Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “War is coming,” continued Lidia. “It’s coming as sure as the sun will rise in the morn. We cannae lose you to such foolishness. There are far too few who can lead.”

  “Both Michael and Emma are up to the task, CloudMaster. A good thing, because I assure you, I am no leader, ye ken.”

  The woman glanced over her shoulder, toward the rear wall where three ornate tapestries hung. The centermost, the most colorful, was his favorite amongst all the old hangings, and it was the one she gazed at now.

  “It was once a way of life,” she said quietly, studying the thirty-foot-long hanging tapestry. The woven face of a woman, red hair blazing around her, stared back at her, her eyes alight in the blood-pumping heat of some long ago battle. “It was a constant here, before it was outlawed.”

  She was speaking of the Cloudwalkers who made use of what later were deemed devilish occult powers. Conn had no opinion about that; all he knew was the price for demonstrating such powers would quickly result in the harshest of penalties. A Fall from Grace. His thoughts flashed back to last night, and the splattered body lying on the damp street below.

  He asked, “Then it’s true . . . they’re returning to those dangerous ways, Ma’am?”

  “Don’t be so surprised, Conn. Survival is our most primal instinct. Do you hold some doubt that the Midtown clan leaders here wouldn’t do the same if it were happening to our own cloudbank? Draw upon the ancient magic of those who can literally move the cloudbank with their minds?”

  Conn stared again at the tapestry, now faded with age, then at the fierce-looking warrior priestess—Lana Macbeth. Her rackstaff was extended to its deadly lockwood position, poised high and ready to strike down the charging army of her enemy.

  “With all due respect, CloudMaster, I think the day of Celtic high priestesses, Elysium Alchemists, and wizards is long past. The last of them are gone, along with the dishonored and disbanded Macbeth clan.”

  The woman didn’t contradict him. Her only reaction was a bemused expression as she turned her gaze back to the view beyond.

  “CloudMaster Robert will see you now, Ma’am,” a young sept assistant said, bowing his head to her.

  She waved him away with a dismissive gesture. “Come, young Cloudwalker, this concerns you as well. No need to wait the whole afternoon for your father to call on you. Best if you get this whole rackstaff ordeal out of the way first-off.”

  Chapter 12

  Her hand basket was half-filled with black chanterelle mushrooms when she felt a presence behind her. Misty continued on with her harvesting chores, appearing to stop and closely examine an edible fungus sprout held between her thumb and forefinger. In reality, she was intensely listening. The Casper family had two pigs, which sometimes snuck up on her and tried to swipe mushrooms, but the presence she heard now was decidedly human. Not ten feet behind her, she heard the man’s deep inhalations then smelled his rank exhalations. Without turning around, she asked, “Is there something you want . . . or are you simply here to ogle me?” Only then did she turn her head in his direction.

  Misty recognized him, one of the High Deacon’s bootlickers. He was wearing the same type uniform all Lasher’s minions wore: a rumpled black suit, a dingy button-down shirt—it may have been white at one time—and a drooping ribbon bowtie. The garb was supposed to signify religious piety, and probably authority too.

  “Did you not hear me? What are you doing here?” she asked again. “The deacon gave us until week’s end to meet the quittance.”

  His lack of response had her far more worried than any insult or lewd comment he could toss her way. She looked beyond him, toward the distant, out of sight cluster of small rooms she called home.

  Rushing past him, she let the basket fall to the ground. As she crossed a dual set of subway tracks she clutched the folds of her dress, raising the hem to keep it from dragging or getting snagged on something sharp. In the near distance, seven or eight men could be seen standing in a semi-circle—three carrying torches. What are they doing?

  She yelled out, her voice sounding as if it belonged to someone else, “Mother! Father!”

  Heads turned her way, and several sets of black lifeless eyes watched her approach.

  Misty barged through the small congregation, not caring that she’d nearly bowled over two men in the process. As she came to an abrupt stop, her mind tried to make sense of the horrific scene before her. Standing tall, his legs set apart in a wide stance, was the deacon, poised for another strike. In his raised hand was a cat-o’-nine-tails, the knots of cord dripping red. Below him on the ground was her father, his head buried in his hands. His shirt, sliced down the back and spread apart, exposed his torn back, where a hundred bloody slashes looked black and glistening, like wet stripes in the dim torchlight.

  Misty’s father turned his face up to her as blood trickled down his chin. He had bitten through his own lips in agony. “Oh God, no. Misty, turn away. Go on, I’ll be fine. This is my own fault. It is what I deserve.” His face turned back again into the shadows.

  Misty slowly shook her head, unable to find her voice, unable to scream out all the things she so desperately wanted to convey. To let them know this poor whipped man had never, would never, hurt another living soul. What had her parents done to deserve—Misty’s heart stopped as she realized only her father was present.

  “Where is she?” Misty’s furious eyes met Deacon Lasher’s. “Where is my mother? What have you done with her?”

  “Best you watch your tone, girl. My patience with this family has reached its limit.”

  Snap! Snap! Snap!

  She flinched with each of the deacon’s downward strikes upon her father’s already ruined back. From the ground, Halbert’s body shook with choking sobs as each blow struck its mark. Tears dripped from his eyes, mixing with his own blood on the ground beneath him. Sickened, she could no longer watch. Instead, she searched the faces of the other men standing there. “For God’s sake, one of you has to possess a conscience!”

  Snap! Snap!

  She moved from one man to the next, and stared up into their stony, expressionless faces. “Tell me! Where is my mother?” Over and over again, she repeated the same question, moving from one man to another. She didn’t care what the deacon would do to her, or how he would punish her for her insolence. Likely, he was planning on punishing her anyway, regardless of her actions.

  Snap! Snap!

  Misty caught a quick flicker in one of the men’s eyes and hurried over to him. She got in close and glared up at him. “Where is my mother?”

  High Deacon Terrence Lasher—his flogging punishment apparently complete—moved toward her. His blood-soaked instrument of torture hung down, dragging along the concrete.

  “They will not speak to you. Do not waste your breath.”

  “Where is my mother?”

  “Your mother is alive. That is all you need to know.”

  “Alive where? What does that mean?”

  The others in the congregation began to move off in the direction of the obsolete tracks. Misty stared up into the soulless deacon’s eyes before her. “Please, just tell me. I’ll do anything you ask of me . . . just tell me . . .”

  “It really is quite simple. A solution she herself agreed to.”

  Although she couldn’t see him lying there, slumped on the ground behind the deacon, Misty could hear her father’s dreadful sobs.

  “It is only out of the kindness of my heart that I have agreed to assist this indolent family. Ones who clearly cannot meet their quittance obligations.”

  “We were trying!” Misty insisted. “You gave us until week’s end!”

  “I changed my mind,” said Lasher blithely. “Luckily for you, your mother offered a different type of payment.”

  Misty’s blood went cold. “What has my mother agreed to?”

  “You read the Scripture, Casper girl?”

  Misty nodded, holding back tears.

  “Your mother will find grace in the eyes of
our God . . . as my third wife.”

  “As your wife?!” Misty spluttered, disgusted.

  “Your tone. Watch it!”

  “My mother already has a husband. My father.”

  “That marriage will, of course, be annulled.” Misty’s glare did not abate, and the deacon smiled as he continued, “Look on the bright side. Your quittance obligations are now halved. One of your mother’s conditions, as it were. But I warn you, cross me on this, and I can easily restore the amount due back to their previous levels. Then we’ll see how you endure two hundred lashes of God’s punishment.” He started to turn away. Misty held in a sob. She would not cry in front of this man.

  “Can I at least say goodbye to her?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Tell her I love her?”

  Without looking back, Lasher said, “No. She is not your mother anymore. She lives with me now. Forget her. Move on with your life.”

  Chapter 13

  As he descended the Empire State’s narrow inner stairwell, Conn mentally replayed back both conversations, first between CloudMaster O’Cain and his father, then the joint meeting afterword, once the three of them had moved off to a smaller unoccupied anteroom. They had spoken in low tones to avoid the possibility of being overheard. Conn had learned the dead man from the other night was none other than Janis Folais, nephew to CloudMaster Gordon Folais himself, and part of a contingent visiting from Jersey City to discuss the upcoming Skylander Games. Games in which Conn himself would be taking part. But it wasn’t the annual competition between the two rival clans that the CloudMasters spoke so intensely about this morning, but of the dead man—Janis Folais—and the potentially dire consequences his early demise would have on the already-strained relationship between the two Skylander cities.

  CloudMaster Robert Brataich glanced up at the old ornate wall clock, with its hanging weights and never-still swinging pendulum. “I am told they are making their way now across the three-quarters of a mile divide, between the Bank of America building over to our location, as we speak. They were overnight guests of Clan Baird.”

  “Your future wife is amongst them, young Conn,” CloudMaster O’Cain said. “It was meant to be a surprise.”

  “Lili? She’s coming here?”

  Robert stifled a cough then spoke with a raspy voice, “Aye. But the poor bastard, this Janis lad, is—was—her first cousin. They apparently were very close growing up, maybe too close. They wanted to marry, but eventually relented, listening instead to prevailing parental reason.”

  Both CloudMasters had focused their full attention on Conn. His father said, “Son, we think it best if you break the news to your fiancée.”

  “Me?” Conn was flabbergasted. “No way! I barely ken the girl, but I’ve seen her stormy temper firsthand . . . all on account of a poorly constructed sandwich. She’ll skin me alive me for telling her about her cousin’s death!”

  Neither CloudMaster shifted their steady stares away, and finally Conn relented.

  “Fine! I’ll do it, but if all-out-war breaks out, don’t blame me.”

  “Don’t even jest about such a thing, boy.”

  As a series of gentle taps came from the door, Conn hurried over to it. The same sept assistant stood there. “Sorry to disturb you, but the Folais clan representatives—”

  Conn turned away from the young man mid-sentence. “They’re here, Father.”

  The two CloudMasters exchanged wary glances. “Let them in; best not keep them waiting.”

  Eight clan members entered, each wearing a kilt in the same tartan plaid of green and red squares. Lili Folais was the last one to enter. Her head was raised and her nose elevated, as if a pungent smell had entered her nostrils. Typical Folais, thought Conn, and then forced himself to stop. This was his future wife; he needed to be kind. Lili’s eyes lazily surveyed the entire room, moving past Conn. She yawned without covering her mouth and took up a position towards the back of the visiting group.

  Conn, who’d relegated himself to be the official greeter, bowed his head to each one of them. “Welcome to House Brataich. I present to you CloudMaster Robert Brataich and CloudMaster Lidia O’Cain. I am Conn, son of Robert Brataich.”

  Conn addressed his welcoming greeting to the largest of the men, a robust fellow with red hair and a long red beard. He was identical to one of the men standing next to him. But it was the smallest one, a slight, pinch-faced man, who looked little older than Conn himself, who spoke first.

  “I am Spinter Row Folais, third son of CloudKing Gordon Folais,” he said, his voice flat and nasal. “You ken Lili, of course. These are my two brothers Dearth and Garret. Thank you for arranging such an impromptu audience.”

  Conn nodded to the two brothers but got nothing in return. The twins were of enormous proportions, as if born of an entirely different genetic pool than Spinter or Lili—perhaps vikings or gladiators. Their stony expressions conveyed nothing.

  Conn turned his attention to the two CloudMasters’ expressions for any overt sign of irritation, hearing the term CloudKing used in their presence. But neither man so much as blinked. It was not so subtle an insult, though, since all clans had voluntarily forgone the use of the outdated term and the actual title position nearly a century past. Jersey City, clearly, had reverted back—becoming a full-fledged aristocracy—into a monarchy with a lone, king-like ruler making decrees and axioms that could not be contested among the other clan leaders. That simple act by Gordon Folais, appointing himself the new CloudKing, unabashedly placed him above all CloudMasters—those local to Jersey City, as well as those in Manhattan.

  Spinter Folais continued, “My father has granted me complete autonomy to make the final arrangements for the upcoming Skylander Games. But there is one . . . provision, first . . . that we request at this time.”

  Robert cleared his throat, prior to speaking, but was instantly cut off.

  “As you may, or may not have heard, Clan MacLeod has come upon dire circumstances. Their building has become isolated unto itself. Such a burden must be shared; residence must be made available—”

  Robert’s eyes flared, his sudden fury clearly evident. “Stop right there, Spinter. That is not going to happen. CloudMaster Folais will have to make do with whatever cloudbank real-estate is available on the other side of the Hudson.”

  Conn couldn’t believe his ears; this was a blatant attempt by the Folais clan leader to get a strong footing into a prized-Manhattan skyscape building.

  “But please, convey our sympathy and prayers to Clan MacLeod,” Robert added.

  Appearing indignant, the small man said nothing for several moments.

  “Perhaps we should continue on with the subject at hand. Provisioning for the Skylander Games,” Lidia O’Cain said.

  Robert lifted a hand, “One moment, Lidia. There is terrible news that must be discussed first.” He turned his gaze over toward Conn.

  All eyes shifted at once to Conn. For the first time he saw Lili staring back at him. She was certainly striking, in her own way. Her long black hair was perfectly straight and incredibly shiny. Her thin lips almost looked as if they were painted onto her face, like a doll, or a mask. It was to her that he spoke now. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. Janis Folais has been found dead. We discovered his body two nights ago beneath the cloudbank . . . down on the street below.”

  It took several beats for his words to register. Then Lili’s hands rose up, covering her mouth. “No . . . that can’t possibly be true.” She looked to Conn, her eyes pleading with him.

  Obviously shocked, the others glanced to one another, first with confusion then in pain.

  “How could you have let that happen?” Spinter asked, his eyes locked onto Robert, his fingers balled into fists.

  “We were as shocked to hear of the incident as you are now. I was unaware the man was even here among us,” Robert said. He hastily moved toward a sideboard table and retrieved a collapsed rackstaff. “This was found not far from here, lying upon the
cloudbank. Beside the quickfall where the poor man had fallen through.”

  “Fallen?” Lili repeated, her loud voice echoing off the concrete walls. She barreled her way forward, to the front of the group. “Janis was the most skilled Cloudwalker alive. He couldn’t have just fallen—stumbled—onto a quickfall patch. No! He had to have been pushed, which means he was outright assassinated!” Her eyes switched back and forth between the two CloudMasters then over to Conn. “You did this, you jealous claw baw!”

  Conn almost laughed out loud. A claw baw was a compulsive ball fondler, a wanker—something he definitely was not. Even more unbelievable was the fact she thought he was so smitten with her that he’d even consider doing such a terrible deed. Previous to today, he’d held no real feelings about her, one way or another, and he struggled now to keep his emotions from turning sour. You still have to marry her, he told himself. To her, he said, “I had nothing to do with his death, Lili, I promise you that. I was the one who went below to retrieve the body. Grounders were already nearby, taking notice. I’m truly sorry for your loss.” Lili continued to glare back at him, hatred burning through the tears in her eyes.

  So, does this mean the wedding is off? Conn wanted to add, but he held his tongue.

  Robert held out the dead man’s rackstaff to her. “You should have this. It is a fine staff. Magnificent workmanship.”

  “You will deliver his remains to us, and we shall embark immediately for Jersey City,” Spinter said. “Our attendance at the Skylander Games is a decision for the CloudKing to make. Our business here is terminated.”