Lightning Tracks

by A. A. Kinsela

  ‘Do you have any water?’ he asked in Korelian, and repeated the question in English. When no one responded, he mimed drinking from a cup.

  Someone offered him a leather bag the size of a football. Nick unplugged the wooden cork, sniffed at the contents, took a sip. The water was warm but tasted clean, and he drank several mouthfuls before handing it back.

  Xanthe returned with David draped over the horse’s saddle and began heading in the wrong direction. Nick was hauled to his feet and pushed into a march.

  ‘Aren’t you going to take David into town?’ Nick asked.

  ‘The nearest town is a day’s ride away,’ Xanthe replied. She looked anxious, and kept glancing at David.

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s just along—’

  She shot him a fierce glare. ‘We have a doctor here. Now, keep up, and don’t startle the warriors. I don’t want to have to stitch you back together.’

  Nick gulped and said nothing more.

  They trudged along a well-worn path that Nick was certain had not been there when he and David had come up the Spit. In the distance, he could hear sticks clacking and people singing, and soon a bonfire came into view, its sparks gusting into the twilight. The air smelled of barbequed meat. About twenty people sat around the flames, singing in that strange language Nick didn’t understand. He studied the closest woman, whose tanned features drooped under the weight of her wrinkles. Her scraggy grey hair hung across her shoulders, and red ochre covered her face, arms, and the front of her bare, sagging chest.

  ‘Gah!’ Nick quickly averted his gaze.

  Glancing at the rest of the group, he saw that nearly everyone else was shirtless and powdered in red, as if they’d emerged half-dressed from the dust. Some of them had white stars painted on their chests.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Fire night,’ Xanthe replied, brushing past him.

  ‘What’s a—?’

  An alarmed shout put an abrupt end to the singing. People stared and pointed as David was lifted off the horse and carried towards a small mudbrick hut.

  ‘I need space to work,’ Xanthe said as Nick tried to follow. ‘Stay out here.’

  ‘But you don’t even know what’s wrong with him. What if he—?’

  ‘Jinx!’

  A scrawny girl a bit younger than Nick ambled into view. She wore a singlet, a pair of pants ripped off at the knees, and red powder on every visible inch of skin.

  ‘Get some water, Jinx, so he can clean the blood off,’ Xanthe said, pointing to Nick.

  Jinx wrinkled her nose at the sight of him. Then she saw David and squealed something in the other foreign language. Xanthe held her shoulders and spoke what sounded to Nick like firm, reassuring words. Jinx sniffed and wiped her eyes. As soon as Xanthe let her go, she rounded on Nick.

  ‘Is this your fault?’ she cried in Korelian. ‘Did you do that to him?’

  Nick backed up. ‘What? No! Of course not.’

  ‘Jinx!’ Xanthe barked.

  ‘But Mum!’

  ‘Don’t argue. Just get the water.’

  Xanthe ducked into the mud hut. Jinx turned on her heels and stomped away, and Nick took this opportunity to slip into the hut. He had just enough time to see David lying motionless on a reed mat with Xanthe bent over him before two men seized his arms, dragged him past the bonfire, and dumped him on the other side of the camp. They were both knuckly, scarred, and looked about ready to pound Nick into the dirt.

  ‘Why won’t you let me see David?’ When the men didn’t respond, Nick switched to English. ‘Can you understand me now? I want to see David.’

  ‘They don’t speak that language,’ Jinx called in Korelian. ‘Or Korelian.’

  ‘Then translate for me,’ Nick snapped.

  She swaggered over, chin raised, and said, ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because.’

  He groaned in frustration. ‘David needs to see a doctor.’

  ‘My mum is a doctor.’

  ‘I mean a real doctor.’

  ‘She is a real doctor.’

  Nick spun away and took off into the bush. The highway was east. He’d have to cross a few kilometres of rugged national park to get there, but it shouldn’t take more than an hour. He’d flag down a car and call an ambulance. Maybe the police too. Dodging spears was not, he suspected, part of a paramedic’s training.

  He heard rapid footsteps and once again was grabbed from behind. He kicked someone in the shin, broke free, and covered a fair distance before the men tackled him and bent his arms back.

  ‘Ow! Alright! I get the point!’

  They lugged him past the painted mob and shoved him to his knees beside a thick post skewered into the ground. More people came over, one of them holding a length of sinewy but tough-looking rope.

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait.’

  They didn’t. Nick struggled as they tied him to the pole, but the more he resisted, the tighter the ropes pulled.

  ‘You can’t do this! It’s illegal!’

  A sharp slap stung his cheek. He ducked his head and waited until everyone had walked away before trying to wriggle free again, but the rope cut further into his wrists. He rested his head back against the pole, sucking deep, frustrated breaths.

  Apart from the crackling fire, the only light came from the stars. Darkness had never bothered Nick. He had exceptional long-range and night vision, though in the pitch black he couldn’t distinguish colours. It was a talent he’d kept hidden ever since some kids in primary school had found out and thrown dust in his eyes.

  When he tried to twist around to see how the rope was knotted, a terrifying thought struck him. What if the masked assassin came for him while he was tied up, his black-gloved hand tugging Nick’s hair back and the sword sliding across his throat? Nick screwed his eyes shut and forced this image aside with the memory of Mía’s soft face, her greying curls and glinting, mischievous eyes. Never again would he hear the comforting lull of her voice, never again smell her coffee when he woke in the morning, never again feel her arms around his shoulders. She’d tried to hug him this morning, but he’d laughed and ducked out of her embrace. He’d yelled something as he rode down the drive. ‘See ya,’ maybe.

  The last thing she’d said to him was that she was disappointed in him. Disappointed. He blinked hard, fighting off tears.

  Jinx walked over, swinging a leather pouch. ‘You want a drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he grumbled, and opened his mouth as she tipped water over his face. Some hit its mark, but most splashed down his chest. In the scorching night air, the cool relief was refreshing. She poured more water onto his arms, washing away the blood. Then she plugged the nozzle and turned to leave.

  ‘Wait, Jinx?’

  She paused.

  ‘Can you tell me...?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Is David alright?’

  ‘What do you think? He’s just been attacked by an Arai! Though now I’ve seen your incredible lack of skill, I doubt it was you.’

  ‘Me? You think I’m one of these Arai assassins?’

  She pointed to his chest as if this explained everything. ‘Living in the desert doesn’t make me an idiot, you know.’

  ‘My tattoo? But...I don’t understand. David gave me this. He’s got one too.’

  ‘Wow, you really are slow, aren’t you, gumbrain?’

  He frowned. ‘Gumbrain?’

  Xanthe emerged from the mudbrick hut, crouched beside Nick, and pulled out her knife. When he flinched and tried to scramble back, she said in a gentle voice, ‘I won’t hurt you, Nicholas.’

  She cut through his ropes.

  ‘Don’t call me that. My name’s Nick.’ He massaged his chaffed wrists. ‘How’s David?’

  ‘He’ll be fine. I gave him an antidote.’

  ‘So he really was poisoned?’

  Xanthe nodded. ‘Don’t try to run away again.’

  ‘I was going to get help. Anyway, you can’t keep me here.’
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br />   She sheathed her knife. ‘Those warriors will hunt you easily.’

  He studied the red-dusted men. They were unlike any warriors he’d ever heard of, but he didn’t for a second doubt their ability to track him. He decided to lie low until he could figure out how to slip past them.

  ‘How did you know my name?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never met you before.’

  ‘Yes, you have. You were just too young to remember.’ Xanthe held out a tattered shirt. ‘Put this on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your tattoo needs to stay hidden.’

  ‘Why?’

  Irritation flashed in her eyes. ‘Because I say so.’

  He took off his torn school shirt and tugged the other one over his head. It was sleeveless, itchy, and smelled of sweat and earth. The collar just hid his tattoo. He pulled out his necklace and contemplated the star engraved on the copper.

  ‘What does this symbol mean?’ he asked.

  Xanthe’s gaze flicked to his necklace. ‘Freedom. Independence.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘From the king and his Arai.’

  ‘What king?’

  ‘Thanos, ruler of Korelios. Do you ever stop asking questions?’

  ‘Not if I don’t understand.’

  A bare-bummed toddler wobbled past on chubby legs, his chin dripping wild honey. Jinx tickled him and chased him to the bonfire. Xanthe walked to the hut where she’d taken David, and beckoned to Nick. He sidled past the warriors and ducked inside.

  The hut was shaped like an igloo, except it had mudbrick walls, a packed earth floor, and a roof of wood and bark. A patchwork of possum skins covered the doorway. David lay on a woven grass mat, unconscious and stripped to the waist, with his right hand wrapped in a blood-stained cloth and sticky liquid smeared over his lips and chin, as if he’d tried to drink some lime cordial but had spat most of it out.

  ‘He won’t wake up for a few hours,’ Xanthe said.

  ‘Can I stay with him?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Yes, as long as you don’t try to run.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Yet, he thought.

  His stomach gurgled.

  ‘I’ll get you something to eat, Nick. Stay here, and don’t touch anything while I’m gone.’

  As soon as she’d left, Nick scanned the hut for a phone, not that he expected to find one in this weird, backward place. Low shelves ran right around the hut, crammed with an assortment of ceramic jars, bowls and thin metal implements that reminded Nick of dentist’s tools. An intense smell hung in the air, like a spice shop with a thousand exotic aromas all mixed in together. He guessed the jars must contain herbs and medicines.

  In one corner was a reed basket full of folded clothes. Tucked away beside that were two more grass mats, a couple of kangaroo skins, and a large bloodwood chest. The chest was the best bet, so he scooted over to it, heaved open the lid, and gasped. It was packed with weapons – long knives with bone and snake skin hilts, metal spear tips ready to attach to wooden shafts, a couple of bows and sheaths of arrows. With trembling hands, he rummaged past the weapons and found black pants, shirt, lightweight helmet and face mask. Tucked beneath them was a sword. It was shorter than the one he’d seen the rider carrying that afternoon, but the style of the leather hilt and guard was the same. He unsheathed it. The polished steel shone in the candlelight and shafted light into his eyes. Engraved at the base of the blade was a solid circle, though he couldn’t recall seeing the symbol on the rider’s sword. Then again, he had been a bit preoccupied with fighting it off.

  Nick examined his forearms where the sword should have slashed him. There wasn’t even a scratch. He remembered the way the room had lit up, like a camera flash had gone off. He stared at David, wishing he could ask for an explanation, but instead the tattoo beneath David’s collarbones caught his gaze. Nick’s fingers traced the edges of his own tattoo, and a memory flickered across his mind.

  David stood over him holding a wad of sewing needles that he’d superglued into a circle as big as a twenty cent piece, their million sharp points glistening in the dawn light. Even though Nick had asked for the tattoo, at the last minute he got scared and tried to wriggle free, but he was only eight years old, and no match for David’s full-grown strength. The needles pressed into Nick’s chest once, twice, three times, oozing blood. David smeared black ink into the fresh wound and covered it with gauze and tape.

  Then he tapped the blood-stained gauze and said, ‘This is your future, Nicholas Kári.’

  Nick blinked the memory aside, sheathed the sword and slid it beneath the Arai uniform. As he settled back beside David, he thought about the circle symbol engraved on the sword. It was similar to their tattoos, and when Jinx and the warriors had seen Nick’s mark, they’d thought he was an Arai. He chewed his fingernails. Did that mean the sundisc was an Arai symbol? Were there different types of Arai, with different sundisc tattoos? What was the difference between the plain sundisc and the one with the horizon mark? Was David an Arai? Did the uniform and weapons belong to him? If so, why had he fought the assassin? Or did David used to be an Arai and was now their enemy?

  The possum skin curtain shifted aside and Xanthe handed Nick a bark platter. On it was a fillet of unidentifiable meat, shrivelled vegetables that resembled mouldy potatoes, char-grilled bugs, and a chunk of blistered flatbread. He sniffed at the unfamiliar food, nibbling a bit of each as Xanthe changed David’s bandage. Something in her soft gaze, something about the way she bound his arm and how the candlelight touched them both reminded Nick of an old married couple.

  They know each other, Nick thought. They’ve known each other for a long time.

  ‘You can sleep in here tonight, Nick. I’ll set up a mat for you.’

  ‘This is your hut?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Nick’s mouth went dry. The sword, the uniform, the archery equipment, the knives – they all belonged to Xanthe. She was the Arai. He wondered if she had a sundisc tattoo as well. Her box of weapons could equip a small army, but she wasn’t an Arai like the assassin.

  Was she?

  Chapter 4: Solstice massacre

  Cal lay flat on his stomach, catching his breath. Night was all around him like a black fog. His heart thrummed. His limbs shook with fatigue. Three hours he’d been scrambling up steep slopes, skidding into dark gullies, and splashing through shallow creeks till his Arai uniform was ripped and soaked through. He was used to this sort of exertion, but he wasn’t used to it on top of a hard day’s travel and no sleep.

  He wished he was back over the border, in Korelios. If he was caught in this perilous country his throat would be slit in an instant. But he had to be here. It didn’t matter that it was the summer solstice. Duty always took precedence over celebrations. Besides, General Alexander had given the order, and anyone who valued their life did not disobey the general.

  Cal checked that his face mask was attached securely to his helmet, ensuring the only visible piece of him was the strip of skin around his eyes, but even that pale bit was smeared with charcoal. Tonight, the Arai were taking no chances.

  Cal slithered forwards to get a better view of what lay ahead. Normally Yándi villages consisted of mudbrick huts scattered among the trees, with a central bonfire, a few stick frames for drying animal skins, a seed grinding area, and sometimes a makeshift wooden pen for goats. This one, Cal noticed, had half-finished stone fortifications, a good sign that it was a rebel training base.

  A couple of people wandered past the bonfire and Cal got a good look at their clothes. The traditional vibrant Yándi colours were nowhere to be seen. Instead, these people wore dull trousers, shirts and boots, and their skin was dusted with red powder. White streaks of paint sliced their cheeks like whiplashes and more white pigment lined their arms and shoulders, honour markings for Rima, their god of lightning. Copper discs bearing the five-pointer Bandála star hung around their necks. General Alexander was right: these Yándi were Bandála rebels.

 
Cal looked to his left and, after a long minute of careful scrutiny, he spotted Artemis. She lay flat behind a tuft of grass, watching for his signal. Behind her, the blackness shifted and repositioned as the rest of the Arai readied themselves. They were two hundred strong, but to the Yándi they would appear as nothing more than shadows threading through the darkness.

  Cal nodded to Artemis, she motioned to someone else further back, and silently, the Arai began to circle. Cal stayed where he was, waiting, watching. A Bandála woman peered towards the bush as if sensing movement. She straightened, gave a sharp whistle, and someone tossed a bucket of water onto the bonfire, throwing the whole area into hissing darkness. In the few seconds it took Cal’s eyes to adjust, he heard rustling footsteps and the sleek whisper of swords being drawn. Then a warning cry split the night.

  ‘Arai!’

  The rebels dashed to their stone wall and grabbed spears hidden behind the bricks. A flaming torch moved along a band of Arai archers on one side of the camp, lighting the arrow tips. When the Arai drew their bows the flames illuminated the dozens of black masks. The first volley landed on the thatched roofs of the houses and people spilled from doorways.

  Cal recalled General Alexander’s orders: ‘Light their houses. Draw them out. They’ll have nowhere to run.’

  With burning houses at their backs and the Arai force on every side, the Bandála were trapped. Cal knew from the way the rebels glanced about that they realised their situation was hopeless. Soon, the smoke and flames drove them out from behind their fortifications.

  ‘Shoot them!’ Alexander yelled.

  The Arai archers fired. Brilliant flashes lit up the night like flint-and-steel sparks as the rebels deflected the arrows. Cal stared, awestruck. He knew the Yándi possessed an unparalleled talent for self-protection. They called it maléya. Cal had never seen it used in battle before, though, and it was an incredible and terrifying sight.

  ‘Keep firing!’

  Alexander had anticipated this defence tactic. He’d warned the Arai that it might take several volleys before the onslaught wore out the rebels so they could no longer shield. Once that happened, they would move in.