1432 Nikaya dies.
“Gotta get ahead of those wolves,” she tells me.
At long last, after weeks of racing against time, D’Arc’s fatigue gripped her tightly and squeezed out any energy she had left. She had barely slept, had eaten only scraps. The freshest water she drank came from melted snow in her mouth. After giving birth, her piss felt different when it exited her body, sometimes making her wince as it forced its way out. The healing wound on her side still itched as it sealed into a pink lump. Blisters rose on the fingers she was never meant to have, threatening to burst open the next time she held her sword. Everything was struggle and regret, leading to more of the same.
While D’Arc leaned on Falkirk, her head rising and falling with each of his deep breaths, Gaunt finally let go of Nikaya and crawled from the makeshift lodge. The bat stretched out his good wing, then the injured one. He noticed her watching and curled his arms closer to his body. D’Arc imagined what it was like to have wings so she could fly to her pup, then far away from here, to where it was warm again.
She sniffed the air and realized that Mort(e) was gone.
“I wanna see that little canister,” she said.
Falkirk pulled away from her.
“What?” she said.
“You know what. That thing’s dangerous.”
“I just want to see it.” She wanted more than that. She wanted to hold it in her hands to see if she had the guts to try it. The future had to be better than this.
Falkirk’s canvas satchel sat on the grass beside Gaunt. D’Arc told the bat to open it and bring the canister to her. “No, don’t do that,” Falkirk said. But it was too late. The bat had already begun rummaging through the bag.
“We might be better off destroying it,” Falkirk said. “So it doesn’t—”
Gaunt let out a tortured screeching sound. He emptied the satchel onto the ground. The canister fell out, along with a tiny knife and a plastic water bottle. He tossed the bag away and continued cursing in Chiropteran.
“What’s wrong?” Falkirk said.
Gaunt handed him the canister. Falkirk spun it around in his hands. “That’s not it,” he said.
“What?” By the time that word tumbled from her mouth, D’Arc noticed that the canister was merely a pipe with a metal cap. The same size and weight, fashioned to take the rahvek’s place long enough for the thief to get away.
Falkirk stood. “The Mournful,” he said. “Those guards who built the lodge. They made the switch.”
D’Arc pulled her sword free from its scabbard. Everything came into focus. Her nose tracked the scent of the wolf pack on the wind. She broke into a run.
“Wait!” Falkirk shouted.
Somewhere behind him, Gaunt screamed in his native language.
Falkirk caught her by the arm. She stopped and raised her sword over her shoulder. Falkirk did not flinch. “You saw what it did to Mort(e),” he said.
“Are telling me that there’s a price to pay if I use that canister?” she asked. “We’re way past that. All of us.”
She knocked his hand away. It fell to his hip. His nostrils dilated as he picked up the scent of the Mournful. He nodded in that direction.
“Fine,” he said. “They went that way.”
As the pair sprinted through the campus, the Mamas shouted to them from their butcher tables. “There’s plenty of food! Take for your journey! Take some, puppies!” Blood stained the front of their coats. Hungry, wounded wolves waited patiently in line for their share. One of them barked at the two runners, and soon the rest of them followed suit. D’Arc figured that it was a warning. These wolves were thick as thieves. The Mamas wanted the Mournful to know that the two interlopers approached.
Beyond the library and the athletic fields, a row of cottages marked the border of the school property. From there, the two dogs hacked their way through the woods, hoping to catch the Mournful on the highway. In their haste, the wolves had grown careless, leaving behind scat and urine, broken twigs, and clods of fur.
The sun dipped over the hills. In the failing light, dozens of eyes turned to them from the road, blinking like fireflies in summertime. The barking began and quickly devolved into growling and grumbling, a warning to stay away. By the time D’Arc and Falkirk emerged onto the road, the wolves had swarmed around them, pawing at the earth with their front claws. Falkirk kept his rifle pointed in the air. D’Arc held her sword close to her body, the blade shimmering by her ear.
Maybe it would all end here, with crazed dogs on both sides, shedding this dream of walking like humans. Until then, she still had words to speak.
“Is your leader too much of a coward to face us?”
The growling lowered, though only slightly.
“What, no one can answer? You need permission?”
Falkirk chuckled. “Good one.”
She pointed the tip of the blade at a random wolf, one with more war paint than actual scars, a pretty boy who probably hadn’t seen a real battle. “How about you. Talk to me! Where’s Grieve?”
The circle constricted as more wolves snuck behind them, cutting off their escape.
“Grieve!” D’Arc shouted. “You owe us! I will tell everyone what the Tekni told me!”
Amid the barking, a bewildered wolf whispered the name Tekni. D’Arc heard the word pass through the crowd, like a little treasure that everyone wanted to touch.
“Make up your minds already!” Falkirk said.
The barking died out. The wolves lowered their snouts to the ground, revealing an enormous form approaching on two feet. Despite running away in shame, Grieve wore a fresh coat of paint on his fur, and his necklace rattled with a brand-new deer skull placed between the human ones. His harem of she-wolves made a show of pawing at him, begging him to stop. They must have rehearsed it as a way to curry favor. As Grieve entered the clearing, he stroked the fur of the nearest marauder, like a human petting his dog. He carried with him the arrogance that created this world, the vanity that could never be destroyed, only handed from one tyrant to another.
“I see why Mort(e) likes you,” Grieve said to D’Arc. “And why he doesn’t like you.”
Falkirk nodded. He took it as a compliment.
“Give it back,” D’Arc said.
“I’ll have you know that Mort(e) came to us for help already. I took the rahvek with his blessing.”
“I don’t care about his blessing.”
Grieve stroked his chin. “So this is your plan,” he said. “To charge right at us and demand your little trinket.”
D’Arc placed her sword in its scabbard and lifted her hands. “Everyone, listen to me, please,” she said. “That canister is the only way we can defeat the Mudfoot. And your leader here wants to keep it for himself.”
“I’m keeping it for us.”
“And who’s going to use it?” Falkirk said. “You saw what happened to Mort(e).”
“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” D’Arc said. “You’ll have one of your subjects take it.”
She let this linger. A few of the wolves looked at one another.
“The humans did the same thing with their prophet,” D’Arc said. “He didn’t even know his own name in the end.”
Grieve loomed over her now. “I told the Tekni that I would spare you. And I have. But I don’t have to do it again. Now leave.”
D’Arc laughed. “You have learned nothing. Those horses were willing to die to free themselves from your rule. What about the people who have suffered far more?”
She hovered her hand over the sword to remind him that she was still dangerous.
“We’re the only ones left doing the right thing,” she said, loud enough for all of them to hear. “You can help us, and maybe get your territory back. Or you can run away.”
“Nice speech,” Grieve said.
“I got anot
her one,” D’Arc whispered. “It’s about how you betrayed your brother. Wanna hear it?”
Grieve’s ears drooped. He instantly became like a pet dog waiting for his master to hit him with a newspaper.
“I wanna hear her plan!” someone shouted. A lone wolf stood over the others, who remained cowering on the ground. He was shorter and fatter than most, with a crooked face and a stubby tail. An omega—or close to it.
“Sit your ass down, Loder,” Grieve said.
“These people risked their lives to come here. And they want to fight!”
A murmur made its way through the crowd. Grieve acted as though he expected this distraction. “You dogs from Hosanna will never understand,” he said. “We are a pack. We would die for one another.”
A few of the wolves nodded in agreement.
Grieve flicked D’Arc on the shoulder. “Everyone else is outside the pack. A potential enemy.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” D’Arc said softly. “Who can get rid of you quickly and benefit the most from it?”
Everyone turned to the harem. The four she-wolves stood side by side, each doing their best to appear innocent and sweet.
“And what happens to your sons when you’re gone?” Falkirk added.
“That’s enough,” Grieve said. “Your plan—get on with it.”
“We have to get ahead of them,” D’Arc said. “If we get to the train and find out what they’re up to, we can stop them. We just need to see further into the future.”
“And what if you see them winning?”
“Then nothing changes. They take Hosanna, and you keep going west.”
Grieve jammed his hand into a pouch that hung from his belt. He pulled out the canister, which looked as thin as a stick in his fingers. “I never decided if I really wanted to see the future,” he said. “Pack leaders rarely die in their sleep.”
“Give it to her!” Loder shouted. A few others stood with him now. In a few minutes, there would be more. D’Arc could feel it.
Grieve stretched out his hand and let D’Arc grip the canister. But he would not let go—not yet. “You say this could kill you, and yet you want to use it.”
“If you’re ready to die, you can keep it,” she replied.
Grieve let go. D’Arc pulled the canister to her chest. It felt oddly warm.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You still refuse to understand,” he said. “If this goes right, then I’ll take the credit. I can’t see the future, but I can take a guess.”
D’Arc placed her hand on his arm, perhaps the only time someone had touched him willingly in a long time. “I’m thanking you anyway.”
Grieve looked at Falkirk as if to ask what was wrong with these females. The husky responded with an icy stare.
“The world is changing,” D’Arc said. “Even you can be a beacon of light for your people.”
Grieve tried to conceal his laughter. “Go ahead, drink the potion,” he said, turning his back on her. “You’re already crazy.”
As he walked away, Grieve called one of his lieutenants over. “Show them the way,” he said. “Then get them out of here.” He then joined his harem. The females comforted him by rubbing their hands on his shoulders and ears.
“Did you say ‘beacon of light’?” Falkirk whispered.
“You heard me,” D’Arc said.
Chapter 19
The Passenger
It was too late. The ice caps had melted and the oceans flooded the rivers and bays. All the land was submerged, and the fresh water was tainted with salt. This was the real world now, nothing but endless sea, flat and blue and shiny, stretching to the impossible curve of the horizon. The world Mort(e) had left behind was the dream. The dry land, where the mammals squabbled over bits of dirt, had blinded him for too long. A tempting illusion. Only here, in the sea, was he truly awake.
But unlike before, he could now travel between the two worlds. He could control it. Not even a god could do this. Not even the Queen. Something had finally broken, some membrane had finally been pierced. He may have been finished with the dream, but the dream was not finished with him. He needed to go back. One last thing to do before he answered the call of the ocean and sank beneath the surface forever.
All it took was a tilt of his head and a deep gulp of water. With that, he emerged again, bursting through the skin of the sea. Above, the purple sky glowed with stars, most of them so small they coalesced into a white cloud. Mort(e) found himself in the rowboat again, his hands gripping the oars, with black pine trees swaying on either side.
He remembered boarding the boat that afternoon. But that simple word, remember, no longer meant anything to him. Not when he could move in and out of time, in and out of the past. He figured that a late-stage EMSAH patient must have experienced this same sense of freedom at the very end, as the virus blossomed and performed its final act. Culdesac and Tiberius had lied to him all those years ago. They said EMSAH was a curse, a plague. Mort(e) had learned to fear it as he did all the unknown things from his days as a pet. If you see something, say something, they always said. Oh, but they couldn’t have known what it felt like. The Queen bestowed this gift to the brain as it fizzled out. She kept this promise to her chosen ones, whether they spoke to her through the translator or drank potion from a vial or became infected with what the animals called a disease. For all their loyalty to her, the Queen’s own daughters proved unworthy. Only the uplifted animals would see the world as she saw it.
The boat scraped against a protruding rock. Mort(e) steered away from the bank and into the center of the river. This awkward little vessel forced him to sit backward, and after miles of rowing, his neck had grown sore from turning toward the bow. He raised the oars and listened to the water dripping from them. In this position, the boat resembled an Alpha with wings. After some time, he turned again and saw the bridge spanning the river, maybe thirty feet high. Against the indigo sky, the bridge formed a perfectly straight line, a black monolith with enormous arches cut into the stone.
Mort(e) pulled in the oars and let the current carry the boat. At the base of one of the arches, the flowing water bubbled and gurgled, echoing off the stone. The humans had repurposed this structure to support a train. A century earlier, their horse slaves dragged carts from one side to another. But the endless wind and rain over the decades had weakened the bridge. The train would have to grind nearly to a stop and creep across, engines cut. Anything faster could rattle another piece of mortar loose or dislodge another bolt or screw. One of these days, the structure would collapse on its own, another human-made marvel surrendering to nature. Until then, the wolves needed it. And here, a sneaky cat could climb aboard under cover of darkness.
As the boat passed under the bridge, Mort(e) grabbed onto the ancient bricks at the base of the arch. He kicked the boat away and watched it continue on its journey downstream. Above him, the wooden beams supporting the tracks formed a grid against the sky. He loosened the straps on his backpack to give his arms a more room to move. After digging his toe into a foothold, he began to climb. The rushing water drowned out the sound of his nails scratching the mortar. At the top, he gripped the edge of one of the beams and pulled himself over.
While lying in between the steel tracks, he rolled onto his side and sniffed the wood. He ran his palm along it until a splinter pricked him. The train had not passed here yet. He would have felt it.
He searched for a loose board. After all these years, some of them must have shaken free of their rusted bolts. Near the middle of the bridge, one of the boards wobbled under his weight. The end of it had rotted, which allowed him to move the wood at an angle, wide enough for him to slip through. Luckily, this gap appeared right above one of the stone arches of the bridge. He shimmied through the opening and found a perch on the edge of the arch, where his feet could dangle over the water. When he sat straight, h
is head poked through the gap in the boards. He placed his ear on the steel beam and listened. No sign of a train yet. It sounded like a seashell, only with a metallic hum.
His time in the war prepared him for long waits in uncomfortable spaces. Only now, instead of passing the time with memories or mind games, he slipped out of the dream world again. The waters rose around him. The bridge sank. The clicking vibration traveled through his brain, along his spine, and into his heart. The blood pumped in rhythm with the sound. He would wait here until the dream called him back. Hopefully for the last time.
With the surface now miles above him, a current carried Mort(e) across the sunken forest, where the trees turned to seaweed and the flocks of birds became schools of fish. Ever since the war, the animals loved to see the grass overtaking the towns that had never belonged there in the first place. Every building that collapsed, every highway that disappeared provided another victory in a conflict that would never end. Mort(e) got to see the land not as it was meant to be, but as it deserved to be once every glacier melted and every dam broke, all the evil drowned and flushed away.
Mort(e) descended into a valley where the kelp hung from the surface in towering strands, like a forest suspended from the heavens. On the ocean floor stood a boxy structure, completely alien amid the weeds. The structure consisted of a house connected to a garage, with fencing that enclosed everything in a neat rectangle. Though he had never seen it from above, Mort(e) knew this to be the ranch where he had lived—where he dreamed another life.
The Sarcops chorus clicked in his ear. See again, they said. See no more. See again, see no more.
They did not have a word for goodbye.
Mort(e) moved through the open gate of the fence, heading for the house. For the first time, he took notice of his true form, with his fur shed, and his scales hardened into knobs. Tentacles sprouted from his back and propelled him through the water with a twirling motion. Despite his fish body, he kept his whiskers. The Sarcops were not without mercy, though sometimes it came across as a sense of humor.
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