Had it been a choice though, or had he been forced to wander the wilderness alone and afraid, too filled with shame to find his father in Ithaca for failing to protect his family? He didn’t know, or rather, didn’t want to.
Brook saw his unease so changed the subject. “We’ll eat in the morning. The fall forage was very good to us this year so I hope you’ll be hungry.” Brook stepped forward and touched his shoulder. “Thank you, Mercer. You saved my life earlier. If it wasn’t for you, I would have never made it back here, to my home. I’m glad I chose to trust you.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” he said. His hand found hers and he squeezed it. “You saved my life too. I would have been a dead man’s dinner if not for you in Young Poe’s Keep.”
She smiled. “Dead men. So strange you call them that, though I suppose that’s what they are. Have you ever heard someone call them zombies? I’ve never heard it spoken aloud before, have only ever read it in books.”
“Some of the older folk in the cities out west call them that. I think it sounds ridiculous, though, so I just call them dead men.” He wanted to say more but couldn’t string the words together. He wanted to express gratitude for letting him come with her, for treating him like a person, but that was silly, wasn’t it? Of course she treated him like a person. He was a human being.
He realized then that maybe he hadn’t really felt human since the day the dead men came to his home and killed Nan and his sister. He had lost something that day, had let it slip from his fingers and plunk to the bottom of a dark well. Since meeting Brook, however, with the freckles on her nose and dry wit, Mercer felt he was able to glimpse what he had lost glinting at the well’s bottom, within reach of being reclaimed.
“Well, I’m going to try and get some sleep. Once Old Wren returns, this may be the last rest we get for some time. Good night, Mercer. Sleep well.” Brook stepped between the gap in the partitions and went to her sleeping area.
Mercer watched her go, the scent of her freshly washed skin still hanging in the air. He sat down upon the bed, made firm by a wood frame, and let the dark long house envelop him with its quiet sounds: the snores of its many inhabitants, the crackling of embers in the hearth, the dampened chirp of peepers from beyond the wood and hide of its walls. A light rain was beginning to fall, softly drumming on the roof above him. He slipped off his boots, his last thought before giving in to sleep being that that the first thing he needed to do upon waking was wash his pungent feet.
He was in his room, in the loft at the topmost of the house. Wait… his house? What was he doing back here, in the Preserve? Hadn’t something bad happened here, something which made him leave? He couldn’t remember.
He stood up, his hand instinctively going behind him, for his… what? What was so important that he always had it on him, strapped to his back? It couldn’t have been all that important if he couldn’t remember. He was wearing loose fitting cotton pants and a baggy cotton shirt and his skin was scrubbed clean and callous free save for those on his palms from tilling his father’s garden.
Pa. Mercer dashed out of the room and down the hallway, towards the staircase that led to the kitchen below. The air was filled with the smell of eggs frying on the skillet and the clucks of chickens from the backyard. An old woman was at the stove top when he came down the stairs and entered the kitchen. She had graying hair tied back in a bun and wore a chambray dress that hugged her stout frame.
“Nan?” The old woman turned around, sweat on her raised brow. She smiled.
“Oh, you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence, I see.” She turned back to the stove top and flipped an egg with her spatula.
“You’re… you’re alive?”
Nan turned again. This time her face was plastered with reproachful wrinkles and lines, a look Mercer knew all too well from his days as a prolific troublemaker. “You watch your tongue, young man. I’m alive and kicking, as my grandpappy used to say, and plan to stay that way for a while longer.”
“I’m… sorry…” Mercer looked around him in stunned silence. He still had the feeling that something was very wrong here, that something had happened. “Where’s Pa?”
“Your father is out in the greenhouse, I believe. You should help him with some of the morning’s chores so he doesn’t get too mad at you.”
Mercer walked to the back of the kitchen to the door leading to the backyard. He pushed it open, but something made him turn to look back at his Nan before he stepped out.
It was as though a new person was standing there: she was perched on one leg, and her dress was dirty and covered in stains. Her hair, which had been in a neat bun, was now as akimbo as a hay bale tossed from a barn loft. He wanted to call out to her, but couldn’t find his voice. All the energy within him was drawing him outside, like the current of the Axe Man pulling him along despite his best attempts to swim against it.
Outside, the sky was the haze of a dream. The trees were plush with leaves, pulsing subtly in an unfelt breeze, as if they were the lungs of the whole scene, softly breathing. The greenhouse was beyond the rusted old backhoe and tool shed, abutting the pond. It was a large structure his father had built, made of a steel frame and a very expensive glass he had brought all the way from Lazarus Township. Nan said that in the old days, people had chosen not to build their great houses in the Preserve, revering the landscape for its natural beauty and spiritual nature. These were the reasons why Mercer’s father had wanted to settle there and raise his family.
Mercer pushed open the glass door of the greenhouse. The walls were lined with shelves loaded with trays of plants. The air was steamy and hot and punctuated by the trickle of the goldfish pond that ran around the greenhouse’s interior perimeter, its water constantly circulating and nourishing the roots of the plants. His father stood at the far end of the room, his back to his son.
Willis Crane was a little shorter than Mercer but of a stouter build, similar to Nan. His hair was salt-and-pepper though he was just shy of fifty, which he wore short and combed back with bee’s wax. His corded arms were lined with tattoos of formulas and equations, a sure-sign the man was a cosmologist. He had the stern face of a soldier but a glint of mischief and curiosity in his dark brown eyes; you’d miss it if you didn’t know the man, but Mercer knew him better than anybody.
“Pa?”
“Ah! The dead has risen!” Willis Crane turned around, a mock look of terror on his face. “Oh, sorry Mercer. I thought you were a dead man.”
“Very funny.” Already, Mercer had forgotten the last sight he had seen in the kitchen, of his Nan’s leg being gone, of her dress being covered in stains of dried blood. “What are you doing?”
“Watering the tangerine saplings. They are very delicate, but in a few years, we’ll have more citrus than we’ll know what to do with. Trading outposts along the rivers will pay good money for citrus. Did you know that in the old days, they couldn’t grow citrus up at this latitude? Not in the outdoors, anyways. It was too cold. You still can’t grow it in the Broke Tooth Hills, and certainly not in the Aderon Mountains. We’re at the absolute furthest you can go without there being frost or snow.”
Mercer was listening half-attentively, as he always did when his father went on his diatribes, but he noticed his dad’s face was changing as he spoke. It was becoming thinner, paler, before finally settling on a jaundiced pallor, except for right under the older man’s eyes, which had rings of deep purple.
“Pa, are you alright?”
“Me? Oh, no, Mercer. I’m not. Not really. I haven’t been since Tiara died. Death, you see. I can’t seem to figure it out.”
“What?” Mercer watched as his father’s dilated eyes darted around the greenhouse, as though small demons that only he could see flew about his head, whispering dark things into his ear. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re all dying, Mercer, but it doesn’t have to be this way. We can surpass death. The old ones almost figured it out. The dead men, y
ou see...”
Mercer looked around at the greenhouse, at the plants that lined its walls. They were turning brown and withering on their stalks. The tangerine saplings his father had been watering were already shriveled husks. “What is happening?”
Mercer’s father fell to the ground. His irises had been consumed by his black hole pupils, his breath coming in labored rasps. His skin had lost all its color and tumors were bubbling up under its surface. Willis reached a trembling hand up to his son and beckoned him to lean down to him.
“They’re coming, Mercer... The dead men... They’re coming... Jai Lin…”
“Pa! Hold on, I’m going to get_” There was a thud on the side of the greenhouse, the sound of wet flesh on glass. Mercer looked up and saw the silhouette of a pair of arms on the steamy, opaque panes. Another pair slammed against them, then another. They left streaks of blood as they rubbed up and down the glass. They were dead men conglomerating outside of the greenhouse, drawn to the sounds of the living inside.
“Come on, Pa! We’re going to get out of this…”
“Get away from me!” Willis Crane screamed, his voice torn to shreds. He swatted his son away as though Mercer weighed no more than a gnat, the younger man crashing into the shelves at the far side of the room in an explosion of dead plants and terracotta.
“Pa, what are you doing?” Mercer said, staggering back to his feet. He thought the figure before him was an illusion, an image conjured from his hitting his head too hard against the shelves. No, there was no shaking or blinking it away: Willis Crane had mutated into something beastly, something malformed.
Mercer burst from the greenhouse through the gang of dead men clawing for his skin. He ran back towards the house, stopping when he saw the all-too-familiar chambray dress and stout body face-down in the grass.
“Nan…” His knees went weak. The scab had been peeled back, the wound that never healed exposed to the air. This was different but all the same...
Nan had not died in the yard, not as he remembered it. He had found her body in the kitchen, nothing more than bloody bones, her dress tattered ribbons. He had watched as Nina was killed, heard her scream echo through the house. The blood had spurted as paint would fly when flung from a brush. He could still hear how it had hit the wall, the soft patter it had made upon meeting the wood. This was different but all the same...
Now Nina lay in the grass before him, her body spasming, her lips peeled back from her gritted teeth. She was having a fit.
“Nina…” He said, crawling to her. She grabbed his forearm with a trembling hand.
“The armies… are coming… war is coming…” She had bit her tongue hard, a pink froth on her teeth and foaming at the corners of her mouth. “The Undead King is coming…”
“Nina, it’s okay. Just relax…” He realized any attempt to help her was in vain. Her face had gone white, her hazel eyes dark. She had breathed her last.
Mercer screamed at the sky. For a moment, she had been alive, and again he had to watch her life slip away. It wasn’t fair, none of it was fair. Even in dreams, he could not save them. Different, but all the same...
“It’s all your fault,” Mercer said to the dead men. They had gathered in a tight circle around him, shoulder to shoulder, swaying on their rotted legs. They didn’t attack, chomp or moan, only watched him with vacant yellow eyes. “You killed my Nina, my Nan. Now...” He reached for Jai Lin, the blade that always struck true, and it was there, strapped to his back as it almost always was. It rang as he pulled it from its sheath. “I kill you.”
Cheeks incendiary, heart a piston; it was not melancholy or remorse that was filling his body, but a surging rage. He could feel the yellow eyes upon him, knew the dead men were silently laughing at him with their vacant stares. He tightened his grip on Jai Lin, felt a dark energy from the steel race up his arm. As swift as a hawk, as unfettered as a stream; with one motion, he was on his feet, screaming and charging into the circle of undead. It was the cue they had been waiting for, as the dead men converged upon him, a dog pile of rotting bodies so dense that they blocked out the sky. Mercer felt their weight crushing the breath out of him, but still he slashed, he punched. He’d never give up, he’d never stop, he’d never…
Chapter Four
Solloway
“NINA!” Mercer bolted upright. The sweat that beaded on his forehead and chest was cold, despite the heavy furs that he’d been sleeping beneath. It had all been a nightmare, he realized, albeit an exceptionally vivid one. Everything had been so clear, from the faces of his family to the things they had said. And what was it they had told him? Already, Mercer felt the dream slipping away, as all dreams eventually did. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his sister’s warning. War was coming, she said, and something about a king. He drummed on his temples with his fingertips, hoping to jar loose the nature of his dreams.
“Are you alright?” The voice had the creak of seasoned leather. Mercer opened his eyes, startled to see an older woman sitting beyond the foot of Crow’s bed. She watched him with eyes as blue-gray and frigid as ice floes.
“Yes. I just had a dream, that’s all.”
“I could tell. It seemed more like a nightmare, the way you were rustling about. You called out a name. Nina?”
“Yes, that was my sister’s name. I’m sorry, who are you?”
“My name is Robin. I’ve come to escort you to breakfast. After you eat, Old Wren would like to have words with you.” She wore a dusky cloak like the other Black Wings, and her silver hair was in two braids just as Rainfall’s had been. She wore around her neck a large necklace of turquoise stones and her ears and nose were pierced with multiple metal hoops and rings.
“Where is Brook?” Mercer asked.
“She is with Old Wren. Come, you must be hungry.”
“Famished. Do you mind if I wash up first?” He hoped the answer was yes, his nose wrinkling as he pulled his feet from underneath the sheets and furs. They really needed a wash. All of him did, actually. He hadn’t done the best of jobs last night in cleaning himself, his fatigue from the day’s events being as heavy as it had been.
“Of course you can wash up. You’ll just want to make it quick. You don’t want to keep Old Wren waiting for too long.” Robin watched as Mercer grabbed one of the threadbare towels folded atop Crow’s dresser and wrapped it around his waist. After removing his pants, Mercer followed Robin to the wash tub and set to work scrubbing his entire body. In the light of the day he could see that he missed entire swatches of grime and blood the night before. In just a few minutes, he was cleaner than he’d been in years.
Robin watched him throughout. He felt it odd at first, and felt embarrassed by the icy eyes that never deviated from his naked flesh. Then he remembered what Brook had said: they were suspicious of him. The Black Wings were a small community, many of whom had lived amongst one another their entire lives. He, on the other hand, was a stranger as well as an adept swordsman. While they had not taken Jai Lin, the Black Wings were being watchful of him. They were taking necessary precautions, that was all.
After dressing, Robin led Mercer outside the long house to a series of tables, hard plastic, relics from the old days. Atop one of these was a full range of different foods: pots of stews; bowls of steamed vegetables; pans of baked bread; roasted pigeon and trout. Robin handed Mercer a plate and he immediately went to work, stacking the dented tin saucer high with everything before him. Best of all was the coffee, which Robin said was imported from lands south of the Blight, and the fresh cream he mixed into it. It had been so long since he had drunk coffee, and it touched his lips like the kiss of a lost lover.
Roast pigeon had been a favorite dish of Nan’s and his sister, which brought his mind back to the dream he had the night before. War is coming. That was what Nina had said, wasn’t it? Gods, if only he could remember more. As far as the coming war, he knew Dusty Yen was assembling an army east of the Hud and planning to take the cities to the west.
Somehow, Dusty had gotten word out to every man in the Green Lands, young and old, the promise of a better life swelling the ranks of his army by the thousands. Mercer was to be one of these men, up until he met Brook. Now that he got her back to her people, was he to resume his trip east? He absentmindedly poured more cream in his coffee, watched the white swirls coalesce with the brown liquid. Suddenly, he remembered the greenhouse, his father’s white flesh, how the man had transformed before his eyes into something monstrous. What did it all mean?
He looked up from his food at Robin, who stood a few tables away, sucking on her lips. He could tell she wanted him to finish up so he could meet with Old Wren. What could this man possibly want to ask Mercer that Brook hadn’t already told him? Finished with his meal, he pushed up from the table, and Robin gestured for him to follow her. They passed through the narrow pathway between two of the long houses and went into the center, where a large patchwork tent was erected in the middle of a stone circle. Robin pulled the front flap of the tent back and gestured Mercer in.
Inside was dim, with only a soft light passing through the heavy fabric of the tent. A small, dark shape sat in wait in the shadows, its tail beginning to thump against the ground upon seeing Mercer.
“Leo!” The pup trotted up to Mercer’s side and started rubbing his broad head against the young man’s leg. Mercer scratched the dog behind the ears. “You look rested. Where’s Brook?”
Leo moved away from Mercer and softly whined at the squat metal structure he had been sitting next to. It was embedded in the ground, and reminded Mercer of the spartan graves Kingston buried its most celebrated Axe Men and soldiers in. A hatch door opened vertically from its surface. Mercer turned to see if Robin had followed him in, but she had remained outside. As there was nowhere else to go, he deduced that the way ahead was down.
The Undead King: The Saga of Jai Lin: Book One Page 5
