by Sharon Hinck
“Oh please, let’s not go through that again,” he said irritably.
With all the dignity I could muster, I stalked to the washroom, but my oversized socks flapped.
Kieran rolled his eyes. “Tristan, find her some boots.”
I slid the washroom door closed behind me with a bang. It wasn’t my fault I looked like a refugee from a hobo camp. My arm itched and I rubbed it absently. Then I rolled back the sleeve of the sweater. A thin white scar, barely visible, ran across the back of my forearm. The Twilight Zone music played through my mind, and I bit my lip.
It took too much mental energy to keep denying everything. For now, for whatever reason, I was stuck in this dream. Maybe it would end sooner if I went along with it. That decided, I did what I could in the spartan washroom to prepare myself for the day.
There was a small reflecting surface on the back of the door. It didn’t look exactly like a mirror, but could serve that purpose. I stared into it. At least I was still myself. My hair was a mess from sleeping on it wet. I splashed water on my hands and ran my fingers through the tangles. I wanted to braid it, but didn’t have any rubber bands.
I looked more deeply into the reflection.
“Are you a Restorer?” I whispered. All I saw was a pale woman with wide, confused eyes. Suddenly the details magnified—strands of amber and brown in my irises, tiny veins that shouldn’t be visible, pores in my skin.
I jumped back. I’d forgotten about the heightened senses. Closing my eyes, I listened. Yes . . . deep voices murmured in the other room. As I focused, they became clear enough to understand, almost like tuning a radio station.
“But why leave now? At least come home for a few days.” That was Tristan.
“I don’t need the complication. Besides, you’ll do a great job with training her. You’re a fine teacher.”
Heavy feet stomped a few steps.
I slid the door open an inch to see what was happening.
Tristan stood nose to nose with his friend. “I am not taking on a student. Not after what happened.”
“Get over it.” Kieran turned away, his breathing uneven as he stuffed something down into a pack. “Guardians lose students. He won’t be the last. What worries me is that you’re wasting time with your Restorer myths. We have more important things to think about.”
“She was sent. You said yourself that she has the signs.”
“I don’t deny she might be a Restorer.” Kieran yanked hard at one of the ties on his pack. “What I’m saying is that I don’t believe a Restorer can help us now.”
“In every time of great need, a Restorer is sent to fight for the people and help the guardians,” Tristan said in a singsong voice, as if quoting a well-known creed. “The Restorer is empowered with gifts to defeat our enemies and turn the people’s hearts back to the Verses.”
Kieran snorted. “Then whoever sent her has a strange sense of humor. It’s clear she doesn’t know the Verses, she can’t fight, and all she wants to do is go home. How is that going to help us?”
“Kieran, just help me find someone to take her in.”
“I don’t want to get involved in this. You are a very bad influence,” Kieran said as he moved out of my line of sight.
I edged the door open farther to bring Kieran back in view.
“It’s not like I’m asking you to train her,” Tristan said. “A lot of good that would do anyway.”
“No, you just want me along because you don’t trust yourself not to get her killed. But you know where this will end.” Kieran’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the larger man. “She won’t only get herself killed, Tristan. She’ll cause the deaths of others. Can you live with that?”
Tristan turned away and pressed his fists against the kitchen table. Kieran studied his friend for a minute, then stepped closer and put a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. The dark man’s next words were barely audible. “Fine. I’ll help. Leave her here, and I’ll get rid of her. Problem solved.”
My sudden intake of breath sounded loud in the silence that accompanied Tristan’s glare. They turned at the same time to see me in the doorway.
My stomach churned. I forced a smile, pretending I hadn’t heard anything as I edged slowly along the wall, my eyes on the two men. Why had I thought I could trust them?
Kieran threw down his backpack with an oath.
Tristan cleared his throat and forced a smile that he probably meant to be reassuring. “Would you like something to drink? I’ll find you some boots. Are you hungry?” His words trailed off.
I kept moving sideways toward the trunk until I could grab my sword. I’d forgotten how good it felt in my hand. My loafers were near the trunk, and I pulled them on over the thick socks with some effort—keeping one hand free to hold the sword. Both men watched me, wary but still.
“I’m leaving.” I wedged my second foot into its shoe.
Tristan nodded. “We’re almost ready—”
“Alone,” I cut in. I had watched Tristan work the door last night, and this time I handled the procedure of rotating and sliding the latch. I pulled the door open.
Tristan frowned and started forward.
Kieran grabbed his arm and gave a small shake of his head. Then he smirked at me. “Safe travels.”
Right. The sword in my hand gave me confidence, and I cleared my throat. “Stay away from me,” I said loudly. Then I pulled the door shut behind me.
When I stepped outside, I expected the bright glare of sunlight. Instead, the sky was the same hazy grey as yesterday. I hurried a few steps forward, hoping to see a familiar landmark.
Nothing had changed. There wasn’t one hint of home. No telephone poles, no traffic noises in the distance. No trees, birds, squirrels. Without the rain to blur my vision, I could distinguish some differences in the shapeless buildings. Some were tan. Others were light beige. A few were a deeper brown. The tar pavement was still damp, although fewer puddles dotted it now that the rain had stopped.
All right, I was still lost in some strange experimental housing project or a failed theme park. But it had to end somewhere. I just needed to find a street sign or a phone. And I needed to get far away from the scary guys with the sharp blades.
I jogged for several blocks, weaving between buildings, losing myself in the maze of small alleys. Worry kept me checking back over my shoulder, but the streets were always empty. Finally, the fear of pursuit eased, and I slowed to a walk.
One low-slung building was missing a door from the arching entryway, and I risked a few steps inside. I couldn’t see much because there were no windows, but it looked deserted and I was pretty sure there was no phone. I stepped back outside and tried the next building. My nose wrinkled at the smell of mold and wet ash. Near the entry, I found a catch that looked like the one Kieran used to turn off the lights last night. I pushed it, pulled it, and managed to slide it to one side. At first nothing happened. Then a faint peach glow appeared on all the walls at the same time. The room revealed all its barren surfaces before the lights flickered and cut out.
I hurried out, happy to be back in the open air of the street. Even outside, though, thick humidity coated my throat. The sky seemed to hang low—heavy and cloying. I had to get away from these lumpy buildings and get a sense of where I was. I hurried down the street, wishing for a sheath for my sword. It didn’t seem right to drag it along the ground, but the weapon was heavy, and my arm already ached from holding it. I finally rested the flat against my shoulder and carried it like a hobo’s staff.
I crossed several alleys and wider streets. There seemed to be taller buildings ahead, and I aimed for those.
Passing one curved building, I noticed a door that was intact. I touched its smooth wooden surface, and it swung inward with a sigh. Drawn inside, I searched for a light switch, wishing my flashlight had made it here with me. That would have been more useful than
a sword. My hand fumbled over a lever, and again a moment passed before a glow spread across the walls like a blush. The room was similar to the one where I’d spent the night, with a broken chair resting on its side amid shards of stoneware. I stepped farther in to examine a bundle piled in a curved cubby. Under a tattered blanket, a box the size of my daughter’s flute case rested on the floor—empty.
Had it held a musical instrument? Letters? Jewelry? Someone lived here once. A wave of sadness hit me. Where was the person who once sat in that chair to relax after a hard day’s work? Was the blanket a favorite of a child who long ago dragged it along everywhere? I turned the lights off as I left and closed the door gently behind me.
Movement at the end of the street caught my eye. One of the silent trucks glided by. I ran toward it, but it had disappeared by the time I reached the corner. Still, it gave me a plan. If I could wave down a truck, I might get some help.
I continued toward the taller buildings. These had more traditional boxy shapes. I ignored the gaping doorways and crossed several more streets. Then an alley to my right caught my eye.
My nerve endings chilled. I recognized this place. Concrete buildings rose on either side; crates and tattered bundles littered the space along each wall. I took a few more steps and waited, hoping to feel a crackle of electrical current. I searched the dingy sky, but no portal opened, no sign of home appeared. Still, there was no doubt. This was the place where I had first opened my eyes. This was where my nightmare began.
I moved farther in to the spot where Tristan and the Rhusican had fought. Dark liquid stained the ground—blood or something else. Did the Rhusican have friends who came and claimed his body? Or did scavengers drag it away in the night?
I shivered and backed away. Something rustled in a pile of rubbish on one side of the alley, and I brought my sword forward. I edged past the sounds and knelt on the spot where I had regained consciousness the afternoon before. I hoped for a door or a whirling tunnel, a star gate or a transporter platform, but my examination of the ground revealed nothing. “I’ve watched way too much television,” I said to the emptiness.
A distant swishing sound alerted me that another truck was approaching. Jumping up, I ran out to the street, waving my arms. Today the brakes started squealing in time to stop the sleek machine before it flattened me. I ran to the driver’s side and peered through the clear plastic window, eager to meet someone who could help me.
There didn’t seem to be anyone inside. I used my sleeve to clear away the film of dust and got my nose right up against the window. Nothing. The machine was automated. Now that I was no longer flapping in front of it, it began coasting forward again.
“Wait!” I pounded my hand against the side, where a door should be. But it pulled ahead and was gone.
The isolation and emptiness haunted me. Something very bad had happened in this place. There were so many streets, dozens and dozens of buildings. People had once lived here—gathered, worked, laughed, quarreled. Where were they? Why had they left? Why did empty trucks still circle mindlessly through the streets?
God, I’m in way over my head. Show me what to do. It didn’t feel odd to pray inside a dream. I did it all the time. In fact, in my dreams, I often felt surges of faith and conviction that carried me through vivid sleeping adventures. Too bad I didn’t have that kind of courage or passion in real life.
I wandered into the alley, to my starting point on the small area of black tar pavement. If I were to have any hope of finding my way back, it would be from here. But I couldn’t find any clue of how I had arrived. I held my sword out in front of me and waited. The overcast sky shimmered on the blade as it tilted. My arm tired and sank to my side.
I strained to hear sounds, but there was no rustling of leaves, no distant radios playing. This was the emptiest place I had ever been. Even on a family vacation through an old western ghost town, there had been tumbleweeds and jackrabbits and the sound of wind howling through broken windows. Here, there was street after street of silence and regret.
Suddenly a high-pitched voice floated far above me: “. . . more french fries than me . . .”
My daughter! “Anne!” I shouted up into the heavy, dull sky. “Anne! Can you hear me?” I waited, holding my breath.
Giggles floated far away. Then another fragment broke through, “Save some for Mom.” Mark’s voice.
Hope and yearning raced through my veins. “Mark! I’m here! Can you hear me?” My shouted words came out hoarse and strained. I listened again. Silence.
Fine. I would stay here. I’d stand here and shout until they heard me. Until whatever had brought me here put me back.
“Jon! Anne! MARK! Can you hear me? I’m here! Mark? Kids? Help!” There was no answer except the reverberation of my own desperate cries.
Then, in the pause between my calls, as I strained to hear a response, something scuffed by the entrance of the alley.
I spun around to face it, sword lifted.
Tristan strode into the alley. He stopped several yards away from me. “I wouldn’t make so much noise. Most scavengers stay hidden until night, but this still isn’t a safe place.”
I glared at him and kept my sword raised.
He was wearing a bulky backpack with several rolls and bundles tied to it. His sword hilt jutted out the top of one side of his pack. He studied the anger and distrust in my face. “I don’t know why you’re here,” he said, raking one hand through his hair. “You don’t seem like an enemy, although I’ve been wrong before. But whatever you’re doing here, I can’t just leave you. And we don’t have much time. If we don’t catch an early transport, we won’t get to Braide Wood before nightfall. It’s not safe to travel close to dark—even there.”
I shook my head. “I need to get home to my family. I heard something. They were here.”
Tristan glanced around. “Where?”
“Not actually here . . . just their voices.”
“People hear voices all the time when they pass through Shamgar,” he said with gentle concern. “This isn’t a safe place.”
“Look, I don’t really know you. And Kieran . . .” I scanned the street behind him. I wasn’t about to let his scary friend make me conveniently disappear.
Tristan shook his head. “Kieran left. He has his own plans, and he delayed them long enough helping me. He won’t be traveling with us.” He shifted his pack with impatience. “I don’t know what you thought you overheard, but he doesn’t mean half of what he says. He’s changed since . . . since Kendra. He wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Kendra?” I asked, puzzled.
“His sister. I thought he told you. Kieran’s my brother-in-law.” The pain was back in Tristan’s eyes.
I took a step forward, lowering my sword. “I didn’t know.”
“We were friends from childhood and true brothers when I married Kendra.” Tristan looked at the ground. “He would never say the words, but I know he blames me for what happened.” He looked up at me, and in a blink, the remorse in his face disappeared and his eyes were alert.
“Don’t move.” He pulled a narrow dagger from the side of his boot.
“What?” I stumbled a step back.
Tristan swore under his breath and flicked the dagger in my direction. It landed near my feet with a thump and a hiss.
I sprang back.
Only a few feet away, a furry lizard was skewered to the pavement. It hissed once more, showing rows of sharp teeth before its head collapsed and its eyes closed.
I pointed and started hyperventilating. “That . . . what? . . . Ehyew!”
Tristan pulled his dagger out of the creature and kicked the carcass to the side of the alley. He wiped the blade on his pant leg and slid the dagger back into his boot sheath. “Kieran told me you have the signs of a Restorer,” he said, as though nothing had happened. “He also told me not to trust you. But he worries
too much. So friend or foe, you’re coming with me.”
“Keep your friends close but your enemies closer?”
Tristan laughed. “Now that sounds like something Kieran would say.” Then his face sobered. “Susan, if I can help you to find your people one day, I will. But right now we have to leave.” He practically vibrated with impatience.
I knew I was out of options. There was no way I was staying by myself in this strange, empty town, but traveling alone with this rough escapee from a medieval novel didn’t seem like a good idea, either.
Of course, if he’d wanted to harm me, he could have done it by now. And he was grieving his wife. A man capable of mourning couldn’t be completely hard or untrustworthy. “Let’s go.” I shrugged, braced my sword over my shoulder again, and walked with him to the end of the alley.
“I brought some things for you.” Tristan grabbed a bundle that was leaning against a building. He helped me ease into the unfamiliar shoulder straps and belts. When he reached for my sword, I hesitated. My hand clenched on the grip; I had to coax my muscles to relinquish the weapon, but I didn’t have time to analyze my reaction because he secured it in moments.
“We have to hurry.” Tristan hitched up his own gear and loped down the street.
I followed behind at a stumbling jog, adjusting the pack that lurched from side to side on my shoulders. My pack felt as off balance as I did.
Chapter
5
Tristan didn’t slow down until we were well clear of the town, following a road with a slight incline. I paused to catch my breath. The air was still humid but the leaf-mold scent reminded me of spring, instead of decay. From this vantage, lumpy homes clustered around the taller structures that formed the town center. A ragged banner, interwoven with colors of dark grey and silver, hung limply from the tallest building.
Rolling fields covered with grey-green moss surrounded the town. The horizon line blurred as the grey hills melded into grey sky. The landscape resembled a photo of Irish farmland with the color leached out of it. Beyond the town, a series of ponds or bogs looked like pits of wet concrete.
