Rebel Heart

by Moira Young

  Simple outside, simple inside too. Big enough to stand up in. A narrow bed, a stove, a chair, the table, a wooden chest. A few other bits. Some books. Good fer one, close quarters fer two.

  DeMalo’s fillin a bowl with clean water. He brings it to the table, then goes to the chest an takes out a blanket an a little tin box. He moves silent an smooth. He don’t look to be in no hurry, but somehow everythin happens fast.

  Sit, he says. He drapes the blanket around my shoulders as I sit on the chair, huggin Nero close, soothin him. Now, he says as he opens the box an starts takin bits out, we’ll clean him up and take a look. He pours tincture in the water an dips a clean cloth. Move him close to the light, he says.

  His voice is low. Deep. Warm. The few times, the few words I heard him speak before – back at Hopetown, in the cells – unsettled me. Chilled me. Not now. Somehow, he don’t seem like the same person. Or maybe it’s me.

  I can fix him myself, I says.

  You’re in no fit state, he says. He cleans Nero’s head first. Gently.

  I don’t dare breathe till I see how bad it is. Jest a scratch, I says.

  He dabs cranesbill salve on it. It’s this other I’m worried about, he says. Okay, Nero, brave fellow. He starts to clean his breast. As the water in the bowl turns red, we can see the damage. A tear in the flesh, luckily not near to his heart. It’s not deep, says DeMalo. Looks like Culan just caught him with a talon. I don’t see any damage to his wings or muscles. He’s okay.

  Oh! I gasp out, a sob, or laugh a shaky breath. I kiss Nero’s head. D’you hear that? Yer okay.

  It needs a couple of stitches, he says. Can he take it?

  He can, I says. I dunno about me, though. I cain’t abide a needle goin into flesh. I bin known to faint.

  DeMalo flashes me a smile. A real, proper smile. I ain’t never seen him smile before. His eyes light an crinkle, his teeth gleam, white an straight. He shakes his head as he cleans a thin bone needle. That’s funny, he says.

  Funny? I says.

  He starts to thread fine gut through the tiny eye. I’ve seen you in action, he says. You’re hardly short on courage.

  Yeah, well, I says. We all got our weaknesses.

  A quick flick of his eyes my way. Weaknesses, he says, or desires? D’you think it’s important we learn to conquer them?

  Jack. Betrayer. Deceiver.

  Yes, I says. Nero croaks. Is he really gonna be all right? I says.

  I promise, he says. Hold him still. DeMalo moves his hands slowly towards Nero. He slashes out at him, fightin, defendin hisself. I soothe him, hold his beak closed. DeMalo begins to stitch the wound. Nero struggles. He cries piteously.

  Tears spring to my eyes. You’re hurtin him! I says.

  I’m sorry, it can’t be helped, he says. Try to keep him still.

  Jest hurry!

  You’re a mighty warrior, Nero, he says. A crow with the spirit of an eagle. DeMalo’s hands work careful an sure. That’s one, he says. One more to go.

  Good boy, I whisper to Nero. Brave boy.

  He cries in little peeps now. The same as when I found him lyin on the ground, fell outta the nest an his ma nowhere in sight. I’m cryin a bit too. I cain’t stand that he’s in pain. I feel it worse’n if it was me.

  There we go. DeMalo’s finished. Keep it clean, he says. Don’t let him worry the stitches.

  I take Nero on to my lap an dab the salve on his poor flesh.

  How’s that, my friend? DeMalo crouches in front of me. Puts out a finger to stroke him. Nero gives him a sharp nip. I guess I deserve that, he says.

  DeMalo looks so different with short hair. It’s wet still. Messy. He smells of somethin green. Fresh. He takes the salve pot from me, dips his finger in it an, before I know, he’s smoothin it gently on the cut on my temple.

  An I let him. Fer some reason, I let him. I stare straight ahead, not movin, hardly darin to breathe.

  DeMalo. I thought of him so many times. An them dreams I had about him, in the vision lodge an other times too. Always so strange an . . . disturbed me. But here we are. Like we know each other. We don’t. I can count on two hands the number of times I seen him. An we never spoke, not really. You don’t speak with yer enemy.

  It’s a long drop down Weeping Water, he says.

  I give a little laugh. Weepin Water, I says. That fits.

  Were you trying to kill yourself? he says.

  I says naught.

  When I pulled you out, you said no, he says. Let me be, you said.

  I don’t remember, I says. I – I jest jumped. Becuz of . . . Nero.

  Now I do look at DeMalo. An he looks at me. Properly, fer the first time ever, we look straight at each other. The lamplight brushes his broad cheekbones, his lips, the smooth gleam of his skin. His face is strong. Watchful. Beautiful. With heavy-lidded eyes, so dark they’re almost black.

  I feel this pull towards him, between us. I felt it when I first seen him. Like there’s a thin, tight, invisible thread that runs from him to me. An there’s somethin about him – a kinda stillness inside of him – that makes me wanna tell him the truth. That believes he won’t judge me.

  Maybe I did mean to kill myself, I says. I didn’t think it outright but . . . maybe the truth is, I didn’t – I don’t – much care one way or th’other.

  To walk alone isn’t easy, he says. What about your friends? Your brother and sister? Where are they?

  I left, I says.

  You’re not the same as them, he says. You’re nothing like them.

  I don’t unnerstand, I says. Why’re you bein nice to me? I killed Pinch. You put a price on my head.

  Silence. Then, the sudden patter of rain on the tent roof. A moment later, it’s poundin down. It thunders onto the ground outside, splashes in through the flap.

  As if we’re not wet enough already, he says. He gits up an pulls the flap to an we’re closed in. Alone. The air’s suddenly heavier.

  I stand up. Nero’s cradled in my arms, already fast to sleep. I gotta go, I says. I’m shiverin. Shakin. My clothes hang chill an wet an heavy. My feet’s numb with cold.

  DeMalo’s lightin another lantern. He don’t look at me as he says, Somebody waiting for you?

  Emmi. Lugh an Maev. Tommo an Slim. Ash an Creed an the rest.

  No, I says.

  He says, It’s night, it’s raining, Nero’s been injured, you nearly drowned and you’re suffering from delayed shock. Have I forgotten anything?

  Yes. I bin betrayed by Jack. Deceived.

  No, I says.

  Well, then, he says. He takes Nero an settles him in a little crate next to the stove. I clutch the blanket around me, my teeth chatterin. DeMalo takes a pile of clothes from the wooden chest an puts ’em on the bed. Dry clothes, he says. He moves back to the stove an starts to feed it more wood. He crouches, his back turned towards me.

  I scuttle to the bed an skin off my sodden gear. Use the blanket to rub the clammy wet from my body. I’m cold to the bone. I ain’t never bin so cold. My teeth chatter in my head. I fumble into a soft shirt that hangs past my knees, thick socks. They’re clean. They carry a faint smell of him. Now I know what it is. Juniper.

  Come, sit by the heat, he says.

  I dash to the chair by the stove. Pull my knees to my chest an the shirt down over ’em. I hug myself, shiverin. He goes an strips off his wet clothes. I can hear him. If I turned my head, jest a little, I’d see him. DeMalo. Takin his clothes off, not more’n a few foot away. This has gotta be the strangest thing I could ever imagine to happen.

  I ain’t fled. I ain’t run or fought him or tried to kill him. I’d of espected the red hot to kick me in the gut the moment I seen who it was pulled me from the water. But no. Not a sign of it.

  This ain’t like me. But I ain’t like myself. I’m . . . a me I never bin before. I feel unfettered. L
ight. Free. Free of Lugh an Jack an everybody else who especks somethin from me. Who especks me to be what they want. I don’t owe them nuthin.

  Right now, there ain’t no world outside of this tent. It’s as if everybody an everythin has faded away. Disappeared. Apart from DeMalo an me. An suddenly I know that this is where I’m meant to be. Right here. Right now.

  All roads lead to the same place.

  That’s better, says DeMalo. I glance over. He’s jest pullin a dry shirt over his head. I catch sight of a tattoo on the smooth skin of his chest. A red risin sun over his heart. My own heart quickens at the sight of his body.

  He scoops up my wet clothes that I left in a heap an hangs ’em, along with his, to dry near the stove. Water’s drippin through one corner of the tent. He sets a tin unnerneath. He pulls the plug from a green bottle an pours dark red liquid into two glass jars. He drags a stool over, sits on it an hands me one of the jars.

  To chance meetings, he says.

  To chance, I says.

  We drink. It slips over my tongue, warm an rich an soft an deep. Like a sad song. I ain’t never tasted nuthin like it. What is it? I says.

  Wine, he says. He holds his jar up to the light. Very old, he says, very rare. A whisper from a lost world.

  The rain rains. The air’s thick with the storm, heavy.

  We drink some more. It’s delicious. I’m startin to feel a bit warmer. A bit bolder. D’you have a name? I says. Besides DeMalo, I mean.

  Seth, he says. But nobody’s called me that for a very long time.

  Seth, I says, tryin it out. I tip my glass to him. Thank you fer savin Nero.

  What about you? he says. No thanks for saving you?

  I says naught. I hug myself an drink the wine.

  Three, he says.

  I look at him.

  That’s how many times I’ve saved your life, he says. Once at Freedom Fields, once from Vicar Pinch and just now.

  The rule of three. If you save somebody’s life three times, their life belongs to you. No. That ain’t nuthin but Jack’s stupid nonsense. Don’t even think that name. Betrayed. Deceived. I hate him.

  The rain thunders onto the tent. Water drip drip drips into the tin. Wood crackles an spits inside the iron stove. I stare into my wine. Why did you? I says. Save me all them times? You shouldn’t of. We warn’t on the same side. We still ain’t.

  Whose side are you on these days? he says.

  Nobody’s, I says.

  Not even your own, it seems, he says.

  None of this makes sense, I says. You bein kind to me, fixin up Nero. Why didn’t you let me drown? Ain’t you the one who put a price on my head?

  Yes, he says.

  So, why all this? I says. What now? What d’you want from me?

  We look at each other. I can smell the warmth of him. His skin. His hair. Somethin old starts to thrum in my blood.

  The rain’s slowin to a patter. It stops. He gits up, throws back the tent flap an checks the sky.

  It’s nearly dawn, he says. I’d like to show you something. Will you come?

  What is it? I says.

  He’s pickin up a lit lantern. Something wonderful, he says. He sees my hesitation. Do you have to be somewhere?

  They’ll all be waitin. Angry with me about Jack, blamin me that he took Emmi, waitin fer me to make things right. I cain’t face ’em. I cain’t take no more of my own wrongness. Always wrong about everythin. Hate fer Jack burns in my gut.

  Saba, says DeMalo. Are you expected somewhere?

  No, I says. I drain my wine, put the jar on the table an stand up. Let’s go see this wonderful somethin. Oh! I pluck at the shirt. Better put my clothes back on.

  They’re wet, he says. Look in the trunk. I’ll wait outside.

  There’s only three things in the trunk – a green dress, womanly skivvies an a good pair of pigskin boots. More suited to Molly than me. I ain’t never wore a dress in my life. What’s he doin with gear like this?

  I check my own stuff. He’s right, it’s all soppin wet. Nero sleeps in his little box by the fire. I mutter curses as I step into the dress an fumble with the buttons that close it up the front. I block out nigglin thoughts of Emmi as I pull on the boots. I duck outside into the cool air.

  I find a pale, pink world. Dawn ain’t far off. DeMalo’s waitin. The hawk – Culan – sits in a nearby tree. He turns his fierce yellow eyes on me an ruffles his feathers. DeMalo looks at me in the dress. It fits well, he says.

  He says it like he knew it would.

  Nero’s sleepin, I says, I—

  We won’t be long, says DeMalo. He’ll be fine. Come, we need to hurry.

  I follow him outta the trees, over a clear-runnin stream an through a lush, grassy meadow damp with rain. DeMalo keeps a check on the sky as he hurries us on.

  This is good land, I says. I never seen finer.

  This is New Eden, he says.

  We come to a little hill covered with blackberry brambles. The air’s heavy with the sweet promise of ripe fruit. There’s a rusted metal door set into the hill, where it ain’t quite so thick with bramble. It stands open.

  Here we are, says DeMalo. The brothers will show you in.

  What—? I whirl around. Outta nowhere, there’s two Tonton suddenly with us. You said you was alone! What is this?

  The two men bow their heads, clenched fists held to their hearts. One of ’em holds a lit lantern.

  Everyone’s here, master, he says.

  What’s goin on? I says.

  You’ll come to no harm, I promise, says DeMalo. They’re an escort, that’s all. I’ll see you in a moment. He holds out his hands to the men. They grasp ’em, eagerly. She’s an honoured guest, he says. Thank you, brothers. Then, with a smile an a nod, he disappears around the hill, outta sight.

  Me an the two Tonton stare at each other. Me. Two Tonton. I’m sniffin fer danger, on sharp edges, jest in case. The one with the lantern smiles an bows his head. Follow me, he says.

  He goes through the door. I hesitate. Please, says the second one. We cain’t be late.

  I go through the door. He closes it behind us. In front, the first Tonton lights our way through pitch blackness. We go down some steps, into the ground. It smells dry. Musty. Thick, earthy silence closes around us. I hate bein unnerground, closed in. Sweat damps my forehead. He leads us through a long narrow room with wide shelfs set in the walls, like bunks. We go through a doorway into another room, then another, but there ain’t nuthin in ’em.

  What is all this? I says.

  A bunker, says the man behind me. From Wrecker times. There was ten of ’em in here when the Pathfinder first come. Ten skellentons, that is. He says it was their hidin place.

  What was they hidin from? I says.

  Who knows? he says. War, pestilence, some kinda calamity.

  We must be close to the centre of the hill by now. At the end of a narrow passage, the lantern man opens a closed door an we go through.

  Twelve heads turn towards us. Twelve quartered circle brands. Stewards of the Earth. Six boys an six girls. Young an strong, dressed simple. Their right hands fly, clenched, to their hearts.

  Long life to the Pathfinder! they says. The two Tonton reply likewise.

  I’m paused in the doorway, one foot in, one out. Not only my guide, but a few of the Stewards hold lanterns too, so the room’s well lit. It ain’t long an narrow, like th’other rooms we jest come through. This one’s big, maybe twenny paces across each way. It’s got white, smooth walls, built pretty much square but round in the corners. A white ceilin an floor.

  I realize that all eyes is on me. Wary eyes. Starin at my birthmoon tattoo.

  The one that the Pathfinder seeks has come, says the lantern man. She’s his honoured guest. Please, he tells me, come in.

  As I do, noddin at the Stewards, th
ey shift away. Nobody wants to stand too close to the Angel of Death.

  If only they knew.

  She’s dead.

  Auriel said so.

  The second Tonton closes the door behind us. It disappears, becomes part of the smoothness of the wall.

  It’s time, he says.

  Stand around the edges, says the first one. Backs to the walls. That’s it. Now, blow out yer lanterns.

  The puff of quick breaths an the light huffs out. We’re all in the dark. The blacker than black.

  It’s silent. A deeper silence than any I ever knew before. All I can hear is the beat of my own heart. To my left, where the door is, a sudden waft of cold air. The faint tang of juniper. DeMalo’s jest come in. Silence agin.

  Then. The tiniest pinprick of light in the ceilin. Directly in the centre of the room. A bird begins to sing. I jump. In the darkness of the room unner the hill, there’s a bird singin. How did it git in here? I dunno what kind it is neether. I never heard this song before. Another bird joins in. A different song. Then another bird, with another song.

  The pinprick grows to a weak beam. I start to see DeMalo, standin in the centre of the room, right unnerneath it. He lifts a chunk of clear, glassy rock. The light beam latches onto it. The rock starts to glow with a faint pink light. An it ain’t jest the rock that’s glowin pink. It’s the whole room. In front of us, beside us, behind us. Gittin brighter an stronger every moment.

  The Stewards murmur an shift. Now the light’s growin, changin to dark blue an red an gold. All around us. I can see now that it’s the walls. They’re changin.

  The birds still sing. An somethin’s joined in that ain’t a bird. Sounds like a stringbox. It’s singin along with the birds. I cain’t tell where it’s comin from. It’s jest . . . here. In the room. Slow an sweet. It’s the most lovely thing I ever heard.

  The light brightens. Brighter an brighter. Golden, yellow.

  It’s the dawn. Dawn grows on the walls, all around the room. The birdsong fades an more stringboxes join in the song. Other musicmakers too. It’s so beautiful, it sends chills up an down my spine.

  The music gits louder an louder, quicker an quicker.

  Suddenly, green leaps out at us. Fer a moment or two, I cain’t figger out what it is. Then I see. It’s grasslands. But I’m seein ’em like Nero must do. From above. All around me, on the walls, a bird’s eye view of grasslands an blue sky an clouds. I’m movin fast, like the fastest bird that ever flew. The sound of wind weaves in with the music.