The Divide

by Jeremy Robinson

  A splash and a rumble draws my eyes back for a moment. The colossal arm has crashed into the river behind us.

  Upon reaching the far side, we slow for just a moment to look back. The moss-Golyat is nearly free of the tangle created by the still falling creatures. Its black eyes burrow into me. I can feel its desperation.

  Sucking in air, an exasperated Dyer manages a smile. “You did it…”

  “Did what?” I ask, starting to move again.

  “Cupcakes,” she says. “Shitty cupcakes. I’m so proud.”

  To my surprise, Bake gives a laugh before sprinting ahead.

  “You should go ahead,” Dyer says when she notes I’m not also sprinting.

  “I’m not leaving you here.”

  “I’m coming,” she says. “Just not as fast.” She rolls up her sleeve, revealing a blackened arm, from shoulder to wrist. The flesh is starting to shrink down and tighten.

  How long until she loses her mind? Until we have to separate it from her body?

  “Still not leaving you,” I say.

  “Woman,” she says, and then shakes her head. “I’m going to eat you first.”

  She starts running again. It’s several minutes before we catch up with Bake again, but we do. Not because we’ve outpaced her, but because she’s stopped. Despite the situation growing more and more precarious with every passing second, she can’t proceed any further.

  When Dyer and I round the body of a permanently dead Golyat, I spot the others gathered by the cliff face at the center of a clearing, free of giant bodies. They have their weapons drawn and are facing Bake. Del has an arrow nocked and aimed.

  They must have assumed the worst when Bake showed up without me or Dyer. I wave my hands as I step out and around Bake. Weapons lower and we hurry toward them.

  “Who are you?” Plistim says to Bake as we get closer, both bewildered and suspicious.

  “No time,” Bake says. “We need to leave. Now.”

  “Leave?” Shua says. “Night is nearly upon us. There is a crevice in the wall. We can—”

  “You are fools to travel with the sun,” Bake says. “Darkness is the best defense against the Golyats, but it will not be our friend tonight.” She motions to the valley around us. While the sky overhead has turned purple with the setting sun, and the valley is completely sunless, it is actually brighter than when we arrived.

  A shake draws my attention back to the moss-Golyat, still fighting to escape the rain of bodies falling from above.

  They just keep on coming...

  If it, or any of the other giants, head in our direction, we will have minutes at best. “She’s right. We need to leave.”

  “But where?” Salem asks.

  In reply, Bake and I both look up.

  “In the dark?” Shua asks.

  “Better to fall from a cliff than be eaten by a Golyat. And…” Bake holds her hand up, wiggling her fingers to reveal her shadow on the cliff base. “…it will not be dark.”

  “Not dark enough,” I say, understanding. “Not nearly enough.”

  A chatter rises up and a chorus joins in. The sound becomes an endless pressure on my ears, but I don’t hold my hands against them this time. There isn’t time to acknowledge the pain. The moss-Golyat is nearly free. And it’s not alone. The flow of monsters from above has stemmed.

  “Shua!” I point to the cliff. “Now! As fast as you can!”

  No one argues as Shua grabs the gear he needs and rushes to the cliff, starting up with the agility of a squirrel. We take what we need to climb, leaving everything else behind. Once Shua’s got the first anchor station in place, we snap our grips onto the rope. Bake takes her sword from Dyer, sheaths it on her back, and launches up the wall first, using the rope without a grip. The rest of us, either inexperienced at climbing, or injured, heave ourselves up with the rope grips, using them in reverse.

  We’re three hundred feet up and rising when the Golyats finally untangle and storm toward us.

  45

  “I can’t do it,” I tell my father.

  The look of disappointment leveled at me is enough for me to try again. Small fingers dig into tree bark. I can feel my nails bending, close to breaking or being torn away. Wouldn’t be the first time. Fear of that pain makes me hesitate again.

  “You are held back only by the limitations you have already set for yourself. You believe yourself weaker because you’re a woman, that you’re slower because your legs are shorter, that you are less significant because you are my eighth child.”

  Just a few feet off the ground, I lock myself in place and turn to my father, tears brewing. “I am less significant because I’m your eighth child.”

  “Only because you believe it,” he says. “Laws can’t be broken without consequence, but they can be proven incorrect. They can be risen above. Just like you can climb this tree and any other obstacle in your path just as soon as you decide it’s possible. Who will you be, Vee? Someone controlled by the laws of men and nature, or someone who climbs above them?”

  He steps back and waits while I cling like a squirrel, deciding who I will become.

  The memory comes and goes as I pull myself up the orange line left behind by Shua, who is somewhere above, climbing in the dark, locking ropes and cams into the cliff.

  I fell from the tree that day, just a few feet higher. My father said it didn’t matter that I fell, only that I tried to climb, that I fought against gravity’s pull. At the time, I thought he was just a harsh teacher. As a young woman, I believed his early instructions had been fueled by a flair for the dramatic. But now, hanging from a rope, inside the Divide, dangling over a mob of hungry Golyats, the lesson feels wise, appropriate, and a little prophetic.

  By the time the Golyats reached us, we had completed a three hundred foot vertical sprint and pulled the ropes up behind us, putting us five hundred feet above the valley floor, out of reach, and apparently out of sight. The monsters searched for us, but in the dull orange light cast by their innards, we had melded into layers of darker stratum. And when we rose through that period of geological history, we were truly out of sight—at least until the sun rises.

  It also means we’re climbing in the dark, which is easy for those of us climbing the rope. Assuming Shua does a good job planting our anchors, we just need to reach up and pull, over and over.

  But even that’s harder than it sounds, especially in my current condition. My body is raging against me. Days of abuse are taking their toll. Right now, the only thing keeping me going are those lessons from my father. But even his inspirational words have a limit. I’m still human, after all, and some laws can’t be surpassed.

  I’m sure Shua is taking breaks. Each time he locks in a new cam, he could clip on, hang in place, eat, drink, and then move on. Despite that, I never gain on him, and I no longer see the others above me. And since I haven’t seen Bake fall past us, I’m assuming she’s still climbing like a machine. I thought I had been hardened by the world, made strong and resilient, but after years of living among the Golyats, Bake surpasses me, except maybe when it comes to giving and receiving headbutts.

  “You okay up there?” Dyer asks.

  I use the question as an excuse to stop and rest. I release the grip and slide down a little before coming to a stop, held in place by the ancient device, a strip of fabric, a carabiner, and a harness that is making itself comfortable in regions of my body where I’d prefer a gentler touch. But I don’t bother readjusting. The effort would be too great, and wasted. The straps will pinch and slide their way back. Better to just accept the discomfort and move on.

  “Tired,” I admit. “Going down was easier.”

  I look down and see Dyer silhouetted by the orange glow from below. The hungry Golyats are still active and agitated. Some scour the valley, looking for signs of life. Others are still fighting against their bonds, receiving no help from their risen brethren. But the monsters that frighten me most are the bunch that fell into the valley behind us. They’re�
�fresher, stronger, maybe even more intelligent. They’re standing below, heads turned up, like they’re waiting.

  I think it’s because they suspect we’ve climbed the cliff, but without seeing us, they’re not sure. So they wait for confirmation…and then what?

  When I’ve seen enough of them, I turn my eyes upward. Clouds mar the sky, blocking most of the dust ring’s reflected light. Had the sky been clear, the Golyats might have already spotted us.

  “Give me some room,” Dyer says, pushing her way up under my legs.

  I move to the side, my legs complaining about even this subtle effort. When she’s beside me, I go limp again. “What are you doing?”

  “Good news,” she says. “My dead arm is strong. And it doesn’t get tired. I can barely feel it at all.”

  She holds her decaying arm out over the orange glow below. I can’t see details, but her muscly hand is now thin and gnarled. She flexes her fingers a few times.

  I fail to see how that’s good news. While I do have my machete, I’d rather not have to decapitate my friend while hanging above the Divide. Not only would it break my heart, but it would also send her head tumbling to the Golyats below. If they’re looking for confirmation about where we fled, I think a severed head falling from above would do it.

  “Can you hold on to me?”

  “I’m not sure this is the right time for you to make a move.” My smile is as weak as the rest of me, but it feels good.

  “Bitch, if I decide to get frisky you’ll know it, and you won’t mind it.”

  Despite our situation, I have to fight to not laugh aloud. The sound would carry in the valley, further agitating the Golyats. I wrap my arms over Dyer’s neck and my legs around her waist. I’m surprised when she unclips me from the grip and secures me to her. The device can handle the weight. They were designed to support many more pounds than they’d ever have to carry.

  “Now,” she says, “check this out.”

  Holding the grip with her blackened hand, she hoists us both up with little effort. Using my grip with her still human hand, she holds us in place while she reaches up and pulls again. “I could do this all frikkin’ night and never have to rest.”

  “That’s good,” I say, “because it’s what you need to do.”

  As Dyer pulls us upward, tripling my previous pace, I wonder how my father would feel about me getting help. I climbed that tree on my own, two weeks later. After reaching the top, there wasn’t a tree I couldn’t conquer. But I’ve never climbed a miles-high tree after taking a beating—physical and emotional—for three solid weeks.

  While trying to channel my father, seeing him standing by that tree, urging me to persevere, I fall asleep.

  My dreams are dark, yet fleeting, lost in a confusion of images that even while sleeping, I wonder if they’re real. Standing at the foot of a Golyat that’s gnawing on Shua, I ask, “Is this a dream? Because sometimes I have dreams like this.”

  “No!” Dyer shouts at me, her arm healthy, dressed in flowing white. “It’s not a dream.”

  I open my eyes and see purple. Another dream? I wonder, expecting Dyer to shout at me again. Instead she says, “There you are.”

  Her voice is close and calm, warm on my face.

  “It’s a nice morning,” I say.

  “Haven’t really stopped to notice,” she says, and I look away from the sky.

  Gray stone slides past, triggering the memory of where we are and what we’re doing.

  “I got you,” Dyer says when I tense. Her arms are wrapped around me, holding the rope grips behind me. Her legs are pressed against the wall, walking vertically, while her Golyat arm does all the lifting.

  Stretch, pull, stretch, pull. Her pace is constant. If it weren’t horrific it would be impressive. That said, we’re actually moving very slowly. “What’s wrong?”

  “Light,” Dyer says. “We’ve been moving slowly since the sky lightened, but we’re nearly done.” She tilts her chin up. “Look.”

  I lift my head. The Divide’s top is just twenty feet above us. Shua stands at the edge, pulling Salem to safety. Despite starting behind Salem, Bake is missing.

  “Did Bake…”

  “Climbed ahead as soon as she could see. Didn’t really need the ropes. I’m not sure where she is now.”

  “You climbed through the whole night?”

  “There were a few stops along the way,” she says. “They all fell asleep twice.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I…don’t freak out…I’m not tired. Like not at all.”

  “It’s spreading?” I ask.

  “Haven’t really had the opportunity to look.” Dyer glances at the harness holding her body and clothing in place. “But that’d be my guess.”

  “Do I look delicious yet?”

  She smiles. “You always look delicious, cupcake.”

  “Aww,” I say. “You can use it in a nice way, too?”

  “It’s a versatile word, and a dessert.”

  We’re both smiling when a Golyat chatters below us. The sound echoes through the valley, setting off a chain reaction.

  Dyer freezes and waits. “Do me a favor and let me know if they’re looking this way.”

  I turn my head down, moving slowly. The Golyats are looking up, but I don’t think they’re focused on us. Not yet, anyway. “Hold still.”

  “What are they doing?” Dyer asks.

  “Trying to flush us out.” It’s a guess, but it’s what I would do if I were hunting hard-to-spot prey. Stillness, and slow motion, is hard to spot. But an animal on the run stands out. But can the Golyats even reach us all the way up here?

  A groaning scuffle breaks out when one Golyat bumps into another, spilling it into a third. Limbs flail as monsters with the self-control of toddlers thrash their neighbors, the violence spreading like an echo.

  When the last of the watching creatures turn away, I say, “Go!”

  Dyer launches us upward and in six rapid heaves we reach the top. Shua reaches over and pulls me up. Thanks to Dyer letting me sleep through the climb, I have the strength to help and turn around with Shua to help Dyer. But she doesn’t need it. She digs her thin, black fingers into earth and drags herself over the top.

  Relief washes over me as we step away from the ledge, heading for the forest-line thirty feet away, where Plistim, Salem, and Del wait. When I see their faces, my relief fades. Something’s wrong.

  Plistim drops to his knees and lowers his head to the ground, placing his ear against the stone.

  “What is it?” Shua asks as we approach.

  Plistim lifts his head. “Horses.”

  “What’s wrong with horses?” I ask. Herds of horses are common in New…in Kingsland. They’re harder to keep up with, kill, and transport, so shepherds don’t bother with them, and they keep to themselves. I’ve always admired them, but have never feared them.

  “With riders,” Plistim says.

  “Riders?” I’m aghast. “The Prime Law strictly forbids—”

  “There was a lookout positioned to the south,” Plistim says. “He left at our arrival. The sound of approaching horses so soon after is not a coincidence. A stable is kept in Rockingham. Only the elders know of it. There are a hundred horses kept for times of emergency. There has rarely been a need for their use, but last night…we created an emergency beyond any faced for five hundred years. All of New Inglan will be on alert.”

  Before we can discuss the subject further, or run away, the horses and their riders emerge from the forest just a hundred feet away. They turn in our direction and then shuffle to a stop, the horse hooves clomping on the exposed stone. ‘Too loud,’ I want to say, but then I make eye contact with the lead horseman and forget about dying at the Golyats’ hands. If the giants make it up the Divide they will find our bodies already rotting.

  When the horses stop, the lead horse struts in a circle, forcing the rider, who looks uncomfortable atop the steed, to twist his head. But he never loses eye contact for more
than a moment, maintaining a steady, bloodthirsty glare that puts the Golyats to shame.

  Then he draws his sword and says, “Hello, wife.”

  46

  Micha looks both haggard and frenzied, like he hasn’t washed or groomed himself in weeks. I suspect I look similar, but he has a wildness about him. Dried blood is spattered on his loose-fitting, deer leather pants. His hairy chest is matted with clumps of dark brown coagulation, as is his beard. He is drenched in blood.

  “You don’t approve?” he asks, looking down at himself.

  “Who have you killed?” I ask.

  “Anyone and everyone suspected of colluding with Modernists,” he says, like I should have already known. “Not since the great Cull has my sword had so much practice.”

  Micha draws his long sword. It’s still wet with blood, the tip dripping as it comes free. “I started with your father.”

  I draw my machete and make it one step before Shua catches hold of me and yanks me back into his arms so I can’t move.

  “Your father didn’t die for nothing,” Shua whispers. “Neither should you.”

  Micha snarls at the interaction. “You would have been proud. He admitted nothing and provided no information. But his whore…she sang for me.”

  Shua tightens his grip on me, but it’s not necessary. I’ve seen Micha do this before—bait his enemies into attacking, tricking them into foolish actions. I won’t play into his hands…at least not until I have the chance to cut them off.

  Shua lets me go when I relax and give him a nod.

  “No trial?” I ask. “What of the Prime Law?”

  I’m buying time now, sizing up the enemy and trying to come up with the plan. The others are doing the same, I’m sure, but they’re probably coming to the same conclusion I am—we’ve survived the Golyats to be slain by my husband.

  There are fifteen men with him, all on horseback, most with swords or spears, and some with bows and arrows, though none nearly as powerful as Del’s. They could run us down with the horses alone, but raised above us, atop the mighty animals, they have us at a severe disadvantage, not to mention outnumbering us nearly three to one.