by Ben Galley
‘I don’t have a—’
Steel flashed as a knife spun over the flames and landed in the sand inches from Merion’s knee. The boy tried to quell the shaking in his hand as he tugged the blade free. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
‘Welcome.’
A bowl was filled with beans and passed across the fire. The beans were big and soft, and the sauce they swam in was thick and rich, deep with spices and smoke. Merion was instantly apologetic. ‘These beans are incredible, Lurker.’
Lurker didn’t look up. He just kept slipping beans into his mouth, one by one, eating like a grizzled old turtle might. He managed a brief, ‘Thank you,’ between spoonfuls.
The jerky was tongue-numbingly salty, but it too was rich and spicy. Merion had never tasted anything like it. It was like chewing on a boot, sure, but a tasty boot at that. The boy soon gave up on the knife and simply just started tearing chunks off with his teeth.
Three bowls of beans and half the jerky later, (some of which was surreptitiously slipped into his rucksack), Merion was once again dancing along the edges of a deep sleep. Lurker had already packed away the pot and stoked up the fire, and while Merion pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders and rocked back and forth, fighting sleep, Lurker began to work on something. It was difficult to see, but it was definitely something to do with Merion’s shoes. Lurker looked to be attacking them with his knife.
‘Are we safe here?’ Merion asked, gazing around dazedly at the little wind-cut horseshoe of red rock they had made camp in. They were halfway up a sharp hill, all chiselled at the sides, and hidden away quite nicely in a hollow. Rhin was stowed away in the rucksack and kept close at hand beside Merion’s right knee. Jake was curled up in a black feathery ball on the left-hand side of the fire, snoring in little hissing gasps.
Lurker nodded as he worked. ‘Safer than most, that’s for sure,’ he replied, distracted.
‘That’s hardly comforting,’ Merion mumbled.
‘Last night we had the protection of the town. The bigger things are drawn further west, to where the railroad and the worker camp is. We sort of snuck out the back.’
‘But we’re nowhere near the town now.’
‘No, we’re closer to Seragho River, off to the east, see? If we’d a moon tonight you’d see it lie like a silver snake, curving through the hills.’ Lurker waved his little blade at the ragged horizon and speckled heavens.
Merion took another peek at the night sky, and not for the last time that evening shook his head at the sheer number of stars and dusty swirls it had to offer. He had never seen a sky like this in London. It was alien and other-worldly, as if the Tamarassie had taken him to the moon instead of the New Kingdom. The night breeze blew cold, and Merion shivered.
‘I’d wager that Lord Serped is chugging along it right now in that grand riverboat of his, on his way to Fell Falls.’
That woke Merion up a bit. ‘Right now?’ he asked. He had forgotten all about the Serpeds in his rush to follow Lurker. But his momentary excitement sank almost as quickly as it had surfaced. There was nothing he could do about them now. They could be a back-up plan, he decided, and nodded affirmatively to himself, inwardly congratulating himself on his shrewdness. Father would be proud.
He will be proud.
Lurker was still chuntering away. Merion had not imagined such a stoic and silent fellow to be so talkative around a campfire. Perhaps it was simply more comfortable for him out here, with a ceiling of stars, a rock for a bed, and a belly full of beans.
‘… but this ain’t wraith country no more, so don’t you worry ’bout them. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Again, comforting.’
‘It’s the little things you got to watch out for, in these parts,’ Lurker looked up and met Merion’s eyes. ‘The things that don’t look harmless until they bite you. Half the time you don’t know you’ve been bitten until the bastards have sucked a pint of blood out of you.’ Lurker stared, and Merion stared right back. The boy suddenly felt itchy, as though he could already feel tiny teeth testing his skin, or little claws climbing under his clothes. He involuntarily shivered.
‘You mean like insects?’ Merion scratched at his neck.
Lurker broke eye contact and went back to whatever he was doing. ‘Among other things. The sort of things Lil likes to collect.’
Merion could not help but put a hand on his rucksack. ‘What exactly is her fascination with cutting up strange animals?’
Lurker tugged at the brim of his hat. ‘I’ll let Lil tell you all about that when we get back.’
‘And here I was thinking I was actually going to find some answers in this desert.’
‘In a few days, you’ll have them,’ mumbled Lurker, and there was a finality in his voice that made Merion hold his tongue for once. He hunkered down, ignoring how cold his back was compared to his roasting front, and tried to ignore the lack of feeling in his legs. Sleep clawed at him, dragging him down. Tiredness seeped into his bones and muscles and pulled at his eyelids. The fire began to grow blurry, then disappeared altogether into darkness and vacuous silence.
Merion ran his hands across the dark wood of the desk, and wiggled his fingers in the stained light…
*
Lurker waited, his head slumped on his chest, until the boy was snoring soundly. He tongued his yellow teeth thoughtfully while he stared over the ochre flames. Jake had awoken, and was now looking between his master and Merion. If a magpie could have tutted, Jake did.
Lurker threw him a look. ‘Don’t you be judging me now, bird,’ he whispered.
Jake ruffled his feathers and clacked his beak disapprovingly.
Lurker shook his head. ‘Cantankerous magpie,’ he muttered. He spent a little while drumming his fingers on his knee before reaching for his battered old flask. He shook it, making it gurgle, then fished a small corked vial out of a pocket deep in his coat, half-full of a dark crimson liquid. Jake watched with his beady black eyes as Lurker pulled the cork out with his teeth and a dribbled a few drops of the thick liquid into the flask.
‘Not too much, not too little,’ Lurker told himself.
Jake clacked his beak again.
‘Lil ain’t the only bloodletter in Wyoming, Jake. You know that. And no, it ain’t for me, ‘afore you ask,’ Lurker replied as he shook the flask.
A squawk this time. Lurker shushed him. ‘I know what I’m doing. Boy’s got his father’s blood in him, I’m sure of it. Unlike you, I don’t have to see it to believe it.’
The seemingly one-sided conversation was apparently over. Jake said no more. He tucked his beak under one wing and closed his good eye, shutting all this nonsense out. Lurker tucked the flask under his knee and patted it. ‘You’ll see, bird. He’ll be fine,’ he muttered, and then reached again for his knife, to continue working on Merion’s shoes.
Chapter XII
SPIT AND VIGOUR
‘I don’t know how long it’s been now. A week? Two? The boy’s found his tongue, but mine is still dry as parchment. Hurts to speak, and he doesn’t understand my scrawling …’
14th May, 1867
It was early when the sun arose to burn the cold of the night away, to chase the timid mists back into the splintered ground, far too early for Merion’s liking. He cracked his eyelids open a smidgeon and winced as the brightness made his eyes hurt. This desert was insufferable.
‘Mornin’,’ muttered Lurker. Merion could have sworn that he hadn’t moved an inch in the night. He was exactly as he had left him: sat cross-legged, head down, and busy with Merion’s shoes. Lurker was just about finished with them. Now, in the morning light, Merion could see the results.
Two patchwork shoes of borrowed leather and brightly-coloured cloth sat side-by-side in the red sand. His own shoes had been cut and ripped to shreds, spliced with a pair of what Merion would later learn were called noa’sins. Shohari shoes. Lurker had even managed to save some of that velvet lining, putting it to good use around the heels. They weren’t what
Merion might have chosen for walking down the cobbles of Kensing Town, but he—along with his battered and blistered feet—was very grateful for them.
‘You made those for me?’ Merion croaked, his throat raspy from his deep slumber. He had slept like the dead.
With his thumb and his blade, Lurker cut free the final loose thread. He flicked it into the fire and sighed. ‘Done,’ he said, then tossed the shoes to Merion, who caught them awkwardly.
The big man didn’t look like the sort of man who was fond of sleep (the black rings around his deep brown eyes were testament to that fact), but Merion had to ask. ‘Were you up all night making these?’ he enquired.
Lurker shrugged. ‘Way I see it, I can sleep when I’m dead.’
The logic was brutal, but sound. Merion shrugged right back and turned the shoes over in his hands. They were rough; Lurker was no tinker, but they seemed solid enough. Merion gently slipped them on to his aching feet, biting his lip as his blisters complained. It was painful, but he managed it. The shoes were tight, but for some reason that felt like a good thing.
Merion said as much. ‘They’re tight,’ he remarked, but then realised his manners. ‘I mean, thank you, Lurker.’
‘Welcome,’ replied the man. He was sat with his legs drawn into his chest, his thick leather-clad arms resting on his knees.
In truth, Merion was not accustomed to random acts of kindness, especially from a man such as Lurker. Merion did not know quite what to offer in return besides a few spare socks or a handshake, so he decided to show a little interest in the man.
‘So I take it Lurker isn’t your real name?’ he asked.
Lurker’s stare moved to the ashes of the dead fire. ‘No, it ain’t. But I don’t mind it. Suits me, so Lil says. I’m more Lurker now than anybody else.’
Merion nodded. Lurker’s matter-of-fact way of speaking was strange, but Merion found that he couldn’t help but agree. There was a wisdom that emanated from him, and Merion was fascinated by it, perhaps because on some level he knew it was a wisdom born from toil and hardship, from struggle and tribulation. There was a deep and dark history behind those brown eyes, behind those scars, and Merion was suddenly very eager to dig it out.
‘So, what is your name, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Lurker scratched his grizzled chin, his nails rasping on his wiry stubble. It was clear he wasn’t one for laying his cards out for all to see, but he answered all the same. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘ain’t nobody asked that in a while. I used to be called John, John Hobble. Before some whiskey-sick rail worker accused me of lurking in a saloon one day. It was busy. He was loud. Name kinda stuck. Don’t go to many saloons no more.’
‘Well thank you again, John Hobble.’ Merion’s rumbling stomach interrupted any further questions, so he mentally tucked them away for later and asked an altogether more important question instead. ‘So, what’s for breakfast?’
Lurker sniffed and looked out at the desert. Now that the sun was up, Merion could see the Seragho curling around the hills to the east. If he’d looked a little closer, he might have spied the white blotch of a grand riverboat eagerly chuffing and splashing its way towards Fell Falls. ‘Sand and sweat,’ Lurker replied.
Merion grimaced. ‘That doesn’t sound too appetising.’
Lurker was already on his feet. ‘Don’t make time for breakfast. We got to get moving, afore it gets hot.’
‘But…’ Merion’s stomach gurgled away in disappointment. Merion had secretly hoped, just a little, that today would be better than yesterday. Fat chance of that, he thought.
‘Here,’ Lurker said, brandishing a beaten-up old flask. ‘Drink this.’
Merion eyed it suspiciously. To his left, Jake cackled away to himself. The bird sounded grumpy, if that were possible. ‘What is it?’ Merion asked.
‘Water, boy. Clear the sand out of your throat and let’s get goin’,’ Lurker threw the flask and Merion narrowly avoided knocking himself out with it as he caught it clumsily.
Merion gave the water a cautionary sniff. It smelled like water. He took a little sip. It tasted like water. In fact, it tasted like the best water he had ever tasted. Merion hadn’t realised how thirsty he was.
‘I … er …’ Merion held the empty flask upside down and winced. ‘Did you want some?’
Lurker snorted but then patted his coat pocket. ‘Got my own. You keep that. We’ll be hittin’ a spring by noon.’
Merion slowly got to his aching feet, half-expecting to be bludgeoned by searing pain at any moment, but little came. He emitted a few gasps and hisses here and there, as he took the first few tentative steps, but his new patchwork shoes performed marvellously. ‘That’s much better,’ he said.
‘Good,’ Lurker replied as he gathered up his things. Jake flapped his iridescent wings and returned to his favourite spot on Lurker’s left shoulder. He cawed when he noticed Merion hadn’t moved. The boy was swaying slightly, and he was resting a hand on his belly.
‘You okay, boy? Something wrong?’
Merion held up a finger and took a few long breaths. That seemed to fix it. He blinked and sighed. ‘Fine. Just felt a little queasy, is all.’ Probably from the lack of breakfast, he silently added.
Lurker had a strange look on his face. ‘Sure?’
Merion swallowed, and nodded. His stomach was still rumbling, but the wave of nausea had passed. ‘Sure. I feel fine.’
*
As it turned out, Merion felt great. Maybe it was the fact that he had new shoes. Or, maybe it was because his body was giving him one last spurt of energy before it completely fell apart from starvation, he didn’t know. What he did know was that food was the last thing on his mind at that particular moment. Merion just wanted to walk. The miles fell away like the wilted petals of a long-dead flower. Yes, his stomach still gurgled away. Yes, his feet still hurt. Yes, his legs ached, but Merion could not fight his own momentum. He just wanted to keep moving, to feel the sand fall away beneath his determined stride. In fact, he had to concentrate on holding himself back, lest he overtook Lurker and sped off into the desert in a cloud of dust and sweat.
And his tongue. It had spent the whole morning wagging, and still it didn’t want to stop. Merion rattled off comment after question like rounds from a gun. Some Lurker deigned to answer, others just ricocheted into the wilderness, to annoy the rocks and rodents and vultures instead.
‘And so that means it has to be political. Now I don’t know much about the Benches, but I know my father was a famous man. A ruthless man. I mean, you can’t make everybody like you, can you?’ Merion prattled on.
Unseen by Merion, Lurker rolled his eyes. ‘No, you can’t.’
There was a sharp snap as Merion clicked his fingers. ‘Exactly.’
He felt a sharp nudge in his back and tiny, almost inaudible ‘Shhh!’ from the rucksack.
‘Don’t shush me,’ Merion blurted, and then instantly caught himself. He clamped his mouth shut.
Lurker stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. He was sniffing the air. ‘I didn’t shush you. Not that I don’t want to, boy. You’ve talked the morning to death and it looks like the afternoon will be buried right alongside it. You talk for the Empire. I told you I walk in silence. I like the peace and quiet, so you’d best focus on holding your tongue for the next hour at least. But I know one thing, that I didn’t shush you. Who you talkin’ to?’ he asked, sniffing at the air.
Merion crossed his arms, then scratched his head. He coughed and stared at the nearest hill. Damn it if he wasn’t finding it hard to stay still. His legs wouldn’t stop shaking. ‘I thought I heard … It doesn’t matter,’ Merion made his excuses, hoping he was convincing enough.
Lurker squinted, looking the boy up and down. ‘You are jittery, ain’t you?’ he said, then a smile began to spread over his dark lips. Jake cawed and launched himself into the air. Lurker chuckled as he watched the bird go. ‘Told you,’ he muttered.
Now Merion was confused. ‘Told me what?�
��
‘Nothin’. Now you shut your trap?’
Merion hopped from one foot to the other. ‘But … But I wanted to know more about the war you mentioned … and …’ He trailed off. Getting answers from Lurker had been like trying to bleed a boulder. Though he had been rewarded with a few, a few was never enough for a thirteen-year-old. He had never really known the meaning of ‘few’.
Lurker shook his head sternly. ‘Wars are for fighting, not talkin’ about. Nobody got anything good to say about the war. You don’t want to hear it.’
But Merion really did. Boys and talk of war went together like rain and the Empire. ‘Can we talk about my Aunt Lilain?’
Lurker almost fell for it. ‘What about Lil …? No, I said no more questions. When the sun goes down, you can talk. For now, you just put those jittery legs into good use and walk. You hear?’
‘Fine,’ Merion mumbled. Lurker turned back around and the young Hark couldn’t help but twitch and jerk forward, his legs pining for the movement. ‘But can I just say—’
‘No.’
‘—that the reason you probably walk in silence all the time is because you walk alone all the time.’
There was a grunt and Lurker tipped his hat. ‘I got Jake.’
‘But he can’t talk.’
‘That’s what you think.’
‘You have a talking magpie?’
‘I thought I said silence? Shut it!’
*
And shut it Merion did. Even when they stopped for water at a small spring hidden in the armpit of several tall, striped rocks, the boy said nothing. It almost killed him to do so, but he held his tongue, letting it just flap about on its own behind tightly-gritted teeth. Lurker simply plodded along, sniffing the air every couple of minutes or so. Merion busied himself with watching Lurker’s pack bob up and down as he walked. Every now and again, Merion would glimpse a flash of metal through gaps in the seams of Lurker’s battered leather coat, and his mind would turn to thoughts of guns, and white porcelain tiles.
