“Nub,” he wheezed, and then he sucked in a staggered gasp of cool autumn air and hollered, “Nub! Here, boy.”
The rustle of bracken told him the dog was in the thick of it, so Deacon broke himself off a dry branch and used it to beat a path after him. He felt like the explorers Father sometimes spoke about by the fire on those nights he was home, the ones who’d made their way to Sahul on the other side of the world. They’d gone to talk sense into the savages that lived there, the heretics who hated Nous. Not that Father was much for the faith of the Templum; he just put up with it for Mom’s sake.
Nub’s shabby butt poked above a grass clump. The tufted tail of a gray squirrel flashed past the dog and scurried up a tree. Nub waddled to the base of the trunk, barking like he did at dinnertime. Opening his jaws made him look such an ugly mutt, which Deacon supposed he was: squat and muscly, with a face that was all wrinkles and sags. Slobber sprayed from his mouth, and his hindquarters wagged furiously. Suddenly, he stopped and sniffed the air. He looked at Deacon with his watery eyes, gave a hesitant yap, and then he was off again, back the way he’d come.
Deacon followed him out onto the trail, and this time Nub stuck to it, scampering ahead and stopping in fits and starts to check Deacon was still behind him. The dog turned a circle, chasing his own tail, and then he cocked his head, whining insistently. When Deacon tried to calm him, Nub snarled and darted through the trees. He kept on running, faster and faster, and it was all Deacon could do to keep up. For a moment, he thought he heard voices—kids laughing and yelling—but it was so far off he could’ve imagined it.
Nub tore across a clearing and straight up the bank of a mound. Deacon balked at the base. The place gave him the shivers. It was one of those burial mounds Father spooked him about on the Night of the Spirits, he was sure of it. It was almost as high as a hut, sparsely covered in yellowish grass. Rabbits had made their burrows in the sides, and chunks of flint riddled it like the spines of some monstrous dragon.
Nub went over the top and let out a peal of barks. Forgetting his fear, Deacon scrambled up and spread his arms wide, like he’d conquered the world’s tallest mountain. But then he swooned, and the eggs he’d had for breakfast came back up his throat. He dropped to his haunches and touched the grass to steady himself. His eyes were all blurry, and waves of sickness surged up from his belly to his head. Keeping low, he scrabbled down the other side on his butt, until he got halfway and felt brave enough to stand and run. His foot found a burrow, and a jarring pain shot through his ankle. He flipped into the air, coming down hard on his shoulder and tumbling the rest of the way. He didn’t even have time to cry. He hit a slick patch of mud and went skidding into a tree trunk, bouncing off and ending up face down in the dirt. Everything hurt, his pounding head most of all, but he was now more worried about Nub. The dog had stopped barking, but he could hear a faint whimper deeper into the copse. He rubbed his aching shoulder, spat out a mouthful of dirt, and stumbled after the sound, wincing each time he put any weight on his bad leg. His britches clung to him, caked in mud. Mom was gonna kill him for that as well. Well, Mom wouldn’t. She was too soft; but she’d tell Father, if he ever came home.
He picked up another trail, this one barely visible. It didn’t look like anyone had come down this way for a long time. Years, maybe. His ankle loosened with each step until the pain was little more than a dull throb.
The track snaked through the trees till it reached a steep bank. Nub slipped and slid to the bottom, but Deacon had to go more slowly, grabbing onto the thin trunks of saplings to stop from falling. At the bottom, a brook chattered and tinkled, and Nub ran up and down its length looking for a way across. Hard-packed earth formed a natural bridge a short way upstream, and they went over it together, the dog nuzzling Deacon’s leg.
“Maybe we should head back, Nub,” Deacon said, crouching to pet him behind the ear. His guts had that queasy feeling they got when Father told his ghost stories of the Ancients.
Nub licked his hand and went on ahead. Deacon let out a long sigh and listened for the children he thought he’d heard playing. Nothing. Everything was quiet. He couldn’t even hear the scurrying of squirrels in the branches, the chittering of birds. Somewhere, way off in the distance, came the muffled rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker. It made him feel a little better, but not a lot.
Nub had stopped at the edge of a broad clearing and was scratching away at the earth with his paws. As Deacon drew nearer, he could see a large mossy stone poking up from the ground. He bent beside it and helped Nub scrape away the soil. Bit by bit he uncovered the top of a weathered cross. The earth became too hard to dig it all the way out, but as he cleared some of the mud from its surface, he could just about make out numbers at the cross’s center and letters above them. His reading wasn’t good yet. They were saving that for the tutor, but he knew numbers well enough and sat down to squint at them: 1815-1837. They had to be dates from the time of the Ancients, because the Nousian calendar Mom taught him only went up to 878. So, this was what had got Nub all upset. He must’ve sensed there was evil here.
Deacon stepped away from the half-buried cross. Things like this were why he wasn’t allowed to wander far on his own. It wasn’t just the burial mounds he had to watch out for; there were reminders of the Ancients’ world poking up out of the ground all over the Downs, Father said. Mom said they were demons, the Ancients; that they never even knew Nous.
Something tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. He shot to his feet and spun round. Someone was watching him, he was sure of it. Back up the slope, a shadow moved between the trees, and a chill seeped under his skin. There was the flash of a masked face—piebald like a cow—and then nothing. He stood staring at the spot he’d seen the figure, scarcely daring to breathe. The coldness no longer unsettled him, though; it was like being plunged into a cool stream on a hot summer’s day. He found himself longing for another glimpse, but all he saw was trees, and all he heard was—
Nub barked and sped across the clearing. Deacon couldn’t help himself; he had to follow, if only to catch the dog and carry him home. He knew he was pressing his luck. Mom might be a soft touch, but if Father got to hear about him going off alone, there’d be the Abyss to pay.
Nub scampered towards what looked like a pile of rock, but as Deacon caught up, he realized it was the ruins of a flint building. The grass all around was littered with broken stone crosses that were so overgrown with weeds they seemed like fossilized bones poking through the skin of the earth.
A snigger cut through the stillness: the kids again, by the sounds of it. Nub grew excited and ran back to investigate, but Deacon was far too interested in the rubble to care.
He clambered over what was left of the foundations. The roof had collapsed and fallen off to one side. A flat metal bird caked in rust jutted from beams of rotted wood. It was perched atop an arrow. To the rear of the wreckage there were long stone boxes set within a sea of swaying grass. The lids of a few were cracked clean in half, and set among them were winged statues of robed men and women—all of them headless. The heads stuck out of pockets of wildflowers, covered with lichen and crawling with snails. He drew back when he caught one staring up at him with empty eyes—eyes that had probably not seen a living person in hundreds of years. And that was a thought: why did no one come here, not even the grown-ups? The track was so faint, it can’t have been trodden for ages, and yet the ruin was only a stone’s throw from the village with all its families and roving children. Someone must’ve know it was here.
Nub’s yipping caught his ear. It was shrill, mixed in with taunts and laughter.
“Nub?” he called.
He heard the dog rip out three or four sharp barks. There was a muted thud, and then Nub whimpered and went quiet.
“Nub!”
Mocking voices answered from where he’d last seen the dog headed: “Nub! Nub-Nub. Here, doggy, doggy.”
He recognized some of them: Brent Carvin and the Dolten girls. His heart sank like
a stone and he clenched his fists, fighting back the dread. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Every time Mom took him into the village, they’d start. She thought they were just playing, just being kids, but he knew better.
He started to run towards the laughter but froze when he came back round the ruin and saw a lump amidst the shrubs. Brown fur twitched, and he knew right away it was Nub. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he half-ran, half-staggered to his dog. Bright blood speckled the blades of grass Nub had fallen on, and there was a gushing hole between his eyes.
Brent Carvin stepped from the tree line brandishing a slingshot. The Doltens were following like the sheep they were, and behind them came Rob Marlin and his brother Mik.
“Aah, shog, mate,” Brent said. “Was that your dog?”
Deacon knelt by Nub, stroked him gently on the ear. A red-stained rock lay in the grass a few feet away. Nub shivered, and his breaths were coming in short rattles.
“Is,” Deacon muttered, wiping away a tear.
“What’s that?” Brent said, stepping towards him.
The girls giggled, and the Marlin boys sniggered as they followed behind Brent.
“Is my dog,” Deacon said, lifting his eyes to glare his hatred. He didn’t care that Brent was older and bigger. All he could think of was that he’d hurt Nub, that the other kids thought it was funny.
“Not for much longer, mate,” Brent said, smirking at the Marlins. “Not the way it’s breathing. Still, you have to admit, it is one ugly son of shog.”
“Yeah,” Lucy Dolten said. “You can’t blame Brent. We thought it was gonna bite.”
Her sister stuck out her pointy chin. “Yeah, it was gonna attack us, weren’t it Brent? Weren’t it Mik, Rob?”
“That’s right,” Rob said. “Macy’s right. You shouldn’t be letting that thing run wild out here.”
Nub moaned, and Deacon pressed his nose to the dog’s. Normally, Nub would have licked his face, but he just didn’t have the strength. He whimpered and shook, and then his sad brown eyes rolled up into his head.
Someone made a scoffing noise; Deacon didn’t see who. He rocked back on his heels, blurry gaze never leaving Nub’s still body. He clutched at the grass, made a fist around it and felt his arms shaking.
“Aw, don’t cry,” Lucy said. “It ain’t like it was Brent’s fault.”
Brent drew nearer, till he was looming over Deacon. “Yeah, it weren’t my fault, so shut up with the baby tears, right?”
Deacon flashed him a look, dried his eyes with his sleeve, and stood. Don’t back down from a bully, Father always said. Mom didn’t agree; she always said to walk away, pray for them. That’s what Deacon always did, ever since he could remember, but he didn’t see much good coming from it. Nub deserved better than that.
“He was a bulldog,” he said, glaring into Brent’s eyes as if he could burn them from their sockets. “Maybe the last.” Certainly one of the last, if Father was right. The Ancients had bred them that way, for some odd reason, but people these days needed real dogs: dogs that could hunt and fight.
“Shogging pig-dog, if you ask me,” Mik said, and Rob snorted out a laugh.
“So, what’s your point, Momma’s boy?” Brent said. “Don’t matter what kind of dog it was; it’s a dead dog now. Maybe you and your loony mom should light a candle and say some prayers to make everything better.”
Deacon’s fist came up, but his arm was rigid with tension, and it just stayed there, a threat no one was going to take seriously.
“Go on,” Brent said, sticking his chin out. “Put it right there, holy boy, or are you gonna piss your pants and go running to Mommy like last time?”
He hadn’t. That wasn’t true. He’d run, that’s for sure, but only so he didn’t have to fight. Better a coward than a sinner, Mom always said.
—So why does Father fight?
“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath. It was the Demiurgos trying to mess with him; trying to make him doubt.
“What’s that?” Brent said.
—Why’s he fight, if it’s a sin?
“Shut up,” he said more firmly. He meant it for the niggling voice of the Father of Lies, but Brent didn’t see it that way.
White exploded in Deacon’s head as Brent’s fist smashed into his nose. A second punch split his lip and he tasted blood. With a roar that seemed to come from afar, he grabbed Brent around the neck and drove him back. The other kids scattered out of the way as Brent’s feet skidded and his arms flailed about wildly. Fire flooded Deacon’s veins. He slammed Brent against a tree trunk and pressed tighter with his thumbs. The slingshot fell among the roots, and Brent’s eyes bulged as he grunted and choked. Deacon saw himself bashing the boy’s head against the trunk till the skull cracked like an egg and his brains splattered the bark. Saw himself punching and punching till Brent’s ribs snapped like dry twigs; saw himself snatching up a jagged rock and pounding it into Brent’s face, over and over and over… But instead, he let go, let his arms go slack and drop to his sides. Brent was on him in a flash, thumping, kicking, snarling. After the first few blows, Deacon didn’t feel much; he was dimly aware of each jolting strike; he knew he was on the ground with Brent on top, swinging and spitting. But the tears burning his eyes weren’t from the beating: they were for Nous—for the sin of rage that had so offended him.
* * *
Deacon cradled Nub in his arms as he pushed through the garden gate and let it squeak shut behind him. His cuts were stinging, his arms numb from the bruises that were already turning yellow. But at least the tears had stopped, and maybe he’d done enough for Nous to forgive him.
He could see two shapes through the kitchen window, and his heart skipped a beat. It was Father, back for his birthday. He took a lunging step and then faltered under the weight of the dead dog. He couldn’t face his father like this, covered in bruises, without a single one on Brent; and Mom would cry and hug him and make it all a whole lot worse. And what about Nub? What would they say about Nub?
Mom peeked out the window and then opened the door. She put a hand over her mouth and stared with wide eyes. There was a flash of white behind her, and then a hand on her shoulder. Only, it wasn’t Father: it was an old man, bald and bearded, and he was wearing a white robe that hung over one shoulder. His blue eyes sparkled, keen as stars on a cloudless night. The barest hint of a frown tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Sweet Nous!” Mom brushed the old man’s hand off and ran to Deacon. Together, they lowered Nub to the ground, kneeling over him like the wise men over the Nous child in the crib on the mantelpiece.
Mom pressed her forehead to Deacon’s, wiped at the fresh tears spilling from his eyes with her thumb.
“Oh, my boy, what happened? Who did this? And Nub—”
“Dead, Mom. Nub’s dead.” Deacon’s body was racked with sobs, and soon Mom was crying with him.
The old man’s shadow fell over them, and he rested a hand atop Deacon’s head.
“But you won’t say who did it, eh, lad? Seems you are right about him, Gralia. I bet Jarl’s none too happy, though.”
Mom looked up, her sobs dying in her throat. She drew a sleeve across her damp eyes. “Then you don’t know him as well as you think,” she said. “My husband’s a fighter, true, but he’s not against me on this.”
“And neither am I, my dear,” the old man said. “Quite the opposite. You have laid the foundations, but we must not neglect the strengths of the father if young Shader here is to be the man he should be.”
“It’s Deacon, not Shader,” Deacon said, rolling his head away from the old man’s hand. “Father’s Shader.”
The old man gave a long studied look at Nub’s lifeless body and chewed his lip. When he spoke, it was almost to himself, as if he didn’t really care if anyone was listening. “Under my tutelage you are Shader, as would your father be, were he my student. It’s how we did it in the old days, and it’s how we’ll do it now.”
Deacon hefted Nub into his arms aga
in and stood, finding Mom’s eyes. He shook his head, wanting so much to say, It’s my birthday, Mom. Do we have to do this now?
“Maybe he’s still too young,” Mom said, ruffling Deacon’s hair.
“Seven is what we agreed, Gralia,” the old man said. “It’s the perfect age.”
“But, Aristodeus—”
The old man stepped in close and put a finger to her lips. “Seven,” he said with an air of finality.
Deacon pressed himself into her hip, hugging Nub tight to his chest.
Mom sucked in a breath through the gap in her teeth and gave a resigned nod.
“But,” the old man said, “do bury the dog first.” He took a pipe from the folds of his robe and let it hang from his mouth while he patted around for something else. “Don’t suppose you have a light, my dear?”
Mom narrowed her eyes and shook her head. She fetched a shovel from the shed and then led Deacon back down the garden and through the gate. Clouds had rolled in from the coast, bringing the threat of rain, and so they hurriedly set about finding a good spot that would be Nub’s last, and Mom dug while Deacon rocked his dog like a sleeping baby and ran through all the prayers he’d learned by heart.
* * *
Aristodeus was seated by the hearth when they came inside. He was using a smoking twig from the kindling to relight his pipe, sucking on the stem and puffing in quick succession. He had a package in his lap, something long and thin and wrapped in oilcloth, and there was a sword in its scabbard hanging from the back of his chair.
Mom excused herself, saying she needed to go upstairs to wash her hands and change her clothes after the digging. Deacon made as if to follow her, but the old man coughed in the back of his throat, and Mom nodded that it was all right.
“Remarkable restraint,” Aristodeus said.
Deacon stood dumbly for a moment.
“Sit.” Aristodeus indicated the chair on the other side of the hearth. “I meant you taking a beating.”
Deacon sat on his hands on the chair. He wasn’t sure what to say yet, if anything. He didn’t know what the rules were.
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