open just as a voice in his ear whispered, “They paid him in raccoons.”
Jacsen whirled drawing and slashing his saber in one fluid sweep but the witch’s prentice was ten feet away, not as near as he’d thought, a trick of the voice, and something bit into Jacsen’s arm stinging like hell.
The prentice in his black frock coat and top hat just like his father’s lowered the small wooden dart tube from his lips and smiled.
Jacsen tried to rush the prentice. Each step took a year.
“They thought he was
crazy,” the prentice said. “But as long as he’d bless their cannons they’d give him whatever he wanted.”
Two steps, two years, the world went sideways, and Jacsen fell.
* * *
The witch’s prentice couldn’t lift him, so he tied Jacsen where he lay. He tied him well. He went through the pockets of his greatcoat. He found Jacsen’s raccoon skull and welcomed it home.
Jacsen’s world wavers, heatstruck. He is looking into a cage at silver eyes in a black mask. —Your eyes, they shine silver! he hears the boy say. —I can see my own reflection, Jacsen thinks, like when he was young and he’d go down to the river pools and try to see his father’s face in his own. And his mother, she’d say, —Come away from there, Bandit. You’ll fall in and drown. —Don’t you worry, she would say, You’re the spitting image of your pa. But it wasn’t his reflection he saw but just a raccoon who’d crawled up beside him.
—I ain’t Bandit anymore, Ma. I’m Jacsen, now. Nobody calls me Bandit.
The raccoons, they’re spitting and hissing until the witch’s prentice lights a poisonous incense and fills their cages with numbing smoke. They curl mewling, drowning too. Then he takes one and slits it groin to throat and digs out its baculum for working luck magic and fertility magic, and he starts to separate pelt from flesh. It’s not yet dead and it twitches and whines.
It’s what they will do to Jacsen, too. And his agate-braided hair will decorate their hats, and his bones will clatter from the wagon’s eaves.
* * *
How many centuries had the witch lived and finally, finally come upon his end of days? He was old and wasted thin. His eyes were rheumy and clouded and Jacsen wondered if he weren’t blind. But his cracked and wicked smile said he saw Jacsen just fine, and was pleased with what he saw.
“He’s what the bones caught,” the prentice said. “Closest to the spirit-king as I’ve ever seen. Not sixth or seventh generation like the others. His grandson. Maybe even his son. He’ll make magic enough to give you a hundred years.”
“I ain’t magic,” Jacsen whispered. “She was a whore and didn’t know who, and it was just a story she told me,” but the fog hadn’t quite cleared and he could barely speak and the copper sweet butcher smell made him sick.
