by Kara Timmins
54
The following day came and went with very little conversation. It seemed as if Timyr had used up all of his words the night before. Eloy tried to provoke a dialogue, to try and point out things that he thought might be used to help Malatic, but Timyr met every attempt with grunts and grumbles. Eloy got the message, and he wanted to respect it, so he stopped trying. Instead, he did his best to collect what he saw to ask about later.
“Shouldn’t be long to reach your rock,” Timyr said the next day.
“How much longer do you think it’ll be?”
In all the quiet, strain, and decay, the bloom of purpose and hope had started to dry and crumble. Eloy had been traveling for so long, he lost the sense that each step was bringing him closer to the end. But with a few words, Timyr brought the notion of progress and realization back.
“It’s still hard to say,” Timyr said. “Things are shifty, and things feel a bit cloudy up here.” He tapped at his head. “Maybe a few more days of good walking.”
A few more days. After so many years of not knowing, conceptualizing a few more days felt almost instantaneous. It made going forward easier, and Eloy took the lead, doubling his speed.
Timyr went back to traveling mostly in silence. There was finally a bit of hope again, and Eloy stopped caring so much or missing the sounds of Neasa and Malatic behind him. He was caught up in his own head. So it took Eloy a little while before he acknowledged the murmuring behind him, harsh words that couldn’t be held back but were not meant for anyone to hear.
“Everything okay?” Eloy stopped and turned around to face Timyr.
Timyr had his head dipped down, his shoulders pulled up toward his ears. “Fine.”
“You sure?” Eloy asked. “Sounds like you might have something on your mind.”
Timyr stood tall. “If there was something on my mind that I wanted to tell you I would right well tell you, wouldn’t I?”
Eloy almost let himself step backward, both out of surprise and an instinctual step toward a defensive stance, but he didn’t move. He raised his hands in front of his chest, palms facing Timyr.
“I trust you would. Do you want to stop for the day?”
Timyr grumbled something and kept walking, coming so close to bumping into Eloy that he felt the movement against the hairs on his arm. He didn’t follow right away. He searched his mind for a cause to the sudden change in Timyr’s disposition. Was it the story? Or maybe the change came from letting Neasa and Malatic go back without them. But that didn’t seem to make sense. Eloy turned and continued on, slower this time, staying ten strides behind Timyr.
He would have kept the gap between them until nightfall, hoping that whatever was bothering Timyr would subside, but Timyr made an abrupt halt a little after midday. Eloy hesitated, waiting to see if Timyr looked back to give indication as to why he stopped.
Eloy moved up next to Timyr and looked down at the decline that had caused him to stop. The drop off was steep, but not as dramatic as the canyon. It would slow things down. Eloy felt the weight of disappointment, but the feeling of dejection was far from unfamiliar.
He looked over at Timyr. “Do you want to call it a day? It’ll be best to give ourselves as much daylight as we can to get down this carefully.”
Timyr didn’t turn to answer. In fact, he barely moved at all. He continued to stare down the slope, pinching his lips together so tight that his mouth was a barely visible line of white, bloodless lips hidden under his beard. He had his brows pulled together and down, creating a shadow over his eyes. Most of his movement came from his breathing; everything around his neck and shoulders was tight, causing his body to move up and down with each breath.
“We’re going to have to go around it,” Timyr said.
“Are you sure? It doesn’t look that bad. If we’re careful, we should be able to make it down okay.”
Timyr turned. “You think you know better than me what we should do?” The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, inflamed.
This time Eloy did take a step backward. The drop-off wasn’t steep enough to have to go around, but that didn’t mean he wanted to fall down it. There were enough sharp rocks that hitting one on the way down would likely be fatal.
“Why do you think we should go around?” Eloy asked, standing firm now that he was away from the drop.
“Because that’s the way I think we should go,” Timyr said. His voice was deep, guttural.
Timyr had become someone Eloy didn’t know, as if a stranger had swapped places with the man he’d been traveling with for weeks. This didn’t seem like the type of man who had nurtured and raised a small, wide-eyed Vivene. As Eloy thought it, he looked down at the sling that usually cradled Vivene during her daytime sleep. The pouch was empty.
“Timyr, where is Vivene?”
Timyr looked down at the sling, rounding his shoulders down and around as he did it, like a bull. When he looked back up, he didn’t straighten. “Who knows? Decided I wasn’t worth hanging around, I guess. I guess she has no loyalty. Just like everyone else.”
“Who doesn’t have loyalty? Is this because I let Neasa and Malatic go back alone?”
“What do I care about you and yours? Doesn’t mean anything. Nothing to do about it now, even if I did care. They’re probably dead.”
The words cut, and Eloy felt the sting of it furrow his own brow. “Are they? Can you sense that?” His voice sounded smaller than he would have liked, especially in comparison to Timyr’s growling tone.
“I said probably. You don’t listen. You think everything you say and do is the most important. Why? Because someone told you once that you were special? Someone should have told you this before you got this far, but you’re not.”
“I don’t think that. Are they dead, Timyr?”
“Would it matter to you if I said yes?”
Eloy crossed his arms across his chest. “Of course it would.”
“Yeah? What would you do? You may be able to get everyone else to do what you want, but you can’t tell time what to do.”
Eloy looked back the way they had come. His temples felt hot, and a sheen of sweat made his hairline feel itchy. If Timyr had hinted that something had happened to Neasa and Malatic a few days before, there wouldn’t be anything to think about; Eloy would be running back through the forest trying to get to them. But he wasn’t dealing with the Timyr from a few days ago. Eloy didn’t know the man standing in front of him now.
“Timyr. Tell me. Are they dead?”
“How should I know? I can’t sense anything right anymore. And you know what I’ve been thinking?”
“No.” Eloy stopped trying to understand and fix the situation. The hot rush of irritation and nervousness was rushing out from his chest to the rest of his body, priming it.
“I’ve been thinking, I’ve been in this place for a long, long time, and I haven’t had any problem understanding it until you came around.”
“You said yourself that you sensed whatever’s going on before we got here.”
“But things are clouded now.” Timyr hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I’m thinking now that might have been just what you wanted me to think. You wanted me away from my house and into this place. And I believed you because you had stories about my family.”
“You know what I’ve said to you is true.”
“Do I?”
“What about the sword?” Eloy was careful not to move his arms to it.
“An illusion.”
Eloy dropped his arms and took a step backward. There was something very wrong with Timyr. “What’s going on with you?”
“Upset that I’m starting to see what you are? I’ll give it to you, you’re good at what you do.” Timyr waved his pointer finger at Eloy and paced in a half circle.
“Timyr, I need you to listen to me. I’ve never said anything to deceiv
e you.”
“Oh, I’m listening to you. I’ve been listening to you a lot. And then I’ve been thinking about the things I’ve listened to you say. And then I had to ask myself: what am I doing so far away from my house, anyway? What am I doing out here with you? Because you somehow got me to come along? And then . . . and then!” Timyr’s eyes darted around. “Then you have your friends go back! Now I’m starting to wonder if Malatic was even sick at all. What are you three up to? What do you want from me?”
“You know he’s sick, and you know what I’m looking for is ahead of us”—Eloy pointed toward the decline—“not behind me.”
“Yeah. Sure it is.”
“How could you think that wasn’t real?” Eloy asked, the hurt of it still laced in his words. He took a step forward.
“Don’t you move. You stay right where you are.” Timyr made a shift toward the dagger at his waist, barely more than a twitch.
The heat in Eloy chilled. The movement wasn’t much, but it changed everything.
“So you’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Eloy said. “Tell me what you’ve decided.”
Timyr glared. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve decided I’m your enemy somehow. What happens next? What are you going to do?”
Timyr exhaled in a huff through his nose. His eyes shifted back toward the way they had come. “You’re going to tell me what you really want. What you’re really doing here.”
“I’ve told you exactly what I want. I’ve told you a few times. It’s the answer I’ve always given you.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. But if you think I’m a liar, there isn’t anything I can say to you that would make you think differently. So I need to know what you want to do with the information you have, because I can’t give you anything else.”
Timyr lowered his head and grumbled. Everything had changed so fast. Eloy didn’t know what else to do. Something irrational had taken over his companion. They were on a wave, peaking now, that could only go one way.
“Maybe it’s best if you start back,” Eloy said. “Maybe you’ll believe what I’m saying if you see Neasa and Malatic and take them back to find your house exactly as you left it.”
“Who’s to say you won’t run up behind me and stab me in the back?”
“I don’t want to hurt you. Ever. And I’m not the kind of man who stabs a man in the back. Let alone someone who’s part of a family I owe so much to. Especially someone I’ve gotten to know like we’ve gotten to know each other. You know me, Timyr. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Don’t talk about my family.” Timyr’s voice sounded like crunching gravel. “You don’t know my family.”
“You know I do, Timyr. There’s nothing for me to say. Tell me what you want to do.”
“I want you to fix what you’ve done. Make things right here again.” Timyr kicked one of the fallen, sickly logs.
“I didn’t do this. I can’t fix your forest.” Eloy heard it come out of his mouth. He wished he could take it back, but the words were out, and the effect was immediate.
This time, Timyr removed his dagger.
“Put it away, Timyr,” Eloy said.
The little bit of rationality and logic left in Timyr’s face was gone. Eloy resisted the urge to reach up and take out his sword. His body itched with fighting that ingrained reaction. But fighting with a sword wasn’t the only thing he knew about battle. He widened his stance, ready to let his body do what it needed to survive. His mind latched a hook of consciousness to the moment—don’t hurt Timyr—and it hung on him like an anchor. The sentiment was a weight his opponent didn’t have.
Timyr crouched low, his blade out and ready. So much sweat seeped down his face that he shone. His eyes shifted back and forth between Eloy and the blade in his hand, like a part of him still wasn’t sure what he was doing. And then he settled his sights on Eloy.
Eloy was ready. And he’d received the same fighting lessons that Timyr had.
And he honed in on Timyr’s torso. He saw the twitch long before the movement went through Timyr’s arm, and he was ready for it. His long legs put him well out of range of the slash. The attack was slow.
“Timyr,” Eloy said. “Stop.”
Timyr snarled and moved forward.
Eloy was out of options. He fell in step with Timyr, careful to maintain the distance while keeping the drop-off at his front. He watched for the twitch of an attack. This time, the flicker of movement started in his chest on his right side, the same side as the hand holding the knife. Eloy almost moved forward, but he saw the tension in Timyr’s body move from right to left. He saw the trick.
Eloy moved for Timyr’s left hand and reached it just after Timyr threw the blade from his right hand to his left. Eloy was younger, faster. He grabbed Timyr by the wrist and moved to his back. Eloy pulled up on Timyr’s arm. There was a crack, but not enough that indicated Timyr’s arm was broken or dislocated. Timyr still had the blade firm in his white knuckles.
“Let go,” Eloy snarled in Timyr’s ear.
Timyr growled deep in his throat. He didn’t let go.
Eloy pulled up on his arm again. This time the blade dropped between them and to the forest floor, lost in the foliage. Timyr reached around and grabbed hold of Eloy’s side, pulling and twisting at the flesh and muscle. The holler left Eloy’s mouth before he could stop it. He had to end this fight before one of them got hurt, or worse.
With a firm grip on Timyr’s left arm, Eloy wrapped his right arm around Timyr’s neck. He felt the drumming pulse against the round of both his forearm and upper arm, and he flexed and squeezed. Timyr threw his body back. Eloy held on. His back crashed into a tree. It should have stopped them, crushing Eloy, but the sickly wood crumbled around them like wet sand. They fell together to the ground. Eloy held on. Timyr thrashed, but the effort was weak. And then it stopped.
Eloy released the tension from his arm, his muscles burning. He waited. Timyr didn’t move, and his breathing was closer to a normal tempo, the frantic angry huffing gone. Eloy rolled him over on his back and looked down at his face, now calm. The fight was over. For now.
Eloy stood up, shaky at first, and focused on catching his breath. He had to get away from Timyr, but at the same time leaving him passed out and alone didn’t seem like a good idea. Still, Eloy didn’t have another choice. If they fought again, there was a good chance the outcome would be a lot worse.
Eloy wasn’t physically hurt, but his heart stung.
55
The decline was farther away than Eloy thought it would be; he’d managed to get at least ten strides away from the fall-off. It still wasn’t smart to traverse the unstable terrain so late in the day, but unlike the first time he’d proposed waiting, he didn’t have a choice. Eloy was sure that if he started down the hill, Timyr wouldn’t follow. It was more of a hope than intuition, but Eloy knew he had to put space between them all the same.
The descent was difficult. The ground under the vines, bushes, and leaves was rocky and uneven. Eloy wanted to run and get to a thicket of overgrowth forty or fifty strides ahead. If he could reach that, he would be covered. It felt cowardly, running away after a fight. But he had never been faced with something that could cost him so much.
So he let the pull of falling take him one step at a time. His foot hit a rock. The fine bands and bones in his ankle pulled, but his body was strong, and he found his balance. His descent was anything but graceful.
The thicket was little more than twenty running strides away now.
He thought he heard a crunching noise above and behind him and a voice, a moan maybe. He didn’t want to look over his shoulder. But, no, he decided, the sounds were too close, almost as if they were coming from his own head.
Fifteen strides more.
His toe snagged on something under the brush. His des
cent was already a calculated and controlled fall forward, so the stumble wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but the stagger stripped him of control. He didn’t have anything to grab hold of, and even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to trust it. The crumbling and corrupt forest didn’t have any stability. His left foot shot out wide, his body’s attempt at offsetting the stumble. The move was just enough to keep him on his feet.
Three more strides.
He had a flash of concern about what might be on the other side of the brush. There might have been a clear reason why Timyr had wanted to go around. But it was too late now. The plan was in action, and he probably couldn’t change direction now even if he wanted to.
Then he was inside. Sharp branches clawed and snagged against his cheeks and exposed arms. Of all the things in the forest that had gone soft, the pointed edges of the branches hadn’t dulled. The density of the plant was enough to block out most of the light, but he could still get through it. He only felt the pricks and scratches for the first few swipes of his arms as he made his way through to the other side, then the sting fell to the background of his awareness.
The sickening heat of nervousness faded away. He could slow down a bit, take steps with a little bit more care—but not much. He couldn’t get through the foliage without making a lot of noise. He thought about stopping and waiting until nightfall to go the rest of the way down the hill, but he saw light ahead. The density was breaking up.
He broke through the other side, the breeze rubbing against his new scratches and making them burn and itch. But the path was worth it. He had put a barrier between him and Timyr, and now it would be impossible not to hear Timyr coming.
He was still on a decline, and the end was too far ahead to see. Traversing the uneven ground seemed less daunting now that he could walk instead of run, but the terrain was still dangerous. His ankles burned from walking at such an awkward and unnatural angle, and after a few steps his knees started to pop and ache.
So he started counting steps.
He didn’t want to think about what he was running from or what he would find at the bottom of the hill. He didn’t want to think about what had happened.
