Crystal Rain

by Tobias S. Buckell

  “Is he Azteca, or is he one of ours?” John asked.

  Shanta gave him a withering stare. “That don’t matter.”

  Chagrined, John looked up again and saw the man turn in his harness to face them. He had tight curly hair, and a black face. Not an Azteca spy, then.

  “Hey,” Shanta yelled upward. “You have to hang on. We coming.”

  John shuffled to his left. “The branches up that high look weak, but I bet I can reach him.”

  “I go get a machete. We could hack he out—” Shanta got halfway through saying that when the man groaned. He fumbled at his waist.

  “Hey!” John and Shanta warned together. The clasp clicked open and the man dropped. His leg caught on a branch. It spun him around and he hit the ground by the mango tree with a thump that scattered leaves.

  “Shit!” They rushed forward. The man wore heavy clothing to keep him warm in the high air. He had an air bottle strapped to his thigh, and the hose ran up to his neck, where it was fastened to a necktie soaked in blood. The man had been shot. In the chest, and in the side, maybe some other places, it was hard to tell.

  The aviator groaned and stirred. He opened bloodshot eyes. The skin around them creased with crow’s-feet. “Help,” he whispered.

  “We go do what we can,” Shanta said. “But it look like you done lose plenty blood, and you fall …”

  The man slowly turned his neck to look at them. “I dead,” he said, words just audible. “Been shot seven time. I come for warn you, and any mongoose-men here, any ragamuffin that near.”

  “We’ll get someone,” John said, trying to calm the man and get him to relax. “What’s your name?”

  “Allen.” The low hiss of his voice turned urgent. “Listen now. Or you all dead. All of you. Hear? Dead.” The man took a long, deep breath, shuddering as he did so. “Azteca coming down the side of the mountain. Understand? Azteca. A lot of Azteca.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “He still alive?” John asked.

  “I think,” Shanta said. “I won’t go move him like that, though. He need a stretcher. And Auntie Fixit.”

  John stood up. “I’ll wake up Jerome and have him run for your aunt, then. I’ll come back with a piece of board we can strap him to.”

  “Yeah.”

  When John stood up and looked around, he realized it had gotten much darker. The bush and the trees around him hid in shadows and shifting leaves. They rustled in the dark and threw shadows all around him. Too many scary stories, he thought. Most by Shanta.

  Jerome tried to get back under his blankets and pretend to be asleep. John didn’t bother berating his son. He pushed the lighter button on the gas lamp. It took three tries before the spark caught and the room slowly filled with yellow, flickering light.

  “I need you to fetch your aunt Keisha.”

  Jerome’s eyes widened. “Auntie Fixit? What happen? Mama okay?”

  John nodded. “She’s fine. Just go for your aunt.” Keisha’s house lay a mile between town and John’s house. Jerome could make it in seven minutes. He could sprint like the wind. “Be careful, it’s dark.”

  Jerome nodded. “I gone.” He reached under his bed for his shoes.

  Azteca coming down the mountain … “And Jerome?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell Harold to bring any Brungstun ragamuffins he can get with him.” John debated for a second whether to tell Jerome to stay at Harold’s house, closer to town and safer, but then realized that the safest place would be next to Harold, a ragamuffin himself.

  “Okay.”

  “Go then.”

  John jogged down the steps to his basement. He found a plank he’d planned to use for a bench but had never got around to building. It would do. He held it with his good hand and steadied it with his hook. He hurried back through the rear door into his yard, stopping by the kitchen to grab some linen strips.

  “Here,” Shanta called. She squatted in the muddy ground next to ripe, red mangoes and dead twigs. John handed her the board. “Careful.” They grunted and slowly rolled the aviator onto the plank, John careful not to gouge the man with his hook. He handed Shanta the linen. She ran the straps under the board and tied the man down as John lifted first one end, then the other, with his one hand.

  “Okay.”

  John had gauged the board’s length just right; they each had a good two inches on either end. They picked up the makeshift stretcher and walked back toward the house. They paused halfway there while John shifted his grip, using his other forearm to rest the weight on.

  “Kitchen?” John asked.

  “Yeah. For now.”

  They got the stretcher in, placing it on the kitchen table. Shanta washed and dried her hands, opened the valve on the gaslight, then pushed the lighter button. It clicked. Darkness fled from the room, remaining only in the corners and behind cupboards.

  “Come.” Shanta took out a pair of scissors and began cutting away the man’s thick overcoat. John removed the man’s air canister and necktie. When Shanta cut away the shirt, she sucked her teeth in annoyance. Neat, round holes punctured the skin. Blood oozed from them. “He lucky he still alive.”

  Lucky, John thought. Or determined. He remembered the Azteca airships flying over the sea and wondered what had happened.

  He looked at the bullet holes. Azteca coming? How? In airships, or maybe they’d shot this man before he’d gotten in an airship?

  John left Shanta with the dying man and went down into the basement. He paused in front of the large oak chest, then walked under a large beam. With a hop he jumped up and grabbed the brass key off the top of the beam and knelt down at the chest.

  The large padlock snapped open, and John tossed it aside. He opened the lid and looked inside at two rifles and a pistol.

  He took the gun out with his good hand and looked it over. Then he put it down. He broke open two airtight cases of ammunition, using his hook to pry open the edges, and awkwardly loaded the breech, swearing silently as he almost dropped the gun.

  If Azteca came and he had to defend his family, it would not be much of a battle, but at least with the aviator’s warning he could get ready.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hooves clip-clopped down the packed-dirt road. A horse snorted. Keisha and her husband’s concerned voices floated in. Seconds later Keisha herself burst into the kitchen. John stood at the basement door, keeping out of the way and holding the rifle like a staff, the butt resting on the top wooden step.

  “What happen?” Then Keisha saw the kitchen table, the bloodied man, and gritted her teeth. “Where he come from?”

  Jerome pushed into the kitchen from behind her and started at the man. “He fall from he airship all stuck up in we mango tree.”

  “Get from here,” Shanta ordered. “This ain’t for children.” Jerome dallied, still staring. “Now,” Shanta said. Jerome retreated.

  Two mongoose-men came in with Harold, Keisha’s husband. John walked over, leaned the rifle against the door, and shook Harold’s large, calloused hand. “I didn’t realize there were any mongoose-men here.”

  “Several of we came in town a few days back,” the first man said. “Been working outside and around town with an Azteca who’s mongoose. He help us flush out a couple informers, but now he and a couple we men missing, so we came in town to see if anyone seen him. We worried. And General Haidan go be mad if he missing. Azteca mongoose-men hard to find.”

  “Haidan? Edward Haidan?” John had left Brungstun for Capitol City with a young Edward Haidan, a mongoose-man, years ago.

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s still in Capitol City?”

  “Sometimes. Let’s get out the way here.”

  “Yeah. Living room.” John dropped the line of inquiry and moved them away from the wounded man on the table. He had seen enough torn bodies in the north seas. Rotted toes and blackened fingers that had to be cut off. People crushed by equipment or hanged by ropes as they fell from the rigging. He didn’t like f
acing such horrors in his own home.

  The four men pulled up chairs and spoke to each other in whispers after John relayed the aviator’s warning.

  “If a hunting party coming down the mountain, we should find them. You sure he didn’t say how many?”

  John shook his head. “He was scared. Must have been a large group.”

  “Twenty Jaguar scout could wreak some serious havoc,” Harold said. “Carnival starting up next morning. What you think I should do?”

  “Don’t take any risk,” the mongoose-men advised. “It might be a small group, but get you ragamuffin to tell anyone outside town to come in for carnival. Keep ready for anything. We need to try and contact Mafolie Pass anyway, something wrong with the telegraph.”

  “That telegraph thing hardly ever work,” Harold noted. “You could wait a day and see if it down for sure.”

  The mongoose-men shook their heads. “We going now, just to make sure. And if Mafolie okay, we go ask them for men to go out and scout.”

  Harold nodded and turned to John. “You could come stay with us for carnival.”

  “Thank you,” John said. “Can Shanta and Jerome leave with you right now? I’ll follow tomorrow, but I want to pack some things up and take them with us, in case this stay ends up being long.” He wouldn’t risk returning to the house until they knew for sure that they were safe. This, along with the strange Azteca activity in the sky, turned John’s thoughts toward finding a small place to stay in town for a while.

  “No problem, man.” Harold stood up.

  Keisha had been leaning against the doorframe. “Sound like a good idea. I don’t feel safe out here, and I don’t want me sister here either.” She took a deep breath. “The man dead. Sorry.”

  “Damn,” John and Harold said together.

  The mongoose-men stood up and walked over, jaws clenched. “We go find who did this and make them pay.”

  John cleared his throat. “We can bury him here, I have a plot out in the jungle. If you need.”

  The man’s burial was a simple, somber affair. John and Harold stood by as the two mongoose-men dug a shallow grave. Keisha and Shanta packed a few changes of clothes back inside the house.

  One of the mongoose-men reached in his pocket to retrieve a medal. It glinted in the moonlight, and after driving a sharp stick in the ground, the man hung the medal from it.

  “Least a man can do, seen?”

  John and Harold nodded. Leaves shook and stirred softly as they walked back inside, boots clumping up the stairs.

  Shanta wasn’t thrilled John was staying behind. She hefted a bag full of clothes. “Why you can’t just come with us now?”

  “It could be long,” John explained. “When we were out with the Frenchies we saw airships flying over the reefs. Maybe more Azteca will be harassing people inside the towns. We need all our stuff.”

  “Be careful,” she warned. “Please be careful. If you hear anything, just leave as quick as you can. You hear?”

  John kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be careful.”

  “I thought I lost you when you left for north. Don’t leave me again.”

  “I’ll be there before lunch tomorrow. I’ll join you at carnival, okay?” They hugged, then Shanta got onto the buggy behind Harold and Keisha. Jerome perched next to her.

  “Hey, Jerome,” John called out. “We’ll have some fun tomorrow. I’ll buy you any lunch you want, okay?”

  Jerome smiled, though his eyes were a bit bleary. “You think you go find me during carnival?”

  “What, you have plans?” John asked.

  “I go be hanging with me boys,” Jerome said. “We go get a good seat to see carnival.”

  “I’ll hunt you down.” John smiled. Harold looked over. John nodded.

  “Hah!” The horse looked back at Harold, turned around ever so slowly, then picked its way down the road. John stood and waved until they turned a bend and disappeared.

  The two mongoose-men stood at his door.

  “I have extra rifles for you, and I can pack you food and water.” John smiled. “Don’t worry about taking them”—he held up his hook—“they’re damn hard to fire with one of these.”

  “Thanks, man,” they said.

  He supplied the two mongoose-men with food and watched them disappear straight into the jungle, not even bothering to use the road. Then John walked around, finding valuables and packing them onto a cart. He stopped only once, to hold up a pendant he’d given Shanta just after they’d married. He smiled at the chiseled engravings of scudder-fish hanging from the silver chain. Then there were Jerome’s toy boats, and illustrated books, to pack.

  Outside the open windows the bushes shook in the wind, constantly rustling as John packed their lives onto the cart, making decisions about what to leave so he could pull it down to Brungstun in the morning. As John walked around the house, turning off all the lamps one by one as he retreated down into the basement, he lingered at each room’s doorway. He loaded the pistol lying in the bottom of his chest, an easier task than loading the cumbersome rifle. He held it in his good hand and slept on the basement floor next to the chest.

  A sound woke him. A single footstep creaking the kitchen steps.

  John sat up, looked down at the pistol, and wiped the sleep from his eyes with his good hand.

  The kitchen door creaked open.

  John tiptoed quickly across the basement past his easel. He stopped at the far window, on the other side of the house from the kitchen. Mouth dry, he slowly opened the window and pulled himself up onto the sill with his elbows. They scraped along the concrete, leaving skin. John wiggled through onto the grass and pulled his legs through, then closed the window.

  Another door creaked inside, and he heard whispers.

  He jogged across his lawn toward the road, keeping as low as he could. The bushes to his right rustled.

  “Ompa. Ompa, nopuluca!”

  Shit. John ducked and fired at the voice. He fumbled, trying to hold the gun to his chest with the hook and reload it as he ran.

  “Nian,” the voice screamed.

  John shook the spent cartridge out and got the new one in. As he turned, a lead weight smacked him in the face. Netting draped around his feet and hands. His vision watered and his nose dribbled salty blood.

  He stumbled and fell, unable to see through his tears. The netting tightened around him as he struggled. Slow down, he told himself, listening to feet pounding closer. He still had one shot. John blinked the tears free. The first moon lit up the area enough for him to see that three Azteca surrounded him. Younger warriors with sandals, simple loincloths, and painted from head to foot. They yanked on the net, pulling John through the grass.

  He aimed the pistol and they froze. Three more warriors stepped up and pointed rifles at John’s head. They pointed their chins at his pistol and jabbed the rifle barrels at him.

  John let go of the pistol. They snatched it from him, fingers grabbing in between the netting, then kicked him in the side.

  Every Azteca horror tale flicked through his head as the warriors laughed with each other and dragged John across his own lawn in the moonlight. He didn’t understand a word they said.

  John yanked at the netting. All it did was snag his hook until he couldn’t even move his arm. He screamed, but the Azteca only laughed. He grabbed the netting with his good hand and pulled his back off the ground so he could see his house one last time, then he let go and slumped into the netting.

  At least Shanta and Jerome were safe, he told himself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jerome had been annoyed to have to pick a few favorite toys and clothes before the ride to Auntie Fixit’s house. Uncle Harold was okay, he’d given Jerome a cookie before he’d rushed off for town. But Auntie Fixit insisted he go to bed right away. No one in the house slept, though, least of all Jerome. The adult voices kept him up, so after a few hours he went out and opened the door to the kitchen. His mother looked tired, and Auntie Fixit’s dress w
as still stained with blood.

  “Could I get something to eat?” Jerome asked. “I can’t sleep.”

  Auntie Fixit sighed. “Okay. Help you-setf.”

  Jerome found some bread, then took a red velvet pillow from the couch in the living room. He walked out onto the porch so they could keep talking without him. He sat on the wooden porch bench and looked at the stars. The Spindle was out tonight. So was the Triad, the Eastern Cross, and Brer Rabbit.

  His mom came out and sat next to him. “You okay?” she asked.

  “Never seen no man all shot up before. Make me feel sick.”

  “Me too.” She hugged him. “What you doing, watching the stars?”

  “I thinking about that one story you tell me. Ten mirror.”

  “Ah. Ten mirror. Ain’t too late already for stories?”

  “No!” Jerome wiggled around and laid his head on her lap.

  “Well, remember, I see, I bring, but I ain’t responsible—”

  “You always say that,” Jerome interrupted.

  “It mean the story change sometime when we tell it,” Shanta said. “And that sometime the thing people do in it may not be right. It’s just what it is. No more, no less. Okay?” Jerome nodded. She continued, “See, them old-father realize Nanagada was too cold to live upon. So they build great big mirrors, ten of them, to fly up in the sky and heat the ice. That was when they had fight the Tetol hard, but was losing.”

  “That’s where the ragamuffin had come in,” Jerome said.

  “Right. Most of the ragamuffin already dead, trying to stop the Tetol. So the ragamuffin Brung thought hard for a real-real long time. Then he crack the sky in explosions and killed all the magic machine the Tetol was using, and destroy the worm’s holes. But he also kill all the magic machine our old-father in Nanagada use.

  “For a long time people struggle to live, but you could still see them ten mirror in the sky. But then they began to fall and burn. Most landed in the ocean. But one time a mirror fell into the middle of Nanagada, by Hope’s Loss. It left great slivers in the forest that would twinkle at night. One day a little girl lost in the forest—”