by Martin Kee
“Because I’ve seen what grief does to people,” James said. “And I don’t intend to stick around to give them the benefit of the doubt. You can dredge the body back out if you want and say whatever prayers you think are appropriate. I’m going to find Skyla.”
James continued to strain as the stiff corpse slid from the earth. He pulled her to the edge of the cliff.
“James,” cried the priest. “Don’t do this. Let me at least give a prayer first.”
He stumbled to where James was standing over the body. With a shaking hand, Father Thomas pulled the tiny cross from around his neck and held it, closing his eyes. The prayer was an abbreviated version, but he worried that James might simply discard the body at any moment. He said “Amen.”
James flipped the girl over like a mannequin and slid her out to the slope. Gravity took over and the body slid neatly down the slick rocks and rested in the water. It was as if she had never been moved.
James walked back to the gravesite. He picked up each rock and tossed it back into the woods, some into the creek, where they made a loud splash.
John watched all this with horrified fascination. In a matter of minutes, his companion had returned the dirt to the grave and covered it with leaves and weeds until it no longer resembled a grave at all. In fact, John would never have known that one had been dug. James took out a canteen and washed his hands in the water, then took a drink. He offered it to the priest, who only stared at it.
James shrugged and put the canteen away. He hefted his backpack and stood facing the priest.
“I am going to Lassimir,” he said to John. “You’re welcome to come with me, but I understand if you don’t want to. Thank you for helping me clear this matter up, Father. I’m relieved that it wasn’t the girl I was looking for. I’m sure you’ll have a passable story to tell the lynch mob when they arrive.”
John watched him turn and leave. He looked at the girl in the water, then back at the man walking away. He looked behind them at Bollingbrook, at the former gravesite, already sprouting a layer of grass and moss. John felt as though he was at the end of a plank over an abyss.
He called after James and ran to catch up.
Chapter 17
She let her mind float atop the voices like a raft, catching only glimpses of conversation, frozen in tiny moments as they all packed together above the arena floor. The floor itself was at the bottom of a pit, surrounded by four walls of stands, all underneath a large tent with a whole in the center. The seating was so steep that she had to fight feelings of vertigo as she looked at the wall of people across from her.
“—Brat probably won’t win—”
“—Cutter on his way out—”
“—fine with me if you want to lose all your money—”
“—thought he retired—”
“—move just a little so I can—”
All around her people chattered. They yelled, bet, argued, laughed and belched. They overlapped one another, layer upon layer, until the sound felt almost solid. Skyla couldn’t even hear herself think.
She had decided to go without telling Marley and found that the ring she wore around her neck still had some pull with the arena officials. It was one of the best seats in the house. She sat between a woman she had seen at The Hungry Skunk on a few occasions and a fat man named Karlo, who bought her slab of cooked meat the size of her arm in exchange for stories about “Mad Marley.”
“If you had killed him for the ring, I might have bought you a whole cow,” he joked. He wore a thin vest and no shirt. Tufts of coarse hair erupted from his shoulders. He ignored her once the action began, cheering loudly as the scantly-clad girls emerged onto the stage to warm up the crowd.
Skyla was amazed at how nervous she was considering it wasn’t Marley down there about to fight. The energy of the audience pulsed through her, filling her with the sense that she was now part of larger entity.
After doing a brief striptease, the pretty women left the stage as the crowd began to chant for the match to start. A ringmaster appeared wearing a worn suit. Skyla was barely able to hear him over the yelling and cheers. He kept the announcement short.
The first match was a low ranking one. The two thin men entered the stage to jeers and tossed food. One of them sported a shaved head, revealing a series of piercings that ran from the bridge of his nose up and over the crest of his scalp. He slapped his scalp, causing them to bleed. Skyla decided that this served to intimidate his opponent and excite the crowd—
And to horrify young girls, apparently, she thought.
His opponent was taller but wiry, with tan, muscled arms, one of which was covered in a sleeve of tattoos. They crawled up his bicep, disappearing beneath his faded brown shirt and then reappearing at the back of his neck and head. There they vanished under a thick mop of matted blond hair that was pulled back into a tight ponytail.
“Long hair’s a bad idea in here,” Karlo shouted to her over the crowd. “Gives ‘em too much to grab onto. Now Cutter, that’s a man who knows how to fight.”
The two fighters did have one thing in common: a wide, flat buckler the size of a dinner plate that each competitor wore on his hand. They took their positions, large rings flaring from each fighter’s hand like a blooming flower. Skyla felt her stomach flutter.
Cutter, the one with the piercings, took a position in one corner and squatted as if wound by a spring. His shadow twitched with manic, nervous energy. Fold was the fighter with hair; he performed a slow roll of his neck, which extended to a loosening of his shoulders. She liked Fold.
A bell rang and Cutter leapt forward.
No more than an instant later, he was flat on his back, a spout of blood jetting from the bridge of his nose. All Skyla saw was a brilliant flash of steel as the plate-sized ring struck Cutter’s face and then returned to Fold’s side as quickly as it was extended.
The crowd cheered and several onlookers exchanged money. There was more arguing. A pair of men dragged Cutter, semi-conscious and screaming, off of the floor while the announcer held up Fold’s arm. It was the start of a brilliant career.
Skyla found more enjoyment from simply watching the displays of colorful interaction between the patrons. The fights themselves were all incredibly fast and lasted less than a minute each, with long interludes of banter, booze and showgirls to fill the empty space.
The only thing that did change was the armament of the fighters. The shield rings grew smaller and smaller until toward the end of the night, the two opponents, covered in scars, wore rings similar to the one resting on Skyla’s chest. The other difference was that, short as they were, the fights became more intricate as the opponents had to rely less on armor and more on actual skill.
On more than one occasion, she saw an arm shatter as a pair of adversaries locked knuckles, using their free hands to grapple with one another. It dawned on Skyla that she was beginning to recognize some of the fighting moves and stances. Knowledge of what the fighters were doing added an entirely new level of interest and intensity to the show.
At the end of the evening, a victor was declared. He stood with fists in the air and blood coming from one ear. The loser in this case suffered a broken wrist and possibly a limp for the rest of his life. A flap of scalp hung loosely from the side of his head like a wing.
So that’s how Marley got his scar, she thought.
Almost immediately, the crowd’s attention became focused on leaving through the small doors at the top of the arena. Skyla did her best just to keep from getting trampled in the mob and soon became lost in the flow of yelling, laughter, arguing, and hands exchanging money in front of her.
The fresh air hit her face, drawing attention to just how stale and pungent the arena had become over the course of the event. She found a safe place away from the crowd and stood for a moment, looking up at the stars. A breeze mussed her hair and she closed her eyes.
She left the arena from a different door than the one she entered through and it wasn’t l
ong before Skyla realized she was in a section of town unfamiliar to her. Not only that, but she seemed to be closer to the docks. Stray cats scattered behind empty carts, piles of thick rope, and dry-docked boats with flaking paint.
In the distance, Skyla could barely make out the row of watch posts that spread across the deceptively calm water like sentries. Amber signal lights flickered at the top of each tower, casting rippling reflections below. Jagged peaks, outlined in blue from the full moon, served as reminders of just how isolated the city was.
A footstep caught her attention and ripped her away from her reverie. She spun around and found herself facing a young boy. His face was dirty and scratched and his dusty brown hair hung over one eye. She felt a wave of sympathy for him.
“Hello,” she said. “You really scared me.”
The boy only stared at her. His eyes were nearly invisible beneath the shadows. Had she been more alert at that moment, Skyla might have noticed something in his other shadow that would have told her to run.
“Can you understand me?” she asked. “Are you lost?”
From where she stood, Skyla could see the other side of the city where the forest began. Not far beyond that point was The Hungry Skunk. Something in the back of her head told her to keep that location in mind.
The boy took a step toward her and she fought the urge to step backwards. He reached toward her, but Skyla only stared at his open hand, recoiling slightly.
“Yer the crow girl,” said someone beyond her vision, lurking in the shadows behind the mute boy. The voice was high-pitched, with a hint of friendly menace.
“Who’s that?” she asked, ignoring the boy who was now almost touching her. She jerked her arm away from him.
A figure emerged from the night; a teenage boy, maybe a year older than her. He wore dirty, ill-fitting clothes. A pant leg slithered behind his footsteps across the dirt. He seemed to float towards her out of the darkness.
“Scribble here says you’re the crow girl.”
“I’m surprised he says anything at all,” she said.
She watched her exits begin to evaporate one by one. More boys, roughly the same age as their ringleader, emerged from behind stacks of wood and empty cages.
“Naw,” he said. “Scribble don’t talk much at all. He draws a pretty good picture though.”
Scribble extended a paper to her. It was a remarkably good likeness of her, head turned at an angle, looking over one shoulder at the viewer. A raven was perched on her rucksack behind a wisp of curly brown hair. Skyla tried to fight the urge to reach out and touch the image of Orrin. A lump formed in her throat.
“You drew that?” she asked the child.
Scribble nodded exposing baby teeth, some missing. He took another step forward, and Skyla backed away.
“Scribble draws lots of things, don’t ya Scribble?”
The ringleader had closed the distance while she looked at the younger boy. A half dozen of his friends began to fan out. A few of the outlines reminded her of Beth in their enormity. Too much of this was beginning to feel like St. Anthony’s.
Scribble pulled out another piece of folded paper and showed it to Skyla. She blinked as her stomach sank. It was a circle with a square hole in the center. A snake was drawn in perfect detail, encircling the coin, eating its own tail.
How long have they been watching me? she thought. How long have I been buying things with that coin?
Suddenly the docks felt like a very small cage. She was unable to back up any further or she would fall into the river. The ringleader had pushed Scribble away and looked down at her, his eyes cold and hungry.
“So let’s see the coin,” he said, flashing yellow teeth in the dim light.
“I don’t have it.”
“Sure you do,” he said. “You never leave the pub without it.”
“Well I forgot it this time, sorry.”
A couple of the boys laughed and Skyla got the feeling that they were all much better liars than she could ever hope to be. The ringleader laughed and pulled his loose shirt back so Skyla could see the moonlit glint of steel. She held her breath.
“How many of those pockets am I gonna have to cut to find it, eh?” he said, grinning.
Skyla shuddered. Maybe it would make sense to just give them the coin. Maybe it would just pop back into her pocket again. A voice in her head told her it wouldn’t. Something told her that it also probably wouldn’t stop them from cutting.
Another boy chimed in from the background. “Eh Mackerel, maybe she’s got it somewhere other than a pocket.”
More of the boys laughed. Mackerel, the ringleader leaned down to her level. His breath was rank and she forced back a gag. “Well then, we’ll just have to keep cuttin’ ‘til we find it.”
Mackerel’s shadow was an unreadable mess of hatred and misery. It gloated from over his shoulder. Unlike Dona, Mackerel knew his shadow well, and so did his friends. Skyla got the impression that his shadow did most of the driving in Mackerel’s life. She swallowed with a dry mouth.
He moved a hand toward the flash of steel on his hip. Skyla sprung straight up at his nose.
She felt a dull pop and warmth ooze down her forehead. It hurt a bit, but judging from the muffled howl that came from Mackerel, she could safely assume that it had hurt him more. Mackerel stumbled backwards, clutching his face and leaving enough room for her to lunge between the two thinnest-looking boys.
“Get her, Gripper!” one of them yelled.
A hand—presumably Gripper’s—was able to get a firm hold on her upper arm, squeezing it so tightly that she let out a wail. She spun into his grip, bringing the full force of her other fist around to connect with his side, just below the ribs.
She hit Gripper with Marley in mind, even though he was a fraction of Marley’s size. She followed through as he fell, doubled over on his side. He let out a sick moan from the ground. She stood frozen, fists clenched, looking at the rest of the gang.
There was a moment of uncertainty as the others cast uneasy glances at one another. They looked to Mackerel with his broken nose and then at the other boy, curled in a fetal position, retching. Skyla took a step backwards, away from them.
Something shimmered and wiggled in the corner of her eye. Not now, she thought, shoving the vision to the back of her mind.
One of the boys took a step towards her as Skyla turned on her heel and ran. The safety of the shops and tents was at least a hundred feet away, an impossible distance. Behind her, Mackerel screamed orders, his voice muffled and furious. The sound of shuffling feet closed in on her.
A hand fell on Skyla’s shoulder and she dipped down, letting it slip off. A second hand managed to get a firm hold on her clothing, however. She twisted into the hand and swung with an open palm in the darkness. She aimed high and connected with warm flesh, just below a chin. There was a crunch and the sound of gagging as the hand released her.
She spun back around and saw that she might make it to the tents after all. There was crying from behind her along with that sick, choking sound from one of the boys. We’re all just children, she thought as he sobbed in pain, alone in the darkness behind her.
More angry voices followed her as the tents closed in like a trap. Skyla realized that it was the worst decision she ever could have made. Debris lay in her path between a labyrinth of canvas flaps. Boxes, stools, discarded broken things littered the thin space between the shops. Twice she almost caught her foot on something unidentifiable. Terror drove her through the blind alleys as shouts and jeers followed her, tripping and scrambling around the clutter. Her lungs burned as her pulse hammered in her temples.
She rounded a corner and caught a glimpse of a figure looming over her. A large hand closed on her shoulder as she let out an ear-splitting scream and swung at the figure in blind panic. The assailant blocked her punch and she only connected with—was that a wrist?
“Ow!” a man’s voice said over her screams. “Skyla.”
How did the boys know
her name?
“Skyla,” the man said again, louder.
The fog began to lift from her mind. Dale was holding her shoulder and stepping around, placing himself between her and the incoming pursuers. The footsteps increased in volume until a boy emerged around the corner almost crashing into Dale, another boy close behind, slamming into the leader. As the other boys arrived they backed away, the air of power draining away from their faces.
The last one to appear was Mackerel. He kept his distance from the pack and continued to wipe blood from his upper lip. More blood had darkened his shirt, creating a crimson bib.
“You kids run along,” Dale said to them. “Unless you want me to haul you to see Mad Marley.”
“You’re lying,” shouted Mackerel. “I never seen her with him.”
Skyla felt a tug and a snap as Dale tore the ring from her neck. He held it out so the faded light could reflect off the metal. “Do you think a girl gets this ring by robbing him?”
He thrust it toward them. One of the boys scrambled away into the shadows. A few of the remaining boys spoke in hushed tones to one another, backing away. When she looked again, Mackerel was nowhere to be seen. Through the darkness, she heard taunts and insults as the gang retreated into the maze. Their threats reminded Skyla of home.
Without waiting for the rest of them to show up, Dale handed the ring back to her and then gently turned her by her shoulder. His broken wrist stuck out at an unnatural angle and made a rude gesture at the boys from behind his back.
They walked for a mile or so before either said a word. When they did, it was Skyla who spoke first.
“Thanks,” she said, not looking at him. She felt stupid and young.
“Don’t mention it,” said Dale. “And I mean, seriously. Don’t mention it to Marley. He’ll only get mad and worried… and I’m sure he’ll find a way to blame me.” He grinned.
“I won’t,” she said, watching the forest creep closer.
The trees hovered above the shanty houses on the edge of town, blocking out the stars with a jagged horizon. Skyla wiped her forehead with her arm and saw red. She rolled the sleeve up, not wanting to look at it. She had seen too much blood tonight—some of it would have been her own.