by Jules Hedger
I gingerly placed my hands around the tops of his thighs and heaved all my weight forward. The beam titled back a little, shifting in its hole as new sand rushed to fill it back in. Lucan, still trying to keep himself upright with his arms, strained against the pressure of my hands. They were as hard as concrete under my fingers. It must have taken a few burly thugs to fight him onto a pole; Cirrus couldn't have done it himself.
After a few minutes of pushing Lucan looked like he was leaning back on a titled dentist's chair. He released a heavy breath and let his legs fall off either side of the pole. Sweat ran down his forehead and a groan slipped from between his lips as the remaining ropes fell to the ground. Released, Lucan slid sideways off the beam and collapsed in a heap on the sand.
I stood awkwardly watching this large man breathing heavily into his forearm. He slowly raised himself to sitting level, but the sand swirled in little cyclones this close to the ground and it wasn't a moment before he bent double again with a racking cough. He spat to the side – ew – and considered me frankly through his sand-caked hair.
"How about that water?"
I kneeled down and unzipped the backpack the coal man had given me. "Don't get your hopes up. This backpack could be stuffed with cotton, for all my luck." Happily, it wasn't. Placed pride in place at the top was a large metal canister.
"That cotton sure looks like water to me, honey."
"My clothes!" I exclaimed, pulling out my jeans and tank top. The coal man had even pushed in my leather jacket, which felt a little bit like home. "Oh, this is awesome!"
"You want to keep smelling that piece of hide or pass me over some water before I start drinking my own piss?" I couldn't stop my nose from wrinkling up in distaste. Despite looking like he'd fallen off the back of a motorbike, this guy was pushing the boundaries of savage-chic pretty hard. He snatched the water from my hands and quickly poured the best part of it down his throat. And then emptied the rest over his face.
It was weird. I am a pretty sensible woman. I've been to college and seen the beefed-up frat boys toting their jello shots on the unwary. And the hipster philosophers who buy you flat-whites and discuss the latest electro-funk and bamboo-crafted glass frames. I have kissed and fucked a few of them. But I have never been one of those girls who drinks a Diet Coke while watching the handsome electrician flex their muscles. I do not get lost in any man's eyes.
But there was an alien moment as I watched Lucan shake the water from his face. All I could hear for around ten seconds was the white ringing of static as I followed the sparkling drops of moisture slide slowly down his neck and curve around his broad collar bones. It glistened off golden tanned skin and ran into the dark hair on his chest. And once I got there . . . well, it was hard not to follow it luxuriously down his torso and trail off at the waistband of his toned naval and wide hips; hips that looked like they could grind a woman to powder. Somewhere in my mind – pushed back very far, mind you – I was hating myself. Because I was in the middle of the desert running from a man who wanted to steal a throne I didn't know I had yesterday. And I had just saved his brother from crucifixion. And despite the utter absurdity of the situation I was ogling a shirtless man like MTV Spring Break.
The world regained speed and I blinked myself back to reality pretty quickly when I realized there was no water left.
"You drank it all!" I said, grabbing the canister back and giving it a panicked shake.
"We'll find another dream soon. With my help, you'll be swimming," Lucan replied lazily, stretching over and slapping feeling back into his legs. He raised himself slowly to his feet and spread his arms wide to the sky. He breathed in the freedom and let his arms drop. And in the blink of an eye, his face was all business, all action: the wolf was replaced with a knight. He gave a short bow.
"Thanks be to the Daughter of Palet. Long may she reign."
As he drew himself back up to survey the desert, I walked around to his front and tapped him pointedly on the shoulder with the empty canister.
"Would you please tell me this world hasn't really chosen something as blatantly obvious as Daughter of Palet to be my namesake?"
He cocked his eyebrow at my curiously. "It has always been so."
"You'd think that if I was going to get some middle-ages seal of honor, they would at least try and make it sounds less like I'm the leader of some sleazy cult."
Lucan considered me for a moment.
"It's what the followers of the Painter call the next in line. Daughter of Palet. Son of Palet. The patient, the merciful and the peaceful."
Patient. Peaceful. Well, not making a good job of it.
"Right. Sorry." I took the awkward silence to dig my clothes out of my backpack. "Do you mind turning around so that the 'patient and the peaceful' can change into her real kit?"
Lucan nodded and showed me his back. I quickly unbuttoned the dress and let it fall onto the sand. I resisted the urge to give it a good kick, but compromised by throwing the boots as far as I could. Slipping into my jeans with a sigh of relief; my body felt real again. It was too hot for my jacket, so I pushed it back into my pack and let my arms breathe in the air. It wasn't blazing; in fact, I began to worry that the nights might get cold. Freezing. Well, at least there was someone in this party that gave out enough body heat.
I rolled my eyes at the thought and turned around, tucking the dreamcatcher into my top, to catch him watching me. Actually, he was standing bold as ever with his arms crossed in front of his chest. My heart thumped loudly and he grinned.
"How long have you been watching?" I asked. Lucan's smile grew wider and he chuckled indulgently.
"Don't flatter yourself, your Highness. I was only thinking how royally pissed my brother is going to be when he hears that we're on the loose together."
"Yes. Anger. You were angry, weren't you? Keep that . . . in mind." Keeping the creeper in my eyesight, I combed my braid out and pulled it quickly into a ponytail.
"So, shall we get on?" Lucan asked.
"Yes, we should." I looked up at the sun and at the endless expanse of sand; where do you begin to look for a needle in a haystack?
"It would silly to ask if you had a map in that magical bag of yours, wouldn't it?"
"Extremely." I sighed.
"Not to worry. That's not always how it works here," Lucan said gruffly. He started walking casually into the dunes, arms swinging by his sides. Looking over his shoulder, I caught a flash of his blue eyes. "We'll just let what dream finds us find us."
"Let's just hope that it's a good dream," I added, following behind into the Wilds of Palet.
Chapter 12
The rain hit the office windows with loud thunks. Outside, the haze of the water blocked any view of the trees or grass or purple clouds. Cindy had built up a fire, trying to coax some warmth into the building, but the cold damp clung to the furniture stubbornly and Cindy was dismissed home early to fight her way through the storm.
Cirrus sat in the front of the fire. The light of the flames licked up his face and blinked into his spectacles. Specks of ash flew up, dancing into the air above Cirrus's head to settle darkly on the bright halo of hair.
So far, no sign has been seen of his runaway. Announcements were made in the cities and villages and most of Middle Canvas knew to keep an eye out for a dark-haired girl wearing the symbol of the Painter. She would most likely be wearing a torn dress with leather shoes. No contact should be made; simply alert the authorities. Do not help if she should seek shelter.
The Reign Walk is in play.
Cirrus's otherwise handsome features were stretched thin. The exhaustion in Cirrus's limbs made him look like a man made out of putty; each finger hung limp and the crossed knees buckled over themselves grotesquely on the chair. His mouth was drawn in a deep frown and his eyes were red and dry.
He was sick. He had thrown up two times that day since arriving at work and his skin had become numb. He knew his body was straining to give fully over to exhaustion, but he rebe
lled against it. Awake and conscious at all times, awake and conscious.
He pressed his fingers lightly onto the bulge on his side, the pocket watch, as a reminder he had something to stay awake for.
There was a knock on the office door and Cirrus lifted his head to see a tall man enter his office. The man's tailor-made suit was a dark blue with gold cuff-links and the briefcase he held looked like it was made from alligator skin. This was a high class executive.
The man stayed by the door, looking at Cirrus seriously. Cirrus stayed sitting down, not because he especially wanted to be rude, but because he didn't feel like he could muster up the strength to stand up at the moment.
"Who let you in?" Cirrus asked. His voice cracked from disuse and the man raised an eyebrow.
"You're grounded, which is a nice change. Your secretary must have left the front door unlocked when she left for the night and good thing, too." The man walked to Cirrus's desk and put down his briefcase. "I wouldn't have wanted to have to knock on your window. It's pouring down out there." The man looked somberly out into the gray and then at Cirrus, who was trying his hardest to swallow.
"So, what can I do for you?" Cirrus asked finally.
"The Council is concerned, Cirrus," the Council Man said. "We wish that there had been more progress before now."
Cirrus sighed and fumbled around his spectacles to rub the blur out of his eyes.
"So, you're from the Council," he murmured. Figures. Say they want nothing to do with it and then stick their meddling noses in it later, when it's too late . . .
"I'm afraid so. I've been sent to get some answers." Cirrus looked up at the Council Man standing rigidly by the desk.
"Answers to what?"
"The Walk should have been over by now, Cirrus. You had her on the train and then poof! She escaped and is now said to be in the Wilds. That isn't even sanctioned playing ground. This country needs stability, not an archaic tradition. What's the matter with an old-fashioned coup these days?"
"I thought the Council wasn't able to take sides?"
The Council Man looked at Cirrus skeptically, leaving a pointed silence to settle over the room.
"We don't take sides. Officially we don't. But unofficially . . ." he let the words hang.
"I'm trying as hard as I can," Cirrus said in a soft voice, gripping the armrests to finally raise himself. The Council Man watched Cirrus's shaky cross to the window. "I am only trying to be fair."
"Well, that is all very lovely, but it doesn't address the point of how we are going to get the Painter's niece back."
"She'll find her way to me," Cirrus said. He pulled back the curtains to the misted glass and regarded the sheets of rain sweeping across the lawns. He pushed up the bottom of the window and let the cool rain fall against his face and the cold winds sweep the hair off his fevered brow. The Council Man shivered slightly and pulled his coat tighter.
He said to Cirrus's back, "You know, some people are telling stories about you."
"They've always told stories," Cirrus answered and his voice whipped quickly back in the wind.
Cirrus the Dream Catcher . . .
"Well, more of rumors I guess, then." The Council Man smiled almost disbelievingly and even let out a small chuckle. "You won't believe what some are saying. They are suggesting, probably in jest, mind you, that the monsters appearing were made by you."
"Oh really?"
Cirrus the sick . . .
"Yes, it's absurd, I know. You haven't done that sort of things in years. But they're saying it. And that you're desperately in love with the Painter's niece. Or something of that grotesque nature."
"What a queer notion." The rain soaked through Cirrus's shirt and down the front of his chest. "In love with a young woman."
Cirrus the lost . . .
"Oh, don't take it what way, Cirrus!" The Council Man coughed. "But you have to admit, it is completely against your interests. A man of your power . . . Perhaps if you kept up some other female company . . ."
Cirrus ignored the man's last comment. He felt ill again. The Council Man's smile vanished and he looked awkwardly back at his briefcase, fingering the straps that looped through the expensive gold buckles on the side. "I don't know how the rumors got started, but it perhaps has to do with Marty Kleizenberg. He was always very loyal to the Painter. It might be a good idea to . . . let him go." Cirrus's stomach was turning into knots and perspiration mixed with rain on his forehead and palms. The Council Man by the desk shivered. "Could you close the window? It's freezing in here."
Cirrus pushed down the window and turned around to face the Council Man. He must have looked pathetic: hair plastered to his forehead, shirt stained with the rain, eyes red from the fire smoke and haunted by restless nights. Cirrus pulled out a handkerchief to dry his face and crossed over to the fire to turn down the gas. The flames dwindled lower and clung desperately to the edges of what was left of the wood, turning first white, than orange and then the coolest color of red. In his fatigue they seemed to whisper to Cirrus, flickering back in the reflection of his glasses.
"What else can I do, Council Man?" Cirrus said into the fire, slicking back his wet hair and straightening his collar. "What else is there to tell me tonight before you go back out in the storm?" The man nodded and smartly unbuckled the fancy leather straps on his briefcase. He opened it up to a stack of papers, pulling out the one on top and putting it resolutely on the surface of the desk. "That is a permit of clearance," Cirrus said.
"Well, it's a clearance form," the Council Man corrected. "It must be filled out by you, of course. But it's already signed by the Council."
"What does it give me clearance to do?" Cirrus asked tersely. The man fidgeted a bit.
"It gives you permission to use otherwise . . . questionable methods to steal the Painter's niece," the man answered slowly.
"What methods?" Cirrus asked. "The rules of the Reign Walk are very clear –"
"The Council isn't blind, Cirrus," the Council Man interrupted. "We help govern this land for a reason – the reason being we know everything that goes on – and we know what is said about your ‘experiments'." The Council Man was gaining confidence and straightened his posture. "But we don't say anything, because you get the job done. At least you show an interest in something, we say." The man paused. "Some of your work must be for the better good of Palet, but we know your history with the Wilds. We're convinced you've changed from then."
"I have changed." Cirrus said simply. He looked the Council Man directly in the eyes and added, "I am a different man than I was then." There was a tense moment in the room when all that could be heard was the patter of the rain on the window and the last few remaining cracks of the dying fire. The Council Man quailed under Cirrus's stare and looked back down at his briefcase.
"Well, better a known evil than an unknown one," the Council Man said softly. "The Council is giving you clearance to use the knowledge you had in your earlier, more reckless days to find the Painter's niece. Whatever that means, you decide for yourself. I'm just a council worker." The Council Man quickly buckled back up his briefcase and headed for the door. Cirrus picked up the paper delicately.
"What do you expect me to do? Call up some monster?" Cirrus asked to the
Council Man's retreating back.
"If that is how you did what you did those years ago, then by all means," the man replied as he opened the door. He looked back at Cirrus. "We're turning a blind eye and signing this paper for you, Cirrus. Do what you must to get Maggie back into the Middle Canvas of Palet." He paused again, stepping out the door. "And keep this under wraps. It's politics."
The Council Man closed the door behind him and left Cirrus standing alone in his office.
Cirrus looked down at the paper in his hands. It was a complicated form like all the others, full of figures and arrows and blank spaces to sign; however, this one already had the flourished, self-important signature of the Council Board, like a blank check. Cirrus had only to list
the actions he planned to do and he was cleared.
Cirrus regretted the conversation. It blew a taste of ash into his mouth. Cirrus's dark past was not something he liked to talk about to anybody or even remember himself. It was why he stayed awake. It was why he made his creatures: to try and throw away that part of his beginnings. But with this one piece of paper, Cirrus was being asked to bring back the monsters and to let them loose on Maggie.
The blank space was staring up at him. He was a desperate man, but he didn't want to resort to this. This malevolent blank space.
He hated himself, too, because he already knew what was going to fill that empty space. That one line could be filled up with only one word, one thing that was sure to find anyone in even the darkest and deepest corners of the Wilds. It was something from the very beginning and something he could never bring himself to complete. But the blank space called for him to finish it.
Cirrus held his stomach as a contraction hit his gut. But there was nothing left to come up and the dry retch pushed him down on his knees. The paper crumpled under his hand and he gasped for air as the contraction passed.
He pressed the golden pocket watch hard against the side of his body, a clock that wouldn't tick, the cold symbol of a lost soul who had nothing left to live for. He curled up on the ground and pulled his knees to his chest in the position of a man utterly broken. He gave a short sob. He held the paper close to his head, pressing it against his cheek as if for comfort.
Only one word, one short word . . .
Moth.
Chapter 13
In the deserts of the Wilds, dreams flitted in and out of being, popping into my vision and out as quickly as one bursts a soap bubble. I tried to make out what they were before they disappeared, but I soon realized that it was a pointless and exhausting task. The flash images seeped out of my head as quickly as they had popped into it. And under the hot desert sun, it was hard to concentrate on anything.
