Medicine for the Dead

by Arianne Thompson

  “I do,” he said at last, his voice impossible to read. “Do you?”

  “I did,” she said, and neglected to mention that it was twenty-three years gone. “And I hope that I will again. And if – that is, if you ever find yourself in Island Town, and if you remember... go to Fours the shopkeeper, or Día the grave bride, and ask for Shea.” Please. Please ask for me. They might speak terrible things about her, but they WOULD speak. They would tell him who she had been – and this fellow here could tell them where he’d last seen her. That might be as much closure as any of them ever got.

  He might have just-so-happened to shift his arm, just then. “I will. And if your new business ever take you east ’round Terrell County, go look up Henry Bon. Sometimes he stays at his sister Liza’s house in Buford.”

  Shea let out a breath, melting with relief. He had a name. He had two names – a family name, not a slave’s descriptive – and he’d given her both of them. If he were one of the Many, he would have switched from I-part to I-whole in that moment, and welcomed her to do likewise. For her, he would have stopped being a formal, single-faceted it, and invited her to consider him a familiar, all-faceted they.

  He wouldn’t understand about any of that, of course. But Shea understood the human implications well enough: he had a name and a family, and a job of his own choosing. He was living a free man’s life.

  She looked up at him, his face a warm ambiguity in the dark, and clutched his arm. “I don’t feel like waiting that long. Come on, let’s have one more roll. I still haven’t given you a proper –”

  He laughed again, but there was no interest in it. “Miss Lady, he as dried-up empty as you are. Y’all need to go waddle yourself into that lake you was so anxious for, or I’m gonna think you ain’t grateful.”

  No. She couldn’t possibly. She was bone-tired and desperately thirsty, but if she went to sleep now, she’d wake up in the morning and he would be gone. All of this would be over. And who knew when or if she’d see another living person? Shea hesitated, a child suddenly desperate to avoid being put to bed.

  Her fingers must have dug into his arm, though, or else he felt her perspiring. “Come on, now – do-do fais. What you scared of?”

  Shea stared out into the unbroken blackness. “Pain. Loneliness. A wasted life, and a pointless death. Regret.”

  He sighed, and chided her with a prod of his knee. “Aw, hell. Didn’t you listen to a thing I said? Most of that’s just some dumb-ass bluffing you with a holstered sock, and the rest ain’t helped by piddlin’ your knickers. Here, pass me some teeth.”

  Shea looked up, confused, but there was no mistaking the way he patted his neck. She rolled up on top of him, and in the space of a heartbeat, she had her hands at his shoulders and her teeth in his flesh – and was amazed to feel an answering bite.

  He couldn’t do it right, of course. Human teeth were flat and blunt, not made for delicate punctures at all. Still, he bit her hard enough to leave a bruise that would last for days – a comfort as painful as it was profound.

  If the Amateur had ever coveted Shea, he’d stopped long ago. She needed no love-flaw to ward off his greedy eye: she was already old and rough and mutilated, as worthless to him as a cheap crazed tea-cup. But the intensity of that blunt, earthly bite was overpowering, as strong and purposeful and urgent as if this human man were afraid she would be stolen away at any second... as if she were a precious, irreplaceable treasure.

  If Shea were human, she would have teared up on the spot. As it was, she bit down until the cords of his neck were iron-stiff and her mouth was wet with the metallic taste of his blood. She was careful to lick up the excess before she finally pulled away.

  “There,” he said at last. “Now anybody that mess with you, you tell them, ‘I got bit by the meanest, baddest coujon east of the Etascado, and if you don’t watch it, he’s gonna come after you like the ugliest ton of bricks that ever served papers on a dead man.’”

  Shea’s hand automatically went to her neck, cherishing the wound. She returned him a toothy grin. “Likewise. If the need arises, please feel free to intimate that you are a close, personal friend of the most voracious freshwater fornicator in the entire Western watershed, and anybody who needs to learn that the hard way is welcome to get within ten feet of the water-body of his choice and see what happens.”

  His smile was a dim, off-white flash in the dark. “I will. Now go get in that one and let’s both have us some sleep. Tomorrow’s new business.”

  Even then, Shea would have given just about anything for a human body: one that could lie all night in dry blankets beside him, and wake with his first stirring movements in the morning.

  Instead, she took the body she had down to the shore and walked it into the cold, lapping waters of the lake. “Goodnight, bourick.”

  “Goodnight, Miss Shea.”

  She held still, drinking in every intersecting noise of the grass, the wool blanket, and his body arranging itself on top of them. Only when she was sure she’d committed it all to memory did she finally give up the air-breathing world, and let the water carry her off to sleep.

  IN THE MORNING, he was gone. That was not surprising. Her only company was the screaming in everything from her hips to her ankles – a potent reminder of the eight hours she’d spent in the saddle yesterday, and all the acrobatics that had bookended them. That was not surprising either.

  Least surprising of all, she was still nothing but herself, naked and insignificant as the bright blue sky and the desolate red hills stretched out for miles in every direction. If anything, she was more isolated now than ever before: here in this strange water, she was truly cut off from Island Town, and every comfort that flowed from it.

  Shea floated there at the surface of the lake, momentarily tempted to crawl out to that telltale flattened spot in the grass, and see whether it had retained any of his smell.

  She was alone, and there was nobody who could help her.

  She was alone, and there was nobody standing in her way.

  Shea turned towards the river, and started swimming.

  PORTÉ LIFTED ONE foot up onto the next-largest rock, and heaved themself up with a grunt. Then they crouched there on their new perch, and looked back to see how Flamant-Rose was getting along.

  The little geologist was not doing well. They had been given the lightest possible load for this long overland hike – but in this case, the lightest load was the rakes, hoes, and shovels they’d originally brought for the dredging project. And Flamant-Rose was so small that the long tools crossed over their back kept striking every odd obstacle along the way, threatening to send them tumbling backwards whenever they had to climb.

  Porté needed both hands to keep a grip on the straps of their own pack. But they crouched there on the rock, feet splayed out for stability, and slapped their over-hanging tail against the stone. “Come on, même. Two more big steps, and then it will be flat again.”

  The only answer from Flamant-Rose was the sound of their panting. But they grabbed hold of Porté’s tail with both hands and pulled themself up. It was a splendid maneuver – right up until Flamant-Rose bent forward to crawl, and bashed a shovel-head into the back of Porté’s skull.

  Startled, Porté camouflaged, sucking their teeth in pain.

  “Sorry!” Flamant-Rose squeaked.

  “It didn’t bleed,” Porté said reassuringly, once they had recovered their colors. “Here, make a step of my shoulder – you can go up first.” Porté turned to sit sideways against the ledge, tucking their head and lowering their pack to make a relatively flat foothold. As soon as they felt their sibling’s weight stabilize, the big stevedore rose up on their haunches, boosting Flamant-Rose almost all the way up over the last step.

  When the pinwheel of earth-tools above finally steadied and disappeared, Porté threw their own pack up, hitched up their robe, and cleared the edge with a single squatting leap.

  Up there, though, the view was singularly depressing. Yes, the rock-
climbing was finished and the trail leveled out, but there was nothing ahead but an endless expanse of rocky red earth and ragged brown trees, and everyone else was already so far ahead. Stooped from the weights at their backs, shielded from the sun by identical beige robes and broad conical hats, the rest of the Many marched on like so many misshapen, shuffling mushrooms. Even lanky, skinny Pirouet was keeping up, despite scarcely having eaten in days.

  From under their hat, Flamant-Rose wilted at the sight. “It’s such a long way...”

  Porté was hard-pressed to disagree. The two of them had been hiking for hours now, their gill-plumes withering, their robes clinging and sticking to their skin as the sun dried them out. But more troublesome than the hard ground and the hot sun, the discomfort of clothing and the throat-clogging dust, was that same unshakeable worry. The Calentito River was miles behind them now. The Limestone River was somewhere ahead. And until they found it, they were exposed, vulnerable. Who knew what kind of hungry animals or hostile earthlings lived out here? And more to the point -

  Something big moved in the trees to their right. Porté and Flamant-Rose froze, camouflaging in the same instant. But the same garments that guarded them from the sun kept them totally, helplessly visible – and in their first moment of raw skin-dampening fear, Porté prayed that they weren’t about to die on land.

  But as the angry silhouette stalked out of the tree-shadows, it resolved into a familiar, overgrown shape. “What selfishness,” Tournant sneered as they advanced, jabbing an accusatory finger at Flamant-Rose. “What unsurprising arrogance! You lazy deadweight – you’ve got the lightest load of anyone, and here you have the nerve to hang back and complain. You’re so far behind you can’t even see your prince’s suffering, or hear how the princess gasps for air.”

  Flamant-Rose cringed, copying Tournant’s blue-white patterns in cowering submission.

  Porté was having none of that. They darkened their own colors and flared their withered gill-plumes. “You leave them alone,” they snapped. “Everyone is tired. Everyone is dry. Everyone is getting an equal share of skin-rashes and foot-sores. And the only selfish one I see is the loveless busybody with nothing better to do than hide in the trees and wait for a chance to torment –”

  “– to TELL you,” Tournant interrupted, “that Fuseau is going to set out the meal as soon as the Few have returned to the water, and the first ones present will be the first ones eating. Something to think about while you hold hands with this one here.”

  Porté wished for enough cleverness to think of a sharp answer. In the end, they could only stand straight and try not to look disappointed as Tournant turned and sauntered off. The message was clear: by the time the two of them made it to camp, there wasn’t going to be any food left.

  “I’m sorry,” Flamant-Rose said, as if they had shared the same thought.

  Porté packed up and walked on. “It’s all right.” What else could they say? They would be up there at the head of the cohort if they weren’t hanging back to help Flamant-Rose, and they both knew it.

  Still, Porté couldn’t help but feel guilty every time they glanced at their smallest sibling. Flamant-Rose was already an exceptional student, and next year would probably be sent to finish their studies with the master geologists of the House of Émeraude. But they had never done hard physical work, on land or in the water – and if Porté hadn’t blabbed Champagne’s secret about the human wizard, the cohort would still be swimming upstream for the ordinary, respectable river-dredging project that Flamant-Rose had been so looking forward to.

  The little geologist was far too shy to complain, of course. That made the guilt even worse.

  So the two of them walked in silence for awhile, Porté’s feet itching to go faster, and their conscience nettled by every one of their sibling’s wet, gasping breaths.

  “Hey, même,” Porté said presently. “Why do oysters make pearls?”

  Flamant-Rose glanced up, puzzled, and dutifully wheezed out a reply. “They secrete calcium carbonate... in response to...” Then they seemed to realize that this might not be a serious question, and amended their answer. “I don’t know; why?”

  Porté feigned ignorance. “You tell me – you’re the one who’s upset!”

  That got no reaction.

  Porté sighed, and was on the verge of explaining that it was funny because perles, ‘pearls’, was the same as perles, ‘you’re dripping’.

  Then Flamant-Rose warmed to a pale pink. “Good one,” they said.

  Porté thought so too.

  By the time they smelled water, the afternoon sun was low in the sky, and Porté finally had to admit that Fuseau had been right about leaving Champagne. That poor tailless old-timer would never have survived such a long, dry hike – and even though Porté still felt bad about sneaking off and abandoning it as they had, a little extra guilt was a small price to pay for avoiding that much dead weight.

  As it was, the whole cohort was thoroughly worn out by the time they reached the sweet, fast-flowing water of the Limestone River. The Many were tired, but the Few were exhausted. Princess Ondine clung to Jeté’s back, dry and weak, her arms around his neck and her tail wrapped around his middle. After a day of crawling overland under her weight, Jeté’s arms bowed so far out that his chest nearly scraped the ground. Not for the first time, Porté watched the titanic efforts of their greater sibling – brother, now – and was privately glad that they had not been the one selected for metamorphosis: no amount of prestige was worth the pain of puberty, or the obligations of sex.

  Fortunately, though, Tournant turned out to be wrong after all: by the time the Many actually made it down to the river, everyone was too wrung-out to even think about food. One by one, they dropped their burdens and rushed for the water. Fuseau went in cautiously, of course, signaling the all-clear for Jeté to follow with Ondine. Plié and Demi-Plié tore off their hats and robes and raced each other to the shoreline, cannon-balling in with great joyous whoops. The moment Porté finished untying the earth-tools from their sibling’s back, Flamant-Rose flopped into the water and drifted downstream, as if they had just finished dying an exceptionally heroic death.

  Porté had no energy for theatrics, but their relief was no less immense as they stripped down and waded in to the cold, quick current. There was pleasure in that.

  And in the dinner-fight later on.

  And in making camp that night.

  And even in waking up sore the next morning, because it was such an excellent reminder that the hardest, dullest work was behind them. Now the cohort could let the river help carry them along, and save their energy for wizard-hunting. Porté hoped that they would be fully refreshed before anything terribly exciting happened.

  As it happened, the first taste of excitement was when Tournant let their tail flop into an ants’ nest at breakfast, and Demi-Plié laughed so hard they almost choked on a bone.

  But the second was later that day, just after noon, when Porté first sensed someone else swimming downstream. It was a confusing shape: the body seemed to belong to an earth-person, but it didn’t scissor its legs the way earth-persons did. It kept them folded together, undulating forward like some kind of toeless, tailless old...

  Porté whitened to signal the others. But as they kept swimming forward, fast overtaking the not-so-strange stranger ahead, they were stricken by a fresh pang of guilt... and an overpowering sense of déjà vu.

  FOR THE SECOND time in a week, the House of Losange swarmed around Shea. This time, though, things would be different.

  My present! Princess Ondine signed, four seconds before she lunged through the water to grab Shea in a crushing embrace. You found me!

  Shea did not let on how that aggravated the bullet-wound between her ribs, or correct the princess’s unbecomingly familiar ‘you’. This one missed you, she assured Ondine, once she had the use of her arms again. And it’s glad to see you again.

  Jeté still crawled along the bottom, too heavily burdened to swim.
And the voice still shot up to inspect Shea, as suspicious and mistrustful as ever.

  Princess, may I borrow your present? it signed.

  Shea was grabbed up again in a heartbeat, her back pressed against the princess’s chest and stomach and pinned there by the current.

  No, Ondine replied. You will forget it again.

  The voice copied her colors – a fervent pledge to the contrary. I only want to talk to it. We’ll stay where you can see us the whole time.

  And this was different too. This time, Shea was not dragged down to the bottom to be threatened and manhandled by Le Gran Jeté. Instead, she was invited up to the surface, to one of the rocks that jutted up from the shallows, where she could beach herself and be relieved of the need to tread water.

  “Thank you,” Shea said. Then she paused to cough – which was to say, to empty her lung in a protracted fluid-retching exercise that was quickly becoming as painful as it was regular. It hadn’t been so bad when she was dried up and cavorting with that bounty hunter, but here in the river, her insides had all the water they needed to pursue their mad, futile attempts at flushing out the forty-caliber irritant in her flesh. She badly needed a doctor.

  “You’re welcome, eh... Champagne, was it?” When Shea looked up, the voice was treading water about three feet away, and staring at the pink stain on the rock with a look of fascinated revulsion.

  “Yes,” she said.

  It did not look up. “Good. I’m Fuseau.” And it raised one finger in an upward spinning motion. Shea wondered if the name-signs of the House of Losange always matched the ballet movements they were named for.

  Regardless, this was promising: if the voice was giving her its name, that suggested she might have reason to use it again.

  Fuseau looked up, and seemed to remember its business. “So how did you get here?”

  Shea clicked her tongue in a shrug. “I know more than one wizard.” She did not have to draw attention to the fading bruises arcing over the left side of her neck: Fuseau’s gaze had already found them.