Loss

by Jackie Morse Kessler

  That being said, he wouldn’t have minded a sidewalk.

  Time passed as he marched. Well, more like as he moved at a steady plodding sort of pace. His feet had turned to cement some time ago, making it difficult for him not to slip or get his legs tangled in the thorny undergrowth. He’d expected a proper path, even a road, but if there was such a thing, the Conqueror avoided it. Billy pushed on, trying not to grumble. Who knew that rocks and other hard things could be felt so easily under sneakers?

  Or that there were streams in the forest, with ice-cold water that soaked right through those very same sneakers?

  Squelching as he walked, Billy tried to pretend he wasn’t cold. Or wet. Or that he wasn’t getting bitten to death. Killing yet another bug, he fervently hoped that his own itching was due to mosquitoes and not fleas. For a memory, this forest had teeth.

  At one point, after climbing over yet another fallen tree that was far too large to walk around (and disturbing the writhing mass of beetles clustered on the trunk), he thought he saw a man waving at him. But when Billy turned, he was alone in the woods.

  He frowned, and squinted . . . and there, there was the man again, grinning at him and waving him over. Not the Conqueror—the insistent tickle in the back of his head was quite certain of that—and not the dying Robert Hode, come to seek final refuge in the Greenwood. This man was dressed in a dark red that was completely out of place with all the greenery, and he was grinning fit to burst. But as Billy approached, the man blurred until he was nothing more than a smudge of scarlet, and then that, too, was gone.

  Huh.

  Still frowning, Billy headed back to the fallen tree and continued his hunt for the Conqueror.

  The next time he saw someone in the woods, it was at arrowpoint.

  He had just decided that trees were highly overrated. Maybe he was just sick of looking at them, to say nothing of all the green—green leaves on branches, low enough to slap a face or poke an eye; green bushes filled with thorny plants, sharp enough to sting his legs even through his jeans; green above, forming a canopy that barely let sunlight speckle through; green below, the grass just tall enough to disguise roots that grabbed his feet. Everywhere he looked: green.

  Which was why he didn’t see the cloaked man in his forest greens until it was too late. The man sprang up from behind a large shrub, a bow in his hands, the arrow nocked and aimed right at Billy’s chest.

  With a shout, Billy threw his hands up in a universal Don’t Shoot gesture.

  The archer took a step toward Billy, then misted into nothingness.

  Billy stared at the spot where the archer had been. They’re not real, he told himself. Maybe they were at one point, but now they’re just ghosts haunting a memory. Still, he had no intention of getting shot with a ghost arrow. The bug bites sure felt real; he absolutely didn’t want to learn the hard way whether arrow wounds also felt real.

  He kept on going, paying more attention to the nagging itch that was the White Rider’s presence and less to the flashes of people scattered in the forest. Some, though, were impossible to ignore—the giant of a man, for example, who held an enormous staff and blocked passage across a log bridge. Billy nearly fell into the river when that staff swung for his legs: He hopped backwards with a squawk, saved from an unintentional dunk by madly pinwheeling his arms (and more than a little luck). The giant laughed and vanished. Good riddance.

  And there was a girl. Older than Billy, and dressed like someone going to a Renaissance festival, she suddenly appeared by his side, smiling at him coyly, as if she knew him far, far too well. Looking at her made him feel Marianne’s absence so completely that it was like someone had scooped out his heart. He turned his head away and picked up his pace, but the girl stuck by his side. He thought he heard musical laughter before she, too, faded to nothing.

  Listening to the White whisper in his brain, Billy kept searching.

  He didn’t know when he first became aware of the sound; maybe it had been building gradually in the background as he’d stumbled onto a forest trail and he just hadn’t noticed it until now, when the birds and squirrels and other woodland creatures paused in their chatter. But he heard it now: the bubbling, rippling sound of rushing water. Soon the rush grew into a roar, and he came upon a waterfall, cresting over three levels of rock and coming to land in a river that flowed across their path. A fallen tree stretched across the width of the water, acting as a bridge.

  Billy stared, awestruck. This was nothing like the chiseled fountains he’d seen in parks, with gentle flows of water spouting from tapered marble mouths; this tumble of water surged before him, shouting rapturously as it soared and crashed, soared and crashed. Sunlight danced in the spray, dazzling him with rainbow light.

  And then the sunlight dimmed, and the water stopped mid-tumble.

  “White Rider,” said a cold voice.

  He whirled around to see a tall figure standing a few paces behind him. A long robe covered the stranger from neck to toe, and a hood left the face cloaked with shadow. Flanking him were two horses, one pale, one white.

  Billy’s stomach twisted and a chill worked its way through him, turning his legs weak and sealing his mouth tight. He didn’t need to see the man’s face to know he had bottomless blue eyes.

  The Pale Rider had come calling.

  “I come for thee,” said Death.

  Billy’s mouth opened and closed, and his heart skipped wildly. How could a memory of Death see him? Billy worked up some moisture in his throat and opened his mouth, even though he had no idea what he was going to say.

  And from behind him, on the other side of the river, a man’s voice called out, “I shall not ride!”

  Again, Billy spun around, and this time he saw the forester Robert Hode standing on the end of the log bridge. But the forester image was just a memory; Billy could see, could feel the presence of the Conqueror swimming beneath the mortal skin. Here was the White Rider, both present and past.

  A burst of lightning tore the sky, and thunder rolled over the treetops. The air was heavy with humidity, but no rain fell.

  The Conqueror called out: “I will not help you bring about the end of everything!”

  Another lightning flash, and an afterimage burned in Billy’s mind: Death, walking around in Billy’s living room, telling him about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  “Is the world going to end?” Billy whispered.

  “Of course it will,” Death said cheerfully. “But not today. Really, you people get so hung up on the smallest things. Apocalypse is just a word, William. If everything were coming to a crashing halt, you’d know.”

  “You walked away from your responsibility for more than seventy years,” Death said to the White Rider of the past. “You presume the Crown is still yours to wear.”

  And Billy said to the Conqueror hiding within the memory: “It’s not the end of the world.”

  “I know better.” The White Rider stood tall at the end of the bridge, and Billy couldn’t tell if it was the memory addressing Death or the Conqueror replying to Billy directly. “The Crown is mine to keep. As long as the White Rider does not ride, the world cannot end.”

  Behind Billy came a phlegmy snort.

  “Your steed disagrees,” Death commented.

  “You’re wrong,” said Billy, shaking his head. “Hiding here in a memory, or in the memory of a memory, doesn’t save the world.”

  The Conqueror balled his fists. “I won’t listen to you.”

  “But you know I’m right,” said Billy, taking one careful step onto the log bridge. “You thought you were being clever by going into a coma and hiding in a memory. In a coma, you can’t ride, but you’re still alive, so Death can’t take back the Crown. You thought you finally found a way to keep the White Rider from going out into the world.” Billy took another step. “But there’s still disease. Pestilence still exists.” Billy knew that last part all too well.

  “If you won’t listen to me, or to your steed,” said
Death, “then listen to the world. It cries beneath the burden you shoved upon it. It screams. You walked away from your Crown, leaving the Great Pestilence in your wake.”

  “There will always be sickness,” said the man pretending to be Robert Hode.

  “Not like this.” Death’s voice held no pity, no mercy. “I have been riding through the world, bearing witness to millions falling ill and dying. Scores of millions.”

  “The Conqueror still has the Crown,” said Billy. “But Pestilence has a Bow that shoots poisoned arrows. You haven’t stopped anything by hiding here.”

  The White Rider said nothing. Overhead, the sky raged.

  “Don’t you get it?” Billy said, taking another step on the bridge. He was close enough now to see the features of the man’s face—the eyes wide and shocked, the mouth pressed into a tight line, the tension on his brow, which seemed to beg for a Crown to cover it. “By staying here, in a memory, you’re allowing disease to run free in the real world.” He spread his hands helplessly. “Pestilence can’t control disease. Only the Conqueror of sickness and health can do that.”

  Something played in the Conqueror’s eyes—recognition, perhaps, or remembered horror.

  “I have run out of patience.” Thunder punctuated Death’s words. “Thou art the White Rider. Either ride once more, or take thy rest.”

  “Are you the White Rider,” said Billy, “who can save the world when disease runs out of control? Or are you just a little king who’s dooming the kingdom of the earth?”

  Death’s voice, commanding and cold: “Choose.”

  Deep in the memory of stolen time in a shire wood, the White Rider closed his eyes and shuddered. Billy, more than halfway across the bridge, held his breath.

  And finally, the Conqueror opened his red-rimmed eyes. “You have reminded me of my duty,” he rasped. “I’ll not forget this.” He strode forward—and walked right through Billy.

  The first contact was the bite of winter wind, the splash of water hitting the face, the shock of walking into a punch; the Conqueror stepped through him, and Billy was left squeezed out, empty. He thought he heard a voice, heavy with phlegm, and that voice said: I’ll not forget you, Billy Ballard.

  Shivering, Billy turned to watch the Conqueror climb atop the white steed. With a shout that might have been a sneeze, Rider and horse left the forest to face the world.

  Another clap of thunder, one that Billy felt in his teeth. Next to the pale steed, Death paused . . .

  . . . and turned his head to look at Billy.

  He can’t see me, Billy thought wildly. He can’t. He’s just a memory!

  “Even memories die.”

  Whether it was from Death’s words or from the absence of the Conqueror or from something else entirely, the forest began to change. The waterfall shimmered once, brightly, and then it folded in on itself, leaving behind a massive wall of gray. Not like rain clouds or turbulent waters, but gray, winter-sky gray, the gray of in between. As Billy stared, the gray nibbled at the edges of leaves, at the branches, at the very air itself, eating away everything with any color or spark of life. A sound like a groan, and then it felt soft beneath Billy’s sneakers, as if he was standing in mud. He looked down and saw that he’d sunk ankle-deep into what had been a fallen tree. With a yelp, he pulled his feet out, nearly losing his shoes in the process. And he immediately began to sink again, this time up to his shins.

  Not like mud at all. More like quicksand.

  Panicked, he freed himself from the softening bridge. Standing on the grass, Billy thought the ground felt . . . spongy. Overhead, the gray silently ate the world.

  “You should run,” said Death.

  Billy ran.

  ***

  He’s running through the forest, not stopping to worry about thorns or rocks or half-hidden springs. He’s charging through the woods, a scream building in his throat as all around him the green leaches away into gray. Something brushes against him, cold and familiar, like snowflakes on skin, and Billy hears a word—

  Gotcha

  —and then something’s got him by the hair, is pulling him, reeling him in as around him the world falls away to nothing. Billy releases the scream as he’s pulled out of the dying memory—

  ***

  —and, still screaming, he sprawled to the floor. He scrambled to his feet and froze, knees bent, arms out, ready to run, to flee, to bolt for his life. Panting, he darted his gaze around, quick flicks as he breathed in and breathed out, one two, breathing, just breathing and looking until two things penetrated the rush of adrenaline and terror: one, he wasn’t in the forest anymore; and two, Death—grunger Death, street musician Death—was standing in front of him, grinning hugely and giving him a thumbs-up.

  “And that,” said the Pale Rider, “is how a Horseman pulls off a rescue.”

  Billy blinked stupidly. Slowly, he realized he was back in the Greek hospital, clutching the Bow in one hand and sporting a killer headache. Wincing, he raised his free hand and rubbed his forehead. His neck hurt, too, as if he’d slept wrong.

  “The Conqueror?” he asked. His voice sounded strange to his ears, off somehow, as if it were coming from some great distance. And there was something wrong with the temperature in the hospital room, because he’d begun to sweat like crazy.

  “Out of bed, and riding in the world.” Death motioned to the empty hospital bed. “His steed sends its thanks, by the way.”

  Billy’s thoughts felt soupy and slow. He repeated, “Steed?”

  “The white horse. It’s tough on steeds when their Riders don’t ride. And that particular steed gets nervous when its Rider neglects it.” Death smiled, shrugged. “Abandonment issues.”

  Billy thought of the powerful white horse from his nightmares, and then of the rather ordinary horse he’d seen in the Conqueror’s memories of Alexandria and the Greenwood, and he couldn’t imagine them being the same animal. Riders changed over the years; did their steeds?

  “Of course they do,” said Death. “Nothing lives forever, not even Apocalyptic horses. But as with their Riders, the essences of those steeds are passed down from horse to horse. Collective memory, some would say. Very convenient, if you’re not able to take notes or read.”

  Billy’s head pounded fiercely. He wanted to ask Death why he still had the Bow if the Conqueror had finally gotten out of bed, but his mouth refused to work any longer, and his legs must have decided to go on strike, because he slid to the floor. A tremor worked its way along his shoulders and arms, and his neck was horrible, and his head was threatening to split open.

  He whispered, “What’s wrong with me?”

  Silence, broken only by the sounds of Billy’s labored breathing. Finally, Death replied, “At times, the Conqueror can bear a grudge.”

  Billy closed his eyes and wished his head would stop hurting; it felt like Eddie Glass was using it as a soccer ball. He sensed movement over him, and he tried to open his eyes to see what Death was doing, but his body no longer obeyed his brain.

  The Bow, he thought, or tried to think, but it was so hard to focus on anything over the incessant pounding of his head.

  “No worries, William,” said a still, small voice. “I’ll see you soon.”

  And then something cold touched his forehead—

  ***

  —and Billy Ballard woke up.

  He was in a hospital bed, with tubes and machines attached to him. His mother and grandfather were there in the room, and his mother cried with relief when Billy opened his eyes. Things slipped in and out of focus for a bit, but when he woke up for real, he learned that he’d gotten sick with bacterial meningitis. He’d been rushed from school, where he’d collapsed, to the hospital, and he’d been dosed with antibiotics and other medicines. Now his fever had broken, and soon he’d be allowed to go home, and look, said his mom, look, everything’s going to be just fine.

  But she didn’t see what was leaning against the corner of the hospital room. In fact, no one saw the thin black
limb, polished so that it gleamed in the harsh florescent lighting—an intricately carved limb that looked like a walking stick but wasn’t that at all.

  Staring at the Bow, Billy understood that no, everything was not going to be fine, not by a long shot.

  Part Three

  Pestilence and the Conqueror

  Chapter 18

  Billy’s in the Sandbox Again . . .

  . . . but this time he’s solemn as he works on the ultimate castle, where the battle of Good versus Evil is supposed to play out. His heart’s not in it, and this shows in the sloppy work by the towers; if it were a real castle, guards would lose their footing on the uneven ground and easily topple over the edge to their deaths. Billy doesn’t care about that, and he doesn’t care that sand is sifting down the sides of the fortress, making a dune where the moat should be. The problem is he knows that Good and Evil aren’t so clear-cut; sometimes, good people do evil things, and, more confusingly, evil people sometimes do good things. Even kings might let people die, all for the greater good.

  “Balance,” he says aloud. It’s a stupid word, and it shouldn’t be part of the battle between Good and Evil, and yet there it is. There has to be a balance between the two, because one is defined by the absence of the other.