Robinson knew he was right, but the frustration remained all the same. He couldn’t help thinking he would move faster on his own. And yet, Pastor was correct about the comfort of companions.
The fire crackled as the mutes finished clearing plates. Afterward, the brother mute left to scout the woods, scowling at Robinson as he passed.
“He doesn’t like me,” Robinson said once he was gone.
“Why would he?” Pastor asked. “He’s spent a lifetime honing skills that come effortlessly to you.”
Effortlessly, Robinson mused. His skills were hard won. He had the scars to prove it.
Near the fire, the sister mute unfolded her bedroll and climbed in. It was always the same routine with them. One slept while the other kept watch. Robinson felt a tinge of jealousy every time he saw it, remembering a similar bond.
“I know!” Pastor exclaimed suddenly. “Let’s listen to some music!”
Pastor reached back into the wagon and returned with a strange device. Robinson had asked about it, along with many of his possessions, but never got straight answers.
“What’ll it be tonight?” Pastor asked. “Baroque? Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier would fit this milieu splendidly. Though I know you’re partial to Dixieland jazz.”
“You choose,” Robinson said.
Pastor paused before making his selection. Suddenly, the night air was infused with a graveled voice with minor accompaniment. The language was foreign, but the words conveyed passion and melancholy.
“‘Hymne a L’amor’,” Pastor said. “Never in the annals of man was there a more exacerbating race than the French. But they could speak on the vagaries of love. Shall I tell you about them?”
“No,” Robinson said. “No history tonight, please.”
“A bit of philosophy, then? Or science! I can tell you how man once walked the moon. Or how we came close to colonizing Mars.”
“I’d prefer a story instead.”
“Of course! Allow me to regale you with the mighty tales of Olympus. Or the fall of Atlantis, perhaps? No? The Arabian Nights? The first continent of Ur? Or the City of Glass?”
“What’s that one about?” Robinson asked.
“Imagine a place beyond the reach of roads or men. Where once, long ago, the world chose to send its brightest minds for safekeeping. Now imagine what those people could accomplish as the centuries passed and the outside world crumbled away. The eradication of disease. The end to genetic predispositions for violence and strife. The end to entropy and a new understanding of thermodynamics and the laws of the universe. A world where anything was possible. Would you consider such a place Utopia?”
“I don’t know what that means,” Robinson said as he kicked his feet up and laid his head back. “What else have you got?”
Pastor shook his head. “First, more wine.”
Robinson groaned. “What good is a storyteller if he’s too drunk to tell stories?”
“Sober stories are merely somber ones with an ‘m’ missing!”
Pastor cackled and Robinson snorted. Even the mute sister rolled her eyes.
“In vino veritas!” Pastor toasted. “In wine there is truth!”
“And in you, never the two shall meet.”
Chapter Three
Fire and Blood
They left every morning at sunrise, following the old roads that had started as graveled stone and eventually became dirt and grass.
Pastor had built the carriage himself from the shells of old automobiles. A tarp protected the riders from rain, but it did little to stop the cold from seeping in.
The carriage wheels turned at a slow pace, and the horses nickered. Robinson sat up front with Pastor, one eye searching for danger while the other hunted for food. In this regard they’d been fortunate. There were always white-tailed deer, cottontails, and boars abound. Striped skunks, foxes, and caribou flourished in the mountains while wild turkeys, wood ducks, and grouses peppered the hills and ponds. Red-colored hawks and horned owls dotted the trees, but these were always harder to catch.
At night, the group listened to the crackling fire and the spring peepers, whose calls sounded like bells made of crystal. During the day, warbler songs accompanied the creaking of their wooden wheels.
Pastor spoke continuously of the region’s history, from ancient discoveries to tales of civil battles. Robinson listened without interruption. His education included names of the region’s flora. There were too many trees to remember, but he knew black spruce dominated the higher elevations with balsam and Fraser fir, oak, and hickories filling everything to the south.
A cold front had moved in after the rain stopped, dropping the temperature rapidly until little moved outside but them.
Their progress was slow, but steady. The muddy roads cracked with ice, and every inch of skin beneath torn clothing throbbed like an open wound.
They passed a small lake covered with a layer of ice. Robinson turned when a large acorn fell from a tree and broke upon it. Little else stirred. He looked up to the sky to see that the gray cumulus clouds had disappeared, replaced by ones of uniform white that hung low like a shroud.
Robinson felt bad about the slow pace, and yet he loved the feeling of staying in motion. He rubbed the stubble on his face, still enjoying the sensation as if it were new. He hadn’t looked in a mirror or in a still body of water for some time. He wondered how much he had changed. Would Friday recognize me? He felt a familiar lightness in his chest and pushed her from his mind. Some thoughts linger in the subconscious and some fester there. He couldn’t afford this one to take root any more than it had.
“It’ll snow soon,” Robinson said.
Pastor looked up from his map and nodded. “But do you know where?”
“Snow didn’t fall much in my homeland, only rain. But I’ve seen a lot of acorns on the ground, and the squirrels are more active than usual.”
“Is that all?”
“Last night I heard a lot of … grilos?”
“Crickets,” Pastor translated.
“Yes. And I saw muskrat burrows high on the riverbank.”
“Geese, butterflies, and bees have all disappeared too. Mother Nature has given us her warning. A heavy winter is coming.”
“Mother Nature?”
“An expression of the old world. Once, they were obsolete, but now they’re becoming relevant again. Look there. High on the tree. Do you see it?”
Robinson looked up and saw a dark mass hanging from a branch.
“‘See how high the hornet’s nest, ’twill tell how high the snow will rest.’”
“It can’t possibly reach that level, can it?” Robinson asked.
“Doubtful,” Pastor answered. “But it will be a bad winter. And we haven’t come remotely close to finding proper shelter. Or securing enough food. We’re seeing fewer and fewer animal tracks. Soon, many will be in hibernation.”
Pastor finished with the map, folded it, and placed it in a waterproof sleeve. It was as valuable as a weapon, which is why he always kept it in his shirt, next to his skin.
“You’ll be stopping for the winter, then?” Robinson asked.
“I had hoped to keep moving. Maybe outrun the storms to the south, but now I’m not sure that’s possible. These gals are old. They can only be pushed so hard. Will you continue on?”
Robinson nodded. “I’ve already lost so much time. Every indication I have is that the Bone Flayers return home for winter. My fear is we’ve already missed them.”
“We’ve crossed their path. You know your course is true.”
“Yes, but I’m stuck here on land, while they can veer from it at any time. Plus, I don’t want her to lose hope.”
Pastor tread carefully. “Have you considered that she might not still be alive?”
“Of course. Anything is possible. I have to admit that. But you don’t know the leader of the Bone Flayers like I do. Arga’Zul is a cruel, vain man. He considers Friday a prize to be flaunted. And besides, Friday is to
o stubborn to die.”
“All men lose hope.”
“Not me,” Robinson said.
“And what makes you special?”
“Nothing, really. But it’s hard to lose hope when it’s all you have left.”
“I will be sad to lose you. Good conversations are rare these days. Plus, I’ve grown fond of you, even with your sharp tongue.”
“But imagine how far it’ll stretch your wine.”
Pastor smiled, but it was mostly for show. The truth was, they would both miss each other’s company. But for all the advice and instruction he could offer Robinson, he could not keep him truly sharp. And for the task still before him, this meant everything.
At that moment, a breeze blew in, and Robinson frowned.
“I smell fire,” he said.
Pastor nodded again. “Something is burning to the south. When we exited that last hollow, the wind turned, and I caught the scent. But it’s not a campfire.”
“How can you tell?”
“There’s a chemical tint to it. Likely a structure fire.”
Robinson stared at him.
“You want to see what it is?” Pastor asked.
“If we can do it without being spotted,” Robinson said.
Behind them, the tarp rustled, and the brother mute sat up. He had an uncanny gift for sensing danger. Possibly he’d heard the tone of their conversation turn. Or maybe he, too, had some magic. He tapped Pastor on the shoulder.
“Nothing to worry about, my friend,” Pastor said. “Merely a fire. But we are moving in for a closer look.”
Once again, the mute’s suspicious eyes turned to Robinson. His gaze was accusatory, that this could only be from his influence. Robinson wondered if there would ever come a time when he wouldn’t feel that loathing from him.
It was another quarter turn before the carriage split a cluster of trees and they saw black smoke rising over a small vale. A farmhouse sat nestled in a grove of sugar maples, its roof on fire. Several families were huddled under the eaves of its porch, fighting a losing battle against a swarm of marauders. Each time one of the settlers died, the shrieks of women and children enveloped the valley.
Pastor drew the carriage to a halt. It was clear this battle could not be won. Their aiding would accomplish little, other than putting their own lives at risk. And then Robinson saw the leader of the marauders spin so his cloak fell open, revealing a necklace of white bones underneath.
Robinson’s feet were already speeding across the dirt when Pastor’s shouts reached him. They went unheeded. Axes in hand, Robinson raced toward the enemy force, blood pounding in his ears, his mouth suddenly bone dry.
For the first time in five months, he was in sight of Bone Flayers, and they would not escape him now.
Chapter Four
The Iron Nail
A drop of blood splattered the deck, turning the soap a dirty pink hue.
Friday looked at her hands. Her knuckles had split and scabbed over many times in the last five months, but she saw no open wounds now. And it wasn’t coming from her wrists either, where the iron shackles had nearly rubbed her flesh to the bone. Long ago, she’d learned to tuck tufts of torn fabric beneath them when scrubbing the ship’s deck.
In fact, she had no idea where the blood had come from, until she felt something warm running down her upper lip. Before she could wipe it away, the first mate kicked her from behind and sent her sprawling.
Friday lunged at the man, but he and the other Flayers just laughed. Their taunts had become ritual, something to stave off the boredom. Friday was determined to never let them see her give in.
The laughter ceased when two heavy boots hit the deck.
Arga’Zul stood at the top of the steps and glowered. His crew quickly hustled back to work, checking the rigging, buffeting sails. The war chieftain had been in a foul mood ever since they’d departed the City of the Pyramid seven weeks before, and no amount of pillaging seemed to quell his ire.
It wasn’t hard to read Arga’Zul’s moods, but Friday knew them better than any other. After all, she had spent every day of the last five months as his thrall. And yet it was only during this latest trip that she’d sensed something new in him, a mounting frustration, though she hadn’t determined the cause. Even pillaging had failed to improve his disposition. These days, he spent most days and nights in his chambers, poring over papers on his desk.
Once, while delivering his evening meal, Friday stole a glimpse over his shoulder, but she saw only maps with no bearing. Was he looking for something?
They had attacked a port city the day before. As always, Friday had been locked beneath deck, trapped in the dark with nothing to do. Yet even there, surrounded by water-soaked timbers and tight-knit chambers full of human filth, the smell of smoke and death still found her, as did the accompanying lamentations.
During those terrible times, the only thing for Friday to do was close her eyes and think of Crusoe. Was he still alive or dead? Safe or injured? He had promised to come for her no matter what, but he was not born on this continent. Had she taught him enough to survive its lands, its tribes, its hardships, and surprises? There was no questioning his heart, but would it be enough when things turned desperate and bleak?
When Arga’Zul’s eyes turned to Friday, the edge of his mouth curled into a cruel smile. He strode forward and set his thick hand on her head, not to cause pain, but to show possession.
“How is my Gōngzhǔ?” Arga’Zul asked.
Friday pulled away but did not lash out at him like the others. Instead, she spit on the deck, and Arga’Zul threw his head back and laughed with his crew. Then, he reached down and grabbed her by the hair and yanked her close.
“Look there,” he said, the scruff of his beard scratching her ear. “The child.” He nodded to a girl around nine with hair the color of fire. The last survivor of a fishing village they had sacked a week before. Friday had no idea why he’d spared her. “Shall I give her to my crew? She won’t make much of a meal for my wolves, but the games they could play would be fun to watch.”
Friday gnashed her teeth. She had made a pact with herself when Arga’Zul took her captive the second time. She would care only for herself. There was survival and escape. Nothing more. And yet this child, with her auburn hair, fair skin, and empty eyes reminded Friday of someone, though she didn’t want to admit whom.
For a full moon she had been aboard the ship, emptying water pans and serving food. In all that time, she had talked with no one.
Nameless. That is what you are, thought Friday. May the Goddess bless you to stay that way.
“Stubborn,” Arga’Zul said, pushing Friday away.
He continued down the deck until he reached the forecastle. There, he leaned over the railing to stare out at the passing lands as a gaggle of geese flew south overhead.
“It will be an early winter,” Arga’Zul muttered to himself.
There is much to do.
Deep in the bowels of the aft of the ship was a narrow recess where Friday slept.
The remaining prisoners were kept in a cage not far from her, packed so tightly they could barely breathe. Most were taken captive as slaves or sold to breeders. They were fed little, rested less. More often than not, they died within a few weeks. The lucky ones dropped dead from exertion. The unlucky, to the barbarous whims of the evil men upstairs.
In the five months since her recapture, Arga’Zul’s ship—which Friday had learned was named Spinecrusher—had docked at the Bone Flayer’s home village once. It was on the river far to the south and run by Arga’Zul’s brother, Baras’Oot, their king. It had once been an ancient city of note, but no one knew its name. It might have faded into memory were it not for a building in the shape of a pyramid.
The land around it was flat and dull, but it contained the largest bazaar Friday had ever set eyes on. Trade partners came from all over the region to buy and sell slaves, livestock, and weapons. Often, those buying were the same ones who had been stole
n from.
Of all the terrible things Friday had witnessed, none could compare to the cruelty inflicted upon her own people. The Bone Flayers valued the Aserra above all other prizes. They paraded them through the streets like trophies. They were beaten, broken, and flayed. Many sat in cages at the corners of the bazaar, left to beg for food until they died, sometimes longer. When Friday was first marched through the city, she locked eyes with many of these poor souls. They always looked away in shame.
Arga’Zul planned a similar fate for Friday, but he understood one of the cruelest gifts was patience. Friday would not die before he saw her broken.
He was in for a very long wait.
The nail groaned loudly as it struck metal. Friday paused, waiting to hear if anyone reacted to the sound.
Her eyes had grown keen in the darkness. Even from here, she could make out the bodies of the slaves sleeping in the stockade. She was about to turn away when she saw a pair of eyes watching her from within the bars. It was the nameless girl. Friday saw no danger, so she put a finger to her lips and motioned for the girl to go back to sleep.
For three months, Friday worked every night after the ship had gone silent, using the iron nail to chip at the wood around the mount of her shackles. The wood was old but hardened. It had only begun to loosen in the last few days.
Once, at the beginning of summer, a young male slave was brought aboard whom Friday did not like. He had a habit, this slave, of turning up around her. When he made an overture of kinship that first week, she spurned him. The slave grew insistent, urging her to escape with him, but she denied him until, one day, he disappeared altogether. She heard he had been hanged from the mainsail, but she never saw his body.
Friday knew she would only have one attempt at escape. After that, she would either be beaten or killed. Neither option truly scared her. The only option that did was the idea of being Arga’Zul’s prize forever.
The pull of the river was constant, and the Spinecrusher almost always stayed in motion. It was clear to Friday that Arga’Zul knew the river by heart. Every inlet and sandbar was his domain. And yet, nothing seemed to appeal to him more than unfurling those black sails and letting the wind carry him forward.
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