The Wicked Day

by Christopher Bunn

  “There aren’t any doors,” said Declan after a while. “I’m sure of it. We’ve been around more than once. That’s the street we came from originally over there. How on earth do you get out or in? There aren't any doors.”

  His question was answered immediately—so immediately that it almost proved their undoing. The side of the tower a few feet in front of them vanished. A yawning open hole appeared, wide enough for a horse and wagon to ride through. The air rang with bootsteps. Declan yanked Jute to the ground, and they lay motionless in the thin blanket of snow. A column of soldiers marched out of the opening. They moved as one. Each man’s leg stepped out at the precise second as his neighbor. Each chin was held at the same stiff level, each back as straight as a spear. Their eyes stared ahead unblinkingly. Jute lost count of the soldiers. They emerged from the opening in the wall in their perfect files until the column stretched from the tower across the square like an elongated snake, the head disappearing down a street on the far side of the square. The opening in the wall closed up again right behind the last row of soldiers, instantly and silently and solidly. The last of the soldiers marched across the square and vanished.

  “Well, now we know,” said Jute, getting up and brushing snow from his clothes.

  “Not that it does us much good. We’ll have to climb and find a window suitably high up. I suppose complete silence will be the only way to beat a guardian ward like the one in this wall. Did you ever do such a thing? Fooling wards with absolute silence in your mind?”

  “Of course,” said Jute, somewhat irritated that Declan would question his capability. “I only wonder whether you’re able to do that as well. I don’t think I’d be able to help if the ward took you.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Declan’s hand drifted up to the necklace threaded beneath his collar. He spoke somewhat absentmindedly as if he were no longer aware of Jute, or even of where they stood. “The silence beneath the sea is greater than that of stone. Greater even than your sky, I imagine.”

  With that, Declan began to climb.

  “Poetic,” said the ghost from inside Jute’s knapsack.

  “Greater than the sky?" muttered the boy to himself. “Hmmph.”

  And Jute filled his mind with the memory of sky, of his dreams of flying with the wind far above the earth in the silence of the endless space there, of the absolute stillness of height and depth and distance. He set his hands to the wall and began to climb.

  In one way it was not such a difficult thing to climb that wall. The stones were roughly hewn and of many different sizes so that it was easy to find a handhold here and a convenient toehold there. But in another way, it was the hardest wall Jute had ever tried. The thing was horribly alive. He could sense it swirling restlessly just beneath the stone. Hundreds of different lives were locked within, held captive by the powerful weaving of the spell. He could feel sorrow and desperation and the bitterness brought about by the death of hope. He willed himself to not become aware of them, to not listen and feel, for if he did, then his concentration would be lost. He would be pulled in to become one of them. Imprisoned within the stone and darkness. He climbed on.

  The tower was taller than it looked. From the ground, Jute had thought it no taller than the main tower of the old university ruins in Hearne. But surely he had already climbed that far. Glancing down, the rooftops below looked like a child’s patchwork quilt, tiny and mismatched squares jammed together and fading beneath the falling snow. He craned his head back to look up. Above him, the tower stretched up into the night and vanished.

  If Jute had looked down again, he might have seen the figure of a dog, deceptively small at such a distance, lope out of a street opening onto the square. The same street that they had come down. The dog headed across the square toward the tower. It stopped at the base of the wall and gazed up. The dog began to fade and after a few seconds the beast resembled nothing more than a shadow. It drifted to the wall and then slowly moved through it like water seeping through dry earth.

  Jute came level with Declan. The man had paused climbing and hung motionless, suspended from his fingers and the tips of his boots.

  “The windows move,” whispered Declan.

  “What?”

  “They slide away as soon as we draw near. Even though the ward still sleeps, the tower’s aware of us. Somehow.”

  “What we want is much higher up,” said Jute quietly. “We might as well climb to the top. There’s sure to be a door of sorts up there.

  “The top? You’re sure about that?”

  “After all the houses I’ve robbed? I’m sure. There's always a door at the top.”

  They both lapsed into silence, for the stone seemed to tremble as if it were becoming aware of them. A nearly soundless whine trembled in the air. The ward. Coiling on itself like a snake. Ready to wake and strike. Jute closed his eyes and ignored his own exhaustion, the cold, the trembling promise of cramp in his legs. His stomach growled, but he ignored that too. He could not afford any distractions.

  Even lovely shiny things? said the wind in his ear.

  Even lovely shiny things.

  The ward quieted and they climbed on. Forever, it seemed. The horizon in the east lightened imperceptibly. Jute’s limbs ached and trembled with exhaustion. The chill of the stone and the continuous pressure on his fingers produced a slow, spreading numbness that worked through his hands and wrists. Each successive hold and pull up was beginning to become something akin to torture. He found himself alongside Declan again. The man was staring up the tower, toward the point where the darkness of the stone and the darkness of the sky blended together until there was only night. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

  “I don’t think this tower is meant to be climbed,” said Declan quietly. “It isn’t only the windows moving away from us. The tower itself moves. It’s growing above us. We aren’t gaining much ground, if any.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” said Jute.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask the wind?”

  “The wind?”

  And Jute asked the wind, wondering why he had not bothered before with this and any other question that had crossed his mind.

  Why should I tell you? said the wind somewhat pettishly. Don’t want to play, don’t want to knock down the chimney pots and fling roof tiles. Don’t want to come flying with me.

  Yes, I do. It’s just that the hawk won’t let me.

  And you don’t like shiny, pretty things!

  Snowflakes whirled around them as the wind blew back and forth, grumbling in irritation. The ward in the wall coiled in on itself, waking up more than it had before, sensing and listening and focusing. The faint whine became a buzz and the buzz grew until it was as loud as the hiss of an angry snake.

  Wind! Please. You’re waking the ward. Quickly, before it’s too late.

  If I must. But promise you shall come flying.

  I promise.

  Soon?

  Yes!

  Simple. Go through the wall.

  Through?

  Go through the wall.

  Jute pushed his hand against the wall, wondering and disbelieving. The wall felt like a wall. Hard stone. Not the sort of thing one went through. But then, all of a sudden, the wall softened under his touch. There was no other word for it. One second hard stone, the next second a sort of wavery feel. Like water. It was like wading through water. A strange, heavy, thick sort of water. He could not see. The stone—was it stone anymore?—was all around him. A murmur filled his ears, not unlike that which happened when he put his hands over his ears to try and simulate the sound of the sea. Jute reached back behind him, out into the cold air, and felt Declan’s hand grab onto his. He pulled him in and felt the stone ripple outward in response. He could no longer feel Declan’s hand and was not sure if he had let go or if they still maintained contact. All he could feel was the pressure of the stone around him, moving him, swimming him slowly forward. The murmur altered somewhat, clarifying and focusing into se
parate sounds.

  Voices. Voices all around him, muttering and grumbling and whispering and moaning. There were so many of them that it seemed impossible to discern what they were saying. They were like countless different streams of water splashing down into the one same sea so that words were jumbling together into confusion. But then the voices clarified further and sharpened into distinction.

  Why didn’t he kill me?

  Never knew nothing but hunting. Deer and them little mountain sheep. Sold the meat down in the lowlands. Nothing but hunting. That’s all.

  Should’ve stayed home that day. It was wet out. Slashing down rain. Muddy road. Ford was most likely washed out. Never saw him afore it was too late. Should’ve stayed home.

  Sunlight. I miss the sunlight.

  He should’ve killed me. I wish he had killed me. I’d rather be dead.

  What was her name? The girl with long black hair and green eyes. The woodcutter’s daughter.

  Stitching. Stitching and sewing. Got paid in goat’s milk. Made my own cheese from that milk. Strained my eyes working nights by candlelight. Tiny stitches. Best in the village and worth my pay, I was. Got paid in goat’s milk.

  That fellow had teeth like knives. Ogre blood, I reckon. Knew it the moment he walked into my tavern. If I had locked up early, things might’ve been different. Things might’ve turned out different. Wonder if Bess still keepin’ the old place open? She were a good girl, were Bess. Had a wrist as strong as an oak branch.

  Deer meat sold best in the fall. They cured their winter’s lot then. Smoke and salt and hung high in the rafters.

  The woodcutter’s daughter.

  I can’t remember her face.

  The voices meandered around him, each lost in its own misery and remembrance. At first, they did not seem aware of Jute and Declan in their midst, but slowly and surely the voices trailed off into silence. In their place, there grew a feeling of puzzlement so strong that it was almost a color, a taste, a sensation of some sort that could surely be experienced just as heat was felt from the flame or pain from the edge of the knife.

  Jute swam through the stone, still blind, but pushing his arms forward and questing for the end of the wall. Surely they had come far enough. No wall could this be thick. But there was only darkness and the soft, heavy push on all sides.

  Who are you?

  It was one of the voices. He could not remember which. Perhaps the innkeeper or the hunter.

  Who are you?

  Another voice. A woman’s this time.

  You’re alive.

  Alive.

  He’s alive.

  And we are not. Neither dead nor alive. Something in between. Caught here.

  How can I leave this place? said Jute. Help me, please.

  Help him, he says. Whoever helped us? We’re caught here forever. Not a chance of decent burial and some rest.

  Please, said Jute. The stone seemed endless about him. And surely there was a hint of thickening in the feel of it. It was getting more difficult to move.

  Please. He says please. At least he’s got some manners.

  That’s something.

  No, it ain’t. Won’t buy you ale.

  We have to rescue a girl trapped inside the tower, said Jute, his voice desperate. We’re her only hope. You must help us. Surely if you’re trapped you wouldn’t wish that on someone else. She’s young.

  Don’t mind if everyone were trapped in here along with us, said a voice. A woman’s voice, spiteful and bitter and as sharp as curdled milk. Reckon if we have to suffer, other folks can, too.

  No, said another voice. Think on this, now. Helping someone. Now that’s a memory we could all use. A new memory. Something fresh to remember.

  Ahh. It was the hunter, his voice full of mountains and the sun on rocks and pine trees. A good idea, but I’ve one better. Make him pay with a memory. A good, rich one for his release.

  Aye. A good idea. A new memory for us all.

  More voices chimed in, falling over each other into a confusion of excited noise. A memory. A new memory to leaven the dark, dreary, and unending tedium of their imprisonment.

  A memory. Give us a memory, boy. One of yours. Something with sunlight and summer, for it’s dark and cold in here an’ most of us, we’ve forgotten the light.

  A picture blossomed in Jute’s mind. An old memory from the summertime. He spoke without realizing it, and the unseen audience expectant in the darkness around him listened with avid attention.

  Listen, said Jute. I’ll tell you about a day.

  Afternoon sun on the roof, on the slate tiles blinding hot and white, with shadows deep along the eastern wall. The sharp, sweet scent of apples in the air. Lena asleep on the second-story balcony of the old house. Skinny legs and arms burned brown by the sun. Sprawled in a tangle on a dusty rug. Flies crawling about an apple core. Jute and the twins, Moro and Mana, sitting on the edge of the balcony, legs dangling through the wooden railings, crunching apples. Stolen apples. Juice on their hands and chins. Pitching cores down at a dirty white goat in the yard below. The goat, busily happily contentedly munching on apple cores, but still rolling an occasional yellow eye up at the children as if to say it would remember them and deal harshly if they ever came within reach of its horns. Sudden, soft noise inside the house. The owner returned home long before he should have. He should’ve still been drinking at the inn. He always did. Stayed late. Startled alarmed glances from the twins. Jute nudging Lena into yawning wakefulness. The balcony door flung open and the astonished, angry face of the owner, mouth agape, shouting something, some blur of words Jute hadn’t even bothered to hear. The children evading his outstretched hands with practiced ease, giggling and shrieking, hearts thumping, jumping up onto the roof overhang, and scrambling away across the hot tiles. A few tiles kicked free and sliding down with a skittering, scraping sound to shatter in powdery red shards around the man on the balcony. Him shaking his fist at them in rage. The goat still crunching apple cores, not caring. A handful of coins, as gold as fresh butter, heavy in Jute’s pocket, scooped from a chest inside the house. The sun drifting down toward the shining surface of the sea as they scampered off across the rooftops. Sunlight, sky, water, and life.

  Ahh. A good memory.

  I like the goat.

  Thank you, boy. Our own memories are tired.

  Thank you.

  And now? said Jute. His throat was tightening. He struggled to breathe. He could feel the stone around him hardening more. Your end of the bargain. How do we get out of the wall? How do we get inside the tower?

  Let’s keep him. Him and the silent one behind him. They must be full of memories.

  No. We made a bargain. And that’s a second new memory for us as well. We keep our end. Listen, boy. It’s easy enough. Just step forward. We won’t keep you any longer.

  Jute stepped forward. His legs could only move slowly now. The darkness and stone pressed in around him as if to say, no, we won’t let you go.

  Ever.

  But then the voices were behind him, fading into the distance, and he found himself standing in a bare, gloomy room bounded by stonewalls. He stumbled due to the sudden absence of stone pressing around him. His legs trembled and he almost could not stand. There was a whispering sort of noise and then Declan stood next to him. Behind them, in the wall, Jute thought he heard a sigh.

  “I don’t want to go through that again,” said Declan, his face pale. “Couldn’t hardly breathe toward the end there.”

  “No.”

  “Just wake me up when it’s over,” said the ghost from inside Jute’s knapsack, its voice shaking and growing louder with every word until surely it was about to break into a shriek. “Just wake me up when—”

  “Hush.”

  “We must go higher up,” said Declan. “I can feel it.”

  Stairs led up from the middle of the room to the ceiling above, curving around a stone pillar. There were no windows in the room, nor were there torches, yet it was lit with a dim
light that came from either the stairwell opening in the floor, as there were also stairs leading down to the floor beneath, or from the stairwell opening in the ceiling. Both Jute and Declan did not move for a moment, as if both were reluctant to find what waited higher up the tower. Declan roused himself with a shudder.

  “Right. No use standing about. Up the stairs.”

  “I’d much rather be anywhere but here. That smell. It’s horrible.”

  “Something dead, I suppose. Rats caught in the drains.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s magic, I think. It reminds me of a smell from the university ruins. An old spell.”

  “I’d rather not bother with any more spells for the moment.”

  The stairs wound around and around, and they walked higher and higher, treading in silence, ears pricked for any sounds. But the tower was quiet around them. The stairs continued their spiral up through room after room. The rooms were identical. Each a bare, gloomy space stretching out into the shadows. Each dimly lit with a poor, unpleasant sort of light that did not come from window or torch. There were no furnishings. No rugs or chests or wardrobes. No tables or chairs or tapestries to hide the stone. No rusty old spears and axes hanging on the walls. Nothing at all. Just stone and dust and the cold silence. Just empty rooms.

  “Almost as if nobody lives here,” said Jute.

  “Lives,” said Declan grimly. “Maybe there are things that dwell in a place but don’t necessarily live. A strange man, this duke of Mizra, if this is his castle. I don’t want to meet him. I suppose his hospitality wouldn’t be to our liking. But if we do meet him then it’ll be with my sword in my hand.”

  And then they found her. It happened matter-of-factly, as these things do. They trudged up another flight of stairs and there she was. The air, as cold as it already was, grew even colder. The stairs took another turn around and they found themselves out in the open air. They had reached the top of the tower. It was a flat, wide-open space of black stone, hard and slick with ice and blown clear of snow by the wind. The night stretched around them and the sky seemed uncomfortably close, full of darkness and only relieved in spots by the frozen glitter of stars. The city was so far below that it seemed to be a mirror image of the night sky, with the scattered lights in windows shining like distant stars.