“Don’t want to know yours,” Dek snaps. “You shoved it down my neck. I don’t want to know anything about you. Just get you out of my hair.” He takes a scouring pad and attacks imaginary grime on his spotless tiled splashback until he hears Ren’s slow footsteps leave the room. Only then does his breathing ease, and his gut unclench. Man’s got the sense of a dead fogel.
He hates it when Ren stomps all over his boundaries like this. He knows it’s a human thing—for all he knows, it’s even more of an empath thing—to want to make a connection with someone you’re spending time with, but Dek doesn’t. He doesn’t want to get close to Ren, or get to know him, or care, or do anything at all. He assumed some responsibility for Ren by picking him up off the trail, and more when he promised to take him to Febkeinzian, but there are definite limits to how far that goes, and he doesn’t owe Ren his friendship or his soul.
He also hates the way Ren’s so ultra careful after these (all too frequent) screw ups, because he knows it’s not based on respect, or consideration, but fear. Dek’s a dangerous, unstable man, and Ren’s right to be afraid of what he can do, but it’s one thing to know you’re a crazy bastard, and another to have your nose shoved in it all the time. Dek was happy before Ren appeared in his life, and now he spends too much time thinking about the things he’s lost, the things he never can have. He can only hope that when Ren goes, he’ll get that peace back which he’s fought so hard and long to achieve. He doesn’t want to end up hating Ren, but if Ren keeps poking him, he might well do. Ren doesn’t seem to get the message that Dek just isn’t going to be buddies. Dek will keep him alive, and that’s as far as he’s prepared to go for anyone now.
Walk A Lonesome Road: 8
At the end of the third week, Dek removes the splint and Ren seems to be cautiously optimistic about the healed fracture, testing the movement of his fingers and his hand. “I’ll just need to be careful, try and build it up. But I’ll be ready to travel,” he says with a defiant tilt to his chin.
“And the puking?”
“I think it’s better. Either that new tea mixture’s working, or I’m just improving. I’m putting on weight too.”
Dek assesses him and agrees that he does seem heavier—and not just in the obvious place. The hollows in his cheeks are filling out, his hands seems less scrawny. “Still need to eat,” he says.
“Yes, mother.”
Dek raises an eyebrow. “No, that’s you, remember?” and Ren laughs, not at all offended.
Two days before they plan to leave, Ren stands up after supper, suddenly put his hand over his belly and grunts in pain. “What?” Dek asks, alarmed. “You going to be sick?”
“No. It...uh...I think it moved.” He looks queasy as if the reality of the thing inside him has just hit him. “Wasn’t expecting it to feel like that.”
“Like what?”
“I...it’s really weird. Not a nice weird either.” He swallows. “Guess I better get used to it.”
Dek stares at Ren’s gently swelling stomach, mostly hidden by the heavy shirt and fleece, but still noticeable. There’s a fucking baby in there, he thinks. Or something. Ren’s made a couple of comments which makes it clear he thinks the thing could be horribly deformed, and may not even be human. This would be bad enough if Dek thought there was a real child likely to be produced at the end of it—but if it’s some kind of monster.... “You sure you can do this?”
“Yes. I just want to get going. We should leave tomorrow.”
“No. We’ve got a plan, and I’ve still got things need doing. Go make another pair of underpants if you’re out of things to amuse yourself.”
Ren gives him a disgusted look, but slightly to Dek’s surprise, he takes up the suggestion. He’s a terrible tailor, but he’s only making things he’s wearing himself. Dek’s not stupid enough to wear boxers Ren’s made a botch of.
If it hadn’t been for Ren’s little grunt, Dek would delay their departure a week or so because the weather has turned much more snowy and bitter these last few days. But the longer they wait, the more dangerous it becomes for Ren, and snow’s a risk for the next four months anyway. By then, it’ll be definitely too late, so all Dek can do is make sure Ren’s outdoor gear is as warm and protective as possible, and to be mindful that he daren’t push too hard until Ren’s used to it. Extreme exertion is bad for the foetus, apparently—anything that reduces oxygen flow is—and they have to keep the parasite alive to keep Ren alive. The parasite—Ren always calls it that now. His antipathy to it and his situation seems to be growing day by day, and Dek can’t help but wonder what will happen when—if—Ren’s presented with a live baby. Probably not much—it’s not like Ren’ll be obliged to keep it, and there’s always someone looking for a child to adopt. Ren’s attitude makes sense, but it still bothers Dek a little and he can’t exactly explain why.
The night before, they’re down to the minor packing and cleaning up. Dek’s sent a message to Kaisei to say he’ll be gone for a few months, and asking if he wouldn’t mind dropping in if he’s over this way, which he usually is once or twice a year. Other than that, and another message to Tik, Dek hasn’t got anyone else to inform. “I don’t know how you stand it,” Ren says, shaking his head. “Don’t you miss people?”
“No,” Dek says. “Especially not now.”
“You don’t mean that,” Ren says playfully. Dek doesn’t respond. He does shitting well mean it too.
The trip means Dek’s stores are run down very low now, but he’ll be returning in the spring and can restock in Osiwen on the way back. His vegetable garden’s the biggest regret since he’ll probably be too late for the main planting. He might have to buy in fresh stuff from Kaisei, but he can still do some trapping in the summer and autumn, and it won’t be his first lean year. They can’t carry stores for the entire journey—just enough to get them across the border, or further if Dek can supplement things with trapping and foraging. He’s counting on being able to buy supplies in the large border town of Finmeilidze. He’s hoping to learn more about the civil war situation too. Last he heard, fighting was confined to the more heavily populated, prosperous southeast, but he can’t take that for granted. It’s one of the few times he’s regretted not having a viewcom or skimmer in the house, but military intel isn’t be available on the public services anyway.
The border didn’t used to be any better guarded on the Febkeinze side than their own, the Febkeinze having better things to do with their small army than defend a long and mainly indefensible border. The area stretching on their side of the mountain range is poor farming territory, being in a significant rain shadow, and contains mainly mines and thermal energy generation plants. The plants will be guarded, as will the bigger mines. Dek’s planning to keep well clear of them, stick to the arid plains. He might be able to put Ren on a rollo at some point, but he doesn’t know how well the infrastructure’s working right now. Ferries run along the Limodi river down to Jurgizme Port and they’re a much better proposition. They can take the animals on board as well, and it would cut at least a month off their journey time. That kind of saving could make all the difference to Ren.
Because of these plans, they need to take other things besides food. He’s kept his habit of having a good cache of paper money on hand—always came in handy when he was posted outside the country—and they might need it for bribes or supplies. Dek doesn’t want to be accessing his account from Febkeinzian if he can help it, that’s for sure.
Ren stares at the notes as Dek carefully divides it into two piles—one for him, one for Ren to carry. “Dek...this is costing you a fortune.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Dek’s got the money to spare and then some. He hardly ever thinks about this stuff any more. Lomare’s life insurance paid for the house, and then some, adding to the careful savings they’d made, preparing for a family they never ended up having. His invalid service pension is more than he needs to live on even without the interest on the rest of it. His bank account grows every y
ear, and he barely has to touch it. He makes enough from his pelts to cover his basic requirements, and the big expenses—the cooker, the washer, the household appliances that he’d replaced when he bought this house—are done with for a few years. Everything costs three to four times more than city prices up here, with having to get them delivered by trail transport, but his needs really are simple. He orders a few books every year to collect when he goes to Osiwen, and he’s bought two new rifles, but that’s it, apart from staples like cloth and flour and sucrose which are more effort than it’s worth to produce himself. He’s not bought boots in the entire time he’s lived here.
“Look—I’ll try and repay you, if I can get settled in the Weadenal....”
Dek keeps counting the money. “When you get settled, that’s the end of it. Don’t want to see or hear from you again. Stay out of my life.”
Ren looks like he’s been punched. “All right. Sorry to burden you now.”
“Too late for that.” He shoves Ren’s pile of cash at him. “Put that away and go to bed. We’re moving out at dawn. You be up two hours before.”
“Yes. Uh...good night.”
Dek just grunts and turns away. He’s sorry to hurt Ren because the guy’s not a bad person, and had more than his share of sorrow, but better to be clear about things now. This trip’s going to be tough enough without other distractions.
Walk A Lonesome Road: 9
It’s still snowing when Dek looks out the window at first light, but the wind’s dropped and the temperature’s risen a tad, so he thinks they’ll just have to risk it. Ren’s more than ready—he’s been fully suited up for nearly an hour, and the grim set to his mouth means he’s not going to stay whatever Dek decides. When Dek turns around from the window and nods, Ren gives him a tight little smile. “So what are we waiting for?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
He can’t help a little knot of anxiety at leaving his home for so long, on a trip with such uncertain prospects. He pats a porch post as he walks past it, and hopes he’ll be seeing it again soon.
They take their time loading the animals, because this can make the difference between extreme discomfort and a safe, easy ride. Dek’s taking no chances about their protection either. He’s given Ren a handgun and one of the new rifles, and they’re both carrying knives at their belts and in their boots. Each of them is carrying enough equipment that if they get separated or one of them is lost, the other can carry on alone, though what Ren will do if Dek dies, he has no idea. They haven’t talked about it. Ren’s aware as Dek is of the dangers out here, how vulnerable his situation is, but as Dek pauses, preparing to haul himself up onto Jesti’s back, and says, “Last chance to back out,” Ren just shakes his head, and mounts up at the same time Dek does. So that’s that.
After some consideration, Dek’s put Ren on Wuzi because he’s their biggest animal, and, under Ren’s control, placid enough. He’s just young and full of himself, so he and Ren make a good pair. Guteb is their pack animal. All three urtibes are in top condition, and can do without substantial food for several weeks if need be, so long as Dek keeps the water up to them. He’s carrying grain, and they should be able to cut fodder for the next couple of weeks at least, but this trip is going to test them every bit as much as the humans.
After weeks in the house, listening to Ren’s near constant conversation, the snow-muffled silence almost feels to Dek like he’s gone deaf. It takes him a few minutes to tune into his surroundings, but then a familiar contentment steals over him. This is his land and he’s in his rightful place. He ignores Ren behind him for a little while, just so he can enjoy the soundless fall of the snowflakes on the landscape. Ren seems to respect that need, because he says not a word as they head down the path to the tree line.
The snow’s deeper than when he passed this way five weeks earlier, and if he’d been on foot again, he doubts he’d make it. The flat, perfectly adapted feet of the urtibes easily manage the crisp snow, and he fancies, from the delighted little snorts and weird chuckles Jesti gives out from time to time, that she’s actually enjoying herself. This is their element, after all.
They ride single file most of the morning. Dek sets a deliberately easy pace, looking back every few minutes to see that Ren’s coping with the riding and keeping his seat. The man seems to be doing all right, and with a taller animal and two healthy arms, is managing a lot better this time. He doesn’t talk much, only responding to Dek’s somewhat obsessive checking of whether he’s feeling too cold or tired with curt monosyllables. They’re both muffled up to the eyebrows, and Dek can’t tell anything from the little bit of skin that’s poking out from snow-encrusted wool. He supposes that Ren won’t enjoy any of this all that much, especially since he’s not had long to get over a pretty nasty physical ordeal, but there are no complaints.
He stops every couple of hours so they can drink water, or, when they make a fire at noon, a couple of mugs of deliciously hot khevai. Each time they rest, he checks Ren’s face, hands and feet for frostbite, checks his responses to make sure he’s not hypothermic again, or even too tired, because that can kill as easily as the cold. Ren endures it all patiently, though when Dek forbids him the least unnecessary movement, or to help with the chores, he makes a snide comment about Dek treating him like a cheap romance novel heroine. Put you in a book, Dek thinks as he turns his back on his insolent companion, have to pay people to read it.
The snow eases in the afternoon, but the wind whips up, and the drifting snow and the raw cold forces them to call a halt a little earlier than Dek planned. They’ve made decent progress—easily twenty pardecs—and if they can keep this up, they’ll cross the mountains in much less than the projected four weeks. But it’s only the first day and this country learns a man not to be cocky. Seeing Ren’s slow, clumsy movements as he gets off Wuzi, follows Dek around the campsite in a daze, tells Dek his caution was warranted. Twenty pardecs is plenty for one day.
The night’s harder than the daylight hours in some ways. Dek’s done what he can to provide comfortable bedding for Ren, who’s been sleeping poorly, but there’s no getting away from the fact they’re lying on frozen ground in subzero temperatures in a small space that would be cosy for one man, let alone two. Or that both of them are prone to nightmares that are worsened by stress. As Ren staggers out of the tent in the morning, he gives Dek a wan smile. “Maybe we should have practiced this,” he says, then bends over to throw up.
Maybe they should have. At least it had been warm enough. The bed of thick furs was well worth the effort of bringing them, and of losing the price of the pelts. He might be able to sell some of the better ones anyway, once the weather warms up after they cross the border.
He takes it even more slowly the second day. The knife-like wind dies down, which is a relief, and the snow isn’t as deep in the forest as it is outside, so the animals can walk more easily. He lets them forage a little on low branches, scrape out snow-protected seedlings with their horny feet—doesn’t lose them a lot of time, and it means he can assess Ren without making it too obvious. Ren’s more tired today, and the morning nausea persists until noon, but lunch perks him up a little, and over hot food, he asks Dek about the forest and his trapping, inconsequential stuff, making conversation out of habit despite his weariness. Dek plays along, not minding the harmless curiosity. It’s reassuring, in a way, to know Ren can still scrape up the energy to talk.
It ebbs and flows, the stream of words, and Dek can’t help being curious about the pattern to it over the next few days. As they ride, Ren hardly talks at all, saving his energy. At rest, around the campfire in the evening, he’s still subdued. More than once he starts to say something, only to stop speaking with an odd look at Dek. Dek’s confused at first, then remembers what he’s said to Ren about their future non-contact, and understands. Ren can’t help himself, but he’s trying to respect Dek’s boundaries. It’s tiring, and Dek would tell him to knock it off, except that might encourage him. Though the strange w
ary companionship he’d tried so hard to stifle back at the house, is still flickering into life—and he doesn’t entirely regret that—he doesn’t want Ren to get ideas.
It’s in the tent at night as they settle down to sleep, that the words come the easiest. Ren mumbles sleepy inconsequential observations about the day, mutter about how the damn parasite is kicking his guts or how he’s developing callosities from the saddle. He’s talking to himself mostly. Dek just listens, or grunts if he thinks it necessary, and wonders if Ren was like this with his wife, or if it’s a reaction to four years in hell. He doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would.
The first few days Ren struggles with all of it, and there’s a couple of times when Dek gives serious thought to turning back, but then after that he adapts to the cold and the discomfort and though urtibes aren’t the easiest animals to ride, he takes to that like one born to it. Dek still keeps a close eye on him but now he can spend more time concentrating on his own riding, and on the trail. When they reach the foothills, that’ll become even more essential than in this lowland area which he knows so well, and which is relatively safe. The weather is always unpredictable at the higher altitudes and that’s something he can only prepare for as best he can. The first bad storm could kill them, and that’s out of his hands. But he knew the risks before he left. So did Ren. He still chose to go.
Until they reach the foothills, they’re lucky with the weather. The worst of it is the heavy snow that’s already fallen, and what gets dumped on them in two blizzards, a week apart. They lose one day because of it, spending it buried in a snow cave because the tent can’t cope with the storm force winds. That’s...not a good day for Ren. They’re warm enough—Dek’s made more snow caves than he has boots, so the thing’s comfortable and provides excellent shelter—but he’d forgotten who he was dealing with, and afterwards, he kicks himself for not thinking about it in advance, because the enclosed space triggers horrific memories of torture for Ren. Memories of being shut in a box for nearly two days and tormented with electrodes, memories of being tied down and forced to experience the emotions of other men being tortured, and Ren will do anything, including killing himself, to get away from the terror and the pain, if Dek will let him.
Walk a Lonesome Road Page 7
