by Sharon Hinck
Awe hummed in my heart, followed by a new jolt of fear. What was this place? I thought if I got away from the empty structures, I’d be able to figure out where I was. Instead, I was even more confused. If this was some demented theme park, it was huge.
All I could do was let this hallucination spin itself out. I’d stay alert, learn whatever I could, and figure out how to get home.
Tristan turned back and saw me gawking. “Keep moving.”
He reminded me of my brother: shaggy, gruff, quick to boss me around and throw exasperated glares my direction, rough in a way that disguised unexpected flares of kindness.
Trailing behind Tristan, I studied the sky, but it was uniformly overcast, with no hint of a sun. I’ve never been good at navigation. My husband can be in a crowded shopping mall and instantly point to true north. I’ve been known to get lost in the basement of a friend’s house—disoriented enough to forget where the stairs are. Without a rising sun to mark the east, I didn’t have a hope of figuring out which way we were heading.
My feet began to hurt. The tar road made for easy travel, but Tristan was intent on covering ground, and it was all I could do to keep up. Not until we approached a small grove of trees with an adobe clamshell shelter, did Tristan finally slow. Another street intersected the one we had taken from town. Tristan looked up and down this new road with a frown. It was such a normal, impatient gesture that, for a moment, I felt right at home. We could be at a bus stop or a train station in my hometown, wondering if we had missed our connection.
As I looked more closely at one of the trees, the illusion of familiarity slipped away. The leaves stretched far overhead, huge and wide, like those of a rubber tree. There was no rough bark on the black trunk. Instead the entire surface was covered with a series of overlapping runnels of smooth, glossy sap.
I reached out to touch it.
Tristan jerked me back by the straps of my pack. “Don’t touch that,” he said. “In fact, don’t touch anything.”
I bit back an indignant response and eased the pack off my shoulders.
Tristan sighed and removed his pack as well. He flung himself down against the curved wall of the alcove. Made from the same rough grey plaster as the buildings in Shamgar, the open-sided half-dome provided protection from the elements.
Drizzle tickled my face. Great. More rain. I shoved my pack under the cover of the shelter and sat down near Tristan. He wasn’t looking very friendly, but there was no one else to ask about this nightmare I had stumbled into.
I decided to start small. “What kind of tree is that?”
“What?” He looked at me as if he had forgotten me—or wished he could.
“The tree. What kind is it?”
“It’s called a bitum. The sap is used to make roads. But don’t touch it. It’s a sticky mess.”
I stuck my head out into the rain to look up at the surrounding trees again.
Tristan gave a half smile. “Do you know what sap is?”
“Of course I do.” I settled back under cover. “We have a maple tree in our backyard. Every spring the kids try to tap it, but we never get enough to make syrup. One year, we went to a real sugar bush and watched them collect the sap and boil it down. That was the best maple syrup I ever tasted.” My mouth watered at the memory.
“You eat the sap?” Tristan looked alarmed.
“It’s nothing like those.” I waved at the surrounding trees. “But speaking of eating . . .”
Tristan gave a reluctant grin. “You didn’t get any breakfast, did you? I’m guessing we missed the early transport, so we may as well get comfortable.” He dug in his pack and took out a semi-flat bowl that he set out in the rain. Then he pulled out a round loaf, tore it, and gave me half.
I broke off a small piece and nibbled it. It was hard and coarse but had a walnut flavor that reminded me of a specialty loaf from my favorite bakery. “Thanks.” We chewed for a while, and I tried to organize my questions. “So why is the town back there deserted?”
His eyebrows pulled together in a frown, and he looked like he might not answer me. Then he swallowed his bread and stared out into the misty rain.
“For many years, the Grey Hills were home to a proud clan—the sons of Shamgar,” he began, speaking in the stylized way that I used to tell fairytales to my children. “They built a strong and beautiful city in the midst of the hills. The streets were filled with travelers, and music was heard in its square every day.” He dropped out of his formal tone and grinned. “My grandmother’s brother lived there, along with more distant cousins than I could keep track of. I remember visiting when I was young. It was crowded and noisy. At night, everyone left their doors open so light spilled into the streets, and the town seemed to glow.” He shifted his weight and cleared his throat.
“Where was I? Oh, right. The music.” He looked out into the distance again. “And music was heard in its square every day. But the people of Shamgar forgot the Verses. They sought power and wealth from the gods of the hills. On the far side of the clay fields, much too close to Shamgar, live the people of Hazor. They are a strong and cruel nation. For generations they grew in strength, fighting and conquering all the tribes around them. They never crossed into the Grey Hills because the People of the Verses were protected. But when Shamgar forgot the Songs, their protection was gone. One day a fierce army crossed the clay fields from Hazor and killed every guardian and every songkeeper, every weaver and builder, each councilmember and transtech, each mother and father. They carried off the children and all the wealth of the town. The city of the Grey Hills has been deserted ever since. And those who brave its empty streets can sometimes hear the hill gods laugh.” Tristan’s voice trailed off, but he continued to stare out past the grey horizon.
I shivered and hugged my upper arms.
Tristan turned to me and the spell was broken. “There’s a cloak in your bag if you’re cold.”
Mute for the moment, I shook my head. He reached out into the rain for the shallow bowl and offered me the water it had collected. I took a sip and handed it back to him. He finished the rest and set the bowl back outside.
“I bet these hills are beautiful in the sunlight,” I said, squinting past the drizzle.
Tristan stared at me blankly. “Sunlight?”
“Yeah, you know, ‘The sun to govern the day and the moon to govern the night.’”
He still looked confused. Couldn’t he at least make an effort to follow the conversation? “The big ball in the sky? Where our light comes from? It comes up in the morning and goes down at night. Well, not really. It just looks that way because the earth rotates. . . .”
Had I started speaking Swahili? Tristan’s face didn’t reflect an ounce of comprehension. The implication soaked in. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
Another shiver ran through me. If this place didn’t have a sun, I was a lot farther from home than I wanted to believe. The bleak landscape glowered back at me. There had to be a sun somewhere out there to give this world light and heat, but it was shrouded by thick atmosphere—a constant blanket of grey.
None of the homes I’d seen in Shamgar had lamps. People had invented glowing walls that duplicated the muted illumination of the sky. Light didn’t come from one source. It came from all around. It explained one of the things that had felt out of place to me. This was a world of few shadows. The tall bitum trees cast no shade.
“So how do you know which way is north? How do you draw your maps?” I asked.
Tristan edged away from me, looking uneasy at yet another odd question.
“How do you know which way you’re going?”
He pointed back toward Shamgar. “Past the clay fields is Hazor. It borders all our lands along that side.”
I arbitrarily decided Hazor was “north.” It helped me to picture a map in my mind.
“The River Bord
ers are that way, several days travel.” He pointed the opposite direction. “The Kahlareans live there, and we’ve fought several wars with them. There are rumors that—” He cut himself off, giving me a sharp look.
I ignored his flare of distrust, immersed in drawing a mental map. South. Hazor on the north, Kahlarea on the south.
Tristan pointed down the road in the direction I determined to be east. “Two other clans live that way, along the coast. Past that is the sea.” He was beginning to warm up to this geography lesson. He signaled behind the alcove. “That’s the direction we’re heading. To Lyric, and from there to Ferntwine. After that, we head toward the River Borders before reaching Braide Wood. That’s my home.” He stopped, checking to see if I was paying attention. “Past Braide Wood are the Morsal Plains—farmland. Far beyond that are two other clans that were part of the People of the Verses, but they left the Council.”
I wanted to ask Tristan more questions, but I heard a distant sound. “It’s coming.” I jumped up.
Tristan tensed and reached for his sword. “What’s coming?”
“Something with wheels on the road. Don’t you hear it?”
Tristan stepped out into the rain and listened. After a few long moments, he grinned. “You’re right. It’s the transport.” His smile faded into a suspicious frown. “How did you do that?”
“I heard it. How do your trucks run so quietly? I suppose you don’t use combustion engines, because with an atmosphere like this, you want to avoid air pollution. Is it batteries?”
Tristan made a low sound in his throat and shook some of the rain off his cloak.
I squinted down the road. “How do you get power for your trucks and transports?”
He shifted his shoulders in irritation. “You should have asked Kieran. His father is a transtech. He can make anything move. He told me once that it’s the power of opposites.”
“Electromagnetic?” Best guess I could come up with, given my limited science knowledge.
“Skyler has an incredible mind,” Tristan mused, ignoring my question. “He wasn’t thrilled when his daughter wanted to marry a guardian. Kieran is just like him. He can take things apart and remember where every piece belongs. Should have been a transtech like his father, but—” Once again, Tristan clamped his mouth shut, as if he’d said too much.
Frustration made the muscles in my shoulders tighten. I was never going to figure this place out if he kept interrupting himself. The transport pulled up before I could think of a way to get him talking again.
Similar in style to the trucks I had already seen—but much larger—the vehicle was long, sleek, and silver. It looked like part of a bullet train, or a subway car, although it appeared to run on wheels. I crouched down to peek under the body.
Tristan hauled me back up by my pack again. “Would you pay attention?”
A curved door slid up into the roof of the transport, and Tristan stepped on and pulled me after him. The door slipped back down, and the machine pulled forward. I stumbled, sank into one of the metallic benches molded along both sides of the car, and settled my pack at my feet—again feeling a twinge of the familiar. With the long central aisle, this looked exactly like a subway car. I looked for posters advertising the latest play in town, or ads for a new cell-phone plan. But the inside of the empty transport was as stark and bare as its outer shell. The humid air smelled stuffy and uncirculated, and again I was reminded of burnt marshmallows.
Tristan braced himself against one of the dusty plastic windows. Alert eyes scanned the passing countryside.
I tried to gauge his level of patience. I was beginning to feel even more like an unwanted kid sister tagging along. “Tristan?”
“Hm?” He watched the road ahead.
“If this is not my world—and I’m getting a strong suspicion that it’s not—why are you speaking English?”
He flopped down onto the seat across from me and winced. “Why am I speaking what?” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“You speak the same language as I do. How is that possible?”
“I speak the language of the Songs. We are the People of the Verses. What else would I speak?” Tristan was trying to help, but I was clearly giving him a headache.
I massaged my temples. My head wasn’t feeling so great either. “But you can understand me. That shouldn’t be possible.”
“If that’s what’s bothering you, don’t worry. I can’t understand most of what you say.” The corner of his mouth curved up. I couldn’t help but smile back at him. Then his face grew earnest, and he leaned forward. “If you were sent to us, then Someone sent you. Doesn’t it follow that the same One who brought you here would also equip you with what you need? I don’t send a young guardian out on patrol without his weapons.”
He stood again to stare out the window while I pondered what he’d said. Logical, but hardly comforting. I didn’t feel “sent.” I felt like an accident. Or a lunatic. Or the only sane person in a world full of lunatics.
The transport continued to surge forward—not quite freeway speed (at least, not the lead-footed way Mark drove) but still fast. I watched the deceptively ordinary scenery fly by. Meadows, trees, the road we were on, even some distant animals that looked like sheep—if I let my eyes go slightly out of focus, I could be on a road trip through Iowa. About twenty minutes rolled past, though without my watch, it was hard to tell. If I were ever yanked into a different world again, I would definitely bring a flashlight and a watch. When we slowed down, I peered through the windows. “So where are—”
Tristan swore under his breath and turned sharply away from the window. The color leached from his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Cameron. A councilmember. He’s getting on at this stop.”
The door slid up and revealed a group of people waiting to board. A plump young man with pimply skin jumped on first, pulling a cloth from his sleeve. He dusted off a section of bench. The next man to board entered the transport like a rock star with an entourage and sat down on the freshly dusted seat. As tall as Tristan, he had a designer face—every feature perfect. He carried the smug confidence of a man who had never lacked wealth, looks, or power. Black, shoulder-length hair was slicked back from his smooth features, and his rust-colored tunic was sleek and clean.
I brushed some dust from the baggy layers of my rough woven clothes. “Probably uses bitum sap on his hair,” I muttered under my breath.
Tristan wasn’t listening. He eased onto the bench next to me. Tension flexed through his limbs.
My palm itched, and I turned my pack slightly so my sword hilt was closer.
Two women and an older man, all carrying bundles, followed the others on board. Although not as polished in appearance as Cameron, the fabric of their tunics and pants was finely woven and clean. One woman spared a chilly smile for us, but quickly averted her gaze, as if our presence threatened her social standing. As they found places to sit, Cameron continued a conversation. “So then the Council voted to put a team of transtechs to work on it.” His voice was resonant. He beamed at his audience as they laughed and murmured approving words.
A wave of distaste rolled over me. Fawning looked ugly on any world.
He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if divulging a secret. “I’d say the guardians will be obsolete within five or six seasons.”
Cameron glanced in our direction. “It looks like we have company,” he said, showing too many teeth. “Tristan! I didn’t see you there. This is a surprise.”
My distrust deepened. He had noticed Tristan the second he boarded.
Cameron’s brow wrinkled in mock puzzlement. “Aren’t you assigned patrol in Morsal Plains this season?” He turned his gaze back to the young man by his side. “Someone has to keep the rizzids out of the grain fields.”
The boy’s high-pitched giggle turned his face red. The w
omen chuckled, but the older man glanced at Tristan, then looked down.
“Cameron.” Tristan greeted him with outward calm, though his teeth ground together audibly. “I didn’t know the Council was in session.”
“The work of serving the people never ends,” Cameron said with a smirk. “At least for some of us. I guess guardians are entitled to more time off.” He paused. When Tristan didn’t rise to the bait, Cameron leaned back and crossed his arms, his gaze dark and speculative. “You might be interested to know, we’ve just had a very successful trade mission with the Hazorites of Corros Hills.”
Tristan sat up straighter. “You can’t be serious. There’s no trade allowed with Hazor.”
Cameron’s eyes sparkled, but he put on a concerned expression. “Tristan, Tristan, you’ve been on patrol too long. I find it distressing that the guardians aren’t kept better informed.” Cameron turned to one of the women. “Remind me to bring this up at the next Council meeting.” Then he targeted Tristan again. “I thought messengers were sent to all outposts . . . even as far as Morsal Plains.” Cameron tapped one long finger against his pursed lips. “Oh, but that’s right. You weren’t at Morsal Plains, were you? Where have you been? Wait. Don’t tell me. Out causing trouble with our allies again?”
“The Rhusicans are not our allies,” Tristan spat out.
Cameron raised an eyebrow. Basking in his control of the situation, he turned to analyze me.
Dread chilled my blood. I inched back behind Tristan, willing myself to look insignificant. When he first boarded, I had hoped Cameron was a smarmy bureaucrat who wouldn’t notice me, but now that hope fizzled. How could I diffuse his interest and avoid trouble? It would have helped if Tristan had explained more.
“And who is this?” Cameron gave me a smile full of self-importance. “I’m Cameron of Lyric, councilmember of the People.”
Fine. Tristan may have left me twisting in the wind, but I’d had enough of cowering. I sat up straight and looked Cameron in the eyes. “I’m Susan from Ridgeview Drive.”
