Remnants of Atonement (True paths Book 1)

by G. P McKenna

  There it was, the source of sadness in his eyes. Guilt was a heavy burden to carry, but the weight of death was crushing, “I’m sorry,” I said, “a friend’s death is never-”

  “He didn’t die,” The Shield interrupted, “at least, I don’t think so. We were fighting, and one second he was there, and the next he was gone. I don’t know where he went.”

  He’d lost somebody in the desert. No, he’d lost his partner in the desert. That had left a gaping hole and a tear-stained face. Maybe what I needed most was what he did too. I put my hand on his shoulder and he leaned into my touch, jolting my heart, “I’m sure he’s okay,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster, “if he’s been able to accompany you for so long, I doubt the desert will be able to finish him that easily.”

  “You’re right,” he said, “Ilya’s tough as guts, for sure. He’s lots smarter than me too.”

  The wind started howling outside and a single leaf floated in through the gap, scuttling on its way to catch in my hair. It crackled, dry and brittle as I plucked it out and stared down, trying to read its secrets. It had no arms, no legs, no spark, no wings, but dead it could fly. Dropping it, I brought my nails to my gnaw. Life was so acutely fragile, and I’d gone and done it again. Put myself alone, in danger.

  “You’re nervous,” the Shield said.

  No. Never. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re the Shield of Ascot.”

  He leaned over and plucked the leaf, staring down at it like I had. As if his life depended upon unlocking its reason for flight, “I hate people calling me that,” he finally said, “they only see me for what I am, not who I am,” I didn’t know what to say to that, for that’s how I saw him. Never had I even bothered to learn his name. This wasn’t how our first meeting was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to open up to me about his discontent in life. He wasn’t supposed to be in control. Realizing he was waiting for an answer, I did the only thing that came to mind. I hummed. It was a neutral response, neither agreeing or disagreeing. The Shield sighed, “I mean, things might look grim, and the people need somebody to look up to, but why me? Outta everyone in the world, why was I picked to do this?”

  “That isn’t for us to know,” I looked at my hands, “only the Deities have that answer.”

  “Yeah, Deities,” he scoffed and spat on the grass. I pulled my legs up at the sign of disrespect and he glanced back at me, shaking his head, “I don’t hold them in the highest regard right now. Pretty funny, seeing I’m their chosen saviour, huh?”

  Not funny, precise. “What’s your name?”

  “Pogue,” his head lolled back, “your accent ain’t normal. Where are you from?”

  “Bethel.”

  “Bethel…Bethel. Where’s that near?”

  “It’s on the other side of the Chicora Woods.”

  He straightened up and smiled. Deities, his smile was so kind. I’d gouge out the eyes of anyone else who saw it, “tell me about it.”

  Six

  Gelotophobia

  Fear of laughter

  Pogue didn’t like me.

  He didn’t show it, but I could tell. He treated me the same as he treated everybody else: like an old friend. He somehow remembered everyone’s names, the names of their children, the names of their bloody grandmas, while I struggled to remember my own at times. Everywhere he went people would stare with reverence, eyes widening and mouths gaping. How he endured such treatment was beyond me, but he said not a word of complaint after that first night, which worked in my favour for he undoubtedly disliked both me and my nameless acquaintances hanging off him like a bad smell.

  Unfortunately for them, the camp had checkpoints. No clearance, no pass. Fortunately for me, I had access to all areas. Sharing genes with the good doc had some benefits. He tolerated me in those moments alone, though we had little to talk about. The Shield was, for lack of better term, unrefined. He wasn’t without mental resources by any means, but simple language was a must. Once you hit four syllables, you might as well start speaking in the old tongue. Logic might say that the easiest way around that hurdle was to ask him of his adventures. Logic would be wrong because the way the Shield told those stories made it sound like he hadn’t been involved at all. It was Ilya this, Ilya that. It was annoying. I’d never hated somebody I’d never met so quickly in my life and so after a while had stopped asking.

  We found other things to entertain ourselves, things that didn’t require words, and the less we spoke, the more he seemed to warm to me. Pogue taught me the twists and turns of the maze, I showed him the ins and outs of the tent city. I kicked his butt at cards at the Priest, and he literally kicked my butt at swordplay.

  “I’m gonna accidentally lob off your head if you keep ducking like that.”

  Two weeks had passed. The cool wind that once haunted me was drifting across the shores to be replaced with stifling humidity that suffocated the night. Still a better death than getting decapitated by that ivory hilted longsword being aimed at my head. I ducked beneath it once more, causing both the Shield and the gathering crowd to laugh.

  “You’re gonna get yourself killed,” he taunted, adjusting his bandolier. There was only one word to describe that monstrosity and that word was hideous. The fact that the Shield loved his bandolier and wore it whenever the weather rose above freezing was more than a fashion crime, it was fashion murder. It was ugly, it was deformed, and it clashed terribly with his clothing. As if sensing I was thinking terrible thoughts about his beloved, he took another stab at my stomach, forcing me to raise my shorter sword to block it. A shock vibrated through my arm, sending jolts of pain dancing up and down. I dropped my sword like a sack of beans.

  “That’s an unfair advantage,” I growled, ignoring the roars of laughter as I held my arm to my chest. A heavy lump rose in my throat, “look how much bigger you are than me. Of course I have to dodge. Had you done that at full strength you would’ve shattered my arm.”

  “Because your opponent will always fight fairly, won’t they?” he asked, grinning.

  “Well, they probably won’t be fast enough to chase me if I run away.” I shook my hand. Grim’s teeth, he might’ve damaged the nerves.

  Pogue shook his head and passed my fallen sword with a soft smile, “you don’t know that. Ilya is super-fast. You won’t even see him coming, you’d have no chan-”

  “Enough,” I slapped the sword from his hand. Everything looked molten, oozing my field of vision. I was so sick of hearing the missing boy’s name. He was gone, he wasn’t coming back, but I was there willing to give my all and everything was supposed to come to those with dedication, with desire and drive. Why didn’t he know that? “if your friend is so important, why aren’t you finding him? Why sit around moping? If you’re not going to do anything to look for him, move on already.” It felt good to yell that, like a weight had been taken from my chest.

  Until I looked at Pogue’s face.

  The grin had vanished, replaced with a small frown and those eyes. Oh, those eyes. I tried to find something, anything to explain the outburst but nothing offered itself. I couldn’t deal with that. Not then. Silently, I turned and walked away, ignoring Pogue’s calls for me to come back. My jaw tightened, nails digging into my palms deep enough to draw blood. Nothing had changed. It was a nightmare world where if I listened carefully, I could hear the beating of my own heart. Nothing could’ve made me feel more alive.

  My legs carried me to the infirmary on muscle memory alone, which was lucky because my brain had frozen on a single moment in time. It had been there for me, so very close, only to open my mouth and throw my chance away. There must be something tasty about misery and that’s why it was always on the tip of my tongue.

  Three emerald caped guards stood with perfect posture outside of the tent. At least there was that. There has been an instinctual hesitation upon meeting the Princess of Ascot, but away from the nobs and her attendants she was…well, not normal, but interesting.r />
  She had a hearty laugh that echoed in places it shouldn’t, as if the laws of the universe bowed to her grace. There was nothing wrong with her laughter, per se, it was just an all-consuming presence. Even as I pushed through the flaps, I could hear that barking through the central room as Amicia stood beside Melly in front of some poor sucker with legs akimbo.

  Kira circled around, wagging her scalpel. She was going to cut somebody. Maybe that’s what I needed to break me from my slump. As I scrubbed my hands with a heavy bout of alcohol and hot water Amicia was still laughing. When was the last time I’d found anything so funny on my own? I couldn’t recall. Taking a clean pair of gloves, I turned around, only to jump back as I came face to face with the good doc. The bowl of water clattered to the ground, splashing my legs, but I didn’t dare kneel to retrieve it because Kira was giving me a look I knew only too well.

  “Come with me a moment,” she said casually.

  Too casually.

  Damn it. My brain went haywire: what had I done? What hadn’t I done? Did she know about—no, nobody saw me, I’d made sure of it…but what if they did? Kira sat behind her desk and grabbed a report, leaning back in her chair. Deities, she was going to make me sweat first, and I didn’t even know what I was supposed to be contemplating. Somewhere a clock was ticking, the sound synchronized with the beat of my heart.

  “Are you planning on telling me what it is you think I’ve done?” I asked, breaking the silence.

  “Oh no, that would be too easy. The build-up is half the fun,” Kira punctuated each word with a flick of the scalpel in her hand, “I’m going to drag this out until you can’t take it anymore.”

  The clock ticked another beat, and I clenched my fists, “I can’t take it anymore.”

  Kira tipped her chair forward, locking her hands behind her head and looking me up and down, “where’d you go today?”

  “The foot troops training yards.”

  “With the Shield, huh?”

  Why do adults always ask questions they already know the answers to? I nodded. Kira nodded back with a disgruntled hum, pushing her spectacles further up her nose, “two patients died this morning.”

  Not this again. Only the knowledge of the shit storm that awaited if I dared roll my eyes kept it at bay. Getting hung up on death was her thing, not mine. This was war. Death was its daily bread and butter, “so?”

  “So, they died alone because you were supposed to be watching them, but instead pissed off to run around with some boy,” she stood up, nostrils flaring as she tried to hide her exasperation behind a cool tone. She circled the desk to stand in front of me, reminding me once more how unjustly short I was, “and stop thinking bullshit like that.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re thinking that this war and death is inevitable, and you’re right, but nobody deserves to die alone, Kilco,” she removed her glasses and slammed them on the desk before grabbing a glass that contained something I couldn’t be sure was water. She downed it and slammed that on down too, “you’re going back.”

  My stomach flipped, “back where?”

  “To Bethany. There’s a supply run heading that way in two weeks. I’m putting you on it.”

  “That’s not fair,” I exclaimed, “that’s it? One mistake and I’m finished? See you later? You haven’t even given me a chance.”

  That broke the dam.

  “Haven’t given you a chance?” Her voice became louder with each word. The medical personnel turned to gawk at us, but I couldn’t care less. My fists clenched so hard that they were beginning to hurt. Let them stare. Let everyone stare and talk, “this was your chance,” Kira stated, “or don’t you remember slithering into my office, begging to come-”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “-and against my better judgement, I let you,” she continued as if I had never spoken, while aggressively rearranging papers on her desk, “I’m too predictable, that’s my problem. To damn predictable. Getting soft in my old age. My, how the mighty have fallen. You promise to change and then the minute my back is turned: poof. I’m even getting guards in here saying you’ve been stealing again.”

  “They’re lying,” I cried, “the guards have it in for me. There’s something wrong with them.”

  “There isn’t anything wrong with the guards, Kilco,” she paused, scratching her chin, “actually there’s a lot wrong with the guards, but that’s neither here nor now. You are only here because you made a promise, you broke that promise, so now you’ve got to go. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

  “You’re such a bitch.” I hissed.

  “Indeed, I am,” Kira said with a short laugh, “no argument there. In fact, you can ask just about any person who has ever met me, and they’d describe me as such. You can insult me all you want, but this is my infirmary and you are here at my invitation. I suggest you think very carefully about the next words out of your mouth because you know that I can and will make the next two weeks miserable for you.” She would. She had done it before, and so even though there was a boiling storm raging inside my chest, I clenched my jaw shut.

  “Smart girl,” Kira said and patted my shoulder. Deities, I hated her then. Amicia was laughing again and my palms bleed tiny drops.

  I marched into our private apartment. It was separated from the central room by only a long bookcase, and I ran my fingers along the spines. Kira had said not to open my mouth and I wouldn’t. There were other ways to show my dismay. Book after book I threw on the floor. They thumped loudly, but the good doc didn’t come to shout at me to quit it. To demand I scrub the blood from the floor as pence. Nobody came. It wasn’t fair. How dare she ignore me. How dare they pretend I didn’t exist, that I was nothing.

  I reached under Kira’s futon for her metal lockbox before ripping a pin from my hair. Booze, chocolate, cigs. My mothers’ secret stash. I might’ve had my vices but so did she.

  The square of galloping gaytime was tasteless, but I shredded it with my teeth anyway. It gave me the assistance my composure needed. It had been five years since I had cried a tear, even in moments of boiling rage I’d forgotten how, but the same lava still bubbled in my chest like an inactive volcano. I feared for the day it erupted.

  Seven

  Hippophobia

  Fear of horses

  At some point, my body had overtaken the task of walking entirely. My feet kept moving, taking me to the place they always did when the fire burned my chest. Breathing in deeply, I filled my lungs as the camp’s stables appeared below the hillock. Surrounded by broken fence posts and rotting pines, its wood was dark against the orange sky. It looked like home. It smelt like home. There were many smells of the stable which I loved - the fresh scent of molasses chaff, the wild musk of flank, the calming sensation of a newly lit match. Lifting the matchbox from the barrel, I cracked the rusted door of the stall open and collapsed into the hay bedding, striking each match just to watch it burn.

  The flame made its way down the stick, turning it black until my fingertips warmed. Only then did I blow it out. I’d feel the burn come morning, but there and then I didn’t care. The external heat soothed the roaring ocean inside. I lit another. Again, again.

  It was a loud vibrating snort that broke my daze. I’d forgotten whose stall I was in. Quickly blowing out the match, I waited for it to stop smoking before flinging it into the hay. Not that it mattered. I’d lit so many that if the place was going up, it would’ve done so already. Regardless, I stomped on it a few times for good measure.

  The bay mare watched with wise brown eyes while I patted her muzzle. The stitching of her mane had come undone, the tight braids loose and messy. Pogue had done it himself but was dreadfully inept at plating. I had no choice but to redo the entire mane myself. The tin feed bucket was covered in grime but stood on it anyway, stroking her withering flank. She didn’t turn her head to nuzzle my side as she did her master, only shook her head and blew. There was no explaining the bond between the Shield and the ho
rse: it seemed to be something so rare, something so incredibly natural to him and foreign to others. It left me both in awe and green with envy. I couldn’t love without pain, the pain of envy and the pain of fear. It was always sitting below my breastbone, waiting for the pounce. It was what destined me always alone. I didn’t mind that. Alone you could move without anyone to notice. In a way, it was empowering that nobody knew I was there.

  “Why, that’s the best I’ve seen Makybe look, Miss Kilco,” a gentle voice said from behind. A smile came to my lips. If there was one person at camp I wanted to be friends with, it was Howey the stable master. Too tall and slim with a mess of prematurely thinning ginger hair, he resembled an instinct more than a man. Running a calloused hand along Makybe’s hindquarters, Howey stopping at my side with a chuckle, “the Shield won’t be happy though. He likes tending to her himself.”

  “He’s already unhappy with me anyway,” I said and stepped off the bucket to admire both my work and Howey’s gene pool. He was an odd fellow, a kindred spirit, but no matter how hard I tried, he seemed interested only in the company of four-legged friends. A real shame. There were some in the camp who would’ve killed for the chance to cosy up to the military elite, to be trusted as he was. Well, everything but get their hands dirty. Howey knew everybody…

  “Hey, what’s the Shield’s companion like?” I asked, “I’ve heard he’s missing.”

  “Ilya Lukasiak?” Howey side-eyed me as he twisted each of my braids until they sat beautifully pointed and glistening like city gas lamps. I shrugged. Nobody had told me the boy’s surname and I hadn’t bothered to ask.

  Howey motioned for me to follow him outside to a holding yard that was too small for the enormous horse tethered inside it. The jet-black stallion regarded me with a neutral expression as I carefully stroked his muzzle. He was a little intimidating, given his size, but undoubtedly beautiful. Calm too. Unless he was just luring me into a false sense of security, awaiting the perfect moment to flatten me against the fence, mush me into a fine paste.