Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “Supposedly she was like me,” said Maggie casually. “She also had a proclivity towards girls.”

  Misty nodded, ensuring her face remained expressionless. Below the cloudbank, females of any age discovered to be lesbians were flogged as often as it took to get any such notions out of their heads. It was considered a serious sin under Purgeforth Scripture. Misty had always thought it strange that males with same-sex proclivities were also discouraged, but endured a much milder form of punishment, the worst being a forced three-day fast.

  Maggie took Misty’s hand and pulled her into the adjoining room. Misty’s line of sight extended through the expansive space to one of the building’s outer walls. Three large windows provided breathtaking views of the moonlit skylands outside. A small lit lantern hung in each open window—the reason all the high-rise buildings looked so beautiful at night, she realized. In the far distance, other tiny glowing lights gave evidence of other Midtown high-rises. Tearing her gaze from the windows, Misty took in the huge room: easily larger than the entire grotto where she’d grown up, and probably larger than Aurora’s as well. A central, communal space held two facing overstuffed couches with a long, low table placed between them. Some sort of game board lay atop it, multicolored pieces strewn about. The room was dimly lit; some of the wall-mounted ChemBurn lamps and lanterns had been extinguished. To her left, Misty could see a kitchen area, and a room adjacent to it which held a long timber table, with no less than a dozen chairs pushed beneath it.

  She watched as Maggie crossed the room on her tiptoes and entered the kitchen. She searched the countertops and opened up a few cabinets, clearly looking for something. When she returned, her arms carefully cradled several food items: a small loaf of golden-colored bread, a tall bottle of some kind of liquid, and several round foodstuffs Misty did not recognize.

  “Best we make do with this,” Maggie said, giving Misty a conspiratorial grin. “This way, come on!”

  Misty followed the copper-headed girl down a long hallway that showed three closed doors on flanking walls. She stopped in front of a lone door at the far end of the hall. Gesturing with her chin, she asked, “Can you get that?”

  Misty reached passed her and turned the knob, which she noticed was made of either cut glass or crystal. As Maggie hurried in, she quickly followed behind her.

  “Close the door.”

  Obviously Maggie’s bedroom, Misty didn’t know what she had expected to see, but this wasn’t it. Decorated nothing like the other parts of the building, this space—with its two windows and a large bed pushed against one wall—had none of that formality. No hanging portraits or tapestries were anywhere to be seen. The walls were bare, painted a pleasant light tan shade. The room held a small white couch and Misty wondered if it was something she’d read about. Was it a love seat? She’d thought it a silly name for a piece of furniture, but seeing one now, she thought it did look quite cozy. A furry blanket lay casually draped over one end.

  “I’m more into a minimalist decor,” said Maggie, watching her reaction.

  “It’s nice! I like it!” In fact, Misty really did like it. Strangely, it reminded her more of home. Nondescript concrete walls and floors were all she had ever known. As Maggie placed the food items down onto a table in the corner, Misty’s mouth began to water just staring at the loaf of bread. She was starving. When was the last time I ate? she wondered.

  Maggie disappeared behind another door. Misty could hear her talking to herself. A moment later she reemerged, holding out some clothes—a pair of leggings and a matching shirt. The soft cloth was nothing like the densely woven fabric of her dress, and the colors—a deep green—were more vibrant than anything she’d ever seen on the ground. “Nightclothes for you,” said Maggie, by way of explanation.

  Misty nodded, as if she understood. What in God’s name are nightclothes? She’d always slept in her undergarments. That’s what everyone did down below.

  Then Maggie disappeared behind another door. A moment later, Misty heard the sound of water running.

  “Get in here!”

  Misty entered the bathroom and took in the floor-to-ceiling gleaming white tiles. A row of small pink candles flickered just above the sink’s basin. Maggie, sitting on the rim of the tub, had her hand immersed in the water that flowed from the tap.

  “I’m making it a little hotter than you’ll probably be comfortable with.” Maggie shot a glance back at her and said, “I have to be honest, Misty, you’re beyond ripe. Stinky, stinky. Come on, get out of those maukit clothes. Say good-bye to them, because they’re going into the incinerator first thing.”

  Misty nervously chewed the inside of her lip. Does she expect me to undress right here in front of her? Her mind flashed back to the image of Great Great Aunt Gilda who, to Misty’s surprise, smiled and winked at her in her mind’s eye. Minutes passed as Maggie hummed a melody she wasn’t familiar with.

  “You needn’t worry your self. You’re not my type,” Maggie volunteered.

  Misty nodded, as if she already knew that. She then wondered who Maggie’s type was.

  “And besides, it’s quite evident there’s another Cloudwalker who’s got you all a-flutter, anyway.” Maggie smiled up at her and waggled her eyebrows up and down.

  Misty swallowed hard. Grounder girls talking in such a lurid way would have evoked swift punishment. Purgeforth Scripture dedicated entire passages to proper conduct by one and all, and everyone, particularly young women, were expected to avoid any talk dealing with sexuality.

  “Toag is single, ye ken,” continued Maggie. “He’s a verra striking male, I guess, if you’re so inclined.” But she must have picked up on something from Misty’s expression, because her expression turned quizzical. “Huh. So it’s not Toag.”

  “I’m not the slightest bit interested in anyone. I already have enough on my mind, thank you very much.”

  Maggie continued to stare up at the Grounder girl, her facial expression becoming more serious. “You do know that Conn is already betrothed to Lili Folais, daughter of a Jersey City CloudMaster.”

  She didn’t know, and she didn’t like the way that information made her feel. “I told you,” she said, trying to keep her face neutral. “I’m not looking for romance. I’m thankful for his help. He’s been wonderful in that regard, but like a brother. Ick! I’m not sure why you would think—”

  “Oh please. Just stop it! I may like girls, ye ken, but I’m not completely daft when it comes to the workings of boy-girl romances. But Misty, if it’s anything more than mere idle fantasies, these . . . thoughts of yours . . . well, they could be verra dangerous. For one thing, you are a Grounder. Not of noble blood. Aye, we can keep that a secret for as long as this whole Adaira Drummond scheme continues to work. But we shouldn’t lose track of the fact you’re a Grounder girl.”

  Misty wasn’t completely sure why, but hearing those words angered her. She heard her mother’s words in her head again: You don’t belong here. Misty took a deep breath, wondering where, if anywhere, she did belong. “And the second thing?” she asked, doing her best to sound disinterested.

  “Two, Conn is the most sought after single man above the cloudbank. His forthcoming nuptials have been a forgone conclusion for, I don’t know, years!” Maggie looked away, turning one knob first then the other, until the water ceased flowing. She stood, “I’ll leave you to it. There’s soap and shampoo on the shelf there. Use liberal amounts of both. And dinnae hurry . . . just soak a good while, aye?”

  Misty felt her cheeks redden, growing hot with embarrassment. Do I really reek?

  “Towels are there on the rack. I’ll wait outside while you throw your, um, dress and undergarments out into the hall.” Maggie let out a long breath, then nodded to her. Before she stepped out the door, Misty reached out a hand, her fingertips touching Maggie’s arm.

  “Thank you,” she said. “And I’m sorry.”

  “Why sorry?”

  “I must seem like some kind of wild beast to you. A dirty
, mangy troll, and so stupid, too.” Misty’s eyes welled with tears.

  Maggie shrugged, but didn’t deny Misty’s words. “Aye, well, one step at a time. Hot water and soap will go a long way helping you conquer the first part. Now, get out of those rags.”

  Chapter 37

  High Priestess Danu Macbeth maintained a relatively steady pace in spite of the fact that every muscle in her body was rebelling. She felt time’s passage—the past twenty years—with each stride she took, and each forward jab of her rackstaff into the unblemished cloudbank. She estimated they had traveled a good two hundred miles thus far, with one hundred and fifty miles still to go.

  There were fourteen travelers in all. Like her, eight were the elders. They were the very same ones who had been forced to travel this endless white bank once before, when, not by choice, they had traversed northward in the opposite direction, fleeing for their lives. The other six travelers were young, those born amongst the treetop roosts of Freish Kinloch. Between the ages of eleven and fifteen, their request to join the elders on this excursion back to Manhattan was unexpected. Novices, the entire lot of them, they were still learning the ways of the High Order. With rackstaffs in limited supply, each carried a long length of polished Ragoon hardwood—a makeshift rackstaff—instead. Their conjuring abilities were rough and inconsistent, although they probably made up for that with their enthusiastic gumption. Danu marveled at their willingness to experience life to its absolute fullest. Not just the thrill-seeking adventure on this southbound trek, though that was a big part of it, but their willingness to engage in the broad spectrum of human emotion. For two hundred miles Danu quietly observed the constantly changing dynamics within this clique of youngsters. The not-so-hidden crush one boy, Jeremy, had on a spirited girl named Julie, who in turn had a crush on a different boy, Greg. And then there was Hansen, fifteen and a loner. He was their leader, which had not come about through conscious selection, at least not from what Danu observed, but something more natural. He would be a force to reckon with someday, Danu was sure of it.

  High Priest Oliver Macbeth, Danu’s first cousin and her closest friend, had taken up the lead for the past ten miles. A powerful and big man—six-and-a-half feet tall—his broad shoulders supported the weight of two fully-laden backpacks. His own, as well as Julie’s, after she had grown too tired to carry it herself. When he glanced back at her, Danu noticed ice crystals had formed on his mustache hairs and around his mouth. His long black beard glistened frostily in the late afternoon sunlight. Three paces ahead of her, his exhalations, billowing white puffs in the chilly air, rose before quickly dissipating into a swirling mist above his abnormally large head.

  Oliver slowed and pointed the tip of his rackstaff toward something up ahead. “More, over there,” was all he said.

  Danu knew he was referring to the same thing he’d pointed out two hours earlier. A swath of deep tracks ran perpendicular to their own trail upon the cloudbank. To say it was merely an anomaly, encountering such tracks, was an immense understatement. Here, upon these high white plains, no life existed other than human Skylanders. Sure, there were pigeons, and other rare species of birds spotted lately, that would land up here—perhaps to catch their breath during long migrations. But for actual animals to live on the cloudbank was impossible. What would they eat? Yet, these were not the tracks of humans, but more likely a four-legged breed. Apparently, there were a good many of them, too; perhaps ten or more, something akin to a pack.

  Oliver waited for Danu and the others upon reaching the disturbed bank area. He knelt down and ran his fingertips over the churned-up surface, the young novices circled around him.

  “I know what these tracks are from,” Julie said, feigning boredom. She really was a pretentious know-it-all. No one asked her to expound more, but she did so anyway. “They’re Smite tracks.”

  “Ha ha,” Jeremy said. “Like the creepy lullaby?”

  Julie nodded. Eyes widening, and her hands raised up, her fingers apart, she sang:

  “So still the Smite, so very still—upon the tree the Smite shall wait.

  So dark the night, so very dark—upon the branch the Smite shall watch.

  So late the hour, so very late—upon the sniff, the Smite shall smell.

  So starved the Smite, so very starved—upon the prey the Smite shall eat.”

  “That lullaby’s totally meaningless, just meant to scare little children. Doesn’t mean anything,” said Dillard Stallworth, an elder high priest with bad teeth. He dismissed Julie’s impromptu performance with a wave of a hand. “More likely,” he continued, “They were caused by heady winds blowing a tumbling Ragoon branch across the bank.”

  Oliver stood, not bothering to acknowledge Stallworth. Turning to Danu, he said, “This was no tumbling branch.”

  Danu pointed the tip of her own rackstaff south, toward a dark cluster she could see along the horizon. “They were not here two decades ago.”

  All heads turned, looking southward. “What is that?” Hansen asked.

  “The tops of branches. A forest of Ragoon trees breaching the cloudbank.”

  Julie sang the verse again. “. . . Upon the tree the Smite shall wait . . .”

  “Shut up, Julie. You’re just trying to creep us out,” said Mandy, one of the other novice girls. She stared off to the distance. Like giving a salute, she held a hand over her eyes to block out the sun’s glare.

  Danu and Oliver exchanged a glance. She said, “We should keep moving. Set up camp for the night when we get well past that area.”

  “I’m too tired,” Julie said, looking pouty. “We’ve already walked lots longer today than usual. I say we put it to a vote: Who wants to camp here for the night?” She raised a hand, the first and only voter.

  “Says the one who’s not even carrying her own pack,” Mandy scorned.

  “This isn’t a democracy. You keep walking until we say it’s time to stop,” Danu said, striding across the strange tracks of unknown origin.

  They continued on for another three hours, hoping to pass beyond the breaching Ragoons. But that was not to be. In fact, even more tree top outcroppings became evident the farther south they went. Danu imagined great Ragoon forests hidden below the bank.

  Noticing the younger travelers falling behind, she said, “Oliver, we’ll set up camp here for the night.”

  He stopped and surveyed their surroundings. Treetops were everywhere. Noting that he was about to protest, Danu said, “We’ll keep torches and lanterns burning all around us. Elders will take turns keeping watch. There’s little other choice. Look at them, the kids are about ready to drop.”

  “Aye. I can take first watch, after we make camp,” Oliver said. He let the packs he was carrying slide down from his shoulders.

  Typically, they slept under heavy blankets beneath the stars. But Danu didn’t feel comfortable doing that this night. She wished they had brought the tents with them, but they’d lain in disuse for so long that most had been completely useless. They’d left Freish Kinloch in too much of a hurry to try and mend them.

  Darkness came fast that night. Oliver made a ChemBurn campfire that was twice the size of any they’d had on previous nights. In a circle, they brought their bedding close to the fire, even when it became uncomfortably warm.

  “Better hot than being Smite bait,” Greg said, turning a long gaze toward the dark silhouette of treetops off in the distance.

  Danu heard Oliver’s slow rhythmic steps, moving around the camp’s perimeter. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see his flickering torchlight. He stopped every so often to raise the torch higher into the air and gaze intently at the cloudbank around them.

  Danu gazed at the young faces, lit brightly by the amber firelight. The youngsters always chose to stay close together.

  “High Priestess?”

  Danu found Mandy’s eyes. “What is it, lass?”

  “What’s it like there?”

  Danu knew she was referring to Manhattan. It was a question
she’d heard a thousand times before. “It’s like living in a storybook. Great castles in the sky, where clan CloudKings and CloudMasters rule the spires, and thousands of people—”

  A sudden scream, more like a screech, interrupted the still night. Everyone sat up and warily looked about in the surrounding darkness. Danu, rising to her feet, spun about and walked slowly toward Oliver’s distant torchlight.

  She called out, “Oliver . . .” then called again, even louder. “Oliver!”

  “I’m scared,” Julie said, back at the camp behind her.

  “Damn it, Oliver, answer me!” Only then did she note Oliver’s torch was not clutched within the man’s hand, but lying upon the cloudbank. Oliver was nowhere to be seen. Off in the distance, she heard a rustling clamor. Then came screeches from multiple creatures. She saw their silhouettes as they charged ever closer. Only then did Danu realize she’d left her rackstaff back at the campsite, safe beside her bedding.

  Chapter 38

  Conn awoke far too early the next morning. Groaning, he placed his pillow over his head and tried to drown out Brig’s incessant snoring, to no avail. Giving up, he rose up onto his elbows and scanned his darkened bedroom. The boy, asleep in the far corner, was curled into a ball. Asleep, he looked so young and innocent, his mask of brashness and bravado temporarily staved off.

  Conn flung the bedcovers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. There was a lot to do today, starting with some much-needed practice for tomorrow’s Skylander Games. Standing, he first twisted left then right. The welts across his back from the deacon’s lashing stung like hell, and the knife injury to his back was still sore, but the stitches no longer felt as if they were going to tear apart with the slightest movement. He’d be fine to compete so long as he was careful. Still, he should take it somewhat easy today. He smiled at the thought. Yeah, like Michael and Toag would allow for that to happen.

  Conn threw his pillow across the room where it flopped down on Brig’s head. The lad didn’t move an inch. “I ken you’re awake under there, boy. You need to rouse and then make yourself scarce. This isn’t an inn and my family won’t take kindly to finding a vagrant lying about the floor.” Brig still didn’t respond. Turning his attention to the world outside the window, Conn saw a flurry of activity atop the cloudbank.