by Mark Johnson
The stairs creaked. Everyone looked up, as Zale and Nic rushed down, the wave of alarm rolling off them so strong, Paan could almost see it. The Escapers looked back to Cess when they saw who it was, evidently still unable to register their presence. Zale and Nic’s emotions flooded their link with so many strains that Paan couldn’t figure how they actually felt.
Confusion, rage, fear, triumph…
“Time to go,” said Zale, his eyes wide.
Nic and Paan pulled their own staves into being, shorter and thinner than Zale’s.
Something had happened up there. It hadn’t been ideal to let Zale go off with only Nic to keep him company. But at least they hadn’t been pursued by a horde of cadvers. They were preparing to shatter the metal collar around Cess’s neck, when a man’s voice bellowed from the stairtop.
“Fire! Fire! The guest chamber is on fire!” Without a word, everyone ran from the room without so much as a backwards glance, snatches of yelled curses mixing with the squeaking and hubbub of feet on stairs.
Cess’s collar shattered. Nic put his shirt sleeve between Cess’s teeth and told him to bite down, as Zale pulled out Patzer’s knife. Cess fell backwards with a muffled scream, cursing at Zale as he allowed himself to be lifted.
Paan heard a rough, crackling noise upstairs and wanted to cough. Weren’t these old buildings supposed to be fire-resistant?
Of course it would be Zale who’d set fire to a non-flammable building.
Taking the stairs quickly, staves at the ready, they followed the fire’s crackle and glow. By the time they reached the abandoned ground floor, black smoke filled their lungs as untamed firelight twisted the shadows.
Zale supplied their escape strategy; tacking directly for the back wall. They vaulted through a window, smashing through the glass and tumbling to the ground.
People outside milled about in confusion, pointing and yelling at them as they picked themselves up.
Nic urged them east, toward a Chastity area, which had been vacant for millennia. Behind them, footfalls and curses sounded, though they soon dropped back out of earshot. None could run as fast as them at top speed, even with Cess’s dead weight. Hopefully the pursuers would assume they hailed from east of Farneck Street, not the other direction. The glow from the ruined village vanished into the distance, and they halted in a large depression to hide, rest and keep watch. Paan guessed it was well past midnight. They needed to be far gone by daylight.
There was no doubt Zale was the one responsible; he had said he wanted to create a distraction, after all. “Zale,” Paan said, as casually as he could once he’d regained his breath, “was it absolutely necessary to burn that place down? With us inside?”
“Yes.” Zale’s eyes were wider than normal. They looked out, unseeing into the night.
Paan quietened his own mind to listen to Zale’s. Happy, but numb.
“All right,” he said. “Why did you burn down all Farneck Street?”
“Because the entire top floor was a dark shrine,” said Nic calmly, as if discussing a day working on the farm.
Paan felt for Nic’s mind. His friend radiated a satisfaction and triumph Paan had never felt from him.
“What?” said Cess. “They’re Escapers, not Enemy worshippers.”
“Yes, they’re mind-controlled,” Nic grinned, almost giggling.
“Why are you so happy?” Cess asked, as he tenderly bent his leg. “We just took on something very bad, and barely made it out.”
“That’s my fault,” Zale said out of nowhere. “I should have asked for help first.” He muttered something inaudible, though Paan heard the word ‘stupid’ a few times.
Wait. Zale had just admitted he should have considered something first?
“All right, Nic, why do you feel the exact opposite of me right now?” said Cess.
“Oh, no reason. I just figured out the Invocation, is all.”
“What?” said Cess. “How? When?”
“Zale kicked over a dark shrine with an evil flame. Then he set another fire, in a house with all four of us still inside,” said Nic.
“I saw some engravings. It was a dark altar, and there was a voice in our heads,” Zale said.
“You saw how fast that fire spread?” said Nic. “That wood shouldn’t have caught fire, but Zale set another fire and those two flames fought one another. And that got me wondering. No matter how it’s treated, all wood comes from the same place. The same natural source.”
Paan stopped breathing for an instant.
“I was right about the Divine Link being a process!” Nic beamed. “Fire is the process of converting inert organic matter to energy!”
In Paan’s head, two other minds reeled in astonishment. None spoke. Fire was the Divine Link. Well, it certainly purified and powered.
“Didn’t interrupt me that time, Cess!” Nic said smugly.
Instead, Cess hauled himself to his feet. He bent his injured leg for practice then hobbled toward Nic. Before he got there, he angled toward Zale.
“What?” Zale said, looking up.
Cess threw him a loud, cracking punch in the face.
Paan bounced up, rushing at them. Here we go again.
“That’s for leaving me down there for that arsehole to use as a pincushion!” Cess shouted, then hit Zale with the other fist. “And that’s for not asking for help.” He turned and hobbled back to where he’d been seated, leaving Paan the only one standing. “Whatever that means,” he muttered as he lowered himself to the ground. “Oh, nice work, Nic.”
“Dammit, Cess!” Zale yelled from the ground, rubbing his nose. “You agreed that was the best idea!”
Paan was certain his nose wasn’t broken, or Zale’s pain register would have been louder.
“We should be dead, Zale,” said Cess. “We’re lucky you’ve got a second ability.”
“We’d have died a year ago if he didn’t have it, Cess,” said Nic. “Nothing about our lives is normal.”
“I know, but if I can’t punch Zale now, when is the right time?”
Paan sighed. Those two moved back and forth between argument and humor so fast it was impossible to read.
“What does this mean, Nic?” Paan asked, shutting down the argument. “What do we do, now we know we’re talking about fire?”
Nic shrugged happily. “No idea. I suppose I’d better read the Atabham for clues about fire.” He leaned back against the hollow with a contented sigh, his mind relaxed.
17
It was said lack of sleep could drive a man mad. It was worse when that man was being assaulted by demon voices as he tried to sleep.
For the past month, the voices had come mostly at night. Hissing and snide, the vile whispers shook them from the verge of sleep, leaving them disoriented and paranoid. The best sleeps came during daylight, though not completely undisturbed. The four of them had spent weeks trying to work out how to defend themselves with fire from the attacks, though they hadn’t had any luck. That had only drawn howling derision from the intruding voices in their heads.
Paan’s joints creaked, and everything irritated him. His clothes were scratchy, and the ground too lumpy. He was weak, physically run down, and just wanted rest, sleep and peace.
“HopeWall has less hope than a legless cadver at a Seeker convention,” declared Cess. He plucked irritably at long yellow grasses between his folded legs.
No one replied.
Despite their own mood, HopeWall was in relatively good spirits.
The Cenephans hadn’t abandoned HopeWall after the cadver attack, or Nocev’s gruesome death. Some had left, certainly, but not a lot. Too many women had called this Wall home for too long, and some men and women would have suffered whispers of cowardice if they returned to their home Walls before Pilgrimage concluded. Others were simply too stubborn to cede ground to the Enemy. But mos
t important was the unspoken understanding that if HopeWall fell, any Wall could be next.
The refugees had only themselves to fall back on, and HopeWall was their front line in the sporadic war against the cadvers and whatever else lurked in the Wastes.
Paan sighed wistfully after some moments. “I miss water. We’ve got so many lakes, fountains and pools back home, you just don’t notice them.”
“Jumping ruins,” said Zale.
“Library’s run out of books,” said Nic.
“Music broadcasts on the waves,” said Cess. “The receiving mechanisms here are set only to news broadcasts and religious songs.” He tugged harder at the grass.
“Well, we’ve got Toreng,” Paan said, trying to sound optimistic as he gestured over the heads of the children toward the storyteller, seated on the pavilion bench, tuning his veena with his eyes closed.
“Yes. Just as good as an orchestra, Paan,” said Cess.
Paan exhaled and closed his eyes, beating down a retort. Sometimes it was hard being the peacekeeper. It wasn’t a role he’d sought, or particularly wanted, but the other three sometimes had trouble seeing outside themselves.
He turned to Nic. “Why are we here, Nic? Toreng’s family performances aren’t that great for adults.”
“There’s something I wanted to listen to,” Nic said. “Toreng said he’d perform it tonight for the kids.”
Cess made a sound in his throat. “You’re not getting enough sleep, Nic. None of us are. But really? Bedtime stories?”
“I’m desperate, Cess. I can’t keep this up much longer.”
Weak. You are weak! A dread whisper in each head, sent shivers down their spines. The voices struck at the worst moments, always when they spoke of serious things.
You wish to protect yourselves from nothing but your own consequences. Your talk of responsibility ends with your limited understanding of justice.
The voice finished with its typical disdainful sneer, then faded.
Paan blinked hard and took a deep breath. It took time to recover from each intrusion. It drained their will each time, tiring them further.
Zale rubbed his red eyes, then leaned forward and, lowering his voice, said, “Why us?”
Paan asked himself that question dozens of times every day.
“Seekers destroy dark shrines all the time,” Zale continued. “What’s special about us? The damage we’ve done to the Enemy is luck, not deliberate. Why attack us?”
“Quiet. He’s starting,” said Nic.
Children clapped enthusiastically as Toreng stood, his arms wide as he graciously accepted the adulation. The recently changed glowbulbs bathed him in a white nimbus. His voice was deep and strong, despite his slender frame.
“Have we been good children today?”
“Yes!” chorused dozens of young voices.
“And are we in the mood for a story?”
“Yes!”
“He’d make a marvelous statesman, the way he warms up a crowd,” Paan said.
“I can’t hear you. Who wants a story?”
Dozens of arms shot skyward. ‘Me-me-me-me-me!’
“Kill me now,” muttered Cess.
“Then listen,” said Toreng, “to the story of Jorb the Doctor, who could not live in peace.”
They’d all read that story as they’d poured fruitlessly through the Atabham. Paan had been frustrated at Jorb the Doctor’s simplistic moral of ‘tidy houses make tidy minds’.
Toreng strummed his worn veena sparingly as he spoke or chanted, letting the chords suggest emotion. It worked well with the little ones, Paan thought, watching the children lap up Toreng’s words. In the pavilion’s dim bulblight, their faces were grimy with dirt, their hair matted and clothes worn, but their eyes never moved from Toreng. It was all in the performance, because the story itself was oddly bland:
“Where it is wet, plants will grow, but often weeds find the fertile earth and choke growing plants. Once, Polis Sumad’s water was plentiful and ran in warm canals between glowing, verdant banks.
“Beside one such bank, Jorb the Doctor built his house. And where he built had wonderfully good earth, but also nightshade that sought Jorb’s house as though it thirsted for water. The nightshade stung him, keeping him from sleep and rest. He grew irritable with those he loved and he could not work, for where the children played and laughed all day…”
Nic followed Toreng’s every move, hypnotized like the children. His bloodshot eyes and pale skin showed up the bags under his eyes.
“Yes, this is what I wanted to do with my evening,” Cess said, just loud enough for the other three to hear. “Children’s stories. I can’t wait until the hand-clapping songs begin.”
“Quiet,” Paan said, “or you’ll ruin it for the kids.” Kids were the last bargaining chip he could play to get Cess to behave.
Toreng finished his tale and the children cheered. He took a sip of water from a wide earthenware cup, then bowed as if to a royal audience. Zale forgot himself and clapped also, lowering his hands sheepishly when Cess smiled at him. Toreng thanked his audience using language more flowery than they could understand. The children begged for a song, and after heated debate, they settled on ‘The Old Grass Bucket’.
“But first,” called Toreng, waving one finger as if promising more surprises to come, “we have to answer questions!” There was an expectant, elated hush. The children looked at one another, sizing up their competition.
Toreng lobbed increasingly complex questions. What was the doctor’s name? Where did he live? What was his problem? What is a moral of a story? What was the moral of this story?
“You have to clean your house or you get dirty and you can’t do anything right and have fights,” volunteered a girl with glass beads in her hair.
“And how did he clean it?”
“Go on, Nic. This one’s yours!” whispered Cess. Nic ignored the teasing.
“He opened the window!” one of the boys barked when Toreng pointed at him. “To let the sun on it. But the sun goes down, so it didn’t work. Then he used beeswax on it, but it ran out, and the nightshade grew back. Then he then put oil, water and cotton on the nightshade, and the poison got sucked into the water. But the nightshade grew back again. Then he cleaned the nightshade with a wood rake, and it was gone for a long time!”
Toreng got everyone to clap for such a clever answer. “But how,” he asked, “did these things work when nothing his neighbors suggested had worked? Not the dancing, or the money, or getting someone to beat him with a leather strap?”
That stumped the children until a girl missing several teeth pushed her hand in the air, panting.
“I know. I know. I know!”
“Yes, little one?”
“He asked Polis to help every time he did something to stop the nightshade? But the other times he did silly things?”
Toreng’s mouth dropped. “Who told you that?”
She hesitated. “No one?”
“What a special girl! For such a clever answer, you can sit at the front!”
She received jealous, half-hearted applause as she made her way to the front.
“Yes, my friends.” Toreng waved his finger conspiratorially. “He asked Polis first!”
“I knew that,” Cess grumbled. “It should be me at the front.”
Paan snorted a laugh, and Zale smiled.
“Shut up, Cess,” said Nic, standing. “I’ll explain in the room.” They left the courtyard as The Old Grass Bucket filled the air with delighted clapping.
Paan shut and latched the wooden door behind them, as they entered the windowless room.
They lowered themselves to the floor, leaning against the flaking plaster wall. He caught a flicker of movement near the ceiling and spun to look at it. As usual, nothing there. Cess noticed, and turned away. Paan shrugged an
d pulled his thin blanket around him.
They’d searched the Atabham for mentions of fire for hours each day since Farneck Street. Since the demons had begun visiting. Desperately, they’d lit fires — the ‘Divine Link’ — with splinters of wood, only to receive the voices’ contemptuous laughter in return. The laughter grew louder when Nic tried burning glass or small stones.
They’d tried praying to Polis in the small HopeWall chapel, which did make the problem better briefly. But it was worse at night, and one couldn’t spend all day and night praying. They had jobs as guards, after all.
In the Atabham, they’d found references to fire, such as someone cooking a meal, a high priest being referred to as a flame, or simply used as metaphor. But they’d found nothing to bring meaning to their search.
“Even the children’s storytime was better than being stuck in here,” Paan said, his eyes gliding away from the room’s dark corners. “But why, Nic?”
Nic gripped their copy of the Atabham. “I’m desperate,” he snapped. “Because I’m losing my mind.” He sank underneath the bulb, opening his ragged copy of the Atabham to the Invocation. “Right now, I’d do anything to get this to stop. I swear I’m about to run away.”
Yes. Running away is better. You would be free, and it would stop, and you will forget this place and your transgression and your pride…
Paan flinched from the voice in his head, strong and oily, slithering through his mind leaving tracks of madness. The others reacted the same way. None heard the exact same thing, but the ideas were always the same. Sometimes a threat, sometimes mocking, always tinged with smug malice.
Nic had forgotten what he was saying. Since burning down that shrine, whenever they talked of weighty things, their conversations had been derailed like that. It wasn’t always a voice, but sometimes a foul, privy-like smell, or the odor of something long-rotted, to counter the room’s usual stale smell. Or there would be a flicker at the corner of his sight that reminded Paan of jaws or pincers or tentacles. Or the image of something being thrown at them to make them flinch. And they’d been cold. This room was always cold.
