Unbound

by Shawn Speakman

  “I can smell the smoke,” said River. His breath froze as it hit the air.

  “What does it smell like?” asked Echo.

  “Like wood. What else?”

  “The book says they burn animals.”

  River breathed deeply through his nose. “No. Definitely wood.” He put his hand on the shoulder of the blond humaton. “You think they can see us?”

  “Yes. They always see us.”

  Echo’s confidence made River grin. Every night for weeks they had climbed atop the wall to let the enemy see them. Just so they would know they hadn’t won yet.

  “Do you think they’ll attack soon?” asked River.

  Echo turned his head left and right, his gesture for no. He said, “I think our army will scare them.”

  “Ha!” crowed River. He leaned out over the wall. “You hear that? We have an army!”

  The quiet hills gave no reply. A smattering of snowflakes fell from the sky.

  “We should go home now,” said Echo. “It’s time for lessons.”

  * * * * *

  It took nearly an hour for River and Echo to walk back home. The streets were dark and deserted, and despite his dexterity Echo was not at all speedy. River had long ago given up searching for plague survivors. A few times, weeks ago now, he had seen the shambling figures of survivors limping blindly through the streets, but they had all died quickly, and all River and Echo could do was try to answer their questions and comfort them. Now, they saw only dead folks in the streets, those who were too weak or too stubborn to go to the wild camp the way the king had ordered.

  The Nous house—River’s house—was in a good, green part of the city, with lots of trees to climb. River’s parents had been given the house as part of his father’s salary. It was near the royal university where his father taught and in close view of Castle Hill, though River had never once visited the castle despite his many pleas to do so. The castle sat dark and deserted now, its upside-down flag still flapping in the wind. River looked longingly at Castle Hill while Echo opened the door to their house. The king and all his family had gone to the wild camp, just like River’s parents. They had tried to stop the plague from spreading, but that seemed like a dumb idea now.

  Like wild fire, thought River.

  He helped Echo make a fire in the hearth, then sat down in his father’s big, comfortable chair. The wooden shelves sagged with books, and a smiling portrait of River’s mother hung over the mantel. Her name was Ellin but his father called her “honey,” just like the color of her hair. On the table next to the big chair sat the pipe his father smoked every night after coming home from the college. The room stank of sweet tobacco. River picked up the pipe and stuck it between his teeth, watching as Echo looked over the many books.

  “I don’t know which to choose,” said Echo finally. “I’m done with all these.”

  “Good,” replied River. “Let’s go to sleep.”

  “No.” Echo ran his metal fingertips over the spines of the books. “Your lessons have to continue.”

  “So? Teach me something else.”

  “I’ve taught you everything here already.” Echo’s blue eyes dimmed. “Professor Nous always brought me new books.”

  The human side of Echo’s face drooped in a way River had never seen before. The metal side of his face whirred and clicked.

  “Your lessons,” said Echo blankly.

  River tossed the pipe onto the table and sat up. “Hey, you can just start from the beginning again. I never remember anything you teach me anyway.”

  But Echo’s face didn’t change. “We are the people now, River. We are all that’s left.”

  “See, that’s not right,” said River. “We’re not all that’s left. There’s all these books.”

  “We have to live for the people.”

  “Nope. We have to live for us, Echo. All the stuff the people did—that’s all in the books.”

  “So we have to protect the books.”

  River saw his argument being lost. He took up the pipe again and put it defiantly in his mouth. “I need a match,” he said, just the way his father used to say it.

  Without a question, Echo took one of the long matches used to light kindling out of a brass container. He stuck it in the hearth, lit it, then handed it to River. River did as he’d seen his father do a thousand times—holding the flame to the remnants of the old tobacco until it smoldered and sucking in little puffs of air. Instantly his lungs burned.

  “Oh!” he coughed. Water streamed from his reddening eyes. He kept the pipe in his teeth anyway. “All this stuff you’re teaching me, Echo? That’s all memories. I got memories.” He choked a little. “Lots of them. So you gotta let me live. Okay?”

  He kept the pipe in his mouth until he couldn’t stand it anymore, then put it back on the table and caught his breath. He felt nauseous suddenly and collapsed backward into the chair. Echo had turned away and was looking through the endless books.

  “What are you doing?” River asked him.

  Echo held up a metal finger to quiet him, continuing to search, then hitting on the book he wanted. “This one.” He flushed to show a smile. “Remember?”

  The book made River sit up in the chair; he’d looked at it many times since the plague hit. Echo sat down on the arm of the chair. His fingers had been specifically built for turning pages and he leafed through them easily, his face lighting up when he came to their favorite illustration.

  The thing was vaguely manlike, ten feet tall on two tree-trunk legs. Its arms were scaly, its body armored in brassy metal, and a pig-faced helmet capped the invisible head. In one hand it held a club, in the other a thick, straight sword. River stared at the picture. He still couldn’t understand how a race that appeared so slow-witted had made something as deadly as the plague. Or why, with all their brutish size, they still hadn’t attacked.

  River sat back and thought a while. When Echo started reading one of the book’s stories, River stopped him.

  “No, don’t read it,” he said softly. He knew the stories all by heart. He looked at Echo, who seemed perplexed, and said, “You think they’re scared of us, maybe? Because we’re still alive, I mean? Because they don’t want to get catch the plague they made?”

  “I think that makes good sense,” agreed Echo. “I think so, yes.”

  “That’s got to be it. They’re so big—they could attack us if they wanted. They’re waiting for us to die.” The thought made River laugh. “But we’re not gonna die! I’m just a kid. I’m not gonna die.”

  “Your grandfather died when he was sixty-seven years old,” Echo pointed out. “The Professor would have lived that long at least. So, you will too. Probably.”

  “Sixty-seven! That’s forever.” River leaned back comfortably in his father’s chair. “We don’t need an army. The enemy in the hills—they just got to see that we’re still alive. That’s all we got to do every day—make sure they see us.”

  “Very good!” said Echo. “Nothing else?”

  “Well, no. There’s lots of stuff. Like tomorrow? We’re going to the castle.”

  * * * * *

  The snow had fallen through the night, turning the city a pure, clean white. By the time River dressed himself and stepped outside with Echo, only flurries strayed from the sky. River looked at Castle Hill, half a mile away—no problem in his coat and heavy boots. Echo had dressed himself too, wearing a pair of leather shoes that ran up his metal calves, protecting his feet yet allowing him to balance. He wore a cape as well, a ruby-red garment of velvet he had found in a tailor shop after the plague. He had described the cape as irresistible and was excited at the chance to wear it. As they trudged through the newly fallen snow, Echo looked up at the sky. He put out his hand to catch a snowflake, then brought it up against his mouth slit.

  “What are you doing?” River asked.

  “I’ve seen people catch snowflakes on their tongue. I don’t have a tongue.” Echo turned to look at River. “What do they taste like?�
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  “I don’t know. Like water I guess.”

  “You should have done this by now,” said Echo. “Do it and tell me.”

  Echo rarely gave orders. River stuck out his tongue and waited for a snowflake to find it. When one did not, Echo goaded, “Go after them.”

  So River did, laughing and not caring how stupid he looked as he dashed about with his tongue outstretched, first catching one stray flake, then another. “They taste like nothing!” he shouted. “Just cold. But kind of good . . .”

  All the way to Castle Hill, River chased the snowflakes. And when they finally reached the hill and found the ornate gates of the castle open and buried in snow, he pulled in his tongue and closed his mouth at the majesty of the place. His father had been lucky. The king had called upon the professor many times, and River wondered what the castle was really like, before it was so quiet. The castle grounds were completely barren, with carts and tools left behind, and a few human-sized lumps in the snow. River and Echo walked through the unguarded gates and shuffled toward the looming entrance, a black mouth of a thing that should have been grand but now felt haunted.

  “I have a toy guardsman at home,” said River as he walked through the archway. His voice echoed beneath the stone. “Remember?”

  “The one in blue and gold,” said Echo. “With the silver long-gun. I remember.”

  The courtyard should have been filled with blue and gold guardsman, but instead there was no one to stop them. Soon they were in the entry hall, a frozen tunnel hung with paintings and tapestries, the floor stained by rain and snow. Echo chirped with excitement at the artwork, swiveling his metal head to see it all.

  “There’s so much!” he exclaimed. “Where should we start?”

  “I want to see the throne room! My father told me it’s all made of gold . . .”

  River dashed forward, leaving Echo to clank on behind him. The lamps on the wall had all burned out, but the light from the stained glass windows was enough. River followed the big hall forward, spotting the enormous doors of the throne room. A roaring lion’s head was carved into each of the open doors. Beyond them, River caught just a glimpse of something sparkling . . .

  “God!” He stopped at once, putting his hands over his mouth and nose. He knew the smell at once. Echo shuffled up behind him.

  “What is it?” asked Echo.

  “If you could smell you’d know.” River pointed into the throne room. “There’s dead people in there.”

  So far most of the dead they’d encountered had been out of doors, where the cold had let their bodies decay slowly and the wind could steal the worst of the stench.

  “You want to go inside?” Echo asked.

  River grimaced. “I thought they all went to the wild camp. My mother and father said that’s what the king wanted.”

  Echo walked up to the doors, through them, and into the throne room. He looked straight ahead, his blue eyes glowing in the dim light. “Oh.”

  “What?” asked River. He brought the tail of his coat up to cover his face. The stench was the worst he’d ever smelled, but he couldn’t help himself—he followed after Echo into the throne room.

  And there he stopped and stared at the throne, and saw the king upon it, slumped and dead, with his eyes rotted out and jaw open wide, the crown crooked on his fleshless skull, and the weird look of anguish on his boney face . . . and River puked his breakfast onto the golden tiles.

  “Oh my God!” he gasped, gagging and retching and wiping his face with his sleeve. “Why’d he stay?”

  Echo had no trouble at all looking at the corpse. “Because he was king.” Slowly he walked toward the throne, across the blood-crusted floor, and when he reached the dead king he plucked the crown off his head. With his prized velvet cape he wiped it clean—clean until it gleamed—then headed back to River. River, who had fallen to his knees in sickness, waved him away.

  “Put that back!” he cried. “You can’t steal that!”

  Echo rarely disobeyed River’s orders, but this time he ignored them completely. He stood over River and placed the polished crown upon his head.

  “You’re the king now,” he said.

  River touched the crown. He looked at Echo as if his friend were mad. “I’m a boy. Just a kid. You know that . . . don’t you Echo?”

  “A king doesn’t kneel,” said Echo. “Get up.”

  * * * * *

  During his first week as king, River wore the crown wherever he went. He knew that as long as he stayed alive, the city and its knowledge was safe. Each night he and Echo went to the gate and looked at the campfires surrounding the city. They watched the numbers grow, fascinated by the way they inched ever closer. But River had no fear, for he knew the plague was in the city, the only weapon he needed to keep the enemy away.

  And so he and Echo explored the city and lit bonfires and slept in strange beds. River ate whatever he wanted, cursed when he hurt himself, laughed inappropriately, and rode hogs like they were horses. Echo gloried in the library and its many, many books, studied the paintings in the castle and the royal museum, wore the baubles that nobody wanted, and made maps of the stars. Together they sang in the opera house and banged the instruments to make music. They slept late every morning, watched the enemy at night, and wondered.

  But they never, ever went to the wild camp.

  A week passed, and then two more, and soon the winter was fully upon them. River chased the snowflakes when they came, just as Echo had taught him. He did everything he could to forget his mother and father, but sometimes at night they visited him in dreams. The cold came like a tiger, stifling the stench of the dead completely, and because he was so haunted by his dreams, River finally set out for the wild camp.

  Just as they were told, the camp was far in the corner of the city, a two-day walk for a humaton. River did not know what he expected to see there, but when he saw the barbed wire he could go no further. Beyond it, hills of bodies sat snow-capped. Dead soldiers guarded the iron gate, slumped and frozen. River knew then—in a way he’d never really understood—that his parents were gone.

  Together, he and Echo treaded home.

  They went to the gate every night and made sure the enemy saw them. River stopped wearing the crown. He didn’t like being king.

  They slept late every morning, read books and set bonfires, and waited for the spring.

  * * * * *

  River awoke to the sound of melting snow. In the room with the big chair where he slept, Echo had opened the window. Echo’s face glowed as he tried to sniff the air.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked. He leaned forward the way he always did when listening. “A bird!”

  River was groggy but excited. He rolled out of the chair and went to the window, shielding his eyes from the stabbing sunlight. “I hear it,” he said. “The sun . . .” He took a deep breath. “So warm.”

  “Spring,” pronounced Echo.

  “It’s too early for spring.”

  “Nature makes its own calendar.”

  “That’s not true and it makes no sense.”

  Echo’s face flushed and whirred. “I want to go to the castle greenhouse and see if the lily bulbs are sprouting. Get your shoes on.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Later. Hurry.”

  There was no hurry at all, but River did as Echo asked, slipping into his shoes and his coat and stepping out into the warm day. The snow that had piled up outside their door was turning to slush, and the avenue that led to Castle Hill dripped and glistened. Over the winter they had cleaned up all the bodies they could find, burning them in their bonfires, and so the way was clear and empty now. They walked through the castle and its once-inspiring halls, no longer noticing the great artwork, and went straight for the greenhouse where Echo had spent much of his time. Someone had planted a row of lily bulbs, and Echo had tended them like a mother hen, protecting them from dangers that didn’t exist and talking to them about the spring. River let Echo take the lead, hang
ing back among the pots of dead plants and loving the way the sun looked through the glass panes. He watched Echo clang toward the bulbs, bending over to inspect them. There was a long pause.

  “Well?” asked River.

  Echo stared at the dirt. The fleshlike side of his face turned the color of joy. “Oh.” He had never sounded more human. “River, come see.”

  River went and examined the soil. It took a moment, then he noticed the tiny shoots of green sprouting from the dirt. “Wow.” He looked closer. “You did it, Echo.”

  Echo beamed. River smiled at him—then saw something strange. A tiny stream of fluid dripped from Echo’s nose.

  “What’s wrong, River?”

  River stared but couldn’t find his voice. He looked closer. He knew the drip was spirit oil, but it looked like blood.

  “Your nose . . .”

  Echo put his hand to his nose and wiped at it with his metal finger. His blue eyes flashed with realization, but somehow he remained perfectly calm. “River,” he said. “You’ll have to look after the lilies for me.”

  * * * * *

  The plague didn’t work the same on humatons as it did on people. The nosebleeds they got were really just leaks, and by the third day Echo was leaking everywhere. The spirit oil that kept him alive seeped out of every joint in his metal body. River tightened each one with bandages to try and keep the oil inside, but no matter what he did, more and more of the precious liquid dripped away. By the fourth day Echo could no longer walk, and by the fifth he couldn’t see. He sat in the big chair, letting River tend to him and listening to the growing choirs of birds outside the window. Unlike the way humans died, the plague caused Echo no pain at all. River read to Echo to pass the time, stopped going to the gate, and only ventured outside at night to briefly watch the campfires.