Of Dreams and Rust

by Sarah Fine

  “You have never done that.”

  “Haven’t I? All the hours you and Guiren spent with me—you could have been with real people. Living people. You could have been with each other, even. Both of you should have left me to myself a year ago, but you kept coming back.”

  “You have a right to live, and to feel, and to love. You are not really a ghost, Bo.” I reach for him, but his metal circuits hum as he jumps back.

  “I am,” he snaps. “And ghosts must let the living be.” His expression splits with a harsh smile. “Your father used to read me a story from Kulchan and His Warriors, about a princess and a bandit. I thought the story was idiotic when he first read it to me, but after I met you, I gained a new appreciation for it.”

  I put my hand on my stomach. I vaguely remember the story. The bandit, a carefree and fearless soul, rescues a princess from certain death. She wears an enchanted necklace, and after the bandit claims a kiss as his reward, he loses his free will and is bound to her. “What are you saying?”

  He laughs, but it is wracked with regret. “Even after he dies, the bandit cannot leave her. His spirit guards her for the rest of her life. She marries. She has children. And still he haunts her. He is a very stupid ghost. I will not make his mistake.”

  “Stop this,” I say, scared of the hopelessness drenching his words. “Melik will realize what you have done for his village and his people. He cannot do that now because he is hurting so much. But he will. You can follow behind the group. You can—”

  “Leave me alone, Wen,” he says.

  “Bo, please. Stay. Camp on the ridge. I will bring you whatever you need.”

  “I release you from your promise.” He makes an easy leap onto the side of the canyon wall, his long metal fingers slipping into cracks and anchoring him. “Send word to your father when you can.”

  There is an odd, sad, certain note in his voice that makes my heart speed. He is not returning to the Ring, and he is not coming to Dagchocuk. “Where are you going?”

  He shakes his head. “Where I belong.”

  Now panic is rising in me. My Ghost, the boy who could not relinquish his grip on life, sounds as if he is letting go. “Sinan would not want this. He would have wanted you to stay and help the people he loved. You owe that to him.”

  “I owe him nothing!” Bo shouts. “He was a silly Noor boy who did not see me for what I am. And you are a stupid girl who thinks I feel more than I do, who thinks I am worth more than I am, and who is the reason I have betrayed my own people.” He sweeps his arm across the scene of carnage, the smoking machines, the bodies, the grieving survivors. His eye swivels back to glare at me. “Maybe it is you who have ruined me.”

  “Blame me if you need to, but don’t leave. We still need you,” I plead. And he needs us. Somehow I know it is the only thing keeping him human. “There might be more machines coming.”

  “I am done. With you and everyone else. I am done. Nothing is worth . . . this.” He sounds as hollow as Melik did, like something inside him is broken forever. He crawls up the rock wall and heaves himself onto the trail above. For a moment he looks down at me, and I stare at him, silently begging him to come back. He opens his mouth, and my blood sings with hope.

  “Tell Guiren I tried,” he says. “And tell him I am sorry.”

  With spindly metal fingers he closes his faceplate, hiding any trace of his soft, human self. His steel muscles hum as he crouches, and his armor clanks as he lunges upward. In a few seconds he has disappeared into the narrow canyon. I listen, clinging to the sound of him, until the only noise that reaches me is the cries of the Noor as they prepare to carry their dead back to Dagchocuk.

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  THE CRESCENT MOON hangs over the plains of Yilat like a sickle poised to cut us all down. I hike at the rear of the procession of Noor, tending to my patients as best I can. Some of them can walk, but they are slower than the rest, and whenever we stop, I pour jie cao and san qi tea down their throats and smear honey on wounds to keep them from festering. Some of the wounded are carried in makeshift stretchers made from sleeping blankets, and I apply fresh bandages and check for bleeding, fevers, breathing difficulties, and faltering heartbeats. I grit my teeth in frustration when I cannot do more for them. But we must keep moving.

  The dead are at the front. The Itanyai prisoners are in the middle, surrounded by Noor rebels. Everyone is grim. We have twelve dead, but Sinan’s death was the one that destroyed the triumph.

  We left about half the fighters at the bowl, preparing to fight a second wave. The rest of us are returning to Dagchocuk for supplies, and to bury the dead and allow families to care for the wounded. I sometimes hear Melik’s voice at the front of the procession, worn with grief but still sure and quick. I have no idea what he’s saying, but whenever we stop for a break, we leave fighters behind, possibly to keep watch for more machines.

  I have no doubt Melik will return to the bowl, but not until after he buries Sinan. My stomach churns every time I catch glimpses of him, a tall form far ahead of me. He cradles his brother’s shoulders and head against his side while Baris and Bajram walk close behind and support the rest of the boy’s body. Like the rest of the dead, Sinan has been wrapped in a blanket, but Melik has not allowed his brother’s face to be covered. He walks with his fingers in Sinan’s rust-colored hair. He must be thinking that this is the last chance he has to touch his brother, to look at his face. He is hoarding every moment.

  Like I always do, I remain busy as a way of holding off despair, though my thoughts wrap tightly around two of the men I love. Bo has torn himself free of whatever web he thinks I cast around him, and I am afraid that what he has really released is himself, his humanity. He will stave off his grief by hardening his heart, by nestling within his machine self and pretending that is all he is. I am not enough to save him, not fast enough, strong enough, smart enough. The same might be true with Melik. But he is surrounded by people who treasure him. Unlike Bo, Melik is loved by people who understand who he is, where he came from, how he thinks and feels.

  And by some who don’t.

  We descend into Dagchocuk, a tired, sad procession. The wailing begins before my feet touch level ground. The villagers see the blanket-wrapped bodies and light torches in the square. The survivors lay the dead down in a row and make sure their faces are uncovered so their families can find them. Knots of people surround each one, weeping and wailing, while several men trek to the southern side of the village with shovels in hand. I stay with the wounded who are too injured to walk to their families. They are brought to the wedding tent, where I set up a hospital of sorts. I stitch wounds with my straight needle and coarse thread. I make herb poultices with supplies brought by Aysun the healer, who joins me in the tent and sings to her patients while she slathers oily mixtures of her own over their wounds. Some of them smell quite suspicious, but the Noor seem reassured by her presence.

  Once I have managed the most dire of their injuries, I squat on the floor and make each patient as comfortable as I can, using strokes of my hands and gentle smiles when no medicine can help. At least one of them, the woman with the throat wound, will probably die. Her color is not good and her breathing is faltering and labored. I catch Aysun’s eye and nod down at the woman, and Aysun seems to see the same truth I do. She looks at me and says, “Anni,” before slipping from the tent. It takes me a moment to realize she is not getting my anni—Melik’s mother—she is fetching the young woman’s mother.

  I hold the dying woman’s hand as she drifts in and out of consciousness. All around me I can hear the Noor words of lament. “Bazegovyasi bazebogmikie” . . . “Migovyasi zhabogmikie” . . . I hear these phrases over and over again. They are so loud, shouted, screamed, torn from throats until their voices are shredded. It is exhausting to listen to, like sandpaper against my skin.

  Itanyai are silent in their grief. To be so loud shames the family, the lost loved one, the memories you shared with him or her. To b
e so uncontrolled is a weakness of character. At my mother’s funeral I stared at her grave while we all sweated under the late-summer sun. My heart had been crushed, but I refused to embarrass my father by crying. I refused to add to his grief by forcing him to comfort me.

  We cry in private. We cry alone. We do not burden others with our sorrow. To share that kind of thing is rare. But not for the Noor. They cry together, and none of them are ashamed of tears or runny noses or sobs, even the men.

  It makes me feel as if I am wrapped in a transparent, impenetrable veil, watching them from the outside. They can see me, and I can see them, but we will never reach each other, not really.

  The problem is that I want to try.

  More than anything I want to soothe Melik in his grief, but I would not even know where to start. His loss is so massive, so devastating, that I cannot imagine my presence being helpful. And then there is the reason I am now hiding within this tent, pretending my sleeping patients need me: My greatest fear is that I would make his grief worse. The way he looked at me in the last minutes of Sinan’s life . . .

  “Wen always has medicine.” How many times has he said that to me? So fondly, so reverently. I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists. I want to go to him, but I fear that is selfish. I will not force him to relive those horrible moments, my helplessness and failure. I am scared to remind him of the fact that Bo was in Dagchocuk because of me. If I stitch those truths together, they amount to one big, horrible indictment—Sinan is dead because of me. I know that is not really true, but what if Melik thinks it is?

  The dying young woman’s mother comes to the tent with several men, and they carry their daughter-sister-cousin-lover away so that she can die in her home surrounded by those who love her fiercely. Before the tent flap settles over the doorway, Melik pokes his head in. “Wen, can I talk to you?”

  I blink at him, hope surging within me. “Of course.” I leave my patients with Aysun and join him in the square. He has changed his bloody tunic and washed his face, but he looks as if he has lived a thousand years in the last few hours. “What can I do?”

  He will not meet my eyes. “I need you to talk to the Itanyai prisoners.”

  My hope evaporates. “Oh. What would you like me to say?”

  He folds his arms over his chest. “I would like you to do what you did in the hills, with the other prisoners. I would like you to convince them that you are a prisoner too, and gather whatever information you can. I need to know what else is coming for us, but they are well trained. Trickery will work better than torture.”

  I have not eaten in hours, but this task makes me feel sick. Still, not as sick as I’d feel if these Noor tortured the captured Itanyai. “I will do it.”

  Melik nods. “They’re in a cottage down the lane.” He walks by my side, and when we are a few houses away from where the prisoners are being held, he hands me some flatbread and a canteen to offer them. “Thank you.” He begins to walk away.

  “Melik?” I call, but when he stops and turns to me, I find I have no words. Or rather, I have many, but all seem full of obligation, like an expectation that he would respond in kind. I hurt for you, I want to say. I will do anything for you. I adore you. I love you. But none of it feels like enough.

  “What is it?” he says softly.

  “I will do my best,” I say, my voice cracking.

  He meets my eyes briefly. “I must complete the funeral preparations for my brother, but I will find you later.” He strides away.

  Like a condemned woman, I carry my burdens down the lane. If this is the one thing I can do for him, then I will do it as well as I can. I nod at the rebel guarding the door and slip inside the cottage. Three Itanyai soldiers are lined up in front of the hearth. Their hands and feet are bound. One of them has black smears along his arms and shirt—he must be a fireman from one of the machines, while the others are probably pilots or front gunners. Their eyes widen when they see me. “Sister,” the fireman says. “Where are you from?”

  “I came from . . . Vuda,” I say, deciding to hold tight to as much truth as I can. “I was in the train wreck and captured by the rebels. I have been here for a few days, no more than a week.”

  The wiry young man at the end of the row looks awestruck. “You are the one! The girl who saved the prisoners in the hills. They returned to the Ring as we were preparing to leave.”

  I bow my head. “They were very kind. I am glad to hear they made it back to the Ring.”

  “Are they treating you well?” the wiry fellow asks. “Is the Red One here? There are so many stories and rumors.” He raises his eyebrows. This feels like dangerous ground.

  “I am alive,” I say. “And they have not abused me. But I was hoping to be rescued.”

  The fireman looks ashamed, but the other two, younger and angrier, curse under their breath. The one in the middle, with a broad nose and cheeks thick with red spots, shakes his head. “The canyon was supposed to be clear,” he snarls. “There is obviously a spy in our ranks—they were prepared for us, and they have war machines of their own. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Bo is the war machine, and I am the spy, but they do not seem to suspect. “You did not expect an attack at all, even after they ambushed the train?”

  They shake their heads. “This attack plan was top secret.”

  The wiry fellow grimaces. “We were out of radio range when we were attacked. We did not warn the rest.”

  I force myself to smile. “But there are more machines coming? That is good!” My heart thunders with fear.

  The soldiers’ smiles are tempered. “I wouldn’t be too hopeful, sister,” says the fireman. “When they come, they will tear through this village like a paper dragon on First Holiday. There are twenty of them, and the crews’ blood will be fired when they see the wreckage in the canyon.”

  The spotty soldier nods. “At least they will know what happened. At least they will be ready.”

  “We can be grateful for that,” I say, my toes curling within my boots. “Perhaps we can hide when they come. Find cover.”

  The wiry soldier looks hopeful. “If you could help us get loose . . . there is an infantry force behind the war machines. They will hunt the survivors in the hills, and when they arrive, we’ll know it’s safe.”

  “Hunt the survivors?” I blurt out.

  Spotty bares his teeth. “This will not be like the last uprising. This time we will not show mercy.”

  I tear off a hunk of bread and press it to Spotty’s mouth. “Eat. You must be hungry.” And I need him to stop talking, because his words make me feel ill. “So,” I say to the others as he chews. “How long do we have until the invasion force arrives?”

  The wiry fellow watches my trembling hands tearing the bread. “Fear not, sister,” he says quietly. “Our orders were to destroy this village and lay the path for the others. They are set to arrive in two days. I know it seems like a long time, but—”

  “I will cheer their arrival,” I say, “and I will do my best to free you before that time so we can take cover. I believe there are caves within these hills.”

  Spotty glances at his wiry friend. “The sooner the better.”

  The fireman looks somber as he allows me to feed him bread. “You are very kind,” he mumbles.

  I give them each sips of water and leave breathless with information and the hope of saving these prisoners. I know I am betraying their trust, but I will do what I can to preserve their lives. When I emerge from the cottage, I walk for a few steps before running to find Melik. He is in the square with Anni but meets me halfway. I give him all the information I gathered, and he thanks me. “I will inform Commander Kudret,” he says. “It’s possible we’ll be able to get reinforcements from the north in less than two days.”

  “What will happen to these men?”

  He stares at the ground. “These soldiers who killed so many of mine?”

  “It will be your choice to show mercy.”

  His voi
ce is hollow as he says, “I will do what I can for them.”

  “Thank you.” My own heart is overflowing with admiration and love for him, but one look tells me he doesn’t feel it at all. In fact, I realize that I’ve hurt him again by asking for such a huge gift right now. Melik is on the other side of this canyon between us, and every rope I grab to throw across falls apart in my hands.

  He glances at my face before turning away. “It is time to bury the dead,” he says. He pauses for a moment, a space in which I almost reach for him, almost take his hand, but then Anni raises her arms and beckons to him, and he walks away.

  Feeling stupid and toxic, like an infection in a wound, I return to the wedding tent to check on my patients. I soothe myself by doing small and good things—silent acts, seeing as my words always seem to be wrong. I check bandages and help patients find comfortable positions. I hold a cup of cold tea to the lips of a thirsty man and wipe his mouth when he has drunk his fill. I rub the cold hands of another and tuck a blanket around someone else. Most of them are awake, listening to the mourning outside. It seems as though they cannot sleep, that they would rather share the pain with their family and friends than shut it out. One woman, whose ribs Aysun and I had to bind tightly, gives me a weak, pained push toward the tent flap, as if telling me I should go and be a part of the grieving.

  I only add to it, I want to tell her. I only make it worse. When all my work is done and I’m unable to invent more, I huddle within the canvas walls, fading with exhaustion while the fires outside burn, while the wailing and weeping continues, until I finally leave to use the pit latrines at the outskirts of the village. The air is laced with sage and lavender and other heady scents, and there is a haze of smoke above the village, trapping the torchlight in a foggy dome.

  As I return to the square, the funeral procession is heading for the southern side of Dagchocuk. Sticking close to the cottages, concealed within the almost dark, I follow it until we reach a graveyard, plots marked with piles of rocks from the Western Hills.