This one is, say Efia. His names Dowd.
The stranger rest a palm on his chest.
Wheres he from, say Malk.
Nathin find him. Just walkin, say Rona. All tire an thirsty so we give him water.
He find his own, say Malk. Dont go wastin.
Please. You have no reason to fear me.
Strange this Dowds way of speakin. A young bloke but Aban Malk know oldsters in the Wen speak much the same way. Sort of like old writin would speak if it could.
Well, say Malk, an now you drink other folks water you best be off aint you.
Dowd show his teeth but its a smile like he aint understandin. Dowds body shimmer like a bloke seen in heat only close up an his eyes flicker into they sockets an down he tumble. Rona Becca Efia Aban close bout him but Malk standin say, Hes sick. Malair got him or teebee.
Not Malair, say Efia. Just hunger. An you aint our leader Malk. Nors anyone.
Nathin find the group just so, Malk standin ragin with his sharpstick while others bend over the new bloke. Malk see Nathin an shout, You! Dont fuck off takin the guidin stick with you.
I bin huntin.
For squirrels, say Malk, an its true all Nathins got is one squirrel corse. Nathin look down at his catch an then at the group. Is he dead, he say.
Good as, say Malk. Best leave him.
No, say Efia.
Nuther gob to fill in this shithole? Weightin us down an we gotta get to West Cunny.
Hes scapin like us, say Efia. Just like us Malk.
Sez you, say Malk. Could be a spy. Thick with hoofers or juntamen or worse.
Malk, say Rona an shes soft an calm. Hes legit. Look. From the snorin body she pull back rags to show a thistle of scars on Dowds back. Fuck say Aban. The fat welts like wormcasts in mud. All branchin crisscross like spores under the skin. Then Becca Rona turn him over an on his right arm theres an ouster brand.
Malk stare long at the scars. What if hes sick, he say.
Tired an hungry is all, say Rona.
Nathin look set to speak but Malks eyes shush him. So Becca speak Nathins thinks for him. One more set of arms an legs innit. Safety in numbers. With Lan gone –
Don’t, say Malk. But Efia pick up her thinks an say, Lans gone an heres a new friend. What you reckon Aban?
Aban feel her look on his face. Efias foot reach cross the sand an kick him on the shin till he say, True. True mate. Nuther bloke make the group stronger an safer.
Nathin, say Malk. Any thinks?
Nathin look at the guidin stick like its a poison snake he want to drop. Dunno, he say.
Becca Rona?
Keep him, say Rona.
Keep him, say Becca.
So all gree tho Malk scowl an go sit elseway till Dowd croak or wake up.
Listen, say Efia to Aban. Malks gettin big for his boots. He cant call his self leader. Group dont have no leader just the group an alls level.
Malk dont mean nuthin by it.
Sez you Aban. Cos you mates.
Aban feel a heaviness in his chest. He think back to the nip of Efias toe on his skin. Theres a campment, he say.
Eh?
We find one. On our recky. Safe place to sleep.
Hes comin back look.
Sure enuf Dowd come round an stare like he cant remember. Easy, say Efia.
Please!
Dont be fraid.
No!
This Aban hes with us. You stay an all. Eat an drink then off we go. Wheres Malk?
Aban look up the woody hill where Malks sittin on a tree stump starin cross the land to the Wen. Theres a road, say Aban. It ul take us where we goin.
Any stedders on this road, say Rona.
No. Dead road really. Davys Way.
Wind pick up harsh from south an tug at our clothes like it want to steal em. White sand swarm at our legs, each grain takin a bite. Malk look at Dowd an say, Hes slowin us, but Efia give Dowd a shoulder an tell Aban to help. So we get slow to Davys Way an now scrub oaks shelter us from the stingin wind. No nabberin till Malk say, Heres the place an out the woods we come to the hill. Efia find the rotty sign with its black letters an read out the words, Old Fort.
Theres more writing, say Dowd heavin for breath. Under the paint.
Becca look all round say, This it? More dust an ole fires? Wheres the campment?
Ah, say Aban.
Malk Rona Becca Nathin Efia Dowd follow Aban down Old Forts flank. Whoop of the wind cease an the sand stop bitin. Alls quiet down here, the grass green an tall enuf for sleepin under. Hide here, the hill one way an thorns the other.
What yer reckon, say Aban grinnin at Efia. For answer she stretch an lie down. Bone tired but safe.
For supper only pears found on the roadside. Rona Becca take out blades, scrape away the needles, wipe the sharpness off a stone. Efia take a pear to the boy. He swallow some of the pip flesh then turn his head an puke it up. Aban watch Efia move her hand on the boys back. When she try to give him more he take it from her.
Dont waste, say Aban. Boy ul eat when hes ready.
Nightfall rouse us. Dowd most of all. Like hes tryin to make him real for the group he start to speak. Clever words in the old time way like Malk Aban use to hear when they slaves under Feo.
I will tell you, say Dowd, how I came to be here. Why I am running and what from.
Dowd tell the group how he born in a dust storm. Folk all owners like folk before em. Treat slaves in kind ways tho. Malk gob at these words. Malk the scaped slave. Efia also angry till she think on the welts on Dowds back an the ouster brand on his arm.
Life in my village was hard, say Dowd because of the Dry. Still we might have stayed. But the fighting caught up with us.
A nipper no more, his sted get took by looters. He recall the blades hackin. Blood dryin in the earth. Not even dogs left to lick it. Slaves dead, sisters stole, he sail with his folks cross the stinkwater. Thirst carry off his ma, give her to the crabs an jellies. Pa an Dowd make it ashore with thousand other ousters all lookin for life, a patch of ground, a scrap of bread. Dowd an Pa stuck in cages pendin a rulin. One day it come, they flesh burn, the air full of screams an scorchin smell.
They branded us, say Dowd, then took us to a waiting place. An island in the river.
Two miles long an one half wide of salt flats an marshy woods. Water no good for drinkin, only what the junta keep in tanks under armed guard. To save his pa Dowd look for bread. First handout from a barge an many trod to death. Dowd give up his shirt an shoes for a loaf.
Why they take you ousters there? What for, say Becca.
They told us we would be moved to a special village. That is why we had no tools to make things. No ovens or grain. But we never came off the island. They left us there to die.
Dowd tell us bout the island. How folk everyway hungry an nuthin to eat but rotty loaves pile up out of reach an juntamen guardin em. Sun scorchin, rain peltin, some rig shelters with branches an palm fronds. Sickos in rows all muck an lice. An every way the stink of squits an gobs runnin black with gumdrip. Old Malair sit down with folk then. Lay his cold hand on em, huff his hot breath in they throats. Parents holding they kiddies gone rigger cos Malair got em in his teeth.
What, say Malk. An you just sit there takin it?
Some people tried to escape. The juntamen killed them. Also locals to save their crops.
An yer pa? This Efia say an Aban look cos her eyes gone soft, she lean like shes gonna touch Dowd.
I watched him die. Just gave up. Saying Mas name and my sisters.
He leave you, say Malk.
Yes.
Then you well rid, say Malk. But Dowd seem not to hear or else he make like he dont.
About a month after they put us on the island the hunting started. Men were very hungry. For punishment the junta burned our rations in front of us.
You mean, say Becca, blokes eat other blokes?
I had to hide in ditches at night hoping they would not find me. Then one day a man came to me. He gave me f
ish to eat. Bad fish all rotted but I wanted to live. His name was Ned. He planned to leave the island with two men strong like him.
Strong how, say Malk, if an you all starvin?
Up and off –
How they stay fit on weeds an rotty fish?
Dowd look at his ankles. Up and off, he say, before day and no one to stop us.
Most on the island just ghosts now or stickmen. Bird beaks for mouths. Heron legs too thin to stand. But Ned an the two blokes still strong an they slip into the water with Dowd on a raft of branches. In salt marsh they find sunfire plant an eat it. Also seabeet an snaily crits. Ned call em winkers cos you wink em out with a pin. Fact the shells so weak you can break em with finger an thumb. Pick off specks eat the meat. Like salty snot. Still it keep em movin.
That first night, say Dowd, we hid in a ruin. The two men looked away but Ned was kind and gave me food.
What food, say Malk.
Ned was a soldier before he was trafficked. Sometimes he shouted in the dark. The other men woke him. His dreams were bad.
What happen, say Becca, when you get to the Wen?
Ah. Dowd breathe in like hot broths on his lips. The Wen, he say. We did not get there.
Why?
The two men wanted to go north. Up the midlands where the juntas not so strong.
An Ned?
Ned wanted the Wen but he was one and they were two.
So you follow.
Yes.
Cross marsh an thru bush. Hidin in grassland stealin food but never enuf cos the two blokes want to go faster an faster. They put they heads together at night. In hollows or shells of manshuns they whisper an Ned look Dowd in the eye. But Neds eyes say nuthin to Dowd, like fish eyes they share no thinks.
We got hungry, say Dowd. Very hungry. And when we had walked for days I woke up with Neds hand on my mouth. At first I was scared but then in his face I saw he was the scared one. Dowd, he said, you must go. I said, Why and where and he said, You are in danger. Take this food take this water and run. But I could not move so he pushed me saying, We are bad men. We take you with us off the island for a goat.
Nathin snort an laugh. A goat!
Its what he said.
Like for milk!
For meat.
Nathin shush at that.
When they took me off the island it was not kindness. I was food that carried itself and stayed fresh. When Ned told me this I said I did not believe him. But I did believe. When the two men whispered together it was about me. Ned said they were going to do it very soon and, Go now, he said, go and forgive me.
So you run, say Efia.
I ran. Fast as my legs could go. For two days until other men found me. Tradesmen from the north. They caught me sleeping and I was taken. That is how I came to be traded and sent as a prentice to Brag Nell.
Prentice, say Malk, risin an standin bove Dowd his teeth showin. Slave you mean just like the rest of us.
I was a slave, say Dowd. But I got away and now I am free.
No ones free, say Malk, just on a longer chain is all. An he kick up dust an turn away. Others sit with Dowd soakin up his story whiles Malk go up the bank of Old Fort an start settin dewcloths for the nightspit. Dowd look up to him, his eyes shinin, teeth stark in moonlight. Efia look at the scar, a welt like a pop belly nub on the boys arm. His ouster patch. His cross-the-water mark. Aban too have a scar, a brand from the slaver that hold him. Dowd talk an Efia put her finger on the lump on Abans neck. The Slave Cross. He catch her fingers, hold em a bit then put em gentle down. She look at him. Thinkin on her life an now the road, the group, this skinny dark ouster crouchin in the grass tellin his story.
All done an the group set down to sleep. Aban Efia Nathin Becca Rona like one tangle of limbs an Dowd outsight watchin. See Malk come down after dark an try a smile but Malk keep his lips tight an squat next the group lookin at the stars.
What were you doing, say Dowd. Up there?
Malk say nuthin but turn his sharpstick.
There used to be a village.
Where?
Here, say Dowd. Long ago.
In the Fast Time?
Before.
Malk chew on this. Who ever think on before before? Fast Times before an past that who can say. Malk shrug like to shift sumthin off his back.
Sez you, he say. Just a hill to me. No before bout it just mud an sand.
Dowd nod. Perhaps you are right.
Right enuf an lead this lot. Malk rush thru grass to Dowd till hes breathin in his face. Right enuf an you play ball cos I aint blind to spies nor blokes as dont have good at heart.
You have no reason to fear me.
Well lets see. For now one fast move whiles we sleep an yer blood ul answer for it.
I too will sleep.
An thats all you do. Cos I got one plan an one plan only thats get us all to safety.
Dowd nod an show his palms.
Rightyer?
Good night, say Dowd.
Good night an all. Ouster scum.
7
Blueface
The dullness, the stink and tedium of winter quarters lay far behind them. Riding occupied all of their senses.
Marcus enjoyed the lash of the cold: it scoured his face, while the wind whooped and rising clods of ice spangled the air. It was the privilege of horsemanship to have such power at his command. The aches and fevers of confinement fell away. Surely the other riders felt it? He half expected to hear them shout for joy.
After many miles of open heath and pasture, the land thickened into scrub oak and gorse. The latter, resurgent, grew almost to the road. It was abundant where their mission ended.
‘Here it is,’ said Marcus.
Three kerb-stones had been dislodged and broken paving, like the sea where a wall is breached, had spilled through the gap, exposing the rough layer of gravel beneath. No flood had caused this – even supposing the land could produce one in such a freeze.
‘Boar?’
The engineer looked admiringly at Lucius Agilis. ‘Why not elephant while you’re at it?’ Celer dismounted, inelegantly, to commune with the damage.
Marcus watched the engineer. He disliked the expression on his face. ‘Ought we to mount guard?’
‘You’re the cavalry officer, I leave that to you. But I can tell you this: if wild animals are to blame, they’re uncommonly handy with picks and axes.’ Celer bent, with a mutter of discomfort, as though his back were troublesome, and indicated the dents in the paving stones where they had been prised off the cement.
‘Idle boys perhaps,’ said Glyco, ‘full of spunk and void of sense?’
Marcus dismounted. One hand on the bridle, he bolstered himself with the other above his kneecap and peered at the evidence.
Later, when he attempted to reconstruct what followed, he would recall no hint of movement in the gorse along the road. The profound quiet of snowfields, the scraping hooves of the horses: nothing more. Only Glyco speaking the name of his comrade and Lucius Agilis seemingly intent on picking something from his horse’s nape.
Marcus had to pay his glance a second visit. Lucius Agilis had dwindled in his saddle. He slumped forward, his mouth slack and a look of brutishness in his eyes. Gods, he’s having a stroke – and Celer was rushing to prop him up lest he break a limb in his fall.
The next arrow pierced the flank of Glyco’s horse.
Glyco was thrown and writhing on the road. The horse screamed and stamped and Lucius was falling, a shaft in his back.
The air pulsed with a sound Marcus had never heard, though he knew it at once. The bellowing of a carnyx.
Marcus struggled to draw his sword. The engineer appeared to be pissing blood.
The heath itself rose up against them.
*
He was at sea, sickened by punishing swells. The world lurched and dipped. His stomach turned over.
He lay on the shore of wakefulness, weak with nausea and dread. Cries echoed in his mind. He remembered the hilt of a swo
rd in his hand, saw it open a cleft of flesh.
Pain eddied about his skull like the note of a gong.
His left eye revealed a skein of light and green branches. His right eye would not open: a bloated fruit, it oozed gum over his fingers when he touched it. Hot, weeping pain followed, but harder to bear was the clarity of his knowledge – I am their captive.
He sat up, or tried to, for his legs and wrists were bound and a foot belonging to a powerful body pressed him back into a lattice of roots. Sickness welled up inside him: he vomited and tried to wriggle away from the reeking spatter. There was laughter, shallow and mirthless.
A wintry sky brimmed over the lip of a green bowl. He was in that bowl, unable to clamber out. He tried to speak, to issue orders for his release.
Someone replied in his own language. ‘Worm,’ the voice said. ‘Horse soldier worm.’
Like a worm he contemplated the descending sole of a boot. It pressed into his cheek. He grimaced to keep his cry locked inside him.
The boot relented. Marcus waited, gradually lifting his face clear of the cold earth. He found he was able to shuffle into an awkward sitting position. Fearfully, he inspected his groin, his thighs, his belly. He was whole, and relief brought new light to his functioning eye.
He was in a clearing of evergreens. To judge from the light on the upper branches, the sun was at its zenith.
Men stood in a knot about a prone body. He could not make out much of the injured man. The brute who had called him worm watched him from a distance.
Where was his company? He searched for them among the trees.
Glyco was bound by a rope about his neck to a stake in the ground. His face was a mask of blood, the eyes within it stark and terrible. Marcus tried with the heat of his one eye to hail them. The Sicilian returned his gaze.
– Are you hurt?
– What does it look like? You?
Marcus tried to shrug but a yoke of pain forced his shoulders down. What about Celer? Lucius?
Glyco stared at him.
Marcus bowed his head. He tried to piece together the fragments of what had befallen them. Doing so muted the taunting voice, very like that of his father, which called him a failure, a disgrace to the standard, killer of his own men.
The Devil's Highway Page 7