by Moira Young
A quick move and the other Tonton’s got his bolt shooter out and aimed at Jack. It was the work of a second. He goes to the bar and drains one of the full hoochers. His gaze never leaves Jack. His shooter stays aimed.
The first Tonton comes back out. Where’d she go? he says.
I dunno, friend, says Jack. Like I said, there ain’t nobody here.
Just then, Molly lets out a cry. A long, keening, animal wail of pain.
As it dies down, the one with the drink says, So who’s that?
He and Jack stare at each other.
Leave her alone, says Jack.
The Tonton points his bolt shooter at Jack’s heart. Lazily. He smiles.
Call her, he says. Go on . . . friend. Call her.
I stand on the ridge. I watch the sun rise. White-faced an pitiless, it starts to grill the earth. Another dawn in the Waste. Another day in this nowhere. High summer. Heat an dust. Thirst an hunger an blame.
Me an Lugh an Tommo an Emmi. At each other. About who did what. Who said what. Whose fault it is that we’re stuck here. That we’re caught in this land of death an bones, when we should be livin it rich out west. Makin a new life fer ourselfs.
Over the mountains. Beside the Big Water. Where the air tastes like honey. Where Jack waits fer me.
Oh, Jack. Please. Wait.
I’m countin on you to wait.
We should of bin there long ago. Weeks ago. Emmi says the land’s keepin us here. That it’s trapped us. I wish she wouldn’t say stuff like that. You know it’s stupid but she says it an somehow it gits into yer head an then you cain’t stop thinkin about it.
The thing is, we made a bad start. We didn’t have no plan. We jest turned our heads west an went. It beggars belief that four people could be so foolish, but there you go. We warn’t thinkin clear, none of us. Too much had happened. We’d jest beat the Tonton in a hard fight. An only then by the skin of our teeth, an all thanks to Maev an the Hawks. If they hadn’t of showed up, we’d of bin finished.
Then Jack. Tellin me, farewell not goodbye, I’ll see you out west an – oh, by the way – yer in my blood, Saba.
So my head was full of him an all of the rest of it an . . . I had Lugh back. Since the day the Tonton snatched him from Silverlake, that’s all I’d bin set on. To find Lugh an git him back. An I was jest so glad. So glad an so thankful that him an me was together agin.
I don’t mean to say that it don’t matter that Ike got killed in the fight. A grievous sadness fills me when I think about him. My heart hurts. Not like Tommo’s does, not like that. He mourns Ike hard an deep. I guess no deaf boy’s ever gonna be a big talker, but he’s bin brought so low we hardly hear his strange, rough voice these days. Em’s took to speakin on his account. He don’t seem to mind.
But when we started off, the main thing was we was alive. Somehow . . . somehow we lived through it all. An I had my Lugh back. My twin, most dearly loved. An it was like we was giddy with relief an joy an . . . so much relief that we fergot about anythin else.
Like how we’d git where we wanted to go.
We ended up askin the first traveller we met. A salt johnny on camelback who’d jest bin harvestin at one of the great salt lakes on the Waste. Our tradebag was on the thin side an the best we could give him was a belt buckle an a pair of cord bootlaces. That bought us a half-campbell of salt an the advice to head straight across the Waste. He said it was the fastest, most direct way west. We figgered he knew what he was talkin about, so that’s what we did. We went straight.
A buckle an bootlaces don’t buy good advice.
He didn’t tell us what kinda place it is. Why it’s called the Waste. He didn’t tell us about the deathwater. The bad huntin. The Wrecker plague pits that stretch out fer leagues. The sinkholes that suddenly appear as you cross ’em. One moment yer goin along, the next moment the ground opens an yer down among the dead.
I was the first one to fall in. I bin up to my neck in dead men’s bones before. You’d think I’d be used to it. That I wouldn’t mind. But I do. I mind.
I’m sick to death of death.
Then it was Buck, Lugh’s horse. Lucky he didn’t break his leg or worse. Lucky Lugh was leadin him at the time, not ridin him. But he twisted his right leg. It happened a week ago an he still ain’t right. So we’re stuck here till he’s better. Stuck in the Waste.
Maybe the land is tryin to keep us here. Maybe Emmi’s right. It warn’t so long ago that I wouldn’t of paid no mind to what a nine year old little sister had to say. But Em’s got a way of seein things, a different way of lookin at the world. I don’t dismiss her so quick these days.
One thing’s true. One thing I know fer sure. This place ain’t right. There’s shadows where there shouldn’t oughta be none. I’ll see somethin, outta the corner of my eye, an I’ll think it’s Nero or maybe another bird but it never is. An I hear these . . . these noises. It’s like . . . I dunno, like somebody’s whisperin or somethin.
I don’t say nuthin to th’others. Not no more. I did at first. We’d all hunt around to see what it might be, but nobody ever found nuthin an then they started lookin at me funny, so now I jest keep my mouth shut.
I don’t sleep good. I ain’t slept good fer so long that I’m pretty much used to it, but it’s bin even worse ever since Epona died. Anyways, it means I can keep watch over ’em. Lugh an Emmi an Tommo. Make sure they don’t come to no harm. If I don’t sleep, nobody can come an take ’em.
Mainly, though, I keep watch over Lugh. He sleeps long an deep. But not easy. Never easy. Most nights he talks in his sleep. Nuthin I can make out, mumblin fer the most part, the odd word or two.
Sometimes he cries. Like a little child. That’s the worst. I cry with him. I cain’t help it. His tears is mine. They always have bin. Th’only time I ever remember him cryin before was when Ma died when we was eight. There was plenty of tears shed then. Me an Lugh an Pa must of cried enough tears to fill Silverlake three times over. But tears don’t bring back the dead. I learned that.
Fer now, I got work to do. Back at camp they’ll all be wakin with empty bellies an it’s my turn to hunt. Lizard, pouch rat, snake, I ain’t fussy. Anythin ’ud do, so long as it ain’t locusts. I brought back locusts my last three times an all becuz of – well, everybody’s cheesed off with crunchin bugs, that’s fer sure.
I frown. I cain’t think how I got here this mornin. How I got to this ridge so far from our campsite. I must of come on Hermes. There he is, right over there, rough chestnut coat an sturdy legs, rippin up withered clumps of bunchgrass. You’d think I could recall the ride, but I cain’t. Strange.
I lift the long-looker to my eyes. Scan the landscape. The Waste rolls out as far as I can see. To the horizon an beyond. Dry, yellow soil. The odd hill of grey rock, striped with red. Worn smooth by the wind.
This place ’ud make a devil weep, I says.
Suddenly I hear a rumble. I feel it the same time I hear it. A low, steady tremor unner my feet. There’s a flash of movement to the left. From the north. I train the looker that way.
Holy crap, I says.
It’s a line of twisters. They swirl across the plain, in a long row. Small ones, not more’n forty foot high. I ain’t never seen such a thing. They snatch the dust as they head this way.
An there’s a windspringer. He races along, in front of the line of twisters, as they chase behind. A two-year buck, judgin by his antlers. He goes flat out. If he don’t outrun ’em, he’ll be swept up.
Nero’s ridin the thermals overhead. I whistle. He swoops down an lands on my outstretched hand.
I point to the springer. See that? I says. That’s breakfast, lunch an supper fer the next week.
Nero squawks.
You know what to do, I says. Turn him this way. Bring him to me. Bring him here, Nero! I throw him into the air an he streaks away. Nero’s a good hunter. Thinks he’s a
hawk, not a crow. He’ll turn the springer from the twisters’ path. He’ll drive him right into range of my crossbow.
I start to run.
My feet feel heavy. Like they don’t belong to the rest of me. They don’t wanna move. But I make ’em. I start to go faster. As I run, I slide my bow from my back. Grab a arrow from my quiver. I leap down the dry slope of the ridge. Right near the bottom there’s a flat bit of rock that juts out. I can git a clear shot from there an I’ll be far enough away to be safe from the twisters.
I reach the rock. Dust whirls about me. The wind shrieks. I take up position. I nock my arrow to the bowstring.
I gotta stay calm. If I stay calm, it’ll be okay. This time, it’ll be okay. I take a deep breath.
Nero screams with excitement. He’s drivin the springer hard. It swerves right, then left, but he dives at it, shriekin. It heads straight this way. There’s a white blaze on its breast. Over its heart. The perfect target.
This is gonna be the perfect kill.
I lift my bow. Take aim. Straight fer the heart.
My hands start to shake. There’s a flash of white light.
Epona runnin towards me. Throwin her arms wide. An I shoot her. Straight through the heart.
Cold sweat. On my forehead, in my eyes. I blink. Epona’s dead. I killed her.
Saabaa. Saaabaaa.
My name whispers around me. I turn, lookin. Nuthin there. Nobody.
Who is it? I says.
Saaabaaa.
It’s the wind. The twisters. That’s all. Calm down. Take aim. Shoot the springer. It’s only a couple hunnerd paces away now.
I grip my bow harder. The shakin gits worse. It’s jest like before. Jest like the last time. An the time before that. Any time I try to shoot.
Then.
I notice.
My breath
tight chest
dry throat
cain’t breathe
need air
deep breaths
I cain’t, I—
cain’t
breathe
cain’t
breathe
on my knees on the ground tight throat heart fast
too fast, too—
air
air
cain’t breathe cain’t see cain’t—
Nero.
Screamin.
Nero.
Warnin me.
Danger.
Danger.
Danger.
I lift my head. Everythin’s . . . blurred.
Then. I see. Somethin movin. Movin fast. I squint. Try to see what it is, what—
Wolfdogs, I says.
A pack of wolfdogs chase hard at the springer’s heels. Six of ’em. No. Eight. Where’d they come from?
The pack splits. Six wolfdogs stay on the springer’s tail. They chase it south, across the Waste. The line of twisters churn after ’em.
Two dogs peel off. Two dogs head towards me. Comin this way.
They smell me. They smell my weakness.
Deep inside, in my belly the red hot flickers. But it’s feeble. A weak spark when I need a blaze. A fierce fire to save me. The red hot always . . . saves me.
I haul myself up. Hard to breathe. Hands shakin, but I . . . can do it, I can – my bow drops from my hands. Hits the ground. The flicker’s gone. The red hot. Gone.
I’m helpless. Hopeless. Alone.
No. Not quite.
Nero screams with rage. He attacks the wolfdogs. Dives at their heads. But on they come. They’re forty foot away now. Thirty.
Move, Saba. Do somethin. Anythin! I scrabble fer rocks, pebbles, sticks.
Nero’s slowin ’em down. He darts, draws blood, retreats. Agin an agin an agin. They lunge at him. Strike with their claws. A flurry of fur an feathers an dust. Shrieks an snarls. They’ll hurt him. Kill him.
Nero! Nero! I scream. I got rocks in my hands. Throw ’em, throw ’em. No, no, I might hit Nero. Dust an chaos. I cain’t see clear.
My breath, my breath’s comin easier. Whatever took hold of me starts to let go. But I’m weak. Shaky.
Nero breaks free. I let fly with the rocks. But I miss. The wolfdogs pace towards me. Ten foot away. Eight. Six.
One dog in front of me. One on my left. Cold, flat heat in their yellow eyes.
Nero shrieks an shrieks. He dives. They cower.
I scream an scream. I fling pebbles an dirt. I throw, they flinch, but they ain’t put off. Suddenly I remember the knife in my boot. I reach fer it. My hands, my tremblin hands.
They inch towards me. Eyes fixed. Low in their throats, they hum my death.
Then behind me, from nowhere, a noise an a rush. Before I can move, somethin leaps past me.
A grey shape. Big. Shaggy. Another wolfdog. A new one.
This one, this new wolfdog, he flies at the dog on my left. Goes straight fer his throat an bowls him over. Rips his neck open. As blood spills, th’other wolfdog, the one in front of me, attacks the new one. Teeth flash. Dust flies.
I scramble outta the way.
The new wolfdog warn’t runnin with the others. He’s a loner. He’s got blue eyes. Light blue eyes.
That’s rare. I only seen one other before. An he’s in a bad way. Rib-thin, matted fur, an now a bleedin wound on his flank. But he’s fightin like a demon.
Think, Saba. I need Hermes. If there’s a moment . . . if I git a chance I’ll take it. I’ll take any chance to git away, but I need Hermes here.
No, no, wait, I cain’t, the dogs might go fer him. So confused. Cain’t think straight. Move, Saba. Jest move! I start to back away, up the ridge. I keep my eyes on the dogs, tearin at each other, fightin to the death.
Nero screams above.
A loose rock. My foot slips. I go over. I’m down.
An I’m slidin. Tumblin. Fallin.
Back down the slope.
Straight towards the wolfdogs.
I’m on my back. Lyin on hard, flat rock. Hot rock. The heat sizzles around me. Cooks me. My bones ache. Eyes heavy. Dry. I squint one open. Too bright. A dull pain throbs at the back of my head.
I groan.
Nero croaks. I can feel the weight of him on my stummick.
The smell of doggy, meaty breath, hot an close. A rough tongue licks my face. My eyes fly open. The blue-eyed wolfdog’s standin over me.
Ahhh! I scrabble away an leap to my feet. Nero screeches off in a flurry.
The dog’s backin away, whinin. He stops. He sits, about six foot away. His pink tongue lolls outta his mouth, long an drippin. I frown. Is that – is he . . . smilin at me? Fer the first time, I notice he’s got one droopy ear. The right one.
Blue eyes. One droopy ear. Jest like Tracker. Mercy’s wolfdog, Tracker. But . . . how can that be? Mercy’s place at Crosscreek must be weeks from here.
Tracker? I says.
He stands. Barks twice. Takes a couple of steps towards me. Nero caws from his perch on a nearby rock.
Tracker! I says. Ohmigawd, Tracker, it’s you! What’re you do—
A arrow comes whizzin through the air. I dive. Tracker darts away. It jest misses his left flank. I look behind to see who’s shot it.
It’s Lugh. Standin on the ridge above. He’s about to shoot agin.
No! I yell. Wait! Don’t shoot!
Too late. Then Lugh’s leapin down the slope, hollerin an wavin his arms. The arrow bounces offa the rock.
An I’m yellin, Lugh, stop! It’s okay! Don’t shoot!
An Nero’s flyin all over the place, screechin an squawkin.
An Tracker’s gone. I can see him high-tailin it across the Waste.
Damn, I says. Ow! A sharp twinge in the back of my head. It’s a fair-sized lump an hurts like stink when I give it a prod.
I freeze. There’s two wolfdogs not more’n ten foot away from me. What’s left of ’em, anyways. It’s the ones that attacked me. They lie in pools of their own blood. Both got their throats ripped out. Their teeth bared in a last snarl, their yellow eyes glarin rage at death. The air hums with a hungry buzz. Flies. Hunnerds of ’em. Thousands of ’em. The open wounds, the half-dried lakes of sticky blood heave with their shimmerin bodies.
Tracker did this. Tracker killed the wolfdogs. He saved my life.
Tracker. Here. I don’t unnerstand.
Saba! Lugh runs up, crossbow in hand. He’s breathin hard. Relief an worry an anger, all at the same time, chase over his face. Saba, are y’okay?
Yeah, I says. I’m fine, thanks.
But I’m thinkin. Tracker here. Alone in the Waste. So . . . does that mean Mercy’s somewhere near? No, she cain’t be, he’s in terrible shape, so thin an ragged. She’d never let him git like that. So what’s goin on? How’d he git here? An where’s Mercy? Tough, wise Mercy. What’s happened to her?
Whaddya mean, fine? Saba! Lugh grabs my arm an shakes it. Saba, what the hell happened here?
That was Tracker, I says. That wolfdog you jest shot at. It’s Tracker. Ohmigawd, Lugh, he saved my life.
Who? He looks blank.
Then I remember. Lugh warn’t at Mercy’s place at Crosscreek with me an Emmi. That was after he got took by the Tonton. So he don’t know Tracker.
Tracker, I says. He’s Mercy’s tame wolfdog. Y’know, Mercy. Ma’s friend . . . from Crosscreek.
He stares at me. Crosscreek? You ain’t talkin no sense.
Yes, I am, I says. That wolfdog had one droopy ear an blue eyes. Jest like Tracker. It was him, Lugh, it was Tracker, I’m sure of it.
Wolfdogs got yellow eyes, not blue, says Lugh. Yellow, like these here. An there ain’t no such thing as a tame wolfdog. They’re vicious bastards. Look at you, Saba, yer a mess.
He’s right. I got blood all over me. My boots, my tunic, my britches.
Tracker killed ’em, I says. They was comin fer me an then . . . he come flyin outta nowhere, Lugh, an he fought that one an rippped his throat an then he started in on that one an then I tripped an . . . I remember fallin, I must of hit my head. Must of knocked myself out. When I come to, jest now, Tracker was standin right beside me an—