Edgeland

by Jake Halpern

  “My daughter and grandson are joining me,” said Isidro. He straightened up and squared his shoulders, then dropped his eyes to the stone floor.

  “I’m sorry,” replied Alec.

  “The cold killed them,” he said. “People think furriers scoff at the snow and ice. But it kills us, too.”

  Alec said nothing. During awkward silences, it was tempting to speak—to fill the void with babble or by quoting prayers. But sometimes people needed silence.

  Isidro rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if he’d come to a long-awaited decision. “There is something I’d ask you for,” he said. “I need two more amulets, like this one. Lola—my daughter—made me promise that I’d get them … right before she died.”

  Isidro reached behind his head and unfastened a woven metal rope from his neck. A delicate onyx amulet dangled from the end. It was about five inches long, made in the shape of a curling ocean wave. Isidro opened it, revealing a tiny serpent within. Alec studied the amulet carefully. The workmanship was mesmerizing. As it caught the light, it looked like the wave was crashing.

  “This is how I want the other two,” said Isidro, handing it to Alec. “Exact copies.”

  Alec turned the amulet and traced its contours. “I’ve never seen an amulet like this,” he said. “Still, if anybody has copies, House Aron does. We have the largest reserves of amulets among the Sun bone houses.”

  “You’ll be paid handsomely,” said Isidro. “Four sunstones, just for you.” At first he smiled, but the smile faded into a grimace, transforming his sun-scorched face into a mass of wrinkles.

  He looked hard at Alec. “That’s what you care about most—money—isn’t it?”

  Alec shook his head in protest, but Isidro’s words stung. Only minutes ago, he had been staring at a dead man’s bracelet and congratulating himself for landing the furriers. He had been so swept up in the glory of it all that he had forgotten that Isidro was here to mourn his daughter and grandson.

  That was the problem with Edgeland. You got so used to death, so used to all the dead bodies—everywhere—that sometimes you stopped seeing them. Stopped feeling for them. Sami Aron was like that. Sometimes Alec was, too.

  “It’s all right,” said Isidro finally, with a shake of his head. “I was the same way when I was younger. I dragged my daughter and grandson to the Far North in search of these stones. And look what it got me.” He glanced back to their frozen bodies. “It makes you wonder whether you can really take anything with you …”

  “We will take care of you and your dead,” said Alec. “House Aron is truly the best at preparing the dead for all the pleasures to come in the afterlife.”

  “I want to be prepared,” said Isidro. “But we have what matters most: my family and precious jewels. When I get out of purgatory, I want them with me.”

  “Yes,” said Alec. “And soon all of you will be in the Sunlit Glade …”

  Isidro waited for him to continue speaking. Alec knew what to say. “And when you walk together, on the mossy carpet of the Sunlit Glade, you’ll be at peace.”

  “At peace,” repeated Isidro. He looked at Alec thoughtfully. “You can get the amulets?” His eyes flicked back to the frozen corpses.

  “Yes,” replied Alec. “I believe so.”

  “And the poison,” said Isidro.

  “Are you sure—” began Alec.

  “Yes!” snapped Isidro, eyes suddenly furious.

  Alec fidgeted uncomfortably under Isidro’s gaze and eventually nodded.

  “Remember the poison,” said Isidro, clapping Alec on the shoulders. “Strong enough to kill a tough old sea captain like me.”

  Sometime later, Alec left House Aron and hurried back toward the pier. It was dusk now, and the sky was turning purple. If everything went right, there would be just enough time to launch the funeral scows before dark, about three hours away.

  The streets were filled with Suns doing last-minute errands in preparation for night. During the long hours of dusk—and dawn—the Rule of Light allowed the Suns and Shadows to be in the same areas, although they still avoided each other.

  Shadow vendors were already entering the streets to set up their exotic wares: jars of fireflies, mummified bats, owl feathers, scented mushrooms, and brightly painted papier-mâché skulls.

  “A dirty lil’ grayling butchered ol’ Freddy in plain view,” a potbellied mushroom seller was telling a woman, his hands slashing at the air in front of him for effect. “But you can bet that a Sun put th’ grayling up to it. Them Suns’ll pay for this, they will. If that grayling ain’t found by dawn—blood will run in the streets. Sun blood. Mark my words, if …”

  The mushroom seller paused to look around. Alec sped toward House Aron’s pier. Again he read the note that Ellie had passed to him only minutes ago: Meet me at your pier. Urgent. It wasn’t signed, but it was Wren’s handwriting.

  House Aron dockworkers were out in full force across the length of the pier, preparing scows for Isidro’s funeral. Alec spotted Wren standing behind a nearby fisherman’s shack at the edge of the pier. She was wearing her wig and her reversible robe. To his great relief, Wren didn’t look hurt.

  “Well done with the furriers,” she said as he approached. “Your house must be swimming in sunstones.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger to indicate the vast sum of money.

  Alec grinned. “You should have seen me out in the water—it was …” He was about to continue talking, but he noticed that Wren was shifting from foot to foot as he spoke. And her forehead was creased with lines.

  “Enough about the furriers,” he said. “What happened? What’s so urgent?”

  She looked awkwardly down at her feet. “I hit my goal. I’m leaving soon. On a ship. Really soon.”

  “Oh,” said Alec. He swayed backward, though his feet were rooted to the spot. “That’s good. I mean, good for you.”

  “Yes,” said Wren. She glanced off at the distant dockworkers. Anything, apparently, was better than looking at him. “It’s good. I leave just before sunrise.”

  Alec sucked in air through his teeth. He’d always known that she wanted to leave, and he agreed that she should leave. But her actually going was a different story. Wren was the closest thing he had to family on Edgeland, maybe even anywhere.

  “Edgeland will be strange without you,” Alec said, scuffing his sandal back and forth over the splintery wood of the pier. “I’ll never forget the way you were when we first came here. You helped me so much.”

  “If you say so,” said Wren. Her mouth cracked into a little smile.

  Alec smiled too. “You were really nice to me. Well, most of the time, anyway. You were the only person who bothered to come into my room when I had those nightmares. Where did you even learn to sing like that?”

  “My dad taught me those songs,” Wren said. For a moment, Wren’s eyes glazed over. “Maybe I’ll learn a few more like that—if I can ever, you know, find him.”

  Alec swallowed hard and nodded.

  “I hope so,” he said. “Do you have a plan yet for how you’re going to find him? I mean, a plan is important. Maybe you want to stay for a few more days to …”

  Wren shook her head. “Alec, it’s no good for me here,” said Wren. “I never felt right at House Aron … And now … I’m sort of in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Alec asked.

  “People are looking for me,” said Wren. She shifted her eyes from left to right, scanning her surroundings, as if her pursuers might be standing nearby.

  “What people?” he asked.

  “Listen—I didn’t actually do anything,” said Wren. “I was just walking when—”

  A high-pitched scream interrupted their conversation, followed by a plume of smoke rising into the air. Then another scream. Wren and Alec ran toward the sound. Smoke poured out of a descender jutting from the shoreline near House Aron’s pier, and a small grayling—perhaps a five-year-old—lay on the ground beside it. His hands and arms were bleeding, and
his face was an unnaturally bright red. Blackened clothes stuck to his body.

  Wren fell to her knees and gingerly put a hand on his chest. The boy shrieked. Wren snatched her hand back and looked at Alec as the boy began to whimper.

  Alec knelt next to Wren. Glistening red blisters were forming across the boy’s face and arms. He was still but for his eyes, which moved wildly in their sockets.

  “What happened?” Wren said. “Can you speak?”

  “They set a fire,” he whispered. His throat bulged with the effort to speak. “Our rat hole got burned up …”

  Smoke continued to billow from the descenders. Alec lifted the boy, who gasped, then went limp. With Wren’s help, Alec moved him away from the pipe as quickly as he could, and then set him down on the ground. He was about to run for help, but the boy began writhing. A second or two later, his body went still.

  He was gone.

  Wren gasped and fell to her knees.

  Alec kneeled next to the boy. Immediately, he murmured the Sun Prayer to the Newly Dead and closed the boy’s eyelids. He looked at Wren, nodded somberly, and lifted the boy. Then he started walking away.

  “Where are you taking him?” Wren called out.

  “House Aron,” Alec replied, his voice dull and wooden.

  Wren watched as Alec walked into the street. Several Shadow peddlers stared, but no one stood in his way. It occurred to him later that he hadn’t even said good-bye to Wren.

  Wren watched Alec until he disappeared. She glanced back at the descender that killed the boy and realized suddenly what this meant for her. An instant later, she was running toward the Shakes. The descenders she passed were all billowing plumes of black smoke. They’re burning—the descenders are burning. There was plenty of rubbish down there—rubbish that could fuel a fire. It was probably the Shadows—trying to smoke out the graylings. Trying to smoke her out.

  Wren could only think of one thing. My stash. The dinar. It was still in her hole. In her hiding place. She had debated whether it was safer there, or in her pocket, and decided to leave it behind when she visited Alec. Idiot! What was I thinking?

  Wren took the Corkscrew—a twisty road that ran the length of the island. A great many Suns lived here, and this close to sundown, it would be largely empty. She slowed down, out of breath, and considered the body-washer clothes she was wearing under her usual cloak. These suited her in normal circumstances, but if they were looking to hang a grayling for Fat Freddy’s death, her usual disguise might not disguise her well enough.

  Descenders all along the Corkscrew belched black smoke, and dozens of long, oily-looking snakes slithered out of them, coiling around one another in a frenzy to reach the surface. Apparently, the graylings weren’t the only ones trying to escape their underground homes.

  Wren raced onward and continued down the Corkscrew until she reached the turnoff that led to the Shakes. A few vendors stood idly by their stalls, staring at the foul-smelling marsh. Wren followed their gaze toward a column of black smoke rising from the other side of the Shakes. Her heart sunk. Irv’s place. She sprinted toward the fire. A small throng of people were gathered around a burning hut.

  Wren elbowed people aside, hiding her face to protect it from the heat. Sparks spiraled in the air around her. She made her way to the side of the hut, where she found Irv, covered in soot and sitting in the damp mud of the marsh.

  Wren fell to her knees next to him. “Irv!” she shouted. “Irv! What happened? Can I get into my descender?”

  Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes. “It-it was … the … lamp oil,” he said. “Heat from the other descenders. The bottles … exploded, then the fire came up the tunnel and torched my place.” He looked at his gnarled, reddened hands and began to weep.

  Wren looked at the shack. It was beyond saving.

  Irv rose slowly to his feet. Wren tried to help him, but he shrugged her off. “You gotta go,” said Irv. His voice sounded hoarse and dry. “I’m fine … but you gotta leave. They’re really serious this time. Back in the Shakes, I seen a bunch of Shadows grabbin’ graylings as they came out of the descenders. They’re on the hunt. And it’s gonna get worse when the night comes. Th’ Shadows are out for blood.” Irv gasped for a breath of air. “Wren, you gotta hide. I don’t know where, but …” He wiped the tears from his face. “I’m sorry about the descender. Maybe it’ll be okay to come back in a few weeks.”

  Wren nodded, forcing herself to remain calm. She pulled up her hood and began walking away, along the edge of the marsh. The sun was a thin slice jutting out from the horizon. She had nowhere to go. And nothing to her name. Her stash was gone. Burnt up. Nothing could’ve survived the heat of that blaze.

  The foul smell of the marsh was getting stronger. Wren walked faster, trying to find fresh air. She replayed the events leading up to Freddy’s death. Several people had gotten a good look at her face, including Dorman. Sooner or later, someone would identify her. This is really bad. Suddenly, she bent over and vomited. Afterward, she spit repeatedly, but the bitter taste lingered in her mouth.

  Who will help me?

  Moments later, Wren was running again—back toward the place that had banished her.

  Back to House Aron.

  An enormous portrait of Ember Aron dominated the chapel on House Aron’s top floor. Ember had long white hair, piercing blue eyes, and an utterly serene expression. Her face flickered with a rainbow of light created by stained-glass windows that surrounded the portrait. Combined with the glow of the sunset, the effect was enough to turn the most fervent nonbeliever devout.

  The colors played across Alec’s face, too, as he knelt in front of the wooden coffin that held the boy’s body. The boy. That’s how Alec had referred to him when he ordered the servants to prepare his funeral. “Who will pay for this grayling?” one servant had asked. “House Aron,” said Alec, with as much authority as he could muster.

  Alec gazed up at the image of Ember Aron. You’re happy that I’m doing this—aren’t you? Ember was renowned for her kindness and wisdom. Some even called her a prophet because she had visions of what the Sunlit Glade looked like, what it smelled like, what it felt like.

  Alec looked down at the coffin and shivered. This could have been Wren. Alec had been in the descenders only once and was horrified by the filth and darkness, and the strange creaks and groans that came from the pipes. Having seen his reaction, Wren never asked him back. And to think that Wren had once been an apprentice like him. The other apprentices wouldn’t be caught dead with a grayling. “Why do you still spend time with Wren?” Ellie once asked, crinkling her nose as if the mere mention of Wren’s name might conjure the stink of the descenders. The last few years had been really bad for Wren, and Alec felt responsible because, well … he was partially to blame.

  Alec looked down again at the boy in the coffin and closed the rough-hewn pine lid with the palms of his hands. “May your time in purgatory be short,” whispered Alec.

  Just then, he heard Ellie calling for him.

  Alec left the chapel and met Ellie in the hallway. She ran toward him, her pale cheeks flushed red.

  “Alec!” she panted. “Thank goodness I found you.”

  “What is it?” he asked impatiently.

  “It’s Isidro,” sputtered Ellie. “He’s at the pier … He’s gone mad—touched with the death fever. It started when the descenders began smoking. He’s screaming that it’s the end of the world.”

  Alec closed his eyes in dismay. “Has he been given his last drink?”

  “Last drink?” asked Ellie.

  “His poison,” said Alec, his voice rising. “Because if he has, it’s too early.”

  Ellie wrung her hands. “I don’t know, Alec—I’m sorry!”

  “Come on,” he said, adjusting his cloak. “Let’s go see.”

  They ran down the stairs and out the back door of House Aron. Alec glanced about nervously, looking for signs of trouble. Fortunately, the narrow alleyway leading to their pier was nearl
y deserted. In the distance, however, they heard someone yell, “I saw two graylings over there!” Seconds later, someone else shouted, “Get them!”

  “What if they think I’m a grayling?” said Ellie. She looked at him with pleading eyes.

  “They won’t,” said Alec. “Look at your clothes … at the way you talk, and the way you carry yourself.”

  And it was true. Unlike Wren, Ellie looked like she came from a respectable bone house—and she always had—from the day she arrived at House Aron.

  Together, Alec and Ellie raced down the alleyway.

  At the pier they encountered Butros holding up his flintlock horse pistol as a warning to any would-be troublemakers. Next to him stood two of his men, each holding a musket. Recognizing Alec and Ellie, the guards stepped aside.

  A whistle pierced the air.

  Alec turned around and saw a young Shadow girl standing nearby, next to a pile of rocks along the shore. It was Wren, dressed in her reversible cloak, with the hood pulled over her head.

  “Hold on,” he said.

  “But we’ve got to—” began Ellie.

  “Give me a minute,” said Alec. He walked over to Wren, who had traces of soot on her arms and face. She was teetering, as if unsteady.

  “I can’t talk long,” said Alec. “I have to—”

  “My descender burned up,” interrupted Wren. The words came fast and low. “My stash is probably destroyed.”

  “Your whole stash?” said Alec. His mouth gaped open. “You kept it all in one spot?”

  “Yes, I guess I was very stupid,” said Wren, kicking at the ground. “What does it matter? It’s gone.”

  “You can’t stand around like this—in the open,” said Alec. “They’re looking for the grayling who killed Fat Freddy …”

  Wren’s eyes were red and watery. “They’re looking for me,” she said. “They think I killed Fat Freddy.”

  Alec was dumbstruck. “You?” he said. “But you didn’t—”