by Posey, Jay
“You seem like a pretty smart fella,” Browncoat said to Haiku. “I’m sure you got this all figured out, but just so we’re clear, we’re just taking the kid. We don’t have no problems with you, and we don’t have to. You just keep right on walking like you were. No problems.”
In the flurry of action, Haiku had gotten turned to the side, so Wren could see the faces of all three men. Haiku seemed perfectly relaxed. Maybe even a little amused. He still had a slight smile on his face.
“I certainly don’t want to upset the Bonefolder,” Haiku said.
“Like I said,” Browncoat answered. “Smart fella.”
“So it is the Bonefolder then,” Haiku said. Browncoat’s eyes narrowed and he frowned a little at that. “Unfortunately, we do have a problem then. I’m taking this boy to someone else, you see, and I don’t want to upset that someone else either.”
“Don’t think you got much say in the matter, friend.”
“What if we split him?” Haiku said. “Then we wouldn’t have to argue. I’ll even let you have first pick of halves.”
“We’re taking the kid. Only choice you got is whether you walk away or don’t.”
“Oh, come now,” Haiku said. “I have many more choices than that.” And then his smile went away. “Eyes, for example. Knees. Or hands, perhaps.”
“What?”
“Tell you what. I’ll let you choose. Eyes, knees, or hands.”
“You uh... you taking the kid to a chop shop?”
“Oh, no no,” Haiku said. “We’re talking about you. Of those three, which one do I allow you to keep?”
“Come on, Rook,” Browncoat’s friend said. “Just juice him and let’s go.”
“Shut up, Grigg,” Browncoat, or Rook, snarled.
“He can’t, Grigg” Haiku said. “Not until you let go. Unless you want to get juiced too.”
Just as Grigg seemed to understand the problem, Haiku reached up casually and locked his grip on Grigg’s forearm and wrist.
“So which is it, Rook?” Haiku continued. He hadn’t raised his voice at all, or even changed its tone. He was still perfectly calm, perfectly relaxed. “Eyes, knees, or hands. You only get one. What’ll you keep?”
Rook just stared back at Haiku, eyes hard, jaw clenched. He was doing his best to look mean and in control, but even from where Wren stood, he could tell all the man’s confidence had melted away. Haiku gave it a few beats, and then smiled again.
“Of course, you could just walk away. Tell the Bonefolder you got held up by the Greenmen at the gate, long enough for us to get away. She might be disappointed, but at least you’ll have your health.”
Rook moved the weapon from under Haiku’s chin up to right in front of his face and said “You look here–”
“No,” Haiku barked in a loud voice. Rook flinched at the sound, and Haiku hunched down slightly and Grigg made a sound like he was on fire. Then Haiku stood straight again and Grigg went skidding backwards about eight feet and fell on his backside. Haiku brought his hand up in a half-circle and made a little loop with it, and Wren was still trying to figure out what had happened when he realized that Haiku had the weapon now. He hadn’t even moved that fast. But Rook was standing there eyes wide with the business end of his own stick so close to his left eyeball it looked like it might be touching his lashes.
“Eyes, knees, or hands, Rook,” Haiku said. Rook didn’t make a sound or even blink. Grigg was still sitting on the ground, afraid to make a move. Then Haiku smiled his slow, wide smile. “Or you can walk away.”
Rook didn’t stir at first, but after a few seconds he held his hands out to the side and took a cautious step backwards. When Haiku didn’t react, he took another step back, and then another.
“See,” Haiku said. “We’re both smart fellas.”
Rook glanced over at Wren. “Ah ah,” Haiku said sharply. “Best take the long way around.”
Rook worked his jaw, but it was obvious any fight he thought he had in him was gone. Haiku stepped to one side and motioned at Grigg to get up. Grigg did so, awkwardly, and limped his way over to Rook.
“No hard feelings, gentlemen,” Haiku said. “I’m not a man of grudges.”
“We’ll be seeing you,” Rook said.
“Enjoy it while you can,” Haiku answered.
Rook scowled at that last retort, but apparently couldn’t come up with one of his own. He backhanded Grigg in the arm and the two of them slunk away. Haiku stood watching them until they were some distance away, and then finally returned to Wren, switching off Rook’s weapon as he did so.
As he drew near, he said, “I assume you can contact jCharles?”
Wren nodded. “I can send him a pim.”
“You may want to let him know about the Bonefolder.”
“OK,” Wren said. And he was about to go internal and request the connection when he noticed Haiku’s face change to an expression of mild concern, or maybe rebuke.
“Well now, little one,” he said. “What were you planning to do with that?”
He nodded towards Wren’s side. It took a moment before Wren understood. He looked down at his hand, where he was still gripping his knife.
“I thought we might be in some trouble,” Wren said.
“Oh, well, that was nothing for anyone to get hurt over,” Haiku answered. “Those poor boys were just doing as they were told. They didn’t know any better.”
“If you didn’t want to fight them, why didn’t we just avoid them?”
Haiku looked at him for a moment and a kindness came into his eyes. “We have a long road ahead. I thought you’d sleep easier knowing these fellows weren’t going to be a problem.”
“I thought we’d already lost them.”
“Thinking and knowing aren’t the same. You can run away from a thing, Wren, but as long as you’re thinking of it, you haven’t truly escaped it. And now you know for sure.”
He motioned towards the knife. “May I see it?”
Wren nodded and held the knife out grip first for Haiku. The man took it with care and held it, turned it over a couple of times, felt the weight, the balance.
“It’s a fine blade,” he said. He flipped it around and returned it in the same manner as Wren had presented to him. And then he smiled again, the same, almost sad smile Wren had seen back in the Samurai McGann when they first met. “I recognize the work.”
Wren returned the blade to its sheath in his belt under his coat, and Haiku nodded westward. The two fell back into step. Their pace was much smoother now, steadier. Wren pimmed jCharles and briefly explained the encounter with Rook and Grigg. Apparently jCharles knew who the two were and had even seen them nosing around the day before. He apologized several times and said Wren wouldn’t have to worry about anything like that happening again. He didn’t explain and Wren didn’t ask. They said their goodbyes again, and then Wren returned his focus to the journey at hand.
After a few minutes of walking, Haiku stopped Wren with a gesture, and then crossed over to the other side of the street. There was a four-story building there, largely crumbling like its neighbors. Haiku stood a few feet from it and looked up to the higher windows on the upper floors. Wren couldn’t tell what he was looking at, or looking for. He couldn’t see anything special about it that should draw his attention. Then, in a swift motion, Haiku pitched the weapon he’d plucked from Rook’s hand, and it sailed up and through one of the broken-out windows on the third floor. It landed with a ringing clatter, went quiet, and then sounded again with another, more muffled impact, possibly lower down in the building. Haiku returned looking satisfied, and motioned to Wren to carry on.
“Hopefully no one will go looking in there,” Haiku said. “But if someone does, I hope it’s a good guy who really needs it.”
“What was that thing anyway?” Wren asked.
“A sonic baton,” Haiku answered. Wren had no idea what that was, and Haiku must have noticed his lack of understanding because a moment later, he continued. “It’s a
contact weapon that uses sound to do unpleasant things to your insides. Depending on the power, they can be mildly distressing to lethal. That was one of the bad ones.” And then after a moment, he said. “I believe the street term for one is a ‘juicer’, if that tells you anything.”
Wren nodded and tried not to think about what that implied.
“You don’t think we should have kept it?” he asked.
“I don’t typically like to carry weapons,” Haiku said.
“Not even a knife?”
“Well, yes, of course, a knife. Everyone should carry a knife. That’s just good sense.”
“But not other things? A sword or a gun or anything?”
“No.”
“And you travel out in the open a lot?”
“I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘a lot’.”
Wren shrugged. “Everyone I’ve ever traveled with outside has always carried at least one. Usually a lot more. It just seems like the kind of thing you might need, I guess.”
“Well, if I ever really need a weapon,” Haiku said smiling down at him, “there’s usually one around.”
After that, they walked on for a time mostly in silence. Haiku didn’t seem to mind the occasional question, but Wren did get the impression he preferred the quiet. After an hour or so of mostly westward travel, they took a short break, each sipping water.
“We’ll turn north now,” Haiku said. “I hope we won’t be more than four days, but we’ll just have to see what comes our way.”
“The man you’re taking me to,” Wren said. “What’s his name?”
Haiku looked at him for a moment and then said, “That, I’m afraid, is not mine to give.”
“What do you think he’ll do?”
Haiku shook his head. “That too is something we’ll just have to see. I have my hopes, but...” He trailed off and looked towards the north. “It is long since he has concerned himself with the troubles of the world. He may very well do nothing.”
Wren hadn’t yet figured out what he’d been expecting from this journey, but those words certainly weren’t anything he’d considered. Was this whole trip going to be wasted? What if Mama came to Greenstone and he wasn’t there, and it was all for nothing? He glanced back the way they’d come, thinking about what lay behind.
“As I said before, Wren, there are no guarantees,” Haiku said. And when Wren looked back, he saw the man was watching him. “But that way,” he nodded towards Greenstone, “lies a life paralyzed by fear, marked by inaction. You rejected it before. Do not allow your heart to bend you back with illusions otherwise.”
Wren dropped his gaze to the ground, partially out of sadness and partially out of shame that Haiku had read him so completely, and had spoken so truly. They rested a few more minutes in silence and then, at Haiku’s signal, they hoisted their packs, turned their faces to the north, and set off together. And though he felt a longing to do so, Wren did not allow himself to look back.
TEN
Painter had delivered his message, just as he’d been instructed. And now he wanted nothing more than to turn away. To hide himself, while the Weir did their work. Asher had led him to the top of a tall building outside the town’s wall, commanded him to watch. To bear witness.
The people of this small town had refused his offer. Just as all those other towns before them had done. Just as they always would. Painter knew it was a false choice he presented them, and there was little hope indeed that any would accept his terms. Service to Asher, or annihilation. Who would choose to swear allegiance to a disembodied power?
Briargate, it was called. Named for its single, heavily-fortified main gate, no doubt. It was truly a fearsome thing to behold, covered as it was in sharpened spines as long as a man was tall. They had trusted in their gate, comforted by the knowledge that it had never before been breached. A false hope, the emptiness of which they were only now learning.
There had been a brief battle, as the guards of Briargate had courageously stood their ground against the tide of Asher’s thralls. But they had fallen victim to a simple ruse. While Asher had driven countless of the Weir under his control into the barbs of the Briargate, his select few had scaled the wall on the opposite side of the small enclave. Snow was one of those, her dancer’s grace turned to deadly purpose. It hadn’t taken them long to cut their way to the gate, and to open it from the inside.
The battle was over, but the massacre continued unabated as Asher poured out his wrath and hatred on those who dared oppose him. It wasn’t enough to slay the warriors of the town. The Weir, driven into a frenzy by Asher’s malevolence, were tearing the town apart, rending any and all they found. Painter had seen enough. The carnage was overwhelming, the mindless destruction too shocking to behold any longer.
He turned and started back towards the stairwell that would lead him down, away from the madness.
“No!” Asher’s voice screamed from the center of his mind. “No, Painter! Return to your place! I have not released you from your duty!” There was a raw anger in his words, but something else. A perverse giddiness, as he tested his control over the numbers of Weir and exacted his vengeance on yet another town full of innocents.
Asher couldn’t control him directly, couldn’t force Painter to watch. But he still held power over Snow, and that alone was enough to command Painter’s obedience. Painter returned to his position, but kept his eyes lowered. Asher might be able to pinpoint his location, but he couldn’t see through Painter’s eyes. Not yet, anyway.
“You must watch, Painter,” Asher said. “You must understand, this is their choice. This is the harvest they reap when they refuse my generosity. Behold it! Drink it in! And perhaps next time you will plead with more passion, and I will be able to spare the innocent.”
Painter stood on the roof of the building, eyes closed, with the terrible sounds carried on the wind, and Asher lingering in his mind. Asher had said this was their harvest. But Painter could not escape the knowledge that he had planted the seeds.
ELEVEN
There was something deceptive about Haiku’s pacing, Wren thought. When they’d started out, he hadn’t struggled to keep up at all. It hadn’t been easy exactly, but he’d been surprised that it hadn’t been harder. After Haiku’s comment about needing to make good time, Wren had immediately flashed back to his journey across the Strand, when Three had pushed them as hard and as fast as they could possibly go, and even that hadn’t been enough. In contrast, Haiku seemed to be holding something back. Even after the first few miles, Wren had felt certain that he could have covered more ground in that time. They finished the first day and though Wren was tired, he was pleased with himself and thought that all the travel he’d done lately must have strengthened him more than he’d realized.
It was early in the second day that he started to feel the first pangs of doubt. By noon, he’d lost his confidence, and by midafternoon he was certain he’d never be able to keep going. It wasn’t that Haiku was going too fast. It was that he never slowed. He kept the same, loping gait, hour after hour after hour. And he made no allowance for Wren at all. Breaks were rare, and the few they took were short. Haiku even insisted that they eat on the move. He had some kind of schedule worked out as far as Wren could figure; at times he forced Wren to drink water or to eat, regardless of whether Wren felt hungry or thirsty. Strangely, Haiku’s demeanor hadn’t changed at all; when he spoke to Wren, his voice was still warm and kind. But his treatment was indifferent, also to the point of callousness. At one point Wren got a small rock in his boot, and Haiku refused to stop even long enough for Wren to remove it. Eventually it got so troublesome that Wren stopped anyway. It only took a few moments to take care of it, but Haiku kept right on walking, and Wren was forced into a light jog to catch back up. That change in rhythm threw his body for a loop, and made the rest of the day’s journey even tougher. Within the hour, Wren was already wondering whether or not it would have been better just to keep the rock in his shoe. As they reached
into the late afternoon of the second day, he could hardly walk a straight line. His head was light and his legs leaden.
That night they took refuge in a small wayhouse, which offered security but little else; there was no bed, no water filtration system, and only a single, dull light that burned brownish. A concrete cell, eight feet long and six feet wide, with a foul-smelling drain in the center of the room. Wren looked at the floor with its water spots and stains. The thought of having to lie down on that floor made him nauseous, but the idea of trying to stand up the whole night was worse. In the end, he took to sitting in one corner and laying his pack in his lap to prop his head on.
Just before Haiku turned off the light, he came and stood over Wren.
“I know it’s hard, Wren,” Haiku said. “But we must keep our pace.”
“I’m trying, Haiku. I really am. But I just don’t think I can.”
“You can,” Haiku answered. “You may not believe it now, but you will after you’ve done it. And don’t worry. I promise, you won’t die walking.” He laid a hand on the top of Wren’s head. “You’ll pass out before that.” He smiled, but Wren couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
That night was a torturous one, as Wren’s body fought with itself, desperate for sleep, but unable to shut out the pain from the concrete floor. Somehow it was the longest night Wren could remember having, and yet morning still came too soon.
The third day was a blur of grey landscape and pain. Haiku had steered clear of any known settlements, so there was nothing for Wren’s mind to latch onto to separate one mile from the next. For all he knew, Haiku could have been leading him in a circle no more than twenty feet from where they’d started their morning.
Sometime around noon, the hallucinations started. Dreams mixed with reality. More than once, the cityscape became the Strand, Haiku became Three. Wren had been here before. He knew what happened. But where was Mama? Sometimes he would find that he was opening his eyes without any memory of having closed them. How long had they been closed? Had he been sleepwalking? His mind kept returning to the mistake he had made, agreeing to this. Why had he ever thought going with Haiku was what he was supposed to do? He remembered having made the decision, but all the reasons for it had fled. Fragments of thought swept through, flashes of memory, sudden impressions that dissolved before he could capture or recognize them. His mind became a frenzy of disconnected and troubling images like the nightmares brought on by a high fever.
