Nightfall

by Jake Halpern

  “Behind you,” she whispered.

  Line turned around so quickly that the motion blew out the flame. They were plunged back into darkness. He turned back toward Marin.

  “What was it? What did you see?” he asked.

  “Them.”

  Line fumbled with the last match. It flared to life. Line turned, more slowly this time. The tiny match threw off enough light to reveal dozens of shadowy figures, watching him quietly. They were only feet away, close enough for him to see their powerful chests rising with each breath. They towered over Line. Their faces were human in appearance, although the skin was mottled and gray. Their large, unblinking eyes reflected the tiny, quivering flame.

  Line turned back to Marin. He could feel the fire crawling down the match. The heat was beginning to burn his fingertips.

  “Marin—they’re behind you, too,” he whispered. “They’re everywhere.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Kana saw the creature for just a split second longer before she disappeared into the tree. He stared at the knife in his hand. The creature had told him to climb the tree. I’ll chase him back to you, she had said. What he did next was more instinct than a decision—he simply leapt at the tree trunk. Without boots to constrict his feet, he felt his claws catch onto the bark and grab hold. It wasn’t easy—he still wobbled—but he held on. He gripped the tree trunk lightly with his hands and began moving up the trunk.

  Kana climbed slowly, one foot over the other, straight up. At first his leg muscles burned, but that soon faded and he moved faster. The upper trunk was covered in patches of ice, but it made no difference because Kana’s talons pierced it easily, sinking deep into the bark. With every step, his movements became less awkward. The wind picked up as he neared the upper half of the tree. He looked down and saw that the ground had disappeared below the low-lying mist.

  In the distance, Kana began to discern the sound of the two creatures as they moved across the treetops. He wanted to follow them, but it seemed impossible. The gap between the tree he was standing on and the branches of the nearest tree was at least twenty feet. Even if he could jump this distance—the outermost branches of the pine were thin and unlikely to hold his weight.

  Kana knew what he wanted to do, but it seemed ridiculous. Still, he lowered himself into a crouch, held it for several seconds, then exhaled and exploded upward, springing off the tree with tremendous power and speed. He soared into the air. The pine loomed quickly. Kana overshot the branch he was aiming for and slammed into the actual trunk. At the last minute, he tried to cushion his impact with his arms, nearly impaling himself with the knife he was holding.

  He gasped for air, but recovered quickly, flinging himself onto the next tree and then the next. With each movement, he became quicker and more adroit. There was a rhythm to it. He had to run lightly across the branches, leap across the gap, catch another branch or trunk, and then run again. By the time he became adept at this, however, he lost the two creatures. Kana came to a rest on a sturdy branch and took in his surroundings.

  He was standing on one of the uppermost branches of a wick tree. It was older and taller than the one in Bliss, and it dominated the surrounding area. Bliss. A face flickered into his mind—a woman’s face—and he struggled to place it. She was standing in a large room next to an old player piano. She had tan-colored skin and her arms were covered with strange markings. He knew her. And yet he couldn’t say how exactly. Everything felt so foggy in his mind. He felt the way he sometimes did when he was drifting in and out of sleep—torn between two states of consciousness. “Your name is Kana,” he whispered to himself. “You are from Bliss.”

  Suddenly, Kana was aware of the sound of feet jumping quickly across branches. Something was angling through the treetops toward him. I’ll hunt him back to you. The two creatures were coming. Kana dropped into a crouch and waited. He heard a grunt and the rush of air. He held the knife tightly and prepared to thrust it. The branch that he was standing on shook violently; a darkened figure reached for him, its long fingers only inches from his face. But at the last minute, Kana heard a sickening crunch, and his would-be attacker fell from the branch and plummeted toward the ground.

  Kana looked around, sensing the amber-eyed creature nearby. Then he saw her standing on the branch directly next to him. She had appeared as silently as a ghost.

  “What happened?” he asked, keeping a tight hold on the knife.

  “I got to him first,” said the creature. She gestured to the ground below.

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  Kana remembered that other creature’s surprise. The memory enraged him. He wanted to jump down and kill the creature himself.

  “You are an abomination to us,” the female creature continued. “The Day-dwellers would feel the same way if they knew what you are. Neither world can tolerate your presence.” She spoke to him without emotion, as if these were ordinary and incontrovertible facts. “It is very simple. Go to the boat, and go on living.”

  Kana stared at her impassive face, trying to understand. “The boat—it’s a furrier’s boat, isn’t it?” he asked. “It’s one of the small boats that they lash to the side of their ships.”

  “If you say so,” she replied. She was a full head taller than Kana, and she craned her neck downward to meet his eyes.

  “What’s it doing there—in that cave?”

  “It will work on the sea—if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking,” replied Kana. His voice had become sharp. She’s toying with me.

  She sighed, as if in irritation. “There was a shipwreck and a man landed here in his lifeboat—many years ago. It happened some months before Dawn. Somehow, this man paddled up the river in the cold and darkness. He took refuge in that cave.”

  “About fourteen years ago?”

  The amber-eyed creature stared at Kana.

  “Yes.”

  Kana recalled his brief encounter with the furrier on the cliffs above the sea, just before everyone boarded the boats to leave the island. The man had been right. Kana did have the watery-blue eyes of the furriers. And his eyes had not changed with the rest of his body.

  Kana exhaled and leaned against the trunk of the wick tree. “The man who was shipwrecked—he was my father.”

  She nodded.

  “And the drawings on the wall of the cave?”

  “His.”

  An image rose in Kana’s mind. The rectangular mound with the apple tree.

  “Is that his grave near the cave?”

  “Yes.”

  Kana hesitated. He needed to know, but he was afraid of the answer.

  “And my mother?” he asked, straining to keep a tremor out of his voice. He looked into her amber eyes, knowing the answer and daring her to tell the truth.

  She looked away, toward the ground. “One of us.”

  “Who?” he pressed.

  “A despicable woman,” the creature replied. “She left you for dead at the edge of the woods. At Dawn, when you were still an infant.”

  “So how . . .”

  “Two Day-dwellers found you on a rock, took you in, and cared for you,” said the creature. She raised her hands in a gesture of impatience. “No more chattering. You must leave.”

  Kana ignored her command. Day-dwellers. That word let loose a torrent of other memories. Other parents—from the Day. An image appeared in his confused brain. Table Rock, by the edge of the woods, where his mother came each day to do her needlework. She always looked at him in a particular way when they were there, with a smile that surfaced almost as if she couldn’t help it.

  “And Marin?” he asked.

  The creature shrugged indifferently. “An ordinary Day-dweller. Nothing more.”

  “There’s something else,” pressed Kana. “Why are you so scared that
they’ll find me?”

  “Enough!” snapped the creature. “We must go—now.”

  “Where are Marin and Line?” demanded Kana, and as he spoke, he balanced on the tree branch and pointed the knife toward the creature’s chest. The creature’s eyes narrowed. She was stronger than Kana, no doubt about it, but all Kana had to do was thrust forward. He held the knife steady, without the slightest tremble. He would do it. And he readied himself for the thrust.

  “Where are they?” Kana repeated.

  “They are lost—and they have been found, by the hunters. As I said they would.”

  Kana’s knife drew closer to her. “Where?”

  “The canyon—our entrance to the underground.” She nodded her head to the north. “That way. But it’s too late to help them.”

  “I don’t even know your name,” said Kana.

  She blinked, then looked away. “Soraya.”

  “Soraya,” said Kana. “Thank you.”

  Kana made his next move so quickly and impulsively that he almost surprised himself. He tossed the knife toward Soraya, throwing her off balance as she reached for it. Then he dropped into a crouch and leapt spectacularly through the darkness, soaring through eddies of mist onto a faraway tree. He landed and jumped again—heading north.

  He half expected Soraya to bring him down, but it didn’t happen. Kana leapt from treetop to treetop, and soon he felt his mind emptying of words and thoughts. Action—reaction. That was all. He would not remember anything when thinking back on this particular moment. A powerful force welled up inside: pulsing, burning aggression.

  Kana continued on through the treetops until the forest ended rather abruptly. He perched on the top of another wick tree, whose trunk was shrouded in a spiraling tangle of vines, and peered down into the darkened canyon below. It was at least three miles long, wide at both ends and narrowed dramatically in the center. Where the canyon was wide and open, Kana could see its walls clearly, along with the great stone doorways that were carved into these walls. He recognized the place immediately. He had passed close to it with Marin and Line when they were racing back to town to catch the furrier boats. At the time, Kana had felt something strange and mysterious about the place, and now he understood. This is where they slept, where they hibernated when the sun loomed high in the sky, and where they crawled out when the sun set and the ice began to form.

  He heard very little, but felt motion and life below in the canyon, as if it were a cauldron of pent-up energy. He knew what he would find before he even saw it. And somewhere in the canyon below were Marin and Line. He was certain of it.

  CHAPTER 52

  Marin opened her eyes. At first they didn’t seem to work, so she blinked and tried again. And again. And again. Still she saw nothing—only a vast, empty, dreamlike darkness. In that moment, she was overcome with a deep, visceral longing for the Desert Lands. It was as if she remembered the place, from another life, and ached to return. She pined to feel the hot sun on her face and the warm sand beneath her feet. She imagined the caress of the dry winds, the taste of sweet dates in her mouth, and the sound of her mother’s voice. That’s what surprised her most of all. She had never missed her mother so fiercely in her life. Her mother had wanted nothing more than to bring Marin to the desert, and Marin had railed against her. I didn’t want to leave this island, Marin thought. And I got what I wanted.

  With effort, Marin tried to move. She opened her mouth and was reassured to taste something granular, bitter, and metallic—perhaps pebbles and dirt. Her body was working and she was alive. That was something. She rocked slightly back and forth. Her upper back and neck erupted in pain. She massaged the inflamed tendons. They were swollen and tight, and extremely tender. Nevertheless, the pain became tolerable as she grew accustomed to it. Like the pebbles and cold dirt, it told her she was alive. She was also warm. Wherever she was, the place was protected from the wind and the cold. This was, at the very least, something.

  “Line,” she whispered. “Line.”

  There was no reply.

  Marin groped around with her hands, searching for Line, but felt only compacted earth and cold rocks.

  Quietly, she pushed herself to sitting and realized her sack was no longer on her shoulders. Panicked, she searched the ground but found nothing. The effort made her short of breath, and it took a full minute until she was able to calm herself. Breathing deeply made the problem worse; it caused shallow coughs that she had difficulty stopping. The air felt pinched and dusty. Suffocating.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  The voice was relatively close by—how close was impossible to say. It echoed in the musty air.

  Marin said nothing. Her mind churned, trying to place the voice. She came up empty.

  “Help me,” she replied. As if to emphasize her need, Marin erupted in an avalanche of coughs. She wheezed and tried to breathe, but it felt like a losing battle.

  “Help you?” came the reply. “But I have helped you. You would have frozen to death if I hadn’t brought you down here.” This remark was followed by a buzzing sound—almost like the hum of cicadas—which drifted down from above. She sensed she was being watched by many eyes; but the speaker—the voice—was much closer.

  “I never realized until now how frail you are,” purred the voice. “Every time I returned to my house, I found bits of your skin and hair embedded in the cracks. I suppose I should have known . . .” The voice trailed off into silence.

  The darkness was total. Marin raised her hand in front of her eyes but saw nothing. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course, I shall explain,” said the voice. “But first, tell me . . . where is she?”

  Marin wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “Where did she try to take you?” asked the voice. “Where is she hiding?”

  “I don’t know,” said Marin as she slowly sat up and leaned back against a rock wall. She felt tired and sore, but otherwise okay. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Soraya,” said the voice.

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “This is useless,” bellowed an impatient voice from far above. “Take her to the wall—then she will speak.”

  “Yes,” called a third voice. “To the wall!”

  “To the wall!” came a cascade of voices, repeating it like a mantra.

  Marin heard the sound of relentless scampering, as if a great many things were moving toward her all at once.

  “Enough!” boomed the voice that had been asking her questions. Instantly, the area was silent. For a moment, it was so quiet that Marin could hear only the sound of her own breathing. She struggled to think clearly. She was surrounded by a horde of these things. A mob. And it seemed as if the only thing holding them back was the one asking her questions. He hadn’t killed her yet, seemingly because he wanted to know where Soraya was. But who was she?

  “Where’s Line?” Marin finally said. She had to stall. And she had to find Line. “My friend . . .” Is he still alive? He has to be. Why would they kill him and not me?

  “Where is Line?” said the voice, mimicking her words and the exact sound of her voice with the skillfulness of a ventriloquist.

  “Please,” said Marin.

  “First tell me where my daughter is.”

  His daughter. His daughter, Soraya, is missing. That’s something—a fact to build on.

  “I-I’m not sure exactly,” stammered Marin. She wiped a hand across her face. Her skin was warm. What should I say—what will keep us alive for a little while longer? “I might know,” she said. Hope. Everyone needs it. Her voice strengthened. “But first tell me where Line is.”

  “He hasn’t woken up yet,” said the voice matter-of-factly.

  Marin shivered suddenly.

  “Tell me, why are you even here?” asked the voice. It was coming closer. “Did your
father and mother leave you behind?”

  At the mention of her parents, Marin felt for the copper box. To her relief, she found it nestled in her pants pocket. She envisioned the sharp blades, and it calmed her.

  “If you could just let me see Line,” said Marin. “I’ll help you find . . . your daughter.”

  Suddenly, a high-pitched voice cried out from far above: “She’s lying—the cockroach is a liar!”

  “Make the cockroach climb,” shrieked another voice. “TO THE WALL!”

  There was a loud snarl and, once again, all was silent.

  “Forgive them,” said the voice. “That was rude, but don’t you see . . . You stay in our houses and eat, and sweat, and breed, and shed your hair.” The voice seemed to come closer and closer, until Marin sensed that it was now just a few feet away.

  “We wanted to leave . . . ,” began Marin.

  “But. You. Didn’t.” The voice enunciated each word slowly, as if explaining something to a very small child.

  Marin felt a sharp, curious fingernail run along the contour of her cheek, as if testing the elasticity of her skin. Her heart hammered inside her chest. Keep stalling. Find Line.

  “You must see matters from our perspective. This town is ours. Of course, we understand that others may want to use our homes in the Day, which is why we have rules.”

  “Rules,” said Marin slowly. Yes, that’s right. Of course there are rules, like the ones we saw on the statue of the sea hag. There’s no point in playing dumb. “That’s true,” said Marin as calmly as she could. “We have no right to be here.”

  As she said this, she could hear someone groan nearby. Line. It had to be Line. She inched toward the sound, keeping her back to the stone wall and scooting steadily.

  “Yes,” said the voice. “The rules you ignored. It wasn’t enough that you stayed in our homes. You had to defile everything—even burying your dead in the very place from which we gather our food.”