Strange Fire

by Tommy Wallach

  The only way to know for certain was to get inside Sophia, and the day was fast approaching when Clover would do just that. Was it wrong that the thought exhilarated him every bit as much as it terrified him?

  “All right, master tracker,” Clive said. “Where to first?”

  Clover licked his finger and held it up. All things being equal, it was best to move against the wind, so anything they spotted wouldn’t have already smelled them coming. He pointed toward the densest part of the woods, due north, and they began to walk.

  Clover had been more than a little surprised when his brother peeked into his tent half an hour ago and said Burns had ordered them to go hunting together. While it was true that they’d made a good team back in the ministry days, Clive hadn’t seemed particularly interested in reprising the activity since the contingent had left the Anchor. In fact, they’d seldom spoken for more than a few minutes at a time over the course of the whole journey.

  “Wouldn’t you rather go with Garrick?” Clover had said.

  “You kidding? His ugly mug would scare off every deer for miles.”

  So here Clover was, tramping through the snowy woods with his brother, as if they’d suddenly been transported back in time. As the ground leveled off, their route took them straight up to the banks of a fast-running stream about eight feet wide.

  “You remember how all this started?” Clive said.

  “All what?”

  “Everything. The whole reason we’re out here. It was in a stream just like this one.”

  It had been a long time since Clover had thought about Dominic, the man who’d threatened him out by Amestown. “You really think that’s when everything started?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Clover shook his head. “I’m not sure I know how anything starts.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, take this stream. If we followed it uphill long enough, we’d find the mouth, right? And we could say, ‘Here’s where the stream starts.’ But that wouldn’t really be true, because the water still had to come from somewhere else. Somewhere higher up, probably, or maybe from a spring. And you could call that the beginning, but that wouldn’t be true either, because the water had to get into that spring, or up onto that mountain peak.”

  “From the rain,” Clive said. “Only the rain started in the sea.”

  “And how did the sea get there?”

  “Run far enough in any direction, and you end up meeting God,” Clive said, quoting the Filia.

  “Something like that,” Clover said.

  “Or maybe you just run off a cliff.”

  “Maybe you do.”

  Clive smiled, and Clover found himself smiling too. For the first time since they’d left the capital, he felt something like warmth toward his brother. But the moment was cut short when Clive dropped into a crouch and put a finger to his lips. He pointed upstream. A few hundred yards off, the river plashed down a series of short waterfalls. In the middle of the flow, waiting with the patience of a saint, was an enormous grizzly bear. There was something weirdly childish in the way it sat on its haunches in the freezing water, yet Clover knew there was no creature more brutal or voracious. The bear was in the final stages of fattening itself up for the winter, its attention entirely focused on the potential feast waiting in the vortex: salmon, fighting their way upstream, leaping and splashing, their scales flashing prismatically in the sunlight. Clover and his brother stood there, stock-still, as the grizzly reached out and scooped a quicksilver curl of fish directly into its mouth. It tipped its head up and swallowed the creature in one gulp. Then it was back to its original position, watching for its next bite.

  Clive motioned for Clover to follow him back into the woods, away from the water. The wind had died down to nothing, and they wandered east through the woods in silence.

  “So I imagine Irene’s gonna leave soon,” Clive eventually said.

  A seemingly idle observation, but Clover sensed something looming behind it. “She said she’d stay with us until Burns ordered her to go.”

  “Sure. But it must be hard for you. You two have gotten pretty close.”

  Another long silence. Clive seemed a little like that bear in the stream: waiting patiently for his next opening. And even though Clover was expecting it, when the strike finally came, it still knocked him off balance.

  “Did I tell you I finally proposed to Gemma?” Clive said.

  Clover’s belly lurched. “What? When?”

  “The night of the plebiscite. I got in a big ol’ fight with Burns, and then I showed up at her house at some ungodly hour.” He paused. “She said no.”

  “Oh.” Clover tried to hide his relief. “I’m sorry, Clive.”

  “All for the best, really. Wasn’t meant to be. Besides, it turns out there’s a whole wide world of girls out there. Neither of us should settle down with the first one who takes a shine to us.”

  And there it was, the conclusion his brother had been building to—probably the whole reason they were out here “hunting” in the first place. “I love her, Clive.”

  “I know. But you shouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Clive took a deep breath. “She and I kissed. The very first day we met. She ever tell you that?” Clover didn’t have the presence of mind to hide his shock. “She didn’t, did she? I can see it in your face.”

  “Hell with you, Clive.”

  Clover turned on his heel and stalked back toward camp, but his brother stayed right on his tail, refusing to let him alone. “Just think about it, okay? When she first joined up with us, she said she was meeting with folks in Wilmington about her father’s farm. But did you ever see any proof of that?”

  “I wasn’t looking to doubt.”

  “And what about when she ran off to get us an axle and came back right when that posse did? What if she led ’em right to us?”

  “Anyone in Wilmington could’ve seen us leaving town by that mining road.”

  Clive stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “And why did she stay with us all this time, huh? Why didn’t she go home?”

  “Because she loves me!” Clover shouted. “That’s what all this is really about. You hate her because she loves me instead of you!”

  “That’s not true—”

  “It is! You wanted her, even though you already had Gemma!” Clover could hear how he sounded—the petulance and the pettiness, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Why wasn’t that enough for you? Finally somebody likes me and you have to try to ruin it?”

  “You really think that little of me?” There was something soft in Clive’s eyes, a compassion Clover hadn’t seen there for a long time. “I know we’ve had our differences, but I care about you. I . . . I love you. You’re my brother.”

  Clover’s mind was reeling; he didn’t know what to believe. All he knew was that Irene had been there for him. She’d seen him through the loss of his parents. She’d taught him he was worthy of love. And now Clive wanted to make her out to be some sort of monster? How dare he!

  “I don’t know who you are,” Clover said.

  Clive took this in, and after a few seconds, gave a small nod, as if some terrible truth about the universe had just been confirmed. “All right,” he said. “That’s good to know.”

  Clover waited until his brother was out of sight. Then he sank down onto his knees and allowed himself to cry. When he was finished, he wiped his eyes, stood up, and walked back to camp alone.

  That night Irene came to him in his tent. He told her about the fight he’d had with his brother, and she comforted him. They drew close beneath the blankets and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  He dreamed of the phonograph. In his mind’s eye, he divided it up into pieces, each of which floated out in front of him, twinkling like a star. When he woke, it was with a revelation—not just about how the device itself had been constructed, but about the nature of sound itself. He turned over, to share the epiphany with Ir
ene, but she was gone.

  He got dressed and went looking for her, but he couldn’t find her anywhere in camp, and nobody else had seen her either. Only after he’d returned to his tent did he notice the note pinned to the canvas:

  Dearest Clover,

  I’m sorry to steal away like this, but I would’ve had to leave soon anyway, and I don’t like thinking I might be causing trouble between you and Clive. Say good-bye to everyone for me. Come find me in Eaton when you’ve done what you have to do, if you still want me.

  All my love. —I

  8. Paz

  SHE WOKE TO THE SOUND of the Sophia siren—just the scream of an owl out in the woods. Clover was fast asleep, turned away from her, curled in on himself like a dog. How many nights had she spent at his side by now? More than she could count. There had been consolation in the closeness, in feet touching under the covers and the familiar smell of him, in having access to a mind as searching as her own. And now that she knew he wasn’t the one who’d killed her father, she found it impossible to hate him . . . which meant it was time to go.

  Besides, Clive’s suspicions were growing more pronounced by the day; it would only be a matter of time before he caught her up in some lie or another. Paz hated the part of her that enjoyed watching him unravel the mystery, that wanted him to know her well enough to see through her deception. It was the same part of her that had kissed him that day on the mining road, and it would get her killed if she wasn’t careful.

  So she tore a page from Clover’s notebook and wrote a quick note explaining her departure—subtly laying the blame for it on Clive. Then she leaned down and kissed her poor deluded “betrothed” on the cheek. From that position, it was easy to slip her hand under his pillow and retrieve her father’s revolver.

  She checked the cylinder: just one bullet left.

  It came on her all of a sudden, as if planted in her mind by some force outside of herself—an intense impulse to put the barrel to her temple and pull the trigger. She indulged the urge, as if it were only a game. The metal burned cold against her skin, the cocking of the hammer sounded as loud as a gunshot inside her head. All she had to do now was move her little finger, splatter her brains across the inside of the tent, and she could save everyone from . . .

  From what? From her? From what she might do?

  She almost laughed as she lowered the gun again. What had come over her? It was far too late for remorse now. She’d chosen her path; all that remained was to walk it.

  She pinned the note, then peeked her head back inside one last time. Clover was just a shadow, breathing evenly, oblivious. Odds were she’d never see him again—not alive at any rate. The thought saddened her, though she knew it shouldn’t.

  “Good-bye,” she whispered.

  She didn’t travel for long that first night—just far enough so she wouldn’t have to worry about some scout from the contingent happening upon her. She aimed south, but the land forced her to bear west as well. It would cost her a bit of time, but she figured it would still be easy enough to outpace the contingent. With a bit of luck, she could make it to Sophia in a few days.

  The only problem would be food. She hadn’t wanted to risk raiding the contingent’s meager stores, which were kept guarded at night, and she wasn’t about to use her only bullet to try to bring down a squirrel.

  Early the next morning, after a few hours of restless sleep, she found a chestnut tree still heavy with nuts and set to peeling. It was slow going; after half an hour’s steady work, she’d only produced a few meager bites. She was about to give up when she caught a flash of white against white in her peripheral vision: a baby rabbit, peeping its head above a rock at the top of an incline.

  Full-grown does were usually too quick to catch, but the younger ones hadn’t yet mastered the art of the dodge. Paz was on her feet in an instant. By the time she made it to the top of the slope, the rabbit was already a dozen yards off, but there was nowhere for it to hide, so she kept up the chase. She nearly had the creature in hand when she saw a couple of its fellows sitting back on their haunches and sniffing the air just outside a black hole in the snow: their warren. The bunny dove for safety, and Paz dove after it, just barely catching hold of the animal by its ears. She let out a whoop, which immediately became a shriek as the rabbit flipped up and sank its sharp little teeth into the heel of her hand.

  She lost her grip—silk slipping through her fingers—and the terrible creature disappeared into the earth.

  She slumped down, landing on her knees in the soft snow. There was a chaos of tracks around the hole; each set of paw prints represented a delicious meal she wouldn’t be eating. Heavyhearted, she stood up and searched around for her boot prints, so she could follow them back to where she’d been camped. Only something wasn’t right—a second set of shoe prints led both toward and away from the warren. Paz was certain they couldn’t be hers: her boot made two marks, one for the heel and one for the toe, whereas these prints made only a single impression.

  The safest thing would be to ignore the prints, of course, but Paz’s curiosity was piqued. What were the odds someone would be this close to the Protectorate contingent by chance? Besides, the stranger couldn’t be too far off—otherwise the activity of the rabbits at the mouth of the warren would’ve scratched the tracks out.

  Paz followed the prints across the little glade and downhill. Left. Right. Left. Right. A little trough where the right foot had slid on an icy patch. Funny—it was no different from tracking any other animal, except a human was less likely to sense it was being pursued.

  She smelled the meat cooking long before she saw anyone. Her mouth filled with saliva, and for a just a moment, she entertained the fantasy of sitting in front of a roaring fire with a group of friendly strangers, biting into a warm and dripping haunch.

  The dream was dashed soon after, when the first few words reached her ears. Even at a distance, she could sense the difference in the cadence: Wesah. She abandoned the trail of footprints after that, following the voices, and caught her first glimpse of the warriors’ campsite while peeking out from behind the sappy trunk of a pine, its needles gone the color of dried blood. Pintos and Appaloosas grazed in a field of yellow grass tall enough to pierce the snow. Two men—the famous “missives” Paz had heard so much about—rolled skinned rabbits over a bed of charcoal. Nearby was a massive conical tent made of animal skins, blackened with soot up around the top. Tribeswomen came and went through a flap in the front, through which Paz caught sight of about thirty Wesah arrayed before a large fire.

  She wasn’t particularly surprised when Athène emerged from the tent a few minutes later, though she had no idea what the girl’s naasyoon was doing there.They had to be pursuing the contingent, but if that was the case, they should’ve caught up a long time ago; the Wesah knew this land far better than any Protectorate soldier. Athène’s decision to hold back had to be part of some more complicated plan.

  You have to warn them.

  The thought was an unwelcome guest, rudely invading her self-proclaimed indifference. She didn’t care what happened to the contingent, did she? Of course not. The Protectorate was her enemy.

  Then again, if Athène’s naasyoon slaughtered the soldiers before they reached their destination, the war between the Anchor and Sophia might be delayed for years, as the Protectorate turned its bellicose attentions toward the Wesah. And hadn’t Paz risked everything in order to hasten the day when Sophia brought the corrupt Descendancy to its knees? So maybe it would be best to warn the contingent.

  Or maybe you’re trying to protect them.

  Another uninvited guest, easy to ignore. She wasn’t going to picture Clover’s face as the Wesah arrow caught him in the back. She wasn’t going to imagine Clive reaching out to her in pain. She wasn’t going to think about the blood running down Gemma’s pale face.

  What did she care about Gemma? Gemma had taken her father from her.

  No, there was nothing to be done. Even if she’d wanted to
warn them—which she didn’t—she couldn’t go back without facing Clive’s suspicions again. And those suspicions would be even more inflamed after her sudden departure.

  Having reached her decision, Paz knew she should leave right away. Yet she couldn’t tear herself away from the sight of the Wesah going about their daily tasks. Sharpening blades. Sparring. Laughing. And all the while the missives dutifully prepared the food. She imagined what it would be like to be born into the Wesah nation—to be one among a legion of warrior women, each in control of her own destiny and beholden to no one—and felt a bittersweet sort of yearning. In another life, perhaps.

  She stood up.

  And a hand forced her right back down again, firm as iron, until her cheek found the snow and she felt the rough weave of the rope as it was wrapped tightly around her wrists.

  9. Gemma

  A PALL HUNG OVER GEMMA THAT morning, made worse by the quilt of dull gray clouds hovering low in the sky, like a premonition of disaster. She’d been upset to learn that Irene had left in the night without so much as a good-bye. The last thing they’d talked about was that poor man at the pumphouse, and Irene had seemed genuinely disturbed to learn that it was Gemma who wielded the knife. Could that revelation have contributed to the girl’s decision to leave so abruptly? If so, then Gemma was doubly guilty.

  Late yesterday the trail had brought the contingent to the bank of the Ivan, which ran northeast out of Amestown and on across the continent, where it was said to open up onto a lake almost two hundred miles from end to end. Burns figured any city in the area would depend on the river in some way, so they decided to follow its course. They were close to their destination now, and everyone felt it; a new heat had entered the collective bloodstream, almost enough to counter the continued drop in temperature. Gemma had taken to wearing all her clothes at once—a strategy that kept her extremities warm at the cost of turning her torso into a sweaty, sweltering swamp. Nor was she alone in making this sartorial deal with the devil. At the end of each day’s march, it was her job to walk around the camp collecting the soldiers’ underclothes so they could be washed out in the river. This pile seemed to get a little more pungent with each passing day. Gemma had to carry it as far as possible from her face, or else the smell made her want to retch.