The Wicked Day

by Christopher Bunn

  The old trader laughed and swung up behind his mules.

  “Giddup there.”

  A line of sunrise bloomed into light in the east, but the morning was still dark around them as the wagon pulled out of the farmyard. The mules grumbled to themselves.

  “Anytime you’re by this way, lads, you’re welcome,” called the farmer. “Plenty of work here.”

  Jute waved back at him. He sighed. It would be nice to stay in one place for a while. With a family. Not that he had to be part of the family. That wouldn’t be necessary. Just to live in the barn, perhaps. He could learn how to farm. He could learn anything. Despite three giggling girls.

  And what if the wihht comes sniffing along your trail? How long would that last? He would slay the lot of them. And you would live with the memory of their deaths. Jute could hear the hawk’s wings rustle inside his mind. The bird sighed. Some things must be left behind.

  The wagon was stuffed full of goods. Barrels smelling deliciously of salted beef, fish, and other things Jute could not put a name to. Sacks and boxes and chests tied down this way and that with a perfectly crazed weaving of ropes. Stone jugs wedged into whatever nooks Birt considered safe enough for their travel. Crates of beets and carrots and potatoes, muddy onions and withered apples. It was a wonder that four mules were enough to pull such a load.

  “Don’t sit on the cheeses, son,” said old Birt. “Now, what about that pie?”

  The miles rolled away through the day. The sun rose and disappeared into a gray sky that spat down a sleeting rain. Jute wormed himself down into a gap between a sack of wheat and a crate of apples. He pillowed his head on his knapsack, pulled his cloak around him, and stared up at the sky. From time to time, he saw the hawk float by overhead. The ghost mumbled to itself inside the knapsack. At the back of the wagon, the top of Declan’s head was visible beyond a barrel.

  It was a lonely land that they traveled through. The road, which was more of a stony, rutted track than a proper road, never went straight but veered and climbed and dropped with fatiguing regularity. The wagon rolled down through canyons choked with pine forests that plunged them into even darker gloom than the day itself. Ice sheathed the tree trunks, and the wind moaned among the branches. The road climbed back up through hills until the travelers found themselves on a high moor. The ground was pocked with pools scummed over with ice and the broken remains of reeds that rattled like old bones as the wind passed by. There were almost words in the rattle of the reeds, if listened to close enough—a rattle and a whisper and a rustling broken by cracks and snaps as the reeds bent under the wind’s breath. The words came in a tumbling confusion of thoughts, a hundred different voices: all similar, but still different enough to discern each reed. There was a whistling quality to their voices, as if the wind blew across the open hollows of their broken joints like a hundred little flutes.

  Vole’s been gnawing and sawing at my roots again.

  Oh, my poor, aching back.

  Blood’s gone to ice and then it snaps—crack!

  Curse this wind.

  The vole. . .

  Curse this wind and the vole.

  Hush, hush! No cause to complain.

  Mud and muck and stone. Clack and snap and groan.

  Perhaps it’ll rain?

  Rain? Never, you fool. Just more snow. . .

  Old Birt kept up a tuneless whistle that whipped away into the wind. The mules clopped along, heads down and ears flicking back every once in a while to hear the encouragement of their master. Jute must have fallen asleep, for he woke with a sour taste in his mouth and an ache in his neck. The day had grown considerably colder, and he rubbed at his nose. It felt like ice. His stomach growled and he groped for the bag of food from the farmer’s wife.

  “Here,” said Declan, handing it to him. “There’s even a wedge of pie left.”

  “Pie?” said old Birt, looking back over his shoulder. “Did someone say pie?”

  After some argument, Jute surrendered the last piece of pie and contented himself with investigating the rest of the bag. The sack was stuffed with all sorts of victuals, for the farmer’s wife was used to people who ate in large quantities and, doubtless, she could not imagine any other way to think about food.

  “That’s fish, hey?” said the ghost, poking its head out of the crate of apples.

  “Yes, shh.”

  “You don’t have to be snippy,” said the ghost. “I was only curious. Smoked fish, no doubt. I can’t remember the last time I ate fish. Hundreds of years ago. That’s a long time to go without fish. And does anyone care? No.”

  “What’s that?” said old Birt. The ghost vanished back into the crate of apples.

  “Nothing,” said Jute. “I was just eating this fish.”

  “Hand some up, laddie. Hand some up.”

  “Do you trade in Ancalon a lot?” asked Declan.

  “Aye, fair amount.”

  “I suppose it’s like other big towns. Hearne, Lura, Damarkan even.”

  “Can’t say I’ve been to Lura or that there Damarkan. Too many foreigners for my taste. But I’ve been to Hearne. Fine city, fine city. Why, there were a lady singing in a tavern there. Sang and danced and clanged little bells on her fingers. Wiggled her hips faster’n a woodpecker tapping for grubs. Done it all at the same time.” Birt shook his head in admiration. “It were a wonderful sight. Fine city.”

  “Not much different than Ancalon?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Birt slowly. He shifted back and forth on his seat as if trying to find a more comfortable spot. “Ancalon’s a quiet city. Peaceful, I suppose. Always a good price for food, aye. It’s a wonder how much they buy.” And he refused to say more on the subject.

  The evening brought them to the edge of a valley. The moon shone fitfully through the clouds and the sleet was thickening to snow. Some lights gleamed down in the valley, cheerily enough, but they also served to heighten the darkness around them.

  “Pigtown!” called out Birt with some satisfaction.

  “Pigtown?” said Jute.

  “Aye, laddie. Ain’t much of a place, but they got plenty of pigs. We’ll stop there for the night.”

  The presence of pigs asserted itself long before the wagon reached the town. The air thickened with their scent. Jute pulled his cloak around his nose. Old Birt produced a pipe and proceeded to puff out clouds of smelly black smoke that would have stank horribly in any other situation but now seemed almost refreshing. The road descended into a pinewood, silent with snow and night. The mules quickened their pace, anticipating food and rest. Pigtown really wasn’t a town at all. Half a dozen ramshackle houses huddled together at the edge of the pinewood. Light shone from windows. Beyond them, further out on a fenced and snow-covered field and barely visible in the darkness, stood several barns, sturdy and in good repair.

  “Plenty of pigs,” said Birt. “Whoa, now.” He hopped down and began to unharness the mules.

  A door creaked open somewhere beyond them, and a man stumped out of the dark, lantern in hand. He was tall and had a long beard that gathered snowflakes.

  “Eh, Birt,” said the man. “Expected you yesterday.”

  “Nice to see you too, Doyl,” said Birt. “Road ain’t so good up north.”

  Doyl nodded and turned away. Birt followed him, leading the mules. Snowflakes swirled down. Jute looked longingly at the cheerily lit windows of the houses nearby. Smoke curled up from their chimneys. He shivered.

  “Are we just supposed to sit here?” said Jute.

  “Patience,” said Declan. He got down from the wagon and began to walk around, swinging his arms back and forth and stamping his feet on the ground. “Always see to your beasts first.”

  Birt reappeared soon enough.

  “All right, then,” he said. “Time for some shut-eye.”

  “Out here?” said Jute in disbelief. “We’ll freeze to death!”

  “Freeze? This ain’t cold, laddie. Bracing, I call it. You wait until winter’s he
re. Now that’s a proper cold.” The old man cackled out loud. “Poke your nose outside and—snap—ice. Off it comes.”

  He produced some wool blankets from beneath the wagon seat and, taking one for himself, crawled beneath the wagon, rolled himself up in his blanket and promptly began to snore. Declan shrugged, grinned, and then did the same.

  “But what about sleeping inside?” said Jute.

  The light in the windows of the nearest house went out at that moment. As if on some silent cue, any other lights that were visible also went out, winking out one by one as if eyes closing to sleep. The snow fell thicker and faster.

  I do not think these folks friendly except to their pigs. Get some sleep. You shan’t freeze.

  “Oh, all right,” said Jute. “If I wake up frozen dead, it’ll be your fault.”

  The hawk chuckled inside his mind and then fell silent.

  Jute grabbed the last blanket and scrambled underneath the wagon. He wrapped himself up, tucked his knapsack beneath his head, and promptly fell asleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, he awoke with a start, shivering not from the cold but thinking of wihhts and shadows and the wind blowing in silence through some faraway place. The snow lay so deeply now that it had piled up past the sides of the wagon. They were entombed. The air beneath the wagon, trapped as such, was somewhat warm and pleasant. Jute stretched out his hand and touched the bank of snow and then fell back asleep.

  They left early in the morning, before the sun rose. Moonlight shone through the pine trees, and everywhere, despite the dark sky, there was a sort of shabby radiance reflecting from the snow and ice. The villagers had their own wagon packed and ready to go, piled with barrels of salt pork, smoked hams, sausage, and brined trotters. A tall, gloomy man who looked like Doyl, but younger and without a beard, sat knock-kneed on the buckboard, dangling a whip over his team of oxen.

  “Ox ain’t so good as mule in this weather,” said Birt. “Y’should consider mule. I recommend ‘em highly. Eat on anything, anytime, anywhere. Eat on your salt pork, if’n you let ‘em.”

  “Ox’ll do,” said Doyl. “Doyl’s cartin’ corn for ‘em. Get a good price on that pork, y’hear me?”

  “I hear you, Pa. I hear you.”

  “Doyl?” said Jute.

  “Named all his sons Doyl,” said Birt. “All six of ‘em.”

  “Saves time, boy,” said Doyl. “Time’s money.”

  The snow had stopped falling sometime during the night, leaving the countryside deep and white with its passing. Gray clouds scudded across the sky. The wind whipped through the trees, blowing snow off branches and along the top of the drifts below.

  “Cheer up, laddie,” called old Birt over his shoulder. “We’ll make Hager’s Crossing tonight. Hot ale and a bit of shut-eye, and then Ancalon tomorrow. If y’freeze solid, we’ll sell you fer statuary.” He snorted and cackled. Declan laughed as well.

  “Very funny,” said Jute, but he cheered up at the thought of hot ale.

  “I must concur,” said the ghost from inside Jute’s knapsack. “He’s somewhat humorous. Though, if you do get sold for statuary, I’ve no desire to moon about a garden, or wherever they install you, for the rest of my life.”

  “The rest of your death, you mean.”

  “You, my young friend, are not humorous.”

  They made good time despite the deep snow covering the road. The mules trotted along, heads down and grumbling but oblivious to the drifts they trudged through. At noon, after much berating from Birt, Doyl reluctantly agreed to take the lead with his team of oxen.

  “After all,” said Birt, “your pa says they’re as good as mule, don’t he?”

  “Sure enough,” said Doyl gloomily.

  The hawk sailed through the sky, almost invisible against the dark clouds. Jute could always pick him out. His eyes instantly found him, wherever he was. Jute reached out with his mind.

  Isn’t it much colder up there?

  The hawk sniffed. At my age, one is not bothered by such trifles.

  I’d like to try flying again.

  You shall do no such thing. Not here, not now.

  Of course not, said Jute hastily. Not with these old carters gawking. Maybe in the evening? If we get to wherever we’re going and it’s not too late? I’d like to fly. I’m sure I’ve almost got the hang of it.

  No, said the hawk. Most assuredly not. You should not be alarmed, but I think something hunts along our path. It isn’t close, so do not look so frightened. Rather, consider it solemnly, for caution should guide your actions. As I have told you before, the use of power draws attention like a lantern in a dark night. You would burn like a great light if you truly flew. Like a star. We could not weather such attention. There is something odd about this land we travel through that does not comfort me greatly.

  All right, all right.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ESCAPE ACROSS THE ICE

  The road wound through the afternoon. The sun emerged from behind the clouds for brief intervals of blinding light that glittered off the snow and transformed the world into a blur of brilliance. However, most of the day was as dark and as cold as a winter evening. Despite the weather, old Birt was in a good mood, chuckling to himself through the smoke streaming from his pipe. Jute suspected his cheerfulness was due to the fact that Doyl’s team of oxen was proving considerably slower than the mules in breaking through the fresh snow on the road.

  “Will we get to wherever it is we’re going before nightfall?” asked Jute.

  “Hager’s Crossing? Surely, laddie, surely, despite these clubfooted, sway-backed cows leading the way. Afore sundown, or my name’s not Birt. The Hartshorn keeps a good table and you’ll be soon tipping back an ale there, never fear.”

  The sun broke through the clouds as it began to drop beyond the edges of the mountains in the east. It was as if a cold red eye surveyed them between the two lids of clouds and mountain range. One last slow blink closed in finality on the day and then Birt called out.

  “Hager’s!”

  He followed up his exclamation with a great deal of muttering about cows and those who see fit to cart about behind cows, all of it uncomplimentary, but only Jute heard him.

  The road bumped down an icy incline toward a village. Hager’s Crossing was a proper village, in Jute’s estimation. It looked large enough to be interesting in terms of things to buy (or steal) and see and do. There were a great many buildings, all dipped in shadow on their eastern side and painted red on the opposite, with their roofs and chimneys and western walls gilded with the remaining rays of frozen sunlight. Past the town, a river curved through the snowy fields. Woodsmoke scented the air, and after such a cold day, that was a comforting smell indeed. The Hartshorn Inn was on the banks of the river, but to get to it, they had to wind their way through the town, down streets deep in muddy slush and between houses huddled against the descending night. The wagons rolled to a stop in the inn’s yard. The mules and oxen blew out great breaths of steam, satisfied and already smelling the hay in the barn.

  “A warm bed for the night,” said Jute.

  “Eh, what’s that?” said old Birt. “No inn beds for us, laddie. It’ll be the wagons and sleeping with both eyes open. Don’t trust a soul, that’s my motto. But you can pop in for a bite to eat first. Go on with you. Doyl an’ me’ll see to the beasts.”

  The inn was crowded with people and warmed by the fire crackling on the hearth. It seemed quieter than most other inns Jute had been in, but it smelled of ale and roasting meat and, for one moment, Jute imagined he was back in Hearne. Surely if he stepped outside, he would find himself on those familiar cobblestone streets. Lena and the other children would dash by with an outraged merchant in pursuit. Perhaps he had just stepped into the Goose and Gold. But then he blinked and he was standing where he was, far from Hearne and far from home.

  Hearne was never your home, said the hawk inside his mind. The bird’s voice was surprisingly gentle. Don’t fret, fledgling. You’ll find it one day.


  “Move it,” said Declan. “We’re attracting enough attention as it is.”

  And they were. People turned to watch them thread their way through the room as they tried to find an empty table. The stares were not unfriendly, but neither were they friendly. Declan and Jute sat down at the end of a long table occupied by a group of men leaning over their tankards, talking in low voices and occasionally calling for more ale. Jute squeezed into a chair. There was barely enough room between the edge of the table and wall. Behind him, a window exuded the night’s chill.

  Ah. A barn. The hawk’s voice ghosted through Jute’s mind. I think I’ll find myself a roost in the barn. After a moment, the boy heard him snort in disapproval. I shan’t be sleeping now. Owls. Empty-headed feather dusters!

  “Evenin’ to you. Supper?”

  A fat old woman in a dirty apron plonked down two tankards of hot ale in front of them. Declan took a swallow of ale and nodded appreciatively.

  “Aye, and what do you—?” But before he could finish his sentence, the old woman had bustled away. She returned soon enough with a platter.

  “That’ll be two silver bits for the pair of you.”

  “Two silver—?” said Jute, but he shut his mouth when Declan kicked him under the table.

  “Here you are, mistress.” Declan handed over the coins.

  “Two silver bits?” said Jute, once the old woman had gone. “That’s thievery. I could eat for a week in Hearne on less than one silver.”

  “I’m not about to squabble with an old woman about money. Strangers seem to attract attention around here, so keep your head down and eat.” And with that, Declan took his own advice and turned his attention to the platter.

  The dinner would have proved unsatisfactory to Jute in most other circumstances, but he was hungry enough to finish two bowls of onion soup (which made him hiccup so much that Declan again kicked him under the table) and several slices of gristly beef.

  Jute wiped his nose on his sleeve and took a furtive look around the room. As far as he could tell, no one was paying them any attention. The mood in the inn, however, struck him as odd. It was not like the boisterous inns of Hearne he was accustomed to—the Goose and Gold, or the Queen’s Head where one of the potboys had a fancy for Lena and snuck them pasties and apple turnovers and other wonderful things. This inn was too quiet. Too subdued. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably.