Then the groaning stopped. Everything went quiet. There was nothing but the breeze and the birds and a few rasping cicadas. Even Bootjack and Way-Say seemed to have come to an agreement.
Elim let out a nervy breath, his belly and his bollocks slowly unclenching, and ran a hand through whatever hair he had left. “Hawkeye...”
Then he blinked, and the water streaming from Ax’s hairy lips took on a horrible significance.
“Hey!” Elim snapped, storming up to the horse with all the useless, pointless anger he had left. “God dammit, I told you to WAIT. Back! Get back!”
And Ax backed up – for all the good it did now.
“How much did he get?” Hawkeye’s voice was small.
Elim turned and opened his mouth for a blistering answer, but Hawkeye had no chance to hear it: Way-Say called him, and then Bootjack a minute later. All the while, Elim stood in front of Actor, the lead rope slack and easy, and waited to see what he would do... or what would happen to him.
But Will’s unlucky gelding only planted his nose in the grass, as peaceably as anyone could want, and let his ears turn freely. He didn’t press for another drink, which probably meant he’d had a pretty good one already, or look any worse or different for wear.
Which was as it should be. Because he was only an ordinary cart-horse, hitched up for deliveries and treated to a fresh split pumpkin on every autumn Sunday, and none of the awful things human beings did to each other was any business of his.
And as for the humans...
Elim looked ahead at the coffin, which was his own fault, and then behind at that horrible morbid lake, which wasn’t. He saw Way-Say picked up and forcibly carried back like some wayward wife, and heard Bootjack shouting over him, making those same get-moving motions with that same or-else expression.
It was too much. Just altogether too much. How were they supposed to do for seven strangers when they couldn’t even do right by this one Crow boy here? And then there was Sil... and everything Elim owed to Boss and Lady Jane... and God help him, he just couldn’t take on even one more needful thing.
“He says we’re going,” Hawkeye volunteered. “And I wouldn’t... we might do well not to tell him about the horse.”
Elim didn’t ask why. He didn’t want to think about what Bootjack might do if he thought Ax had been poisoned, or what might happen if he were right. Elim just nodded, his great notions of escape withering like the blackened plants around them, and got moving. He backed the horse up further, until he had enough room to make a clean turn, and then brought him around to start back towards the trail.
Forgive us, Master, he thought as he fell in line behind Bootjack, with as much of the prayer as he could recollect. Forgive us the evil we do, and the good we don’t. Forgive us our weakness, and forbear us your wrath. Do unto us not what we do unto others, but what we ought to do in your name. Guard us. Keep us. Deliver us. Amen.
And maybe Way-Say had the same thought, albeit at a more desperate pitch. Still washpinned over Bootjack’s back, he struggled and cried as if he were being carried from a burning building with all his relations still trapped inside. Elim accidentally made eye contact just once, but that was almost worse than anything. “Ylem! Veh’ne u! Nat nun vutl’aih! Tlesh u vutl’aih!”
Elim dropped his gaze to the ground, powerless to apologize for his moth-eaten courage and dry-rotted will. When he finally did find his voice, it was nothing but a cowardly, misdirected whisper. “Hawkeye, what’s he saying?”
“He says we have to go back,” came the soft answer from behind. “That she isn’t here yet.”
Elim glanced back at the diminishing white mesa. “Who?”
Hawkeye shook his head ever so slightly. “I don’t think he knows.”
The talking dried up after that. The begging and thrashing stopped soon after. When they’d gone about a half-mile along, Bootjack felt secure enough to lay his prince back in the wagon-bed, and put Elim on notice for push-duty if the horse started balking again. Then there was no sound but the clop of hooves, the creak of the wagon wheels, and the last of Way-Say’s broken-hearted sobbing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE CITY OF SALT
IN THE BEGINNING, there was One. And it was itself: the Multiplicative Identity, the Infinite Certainty; that which was neither prime nor composite, but its own perfect, unchanging square.
But One was also an empty product, multiplying to nothing but itself. A discrete creation required negative space – something outside of One. And the space defined by the absence of One was Not-One, which was also called Zero.
Día did not stop to contemplate the Sibyl’s Number, but fingered her prayer beads and staggered on.
So there was One and Zero – Being and Not-Being, Presence and Absence. In order to enlarge the set, however, a second identity was required. This was the genesis of the last of the Four Common Operators: addition, and its mortal inverse. One increased by itself made Two, and in so doing, allowed for the creation of a diverse and imperfect universe.
And the Two, highly composite and yet dangerously prime, begat Four.
Who begat Eight.
Who begat –
Día’s fingers missed a count; she blinked and looked down.
There was a bead missing. She stopped and held the loop closer to be sure, but no: there were only seven sweaty, scuffed wooden beads left on the earthly thread.
Which meant that the eight imperatives were only seven now – prime – and the twenty-four glories were twenty-one – semiprime – and the forty trials were thirty-nine: the sum of consecutive primes.
Día dropped the beads in horror.
What had happened to it? Where was it? She circled and turned in the dust, her red-caked feet making anxious confessional clouds as she hunted among the weeds. The dog returned to her side, whining, but Día shoved it angrily away: the stupid beast must have broken the bead when she’d torn off running with the string around her neck, smashing it against every rock in creation...
... but the only rock that mattered was right in front of her.
Día dropped to her knees.
It was an excellent rock. Sandstone, she realized as she picked it up for closer inspection, with delicate veins of gypsum running through it. It fit perfectly in her hand.
Which surely was a sign that God wanted her to have it. That He had given it to her for a reason. That she should use it in His name.
Día looked up at the dog, who had destroyed the perfect triple square – who had ruined the order of creation – and now sat there, remorseless and panting and stupid.
Then she brought the rock down with all her strength, smashing the beads until the ground was seeded with broken wooden shards, and her fingers bled piety.
WHEN SHE WOKE, Día could not have said what strange, pleasant dream had visited her – only that she desperately wanted it back.
That was the first of a long list of dreadful uncertainties. As she sat up and rubbed her face, Día would have dearly liked to know why her stomach felt so full... and why her right arm ached as fiercely as her feet and legs... and for that matter, how she’d collected so many scrapes and raw spots on her palm and fingers.
As usual, there was nothing to answer her but the same red sunrise, and the same brown dog. Día was not as grateful for that as she should have been. Everything was long since ruined. Sil Halfwick would have found and stolen Elim away days ago. Fours would be frantic with worry, because surely the Azahi had told him the real reason for her errand. He had to know by now that she’d lied to him, and unless Halfwick had been foolish enough to return to Island Town with Elim, Fours would have no reason to believe she wasn’t still lying – now dead in a ravine. And as for Día herself... her plums were long gone, along with any possibility of getting back to Island Town on her own, and it was growing increasingly difficult to believe that they were doing anything but wandering aimlessly through the desert.
Still, she had woken to a day not promised to her, an
d would not fail to give thanks for it. “Good morning, Mother Dog,” she said. “Thank you for watching over me. Would you like to pray together before we go?”
The dog stood up, wagging. Día still had no idea what sort of godly instrument she might be, but U’ru’s daughter had so far been perfectly amenable to Penitent language, even if she did seem more excited at ‘go’ than ‘pray’.
So Día folded her legs to a proper kneeling position, drew her prayer beads into her lap – and gasped in dismay. There was nothing left but a single scarred bead on the earthly thread.
What had she done?
Día stared at the frayed, denuded strings in dumbstruck horror. Fours had helped her carve them. They were her twelfth birthday present. And now she’d... what? By every grace, what mad, wicked woman had been taking her place, and what was she trying to do?
Día’s vision blurred; she hunched forward, pulling her dreadlocks across her face and breathing through them until she’d swaddled herself in the smell of her own hair. She had never in her life wanted so badly to go home.
A warm, furry wall pressed her from the left, and Día could not throw her arms around it quickly enough. “What are we doing?” she cried into so much musky brown fur. “For God’s sake, where are we going?”
New puppy.
It was one thought lost in a tempest of others. She was lost, and every day she spent out here was another day her mind did horrible, unknowable things with her body. What had she swallowed into her stomach? What had she done to her beads? Was she going to wake up tomorrow and find that she’d taken poison, or set the desert on fire, or hurled herself off a cliff?
Happy wags – puppy-smell – tiny, full bellies – licks – nursing – soft baby-scruff between your teeth – soft baby-skin in the crook of your arm.
Día drew back, profoundly confused. Where had that come from?
She looked down at the dog, whose maternal shape was perhaps more pronounced than before. Then she put one hand out to rub the dog’s head, and when this was met with approval, she ventured the other down between her front legs, past the chest and down to her stomach. It brushed past heavy, symmetrical flesh, and came back wet.
Día had never studied a royal dog before. But among the ordinary ones in Island Town, milk generally followed birth, and not the other way around. “Mother Dog... do you have puppies?”
The answer was a flowering pleasantness in Día’s mind – the kind of vague, promising happiness that she tended to feel whenever she had been distracted from some exceptionally good news, and afterward had the glad task of remembering what it was.
Día wiped her eyes and swallowed, calmer now. “Are we going to find them?”
More pleasantness. Hello-sniffs. Hugs. The dog dropped her jaw in a vacuous, panting smile. “Uh, uh, uh...”
Día paused to smother a belch, which left a faintly sweet, milky aftertaste. She put a hand to her inexplicably full stomach, and ventured her strangest hypothesis yet. “... am I your puppy?”
The reply was an enthusiastic ear-licking. Día sat still in a cloud of holy dog-breath, and contemplated this exceptional new idea.
No, the mechanics did not especially appeal to her.
Yes, it would explain why she hadn’t dropped over from starvation and thirst.
And the Verses promised only that God would provide. They didn’t say how.
All right, then. Fours would help her make new beads when she got back home, once he’d forgiven her for lying and running off in the first place. In the meantime... well, Día had already had two foster-parents in her short lifetime. And if her reason had to leave her during the heat of the day, then perhaps it was appropriate that a third one had volunteered to take its place.
“I love you too, Mother Dog.” Día stroked her head to say as much, and stood to shake the dust from her cassock. “I’m ready when you are.”
GUT GOD HAD been generous, and the Elarim grew forgetful. In years of plenty, they gorged themselves. In years of want, they neglected the offerings. And when the drought came, they cried in hunger.
“Be consoled,” false Azal said. “Your Heavenly Master now tests your faith. He has made for you a city of riches, and raised it high in the Hills of Night. Go and show him your courage. Go and take what you will.”
And those who heard his words went west into the hills, and did not return.
But Día would be faithful. Día would stand fast.
So it was that Aron Bel-Amon, the poorest man in Balshebet, woke one morning to find that his wife had heard the false prophet, and gone away into the hills. And good Aron, pious Aron, wept in fear and prayed.
“Be faithful,” God said. “Stand fast. Gather all that you have, and seek for your wife.”
Día was faithful. Día stood fast.
So Aron Bel-Amon gathered all that he had, and sought for his wife. For seven days, he walked west, into the Hills of Night. And on the eighth day, he beheld a wonder: a city of the most pure and precious salt.
Día stared at the glittering white cliffs, and stood fast.
But the tickling and prickling at her leg finally drove her to distraction, and when she reached down to brush away the flies, the smell grounded her in an instant.
Día lifted her foot from the manure, roused to a more secular amazement, and walked aside to take advantage of a clump of dry speargrass. Her back and legs ached as if she’d been standing for hours. She put a hand to the small of her back as she wiped her foot, struggling to recollect herself. “How long have we been standing here?”
The dog followed, and sniffed at the grass. Happy stink.
Día could not have said how many days had passed since she left Island Town. Regardless, she had yet to get used to the soft canine thoughts that bloomed in her mind.
For now, the red rays of the late afternoon sun bathed the left side of her body, and on her next upward glance, a sparkling white mesa.
Día blinked and wiped her eyes, but no – that was no illusion. That was Tres Manos – Yaga Chini – Carving Rock. It had half a dozen names, the legacy of centuries of glad travelers. Día was surprised at how spectacularly the drawings failed to do it justice.
Still, she could not explain her reluctance to venture into its shadow. There had been a reason for it, she was sure. A reason not to go... a reason to stand just where she was.
Día looked back to the fly-enticing pile on the ground, annoyed. “Mother Dog, will you please remind me why I felt it necessary to stand fixed in a fresh pile of horse...”
She trailed off, hearing her own answer. It was fresh.
Día dropped to her knees, and held her breath as she looked closer. Yes, it was drying out fast, but the flies had only recently discovered it: any eggs they’d laid had not had time to hatch.
So a horse had recently come this way.
Horses meant people.
People needed water.
Día staggered up to her feet, her gaze flicking from the white mesa in the distance to the droppings on the ground. Had she stayed here on purpose? Had her wild, unreasoning self made a crude bookmark of her foot?
There was one excellent way to find out. “Come on, Mother Dog – we can still get there before dark!”
And the dog, who might have been waiting for hours for Día to reach this most obvious conclusion, took off running. Puppy!
This time, Día was perfectly glad to run after her, out of the wilderness and towards a tantalizing oasis of humanity.
IT WAS AN oasis of humanity, all right... but ‘of’ proved to be a shockingly grim preposition.
After she had finished her prayers, Día sat down beside the little pool, and kept company with its unhappy bathers.
They were Ikwei, she was sure – all seven of them. The early evening light was growing poorer, but Día could still make out the cradleboard marks cris-crossing their chests. Turtles or other local residents had already eaten most of the softer parts – ears, noses, lips were mostly ragged absences now – and Día
wondered what the fatty scum on the water said about how long these poor souls had been soaking here. Everyone in Island Town understood that a body buoyant enough to float as it drifted down the river was not likely to be fresh, but Día had never seen a case like this one.
Certainly she had never seen this kind of evil. If the doer was not Ikwei himself, he at least knew how to most grievously defile their bodies. Their hair had been cut off, so it could not be dressed in funeral knots. Their fingernails had been pulled out, so their under-spaces could not be packed with corn flour. And they had been deprived of air, so they could not speak – so their holy mother could not find them.
But that in itself was perplexing. If one wanted to be sure that an Ikwei’s free-soul went unfound, it would have been far better to bury them. To put them here, where they would surely be spotted and retrieved by the first passers-by, would only cut short their vicious punishment.
And yet...
And yet, nobody had rescued them. Nobody looked to have even tried. And that was in spite of the tracks, the fresh droppings, the trampled grass – everything Día and the dog had found on their way here, which promised that yes, people had come by very recently. Maybe only hours ago.
Where were they now?
Día looked again at the Ikwei, and at the cris-crossed stripes across their chests. Those were not tattoos. They were fluid marks, like the starry faces of the Pohapi, or the blood-painted bear fur of the Washchaw, or the crow-black skin of the a’Krah: signs of belonging that primarily appeared at night.
Which suggested that these Ikwei had died after dark... and anyone who might have found them in the days since had already disappeared.
Día stood up, uncomfortably aware of the sun sinking behind the long shadows of the trees. “We shouldn’t stay here, Mother Dog. It isn’t safe.”
Medicine for the Dead Page 24
