Whiteland

by Rosie Cranie-Higgs

  Marya tilts her head. ‘I suppose. I couldn’t see the others clearly enough, but Clara said there was a limping man.’ She eyes the girl shrewdly. ‘And a pale, long-haired woman.’

  Klaus meets her eyes. ‘An Atikur woman?’

  ‘Perhaps. We’d be fools to think they’re not connected. Although’—Marya checks the poultice with her fingers—‘I doubt this one’s a threat.’ She shakes her head. ‘She’s injured, and she’s not wearing shoes. No weapons, no provisions.’ She sighs. It matches her expression, the look she gives Marcus when he sneaks off to seek out snakes. ‘Who knows what she’s doing here. Who knows what any of them are doing here.’

  Disapproval merges with a sweet exasperation. Klaus almost smiles; even with outsiders, she can’t resist mothering. ‘If you call Marcus back to watch her,’ she continues, ‘I’ll find her some food. She can spend the night and go through the Yunavida in the morning.’

  With this, she leaves. Klaus’s almost-smile slides away. Rather than a blessing, that sounds like a curse.

  Kira comes to in the falling dusk. A pinkish-red stains the canopy above her, and as she watches, not truly awake, it melts through magenta to a purpling blue.

  Sunset. The thought is a coalescent dream. Her mind is slow to drift back to itself. Where is she?

  Not relaxed, not alarmed, she angles her eyes to the side. She’s lying on a foot-high bed, her feet close to the walls of a tent. Rough material, smelling of the wild. The ceiling’s gentle apex is propped by wooden stakes. A long slit opens to her left, fluttering in the mild scents of evening, fires, and nearby water and warmth. Kira tilts her head. On the tent’s far side sits a large wooden chest, a tumult of canvas bags, and a pile of toys and implements, leading to a screen and a—

  Somewhere, there’s food.

  She knows it as keenly as if she were Callum. A stronger smell than evening wafts through the air, and with her ever-stiff limbs complaining, she rolls over.

  Next to the bed is a bowl of soup, neatly coupled with a spoon. Kira stares at it, unashamedly hopeful. It must be meant for her; she’s the only one here. There are people outside, talking and laughing, but why would it sit a foot from her face, with such a strong aroma, if it was for them?

  With only a flicker of guilt and warning, she reaches to scoop up the bowl.

  Is it a bad idea? Maybe. Does she care? No. At this point, it’s more important to eat something that doesn’t still have a face. After all of this is over, she thinks, around something herby like basil, a piquant tomato, or lemon, or lime, she’ll definitely be veggie for life. She’s said it before, and it’s gospel truth.

  On her third glorious, faceless mouthful, a woman ducks into the tent. Kira starts, swallows quickly, and drops the spoon back into the bowl, splattering her fingers with soup.

  ‘Feel free to carry on.’ The woman smiles, wry and tickling. At her rich, thick voice, Kira remembers: she was found on the beach by a man. A dark-skinned man, chestnut-haired; the woman is a shorter, curvier version, her braided hair looped behind her head. He must have brought her here once she’d passed out again. He did say she couldn’t stay where she was.

  Self-conscious but starving, Kira delicately licks her fingers and returns to the soup. The woman has set to work on the larger bed, moving the screen aside to beat rough-stitched pillows, rearrange blankets, and create as much space as she can. She’s a matronly, rustic presence of solidity, but surely they should speak? She’s a stranger, saved from the night; if she, or someone she knew, had saved a stranger, she’d want to know all about them. She certainly wouldn’t go about her business, leaving them in bed eating soup.

  Unless she was fattening them up for sacrifice. Kira’s mind leaps with fantastical fear, her chest leaping in actual fear as the tent slit opens. Oh, God. Her fingers tighten around the bowl. They’re coming for her with knives; they’re coming for her with fire. They’re coming for her full stop, having realised who she is. They’ve called the Kyo, they’ve called the mist—

  A young boy enters, mouth downturned. Kira’s face heats with shame. Paranoia is one thing, but how distrustful has she grown? ‘Sorry, Mam,’ the boy mumbles. ‘I only left for a bit.’

  ‘Or a lot, apparently.’ The woman turns, dry but stern. ‘If your dad asks you to do something, you do it. Yes?’ She beckons him over, splashing water on his face from a jug by the chest.

  ‘Yes,’ he says glumly, tipping back his head so she can briskly wash his neck.

  The woman flicks water from her hands. ‘Good.’ She indicates the rearranged nest of blankets. ‘Now bed. You’re with us tonight.’

  The boy nods again, as sorry for himself as a dog in the rain. ‘Sorry, Mam,’ he mumbles again. ‘I am.’

  ‘Sleep, Marcus.’ The woman rolls her eyes, pulling the screen in front of the bed. The dusk-light glints off the shimmering fabric. ‘I have other things to do. How are you, other things?’

  Kira jumps, setting the empty bowl on the floor. ‘Um.’

  ‘How’s your head? No, don’t touch it.’ She crosses the tent in a second, slapping Kira’s hand away. Kira jumps again. Sacrifice. ‘I dressed it not long ago. What did you do to get a lump that big? Actually, never mind.’

  She kneels beside the bed. Kira’s nerves clatter, but all the woman does is tilt her head. Her touch is light, familiar, like the nurse back in October when she sprained her ankle in the art shop. Tripping over an easel; even her boss had laughed.

  The woman sits back on her heels. ‘It’s looking better.’ She nods her approval. ‘Another success for the magic poultice.’

  She smiles, and there’s something of Callum in it. Smugness and teasing, satisfaction and fun. ‘Thank you,’ Kira says quietly. Callum, lurching along with Romy the first time she saw him. Tipping limp into the river, the last. ‘Can I…’ She bites on her cheek, forcing back tears. Is it grief when he might be alive? ‘Can I ask where I am?’

  ‘You can.’ The woman moves to the chest, returning with a pot and a pouch. ‘You’re in Rana. We’re nomadic. My husband found you on the beach. Although’—she tilts Kira’s head again—‘shouldn’t it be me asking about you?’

  Kira’s nerves clatter into shame. She drops her eyes. ‘Sorry. I—’

  ‘But I’ll indulge you,’ the woman finishes, meaningfully, purposefully: listen before you speak. Face heating, Kira’s insides squirm. Oh, to faint again. ‘I’m Marya, my husband is Klaus, and that’—she inclines her head toward the screen—‘is Marcus. We live in the grasslands. Your turn.’

  Surprised, Kira’s eyes flick back up. She hadn’t even known there were grasslands. ‘I’m—ow.’ She winces as Marya dabs at her head. Up close, the woman smells mysterious, open, unfamiliar wilderness and summer smoke. ‘I’m Kira.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Kira.’ Marya eyes her briefly, scooping cream from the pot and continuing to dab. ‘Your head is doing well. It was swollen to the skies when I first saw it, but by the morning you should just have a bruise. An ugly bruise’—more cream, and the pot is set down—‘but a bruise. And call me presumptuous’—she eyes her again, inviting, searching—‘but you appear to be an outsider.’

  Kira hesitates. I would advise you to be more discerning about what you reveal to strangers. ‘Yes,’ she says carefully. Sofia’s advice has proved unhappily sound; she should probably listen to it now. Strike three. ‘I’m here because of my sister.’

  Marya arches a dark eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

  Careful. ‘I followed her,’ Kira explains, as naturally as she can. Her fingers twist in the covers on the bed, an airy, cotton-like mauve. ‘I don’t really know what she’s doing here. I got the feeling it wasn’t good, so I followed.’

  Both eyebrows arch now. Kira struggles for an innocent face, to fight her fingers still. The lie in her voice is painful.

  ‘I see.’ Sitting back on her heels, Marya studies her. Thoughtfully, amicably. ‘Who told you to lie?’

  Kira’s eyes fly wide. ‘I’m not lying.’

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nbsp; ‘You are.’ Marya rises to her feet. Her face falls into shadow, and Kira sickens with despair. Has she grossly offended her? Ruined her chances of any more help? ‘You sound like a child putting on a performance. But that’s okay.’ She smiles, dry and teasing. ‘We live by actions rather than words; say you’re a witch or say you’re clueless, it’s nothing. As long as you’re not a threat, you can be whoever you want.’

  Replacing the pot and the pouch in the chest, she rummages, careful and quiet. Watching her flitting silhouette, Kira sighs. ‘The last time I told the truth, I was chased.’ She shivers. Huldra. ‘They wanted me dead.’

  Marya withdraws a spindly candle, narrowing her eyes as the wick bursts to life. Kira sighs again. ‘After that, I was warned to watch what I said. I’m sorry.’ She shakes her head. Everything slumping, everything drained. All of a sudden, she’s so, so tired. ‘I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. Everyone I meet just wants something different, or has their own opinions about how I should act. It’s getting hard to follow.’

  Marya huffs. ‘I can imagine.’ Placing the candleholder on the floor, she lowers herself to the bed. The darkness sits with her, shadows flitting up the soft-lit walls. After a moment, Kira looks away. The looming shapes that pattern the hide remind her of her frailty. In such a virulent land, it’s a reminder she doesn’t need.

  ‘Are there…’ she begins. The words seem to tumble back down her throat. Does she really want to know?

  Yes. If she’s travelling alone, she needs to. A third, heftier sigh whooshes from her throat, and she forces herself to meet Marya’s eyes. Inviting, searching. She needs to trust someone. ‘Are there things I need to be careful of here? Like the havsrå in the river, or the mist in the forest? Well.’ Her forehead puckers. ‘It was the world and his dog in the forest. Your husband—Klaus’—she amends with a bob of her head—‘said I shouldn’t be out after dark.’

  ‘The forest?’ Marya clears her throat, hitched on surprise. The dryness has dropped, and she’s watchful, serious. ‘Klaus thought you looked—did you come through Atikur?’

  Slowly, warily, Kira lifts her shoulders. ‘I…don’t know. I never heard a name. I’m assuming there’s more than one.’

  Marya smooths the scratchy blanket. ‘Correct.’ She holds the fabric taut with both hands. ‘This is Everla, the Everland.’ She scrapes her hands together, the blanket trapped between them. ‘And this is Atikur.’

  The crude distinction creeps like bugs beneath the skin. She scratches her arm. ‘Then Atikur.’ She scratches the other. Goddamn bugs. ‘You and Klaus were right.’

  Marya regards her. This time, it’s impossible to read. ‘To look at you, you’d never think you’d get out alive.’ She shakes her head, eyebrows rising. ‘Anyway. During the day, you’ll meet nothing here. Animals tend to stay away.’ She glances over her shoulder. ‘There are things that come out at night—on the beach, in the grasslands, and through the Monte Yuno tunnel—but they’re not for a certain someone to hear.’

  A fake snore grumbles from behind the screen.

  Kira’s lips rebel and become a smile. ‘The village is safe, though?’ she asks. Outside, the light is deepening, more raven-coloured than blue. ‘At night?’

  Returning to wryness, Marya nods. ‘We have wards. Weavers put them up in the evenings. Stay here until morning, take the tunnel while the sun’s still up, and you’ll be fine. The ice plains are on the other side.’ She stands. ‘Whether you really are following your sister, if you’ve come this far, I’m sure that’s where you’re going. Unless it’s Skarrig?’

  Kira opens her mouth and shuts it. ‘No?’

  ‘Skarrig is a lake.’

  ‘Then no.’

  ‘Good. Skarrig is’—Marya glances at the screen—‘unsavoury. Anyway, now you and Marcus must sleep.’

  Halfway through the tent slit, she turns. ‘And when you’re done in Whiteland, don’t go back to Atikur. There are entrances everywhere.’

  Kira stares after her. Through the slit, fires pop and spark, leaves whispering on low-hung branches—was it only this morning that they followed the trees? It must be, but it seems impossible. Impossible and cruel.

  With a final, lung-emptying sigh, she falls back to the bed. So, so tired. Adults chatter outside, children laugh at their passing bedtimes, but inside the tent, with Marcus’s snores growing real, it’s not long before she sinks toward sleep.

  Maybe she should be more cautious; maybe she should stay awake and keep watch, just to ensure she’s safe. Maybe she should do many things, yet none of it—the stuffy heat, her worries, wards, weavers, the bishop-fish shouting Callum, Callum Reeve—seems to matter. She’s away with the night and doesn’t wake.

  You’ll need a horse.’

  Klaus appears beside her, unannounced. Kira startles. Marya coughs. Clearly, the foliage is not as private as they thought.

  ‘Well, you will.’ He shrugs. Apparently, her surprise came across as a protest. ‘Marya told me what you’re trying to do. If you’ve any hope of achieving it, you’ll need a horse.’ He pats the animal’s flank as it ambles up to join them, a bay mare with a bright white nose. ‘Maja’s good. She’ll take you to the northern ice. Farther, if necessary, as you’ll have these.’ He indicates the furs tied to Maja’s back. ‘Blankets for her body. And these’—he holds up four pouches—‘for her hooves. I see Marya found some for you.’

  Kira joins him in regarding her feet. It’s an effort to adjust to the moccasins, laced from her ankles to halfway up her calves, but her gratitude is exponential. Everything she had must have stayed in the boat, never to be seen again. Alongside a hollow ache—for Callum and Erik, rather than the things—Kira can’t resist a twinge of amusement. Whoever receives two iPhones and a Breaking Bad hoodie will be confused for the rest of their lives.

  ‘Thank you.’ She looks up at Klaus. Tucking the pouches into a hide-hewn coat, he positions it carefully on top of the furs. ‘Both of you.’ She smiles between him and Marya, hands folded beside them. ‘For everything. Bringing me here. The food, the bed, the water. Whatever you did to heal me. I no longer hurt, which is insane.’

  ‘I told you.’ Marya’s eyes spark. ‘I’m the one with the magic poultice.’

  Kira smiles properly. It almost feels real. ‘Well, I’m grateful to the three of you. Are you sure about the horse?’ She glances at Maja. It’s the bed and the floor in the cabin again. Absently, she bats at a bug. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to get her back to you. I’ve not been too lucky with choosing my own direction.’

  ‘We’re sure.’ Marya inclines her head. The humour is light and alive in her eyes. ‘I hadn’t thought of giving you a horse, but it’ll help you catch up to your sister.’

  She doesn’t need to add the rest. Kira sees it in her face, curious but quiet: if that’s what you’re really doing. If she had more time, maybe, eventually, she’d tell the whole truth. Rana fed her, kept her, and fed her again, intrigued but accepting. They’re open in a way that Erik’s village wasn’t, that Callum’s wasn’t, that her own small town tends not to be. People for people: actions over words.

  ‘And Maja will find her way home,’ Klaus adds. A hint of a smile curls his full mouth. ‘Do you know how to ride?’

  Kira barely has time to think kind of, but before he lifts her up, plants her square on the horse, and steps back. She sways, unready, unsteady. Yes, but I haven’t in—

  Too late. With a smack on Maja’s rump, Klaus sends them on their way.

  ‘Ørenna,’ Marya calls. From around the village come echoes. Too fast to look back, to speak, to wave, they fly from the trees, past startled chickens, through a garden of sorts, and out into the grasslands.

  Pressing her legs tight to Maja’s flanks, Kira clutches the reins in a panic. He didn’t wait for an answer! Did he assume she’d refuse if she couldn’t ride? There wasn’t time to think, and a pre-smack warning would have been nice. Kiddie riding lessons take time to remember.

  Especially mid-gallop. Dar
ing a glance down, Kira quickly slides her right foot into a loop in the blankets, burying her left in their bundled midst. He didn’t even wait for that; what if she’d fallen? What if she still does? What if she rides Maja into a tree?

  For that, there would have to be trees. Come on. Kira breathes, embracing the air flying into her lungs and skimming over her skin. The horse isn’t going that fast, and she’s already adjusting to the rhythm of the run. It’s a steady line, at a steady pace. They’re going to be fine.

  After a while, she starts to believe it. The morning is scorching, hotter than the previous day, and it would even be nice to go faster. Their speed-blown wind is a godsend, keeping her alert as it beats at her face, refreshing as it whips through her hair; it’s coldly delicious all round, and she slowly starts to settle. No predators will bother her, and she knows the way. Ride to Monte Yuno, ride through the tunnel, ride out and look for her family. Done.

  Probably not done. Marya said this, too, sheltered beneath the dappled leaves: nothing is ever that simple, and if it has been, it’s something else’s design. All that has to happen is for Whiteland to tire of her, to decide she’s worth toying with, and she could end up anywhere. The Yunavida mountains move at the whims of many, as does the ice and snow. Even if that doesn’t happen, while the grasslands aren’t dangerous, danger will come.

  She just doesn’t want to think about that. Not yet. As endless time elapses, and the vast mountain range creeps closer, she focuses on one thought: I will find my family. She nudges Maja faster. She’ll find them today, and all of this—whatever it is—will be done.

  Not for Callum.

  Kira steers away from this, nudging Maja faster still. It’s reared its ugly heads a hundred times, but they all boil down to one thing: she can’t help him now. Maybe when she gets to the ice plains—maybe if she talks to what Sofia called the Whispers—but she can’t do that unless she rides.

  She leans determinedly into Maja’s neck. Faster. She has to reach the tunnel while the sun’s still up.