Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “Who?” Michael asked over the deafening noise.

  “The Grounder girl.”

  “She’s not our concern. You should never have come down here in the first place!”

  Maggie called out to them from the far door, the one leading out of the kitchen. “We have to go!”

  Toag yelled back, “We’re coming!” He shot Conn a quizzical glance—what’s the holdup—as another hand began tugging hard on Conn’s left arm. Looking down, he saw Brig staring up at him.

  “I found her!” Brig said, his eyes wide with excitement or fear. “But the door is locked.”

  A blackjack came out of nowhere, smacking Michael on the side of the head. He staggered and blinked several times in quick succession, then raised his rackstaff to parry the next blow coming his way. One thing Conn knew for certain was that his brother could take care of himself in a fight.

  “Take me to her . . . hurry!” Running fast on Brig’s heels, they wound their way through the continual brawl. Brig dodged several kicks and a flying fist, while Conn took more of a battering—a hard hit to his head followed by another hit to his already ravaged back. He tripped but still managed to keep his footing as he ran, the tattered scraps of his ruined shirt fluttering behind him like wings. Clear of the dining room and once again in the hallway, Brig led the way to a staircase that Conn hadn’t noticed earlier. He immediately clambered up without looking back. The first flight wound around to a second set of stairs that led up to the left. Brig took off, and Conn followed, running down a narrow hallway with doors located left and right. Wide-eyed women parishioners with their heavy black dresses and black bonnets watched them with wide, terrified eyes as they stood in the doorways or pressed their backs flat against the wall in an effort to stay out of their way.

  Brig stopped in front of the last door on the right, “It’s the only door locked. I think I heard her in there . . .”

  Out of breath, Conn tried turning the doorknob.

  “I just told you, it’s locked!”

  “Fine, stand back. Move!” Conn took a step back then leapt forward, driving his right foot into the door just left of the knob. The doorjamb splintered into kindling. As the door swung inward, it smacked hard into the opposite inside wall. Both Conn and Brigg stared into the room’s murky darkness.

  A moment later, Misty—puffy-eyed from crying—stepped hesitantly into view. “Conn?”

  Chapter 33

  Misty ran to Conn, throwing her arms around him with enough force to cause him to stagger backwards. “Oh God,” she said, her cheek pressed hard into his chest. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I’m all right, but we need to go.”

  With her arms still wrapped around him, she looked up into his eyes. “I’ll never forget this—what you’ve done for me, Conn. Never.”

  “Aye, okay. But we really need to get going. Or none of us will be

  leaving here alive.” Extricating himself from her embrace, he kept hold of her hand.

  Misty let him pull her toward the door. She felt, then noticed the sticky, warm blood on his hand. When she saw the crimson slashes across his bare back, she didn’t need to ask him what had happened. She knew. She forced self-condemnation from her thoughts—there’d be time for all that later. The boy, Brig, smiling at her, stood waiting in the open doorway.

  “Thank you, Brig,” she said to the boy.

  “Not to worry, Misty. It’s all good.”

  Still pulling her along, like a locomotive dragging a dependent caboose, they hurried down the hallway. Misty searched for her mother’s face among the onlookers but only found strangers staring back. She slowed, beginning to resist Conn’s quick and steady pace. This moment might be the sole opportunity she’d ever have to see her again, to speak with her. Misty needed to look into her mother’s eyes and see that she really did love her, that she had only been playing a part for the deacon’s benefit.

  “What are you doing?” Conn asked. “Hurry up, we have to keep moving!”

  “Just hold on!” Misty brought their run down to a fast walk, her head pivoting left then right. Where is she?

  Then Brig joined her side. Raising an arm, he pointed a finger and said, “That door. The one that’s closed.”

  Misty stared down at him, wondering how he could possibly know these things. The door suddenly swung open and there before them was her mother. Conn, relenting, stopped pulling. Misty stared. Eyes wide, she suddenly felt unable to find the right words to say.

  “Take this, Misty,” her mother said, pressing something into Misty’s chest. “It will help you find the answers you seek.”

  Looking down, Misty saw it was her own satchel. Her mother must have retrieved it from downstairs when they first were taken.

  “Listen to me,” said Astrid intently. “Listen to me carefully. You are never to come back here again. Not ever. I am not worth your tears, girl. I am not who you think I am.”

  “But of course you are! You’re my mother!”

  “Hush! Go.” Her mother’s voice was firm. “Stay above the cloud. You don’t belong here,” she said, positioning the satchel’s long strap over Misty’s shoulder.

  “Neither do you,” said Misty. “You don’t belong in this horrible house. Come with us!”

  A loud racket ensued; multiple people were ascending the stairs. “We have to go!” Conn said, tugging on her arm again.

  Astrid nodded, her mouth set in a thin line. “Go. Now. Forget me.”

  “Mom, please come with us. I’m scared,” Misty pleaded.

  Her mother, looking frustrated, then did something unexpected. She smiled. “I will be fine. For the first time in a long time, I feel free. And so are you, Misty.” Gazing up to the ceiling, she continued, “Go! I will pray for you, child.” Her smile suddenly vanished just as quick as it had come. “Never return here.” Leaning close, she placed a kiss on Misty’s cheek, then spun around and hurried back inside her room. The door closed firmly, the lock engaged with a definitive click!

  Misty continued to stare at the closed door as Conn began pulling her back along the hallway. Tears filled her eyes and her chest ached to the point she wondered, Is it possible for my heart to actually break apart in my chest?

  “Oh, please don’t cry, Misty.”

  She felt the boy’s fingers clasp her free hand. Brig looked up at her, deep concern in his eyes. In that moment she knew this young boy was the closest thing she’d have to a family moving forward.

  Two young men crested the stairway up ahead. Both wore Cloudwalker kilts, and each brandished a rackstaff sword in their hands.

  “Where’s Maggie?” Conn yelled to them, releasing his firm grip on Misty’s hand.

  “Keeping guard,” Michael said.

  “She’s got a few of those Grounder bowbags backed into a corner,” Toag said. Noticing Misty for the first time, his eyes gave her a head to toe once-over. Tall like Conn, there seemed to be a wildness about him, perhaps due to his long dreadlocks. Or maybe it was the animalistic way he looked at her. She wasn’t sure she liked him much.

  “Maggie’s by herself, against all of them?” Conn asked, sounding alarmed.

  “Nah, most of them left,” Toag said. A group of five now, they descended the stairs together.

  “The deacon? Did he leave, too?” Misty asked to no one in particular.

  Toag shrugged. “I dinnae ken. Which one was he?”

  “The tall, bald guy. Sunken eyes. The one telling everyone else what to do,” Conn said.

  Michael said, “Aye, he left along with the others. Got a feeling they’re just regrouping. A good many of them will need stitches.”

  Misty watched as Conn, the first to reach the bottom of the stairs, sprinted toward the kitchen. “Maggie? You okay?”

  He sure is concerned about her, whoever this Maggie person is, Misty thought.

  Toag, now at her side, said, “They’re all lucky they left with their heads still attached.” He glanced at her to see her response.

>   Several moments later, they entered the kitchen. Like a battlefield, blood appeared to be splashed everywhere—on walls, cabinets, and even the ceiling. Misty was fairly certain errant body parts could be found, scattered about the floor, if she dared look that hard.

  Three of the deacon’s men remained, huddled close together. Each was wounded. A slice to an upper arm on one, what looked like a stab wound on the thigh on another, and a cradled bloodied hand, missing several digits, on the third. They looked frightened as a short, red-haired Skylander girl pointed her rackstaff at them, waving it back and forth in front of their faces. Glancing back over her shoulder, a crease formed between her brows on noticing Misty.

  “What do you want me to do with them, Michael?”

  Pretty, Misty thought, staring at her. In a tomboyish sort of way.

  Conn placed a hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “You did well. Thank you for coming to our rescue.”

  Maggie’s eyes brightened. “Don’t get mushy. I had nothing much else going on.” Flirting with him? Misty wondered if she and Conn were smitten.

  “Leave them,” Michael said. “Brig, can you find us a way out of here? Back to civilization without being spotted?”

  “Aye. You know I can.”

  “She’s coming too?” Maggie asked, studying Misty and looking like she’d just tasted something sour.

  “Of course she is. She’s no longer one of them,” Conn said.

  “Well, she’s not one of us either,” Maggie replied, heading out of the kitchen.

  Chapter 34

  Conn, holding a lantern high in one hand, was surprised when the route they’d chosen upward put them back inside the Drake Building. Was it going to start shaking, then tumble into a pile of rubble down onto 34th Street any moment now? No, probably not. But this old building, so beyond repair, was destined to fall sooner rather than later. Three-quarters of the way up, the damage inside became even more noticeable. Wide black cracks, spider-like, crossed the stairwell’s concrete walls. Thick dust permeated the air, plus there was an obvious twenty-to-thirty degree-tilt to everything, which made climbing the stairs immensely difficult.

  Maggie and Brig, several steps further up ahead, spoke in low tones, their indecipherable murmurings echoing back within the eerie space. Maggie shot a quick glance back over her shoulder, catching Conn’s eye. Her gaze moved farther back to where Michael, Toag, and Misty, now hugging her satchel close to her chest, were bringing up the rear. With a note of open surprise, Maggie asked, “Is that a Macbeth kilt in your bag? Where on earth did you get that?”

  Conn looked at Misty and noticed a section of blue tartan fabric hanging out of satchel’s top; it did indeed look like the Clan Macbeth pattern that had been forbidden so long ago. Misty hurriedly stuffed the kilt back inside and re-closed the flap. She opened her mouth to say something but simply shook her head instead.

  Maggie rolled her eyes, “Whatever . . . any thoughts on where she’s going to stay?” she asked, not looking back this time.

  Nobody spoke for a full minute.

  “She can stay with me in my room. I haven’t checked it since earlier, when the building started to . . . ye ken . . . but I think it’s still okay,” Brig offered.

  “You’re no longer staying in this building, boy,” Michael said from behind them. “We shouldn’t even be in here now. You’ll need to find another home, one suitable for squatters such as yourself.”

  Conn watched as growing consternation appeared on Brig’s face.

  They reached the upper landing, before climbing the final top section of steps. Maggie and Brig turned around and stepped back, allowing enough room for the others to huddle into an impromptu gathering. In the dim light, it was evident that each of them, except for Misty, had received a pummeling at the deacon’s house. Each had incurred a variety of injuries from the men and their blackjacks: bruises, scrapes and lacerations, split lips, and sore limbs. Maggie’s left nostril was caked with dried blood, and even Brig was sporting a nasty bruise on his cheek.

  “Look, we all can’t just come pouring out of that door up there. We need some kind of a plan,” Maggie said.

  Conn assumed Maggie was referring to the ever-present Dorcha Poileas. “Come on, you really think they’ve posted someone up there to guard the upper entrance into a building that’s partially collapsed? Who’d be crazy enough to go near such a building?” he asked to his friends, a group of people crazy enough to go near such a building.

  Maggie, with a snarky expression, asked, “You want to take that chance, Conn? What if it’s your old friend Bryant Peirce standing guard? Sure, maybe we could talk our way out of this, but not with her tagging along. Look at her! She’s dressed like she’s been shoveling danka-roots all day. Smells like it, too.”

  Conn’s stony stare was enough to convey his disapproving thoughts to Maggie.

  “Sorry. I didnae mean that the way it came out,” Maggie said, though she avoided looking at Misty directly.

  “She’s right,” Misty agreed. “Maybe it’s best if I . . . I don’t know, do this on my own. Maybe cross over the east rampart, make a start in another quad.”

  “Deacon’s parishioners are all over the east quad. Seen ‘em first hand,” Brig said. “Besides, remember what your friend’s mom said? The deacon’s power goes a lot further than just your quad.”

  “Forget it. She’s not going back underground,” Conn said.

  Michael rolled his eyes, “Oh really? And what, you’ve made this decision on your own? I guess nobody told me you’re in charge here.”

  Toag, often the mediator between both brothers, said, “She doesnae look much like a Grounder lassie to me. Not with those freckles. Skin’s not flaking off either, and her hair’s not so bad.”

  Misty glanced over to Toag with a somewhat pained expression, “Thank you, I think?”

  “Can we at least agree she’s not going back down there? Where she’ll either be killed or become another one of the deacon’s wives?” Conn asked.

  “Aye, right along with her mother,” Toag said, and then grimaced, regretting his comment.

  “Fine,” Michael said.

  “Fine,” Maggie said.

  “Fine,” Brig said.

  “You’re not part of this discussion, squatter boy,” Michael said to Brig.

  Conn, gesturing with his chin toward Maggie, asked, “You have relatives within the Drummond Clan, aye?”

  Maggie shrugged. “So?”

  “Who are they?”

  She seemed annoyed with the question. “Gunther Drummond, the CloudMaster, is a cousin on my mother’s side, I think. Maybe more like second cousins. We don’t see them much. Not even on holidays.”

  “Anyone about your age? A girl?” Conn asked.

  “Think so. Aye, there’s Adaira. She’s seventeen.” Maggie looked directly at Misty. A corner of her mouth edged up. “She kinda even looks like her.”

  “Adaira Drummond . . . that’s her name? And she keeps away from these parts?” Conn asked.

  Maggie shrugged, then nodded. “Aye. She’s got mental problems. A close-in. Won’t venture outside.”

  Everyone looked at Misty.

  “You want me to pretend to be her? This Adaira Drummond? Why not just make up a new name for me . . . a brand new person?”

  “Nah, that’s a stupid idea. Won’t work,” Michael said.

  Conn shot Michael another stony expression, then realized at some point the Grounder girl would need to fend for herself.

  “Dorcha Poileas are always on the lookout for brazen Grounders, those parading around as one of us—real Skylanders. Plus, try entering into any of the clan’s high-rises and you’ll be noticed,” Michael said, his tone now at least somewhat cordial and more amiable.

  “Back to Adaira Drummond,” Conn said to Maggie. “Would it be conceivable that your cousin would come and stay with you?”

  “You mean to live? Just show up one day and say, ‘hey, I’m your long lost distant cousin, and I’m going to
live with you’?”

  Nods all around.

  Exasperated, Maggie looked away, shaking her head, her eyes vacant for a moment. “I dinnae know. Maybe . . .” She gave Misty a fast once-over glance. “I’m not sure how many people ken about her mental issues. My parents would be a problem. I’d need to come up with a believable story. With that said, I’m independent, it wouldn’t be uncommon for me to bring a friend over to stay. “

  “Aye, you are an independent one,” Toag said with a grin.

  With a furrowed brow, Maggie pointed to Misty. “But still, it isn’t going to work. She talks like a dullard . . . an uneducated Grounder. Sorry, but it’s true.”

  This time Conn didn’t come to the girl’s rescue. He looked to Misty to respond—or not—on her own behalf.

  But when Misty finally spoke it was with the similar highbrow-elocution of Maggie. “Aye, I am but a young Skylander lassie of seventeen. My name is Adaira Drummond. Perhaps you ken my father, Gunther Drummond, CloudMaster of the Drummond Clan. I dinnae get out much, but I’m here to stay with my bonnie cousin Maggie for a time.”

  All eyes were transfixed on Misty, as silence filled the confined space.

  “I think I’m in love,” Toag said, looking like he meant it, too.

  Conn had to admit, he hadn’t expected to hear a Skylander-accented voice escape through Misty’s lips. He considered the strange tangle of emotions—surprise and pride and something else—that rushed through him as she spoke.

  Michael said, “That may have been a little over the top, but I guess we can work with that.”

  “You think?” Maggie asked sarcastically, as Misty still beamed from Toag’s off-handed praise.

  “So then we’re really going to go forward with this?” Conn asked, looking to each of them. No one contradicted his statement.

  “For a while, anyway. I mean, we can’t forget there really is an Adaira Drummond out there. Right?” Maggie said. “But I think we can pull this off short term.” She stepped forward and took hold of the abundant black fabric draped around Misty. Gathering the material up with both hands, she pulled it tighter around Misty’s waist. “Girl’s actually got a body hidden under there somewhere.” As a wide smile appeared on Maggie’s face, her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’ve got an idea!”