by Moira Young
The moment Lugh hears the words “hit my head”, he pulls me to him an starts pressin an pokin at my head an talkin over me. Fergawdsake, Saba, why didn’t you say?
Ow! I elbow him away. I’m okay, it’s jest a bump.
I’ll be the judge of that, he says. He starts checkin me out, holdin up his pointer finger an movin it back an forth. I follow it with my eyes.
It was Tracker, I says. I swear it was him, Lugh.
He takes me by the shoulders. Looks at me straight. Listen to me, he says. You hit yer head. You bin lyin in the sun fer who knows how long. You must of imagined it. Dreamed it.
No, I says, no, I never.
C’mon, Saba, think about it, he says. What’s the chances of Tracker showin up here, in the middle of nowhere? Crosscreek must be weeks away.
I know that, I says.
So, what’s the chances?
I dunno, I says. I . . . not good, I guess.
More like impossible, he says. An what about this?
Lugh holds up the loose end of a piece of nettlecord rope that’s tied around his right ankle. I look down. I got the same as him, essept around my left ankle. The tether’s bin cut through with a knife, close to my boot, clean an neat. I stare at the cut rope. I fergot all about him an me bein tied together. Lately, when I do sleep, I’ve took to sleepwalkin. Tyin us together was Lugh’s idea to stop me wanderin off an gittin into trouble. Fer my own good, he said. To keep me safe.
I woke up, he says, the rope was cut an you was gone.
Nero flaps down an lands on my head. I wince. Move him to my shoulder. I must of bin sleepwalkin agin, I says.
You tryin to tell me you moved so sneaky in yer sleep? he says. That you cut us apart without wakin me up?
What, you think I did it on purpose? I says.
You tell me, he says.
I–I don’t remember cuttin the rope, I says. I don’t remember how I got here.
Oh gawd, I dunno, maybe you was sleepwalkin. He shakes his head. Jeez, Saba.
Look, I says, all I can remember is, I was huntin an there was this windspringer, runnin in front of a storm – ohmigawd, Lugh, you never seen nuthin like this storm before. There was this . . . long line of twisters, little ones not more’n forty foot high, an they come rollin outta the east, jest sweepin right along there. It was amazin!
I wave my arm at the plain in front of us. Lugh an me look out over the bleak face of the Waste. The mid-mornin sky’s so clear you can see all the way to the horizon an into next week. No bushes ripped out. No churned up ground. Not a single sign that a storm might of passed.
There was a storm, I says, it happened, truly it did. Nero seen it!
I look to him, like he might suddenly start talkin an back me up. But he’s busy with crow concerns, tearin at the ripped flesh of one of the wolfies, gorgin hisself on fresh kill.
Well, anyways, I nearly had him, I says, this springer, but then this pack of wolfies come outta nowhere an two of ’em – these two here – they come at me an then Tracker shows up an they start to fight an . . . then I . . . I fell an hit my head an when I come to, you was here an . . . that’s it.
We stare at each other.
Lugh. Golden as the sun itself. His skin, his long hair that hangs in a plait to his waist. Eyes the blue of a summer sky. So different from me, with my dark hair an eyes. Ma used to say I was the night-time an Lugh was the day. Th’only thing the same is our birthmoon tattoo on our right cheekbones. Pa put ’em there hisself, to mark us out as special. Twins born at the midwinter moon. A rare thing.
Lugh huffs out his breath. Goes to where my bow an quiver lies on the ground, my knife too. While he picks ’em up, he whistles fer the horses an they start pickin their way down the ridge towards us. Hermes an Rip, Tommo’s horse that Lugh rode here on. He comes back. Hands my weapons over.
A full quiver, he says. That means you didn’t shoot even one arrow. Not at the windspringer, not at the wolfies. How come?
I go to speak. Stop myself. I nearly said. It nearly came out. About the shakes an the breathin an . . . the rest. But I cain’t say. I mustn’t. I cain’t burden Lugh with my troubles. His soul’s heavy enough. Whatever it is that ails me, it’ll pass.
Saba! Lugh says. How come you didn’t shoot?
I . . . I dunno, I says.
You know what I think? he says. There warn’t no storm. There warn’t no windspringer an there warn’t no blue-eyed wolfdog that come outta nowhere to save yer life. You dreamed the whole thing. You was sleepwalkin.
No, I says. No.
You rode here in yer sleep, he says, an somehow you fell an knocked yerself out. While you was dreamin of blue-eyed wolfdogs an twister storms, these two wolfies an that one I chased off, they sniffed you out an got in a fight over the meat.
What meat? I says.
You, you idiot, he says. I came jest in time to save yer hide. If I hadn’t of, they’d of ripped you to shreds an vultures ’ud be pickin at yer bones right this second.
I glance at the sky. Sure enough, the big dead eaters is startin to circle above the wolfies. No, I says, no, it warn’t like that, Lugh, I swear it was Tracker who—
Shut up! Jest shut up! he explodes. Gawdammit, Saba, give it a rest an stop lyin to me!
His face is hot. Flushed dark red. The little muscle in his jaw – the one Emmi calls his mad muscle – is bunched tight an jumpin. It happens a lot these days. This quick snap of rage.
I ain’t lyin, I says.
Well, you ain’t tellin me the truth, he says.
What, like you tell me the truth? I says.
We stare at each other a long moment. There’s tired lines carved deep in his face. Dark smudges unner his eyes. Suddenly, his shoulders slump. His anger drains away. As quick as it comes, it’s gone.
What’m I gonna do with you? he says. He hooks a arm around my neck an pulls me to him. We lean our foreheads aginst each other. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I . . . I jest want things to be the way they was. I jest want you an me to be us agin.
Me too, I whisper.
You smell bad, he says.
I know, I says.
No, he says, I mean, you smell real bad. I cain’t stand it. He shoves me away. Go cut some big muscle meat offa one of them wolfies, he says. We’ll stew some tonight an wind dry the rest.
Hermes an Rip stand waitin, well away from the dead wolfdogs. While I stone off the vultures an git on with slicin one of the wolfies into chunks, Lugh goes an starts checkin the horses over, bridles, bits an reins, the cattail mats on their backs.
We jest need to git outta this place, I says. It’s doin all our heads in. Is Buck’s leg healed enough fer us to move on?
I ain’t riskin a good horse jest because you cain’t wait to see Jack, says Lugh.
I didn’t say that, I says.
You don’t hafta, he says. I know what you mean.
You do not, I says. Heat starts to crawl up my neck.
Oh really? Then how come yer turnin red? I swear, this . . . obsession you got with him . . . all of yuz. Lugh puts on a silly little voice. D’you remember the time Jack said this? Did I tell you about the time Jack did that? I’m sick of hearin his name.
Anybody’d think you was jealous, I says.
I jest don’t want you to git hurt, says Lugh. I keep tellin you, Saba, he ain’t gonna be there. He ain’t gonna show at the Big Water. Jack’s long gone. A guy like him . . . he gits a whiff of somethin new an he’s off. He’s only in it fer hisself, you can see it in his eyes. Once he’s got what he wants, he moves on.
Jack ain’t like that, I says. My cheeks feel flamin hot now.
What’s the matter? he says. Too close to the mark? What did Jack want from you? Did you give it to him?
Shut yer mouth, I says.
Lugh stops what he’s doin. Gives me a hard s
tare. Did you lie with him? he says. Is that how you paid him to help find me?
I gasp. Jump to my feet an face him square. You take that back!
I seen the way he looked at you, he says. The way you looked at him.
The way I look at people’s my own business, I says. You took aginst Jack the moment you met him, when all you should be is thankful.
An there it is! he says. The hourly reminder of my debt to Jack.
Well, maybe that’s because you don’t seem to appreciate that you wouldn’t be alive if it warn’t fer him, I says. None of us would. I don’t unnerstand you, Lugh. Why you ain’t grateful that—
Do NOT tell me I oughta be grateful! he yells. He storms over, grabbin my arms, shakin me hard. I am not grateful, d’you hear me? I do not! Wanna! Hafta be . . . grateful.
He ends on a whisper. He stares down at his hands holdin my arms. At his fingers diggin into me. Hangin on to me. Then, Why did you let ’em take me? Why didn’t you an Pa stop ’em?
His voice is so low I hafta lean close in to hear.
We tried to, I says. You know we did. They killed Pa.
He lifts his head. His eyes so bleak. So . . . old. My heart pinches.
You should of found me sooner, he says.
His voice sends a white slash of fear through me. It’s flat. Empty.
Please, Lugh, I whisper, why won’t you tell me what happened to you at Freedom Fields?
Nuthin happened, he says. He turns his eyes away. He lets go my arm. We better git back, he says. They’ll be wonderin where we are.
We ride back to camp without talkin. Apart.
My head’s tight. It throbs an pounds where the bump is. My eyes burn with uncried tears.
If tears could wash away the bleakness in my brother’s eyes, the white fear flatness of his voice, I’d weep till the end of time. But they cain’t. An I fear there won’t ever be enough tears. Not fer him. Not fer none of us.
All the while I was lookin fer him, all them months, I kept tellin myself the same thing. Over an over. Once I find him, once me an Lugh’s back together agin, we’re gonna be the same as we was before. The way we’ve always bin.
Now I know that was jest the story I told myself. To keep goin. To spur me on to find him. To keep me fightin. To keep me alive.
It’s a good story. I wish it was true. But it ain’t. Because this is the truth.
What happens to you changes you. Fer good or ill, yer changed ferever. There ain’t no goin back. No matter how many tears you cry. It sounds simple, but it ain’t.
It’s a truth that Hopetown nailed through my heart. The first time they put me in the Cage to fight.
My whole life, Lugh’s bin my better self. The light to my dark. We shared a heartbeat in the womb. The blood an breath of our mother. We’re two halfs of one whole.
Now he cain’t help me. I cain’t help him. An we sure as hell cain’t help ourselfs. No, fer the first time ever, Lugh ain’t the one I need.
I need Jack.
Jack.
My longin fer him aches in my bones. His silver eyes, his crooked smile, the smell of his warm skin, sage an sun. But mostly I long fer, mostly I ache fer, his stillness. The stillness at the heart of him. Like calm water.
Lugh’s wrong about him. Couldn’t be more wrong. If Jack says he’ll meet me at the Big Water, he will. He keeps his promises. All I need is to see him agin. To be with him, to talk with him. We’ll talk about it, we’ll talk about everythin, an he’ll listen an he’ll help me figger out how to fix things, how to make it all better. How to make me an Lugh better.
He’ll banish the shadows. He’ll silence the whispers. An the wounds of my soul will heal.
I jest need Jack.
He’ll make everythin all right.
We’re nearly back at camp. Suddenly, somethin catches Lugh’s eye. He squints east, into the distance. I do too. There’s a trail of dust slowly snakin this way.
Throw me the looker, he says. The first words since we left the ridge. He lifts it to his eyes. Another wagon train, he says. How many’s that since we bin stopped here?
Four – no, five, I says.
A lotta people on the move these days, even in this hellhole. He watches fer a bit. Same as always, he says. Sick lookin. Old. Useless.
Let’s talk to these ones, Lugh, I says. Maybe they could help us. We could travel with ’em.
I bin takin care of this family since I was eight, he says. I think I know what’s best. You sayin I don’t?
No, I says, no, I didn’t mean to—
We don’t need nobody’s help, he says. Well, they better not come lookin fer water. We ain’t got none to spare.
I’ll watch till they pass, I says.
He nods. Tosses me the looker. Sing out if they head this way, he says.
Hey, Lugh?
Yeah?
You an me, we’re . . . okay, ain’t we?
His smile don’t reach his eyes. Of course we are, he says. He clicks at Rip an they disappear around the hill.
Our camp’s set up in the lee of the best windbreak fer leagues around – a great carhill, made back in Wrecker times. We had one near us at Silverlake. Pa figgered that carhills must of bin some kinda tech worship thing the Wreckers did. The land took hold of this one a long time ago. Covered it with earth an grass all over, hid it away from view. But on the windward side, you can see bits of crushed, rusted car. A nose here, a tail end there. Around th’other side, there’s a grove of spindly scrub pine an a waterhole an that’s where we are. So close to the carhill, you’d esspeck the water to be rustwater, but this one ain’t. Still, it’s only a puddle, jest enough fer us an the horses.
I git down from Hermes an scramble up the hill. I fix the looker on the dust trail. It ain’t long before the travellers come into plain view. There’s three wagons in this train. First comes a old woman on boarback, wild haired an bent. Next, a man an woman in a mule cart. She fans flies away from the limp child in her lap. Bringin up the rear, a girl about my age pedals a three-tyre trolley.
I wait. They pass, too far away to see me an I’m well hid besides. Still, the driver of the mule cart lifts his head. Turns it this way. Maybe the sun caught on the glass of my looker. A brief glance, then he sets his face forwards once agin.
He’s bitter-faced, sick yellow skin. With the look of a man who’s left any hope by the side of the road a long way back. A sorry crew, altogether. They look like they’re carryin sickness. Maybe the blood lung, maybe worse. Fer definite we don’t want ’em stoppin to ask fer no water.
Old folk. Weak men an women. Sickly young. Jest like th’other wagon trains we seen crossin the Waste. Not one person lookin fit enough to travel good roads, let alone this one. Lugh’s right. People’s on the move west.
I wonder why.
Not jest wagons, lone travellers too. We found the leftover bits of one fella. Well, Nero did. Dead eaters had bin at him, jackals an vultures, so you couldn’t tell much. Jest his hair colour an boot size. The boots was good an they fit Tommo. You never feel right, takin from the dead. But he wouldn’t be doin no more walkin an Tommo would. We piled rocks over what was left of him an Lugh said a few respeckful words.
I watch till it’s clear this train ain’t gonna stop. Then I head around the hill to camp.
There’s one good thing in all this. It turns out that Tommo’s a genius cook. Ike learned him in the kitchen of The One-Eyed Man, where they had to feed travellers day after day.
He roasts an bastes. He stirs an tastes. He mashes an crushes an boils. Then he’ll sprinkle a pinch from his herb bag an whatever limped into the pot comes high-steppin into our mouths. We bin stuck with crickets an small lizard fer some time, which don’t even start to kill our hunger. Tommo does champion with the wolfdog an, fer once, our tight bellies ease.
Strange to say, but I ain’t
much bothered by bein hungry. I know I am, my stummick tells me so, I jest don’t seem to care. I give half my portion to Tommo.
The day slouches towards night. The pines around us settle in. Their parched needles sigh in the warm breeze. Their tired sweetness gentles the air. After Tommo’s finished cookin, we keep the small bitterbrush fire goin, not fer warmth so much as comfort.
I sit unner a tree, apart from everybody. It took three pans of precious water to boil wash the wolfdog blood from my clothes. I huddle in my skivvies, wrapped in a blanket while they drip dry on a branch.
My bones ache with weariness. I long fer sleep. But it won’t come. I won’t let it. I don’t dare.
I can feel the shadows gatherin.
Earlier, Lugh an Tommo made a rack from deadwood an hung thin slices of wolfie meat to air dry. Now they lift an twist in the breeze - rustlin, whisperin wind chimes.
Once we’ve scoured our eatin tins clean with pine needles, we settle down to eventide tasks. Everybody but me, that is. Tommo starts to fashion two new cleft poles fer his sleep skellie. His old ones snapped in the middle of last night an the whole shebang collapsed on top of him. Lugh’s mendin his boot sole with a chunk of goodyear.
Emmi’s playin dice with Nero. It’s his favourite game, but ever since Jack learned him to cheat Em’s th’only one’ll give him a game. She’s on a mission to mend his wicked ways. Tonight, she’s kept aside a fried locust fer a reward.
No, she says. Cheatin crows do not git bugs. Well, if you want one, play proper. Now, watch me. You see? Okay, now you go. No . . . no, Nero! Oh, I give up.
She leaves him to gobble the bug an comes to crouch beside me. That bird of yers is a lost cause, she says. Jack’s a bad inflamence. When I see him, I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind. Fancy teachin innocent crows to cheat.
He tried to pick my pocket th’other day, I says. You can lay that at Jack’s door too.
Jack’s a rascal, all right, she says. He must be at the Big Water by now. Probly bin there ages. He must think we ain’t comin. D’you think he’ll . . . he will wait fer us, won’t he?