by A. Sparrow
“I’m not going to Frelsi. I’m going up to the glaciers.”
“You are not dead, but you are dying?”
I nodded. “Sure looks that way.”
“And you fear the Deeps?”
“No. It’s not that. It’s just—”
“Well, you should.”
“I just figure I’m already here. Why not stick around? Why not short circuit all the rigmarole? This has got to be the better place to be, right? I mean, you wound up here, when you had the choice. Right?”
She slitted her eyes and tilted her head. “Come up. Ride with me. I will bring you to the glaciers.”
I looked up at those clacking mouthparts, those Velociraptor-like claws, and I felt no compulsion to move.
“Come! I promise Lalibela will not eat you.”
She cooed something and the dragonfly fluttered off the bough and landed atop a boulder, its claws scraping into the granite. The tree rebounded wildly, waving its branches like an angry Ent.
I went around the back of it, away from those ever-staring eyes. The saddle was different from Seraf’s, arched over the thorax so as not to interfere with the plates and knobs that levered her wings. Using a spine as a foothold, I grabbed a handful of bristles and hauled myself onto the saddle behind her.
“No,” she said. “You should sit in front.”
“No thanks,” I said. I still had welts in my stomach from Urszula’s claws digging into me.”
She cackled. “Ah, you just want to be back there so you can fondle me.”
“What is it with you demons?”
“Demons? This is what you think of me?”
“Well … you said you came from the Deeps.”
“I am a soul like any other, an old soul, but still just a soul like you. When you call one of us a demon, you are no better than the Frelsians.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were so sensitive.”
“Not me. It is your safety I worry about. My brothers and sisters do not respond well to such insults. As for me? Fa! Words do no harm. Hold on, my little virgin. Off we go.” She shrieked and flapped the reins.”
The dragonfly’s glassy wings sizzled into action and we surged off the slope, gliding over the trees. Lalibela zig-zagged up the side of the mountain, gaining altitude with each successive jag.
I tried hanging onto the saddle; it was a sleek and Spartan affair that offered no handholds. So I was forced to slip my hands around Urszula’s trim waist. She scooted back and made this purring sound that kind of weirded me out. But I had no choice but to hang on.
Lalibela’s fluttered her wings in little bursts. She provided a much smoother ride than Seraf, whose saddle sat flush against her chitin and transmitted every oscillation of her thorax directly to my butt. Lalibela’s saddle arched over the plates and levers that drove her wings, insulating us from the action.
We skimmed low over the trees, their tops waving in the wind like an ocean of green. It was wicked sweet watching all that mountainside slide by beneath us. The dark-needled evergreens were getting so dense and tangled with deadfalls. It would have taken some nasty bushwhacking to get through it—the kind of terrain where you could struggle all day and not cover a mile.
“Hey, thanks for this lift,” I said. “It’s a big help. I really appreciate it.”
“I think I can take you no farther than the tree line,” said Urszula. “Lalibela does not handle the cold well.”
“No problem,” I said. “I can take it from there just fine.”
As Lalibela tacked back and forth, she was drifting closer to Frelsi. Frankly, the proximity was making me nervous. I was about to mention something to Urszula when we passed over a swath of splintered trees that cut through the forest like the path of a tornado.
The overgrown ruins of a city appeared below, its walls and terraces constructed of the same square blocks I had seen those beetles trundle through the vale. Its architecture of elevated plazas and sunken alleys reminded me of Urszula’s home atop the mesa.
“What the heck is this place?” I said, shouting into Urszula’s ear to be heard over the rushing wind and buzzing wings.
“Neueden,” she said. “The original. Long abandoned. The oldest of the One Ones lay here. Frelsi was second, its sister city, before it too was abandoned.”
Hemis worked among the ruins, hacking at the trees with machete-like blades, stacking bodies of Old Ones on wagons. They scattered at the sight of us, cowering in alleys, fleeing into the forest. Urszula cackled, taking pleasure in their fear. She made Lalibela descend, feigning spells with her scepter, harassing those who fled.
“Really, Urszula? Do you have to fly so low?”
“What is wrong? Afraid your friends will see you riding with a demon?”
“It’s not that. I just think it’d be safer if—.”
A raspy-throated howl drew my gaze to a clearing. It was one of those huge Reapers. A frantic crew scrambled across the decking as the Reaper bent its body to face us.
Kerchunk!
Urszula slammed her heel into the dragonfly’s side and we dropped and turned abruptly to the left, nearly dumping me out of the saddle.
A huge, barbed harpoon went zipping off to our right, nearly clipping one of Lalibela’s wings. It reached the end of a slender, translucent tether and went springing back to the ground. A massive Reaper crashed through the trees, clad with decking and armor and bearing a crew. The aft harpoon launcher took aim while the forward mount reeled in the one that went astray.
She jerked the reins to the left. Lalibela pulled up abruptly and spun, reversing direction, sending my stomach flying into my chest. Urszula raised her scepter and moaned a spell, summoning the force that nestled in the depths of her being. She shuddered and a shapeless, shifting blob of plasma came spiraling out of the blunt end of her scepter.
It slammed into the decking, sending up a geyser of dust, splinters and flesh. The Reaper reared up, bellowing in pain. Two helmeted crewmen who had been reloading the forward harpoon went flying over the side.
The aft harpoon released. In basketball, you know how you can tell a three-point shot is going in from the moment it’s released? I saw a direct hit coming at Lalibela’s chest. Apparently, she did too because she stilled and tilted her wings, dropping like a rock as the harpoon went whooshing past our heads. Her claws scraped granite, but just before her body could make impact she restored the trim of her wings and vectored off.
We zoomed across the slope, back over intact forest. Looking back, I saw a second Reaper maneuvering to join the fray, but we were already well out of harpoon range.
We flew over terraces, ravines and shattered cliffs. Patches of alpine meadow topped atop island-like knobs that rose above the forest. When the ruined city was out of sight, Urszula put Lalibela down on a stunted but sturdy tree. Our weight bent the tip down until we were partially immersed in the canopy.
She gazed back over the terrain we had just crossed, her eyes lost in calculation. “Our bees have been less than vigilant,” she said. “I had no idea the Frelsians were active here. But I should not be surprised. It was only a matter of time.”
“They’re expanding?”
“Perhaps. For now, they come to harvest.” She looked at me with those twin pits of coal, bending her mouth into a sour grin. “And where do you think they will find food for their Reapers once the Old Ones are gone?”
I didn’t want to think about that, but I couldn’t keep out the image of those people penned up in the Sanctuary with those D’s embossed on their arms.
I sighed and look up at the bare slopes rising before us. We were close to tree line.
“I can get off here,” I said. “If … you need to go back.”
“Nonsense. These trees are too tangled to push through on foot.” She slapped the reins against Lalibela’s trembling thorax.
Lalibela took a moment to respond, her reflexes dulled by the chill. That would not bode well in a fracas. Next time she put down, I was ho
pping off the saddle, I didn’t care where we ended up.
The trees grew shorter and shorter until they became not much more than a creeping green carpet studded with boulders.
Before us, the shroud of mist had peeled back to reveal brutal fins and blades of stone, like bones behind vestments. Dirty, shattered glaciers pressed through every gap. Not a shred of vegetation came between sky and stone.
Lalibela set down awkwardly in an isolated patch of stunted firs on the back side of a moraine.
“This is as far as we can go,” said Urszula.
“This is fine,” I said.
“I am not sure if this is high enough from the Core,” she said. “You may need to climb higher. But … I do not know for sure.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it figured out.”
Lalibela shivered like a frightened rabbit. I had no idea that insects could shiver.
“I will send the bees to check on you. Do not be afraid if they want to touch you. Let them. They need to taste to confirm their targets.”
“Taste?”
“Do not worry. They will not bite or sting you. And if you are in trouble, just speak my name, and it will come find me wherever I am.”
“You want me to talk to a bee?”
“Please. I am serious. Do as I say. I want your soul to stay safe.”
She gave me a sad look, and for a moment, I could see the child in her, before her face hardened and she glanced away. It was the first hint she had given me of her prior existence. Not even when she had been trussed up and on the brink of being fed to the Reapers had she looked so vulnerable.
But she avoided my stare. Reaching into a saddlebag, she tossed me a wad of grey cloth, about the size of a folded bandana. “Take this. You will need it.”
It landed at my feet amidst a miniature forest of lichens and moss. It looked like a silk hankie. I picked it up.
“What’s this for? To blow my nose?”
“It is made by spell craft. It will keep you warm. It will hide you.”
“How?” I shook it open. The damned thing was no bigger than a hand towel.
“Wrap it around yourself.”
There was hardly enough of it to wrap around my head, but I did as she said. I flopped it over one shoulder and on contact it started to spread and thicken in all dimensions until I was holding a blanket made of thick silken fleece. I could feel the warmth building already.
“Now throw it on the ground.”
I tossed it down, just to humor her and watched it disappear amidst the lichens and moss.
“Where’d it go?”
“It is still there, right where you dropped it. It is chameleon cloth. It shapes itself to resemble into whatever it touches.”
I reached down, found its corner by feel and lifted it up to reveal the plush pile underneath. There were no visible seams between it and the landscape. Its camouflage was perfect.
“Cool!”
Lalibela shuffled her feet, thorax rattling fiercely.
“I had better go now and get her warmed up,” said Urszula. “If she stays up here any longer, she will not be able to fly.” She looked down at me, her face a paradoxical clash of ferocious eyes and sardonic grin all shaded over with melancholy. The wind blew scraggly wisps of soot-grey hair across her face.
“Thanks again for the ride,” I said. “And for this.” I held up the cloth, which in the absence of my touch had thinned and shrunken back to handkerchief size.
“When your soul is freed,” she said. “The bees will tell me. I will come for you. You will join me in Neueden.”
“But I thought I wasn’t welcome there.”
“You are not. But I will make it so.”
Before I could politely decline her offer, which actually sounded more like a command, Lalibela’s wings exploded into action, blowing grit and bits of twig every which way as she burst into the sky.
Chapter 33: Sturgie
Karla awoke coughing and gasping, her head reclined on Isobel’s lap in the back seat of the little blue Ford. Droplets misting the windshield refracted light from a street lamp, transforming a row of rowan trees into living pointillism. Bursting with berries, their leaves had begun to turn.
Renfrew glanced over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. “She lives! Goodness darling, we thought you went into a bloody coma. Sorry you had to miss out on dinner, but your sister insisted we let you sleep.”
“Don’t worry La, I saved you some fried rice,” said Isobel.
“Where are we?” said Karla, squinting, cobwebs muddling her brain.
“Home,” said Isobel.
“Inverness?” Karla bolted upright, alarmed.
“It’s okay, La,” said Isobel, patting her. “Ren wanted to stop and check on Sturgie. Jessica’s gone to see if he’s alright.”
Renfrew ran the wipers to clear the accumulated droplets. He wiped a cloth above the dashboard. The night world came clear for a few moments before the mists and fog again smothered it.
They were parked on the street before an array of three modern apartment buildings with glassed-in lobbies, arrayed around a square and sterile-looking central green space haunted by a smattering of scraggly lindens.
She knew the spot well. They were a block from Longman Road, near the busy roundabout at Inverness College—part of the consortium of small schools that formed the University of the Highlands and Islands.
Inverness College was too small to have its own residence halls, so students either commuted or rented flats in rowdy apartment blocks dominated by students and young professionals.
A chill shuddered through Karla. Isobel had her window rolled down partly, probably because the glass was fogging up from the inside, but that wasn’t entirely the cause. Being back in Inverness was enough.
“You shouldn’t have let Jessica go by herself,” said Karla.
“Had to,” said Renfrew. “Sturgie would never open his door if he saw me coming.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story. We had a … a bit of a falling out.”
“How long has she been gone?” said Karla.
“Not long. Maybe ten minutes.”
“I should go check on her,” said Karla, reaching for the door latch.
“She’ll be fine,” said Renfrew. “She has her mobile.”
A car pulled up across the street under street lamp—a black Vauxhall. The vehicle barely registered with Karla, until the door opened and a tall man stepped out, blonde locks spilling from beneath his watch cap. A younger man in a hooded sweatshirt exited the passenger side. They stood and consulted a map together, before striking out across the street right in front of them.
“Renfrew! Turn off your wipers. And keep them off.”
“But why?”
“Turn them off!”
Before the mist rebuilt to consume their view and conceal them, approaching headlights of the pair, confirming what she feared.
“Why’s that bugger carrying a cricket bat this time of night?” said Renfrew.
“They’re from Papa’s church,” said Karla, undoing her buckle. “They must be coming after Sturgie.”
“It’s Mr. Joshua!” said Isobel, daubing the side window with her sleeve for a better look.
“Izzie! Get away from that window.” She pulled her sister back against the seat and puffed on the spot she had cleared to fog it back up.
“There’s someone else still in the car,” said Izzie. “I wonder if it’s Papa?”
“Heaven forbid,” said Karla.
“You know, I’ve always liked Mr. Joshua,” said Isobel. He’s always been nice to me. Though, his son Mark is a bit demonic.”
“They are both evil,” said Karla. “Joshua’s kindness is a veneer. Spend enough time and you will see what sits beneath.”
“Looks like they’re going to the wrong building,” said Renfrew. “They must not have a proper address.”
“We can’t just leave Jessica out there on her own.”
She reached for the door handle. “I’m going out. Isobel, you stay put.”
“Wait! Let me just give her a call,” said Renfrew.
“You do that. I’m going.” She slipped out of the car and pushed the door closed gently.
“Careful, La!”
She hustled down the pavement to the poorly lighted back side of Sturgie’s building. A pervasive film of mist instantly dampened her skin and clothes.
The place was familiar. She had visited Sturgie’s flat several times during her night-time rambles after meeting him at the college. Sturgie had been confused at first about the nature of her attentions, but he soon realized that she just needed someone to talk to over tea and bitters, and was happy to oblige.
He had always been a gentleman, never forcing himself on her physically even though it had been apparent from the yearning in his eyes that he had hoped something more intimate might develop. What else could one expect from a freshman boy, far from home, when a waif from out of nowhere, wanders out of nowhere into his life?
And when their relationship never materialized, he was not bitter about it, just grateful to have this unexpected and intermittent friendship.
But how had Papa found out about him? She had never written his name on any correspondence or mentioned him to anyone but Isobel. Perhaps he had made the link through Linval. He and Sturgie had been band mates at one point, when Linval had lived in Cardiff.
Karla slipped past a row of trash bins and went up the back entry. On the third landing up, she entered a bright hallway redolent with foot powder and spilt ale. Sturgie’s flat was halfway down the hall—Number 323.
She knocked on the door. A murmur of voices ceased. Moments later, Sturgie spoke up. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me. Karla!”
The door whipped open. Sturgie stood there, rusty locks heaped on his shoulders, way longer than she remembered. His formerly wispy facial hair had filled out into a full beard that could almost compete with Renfrew’s.
“Karla! Long time no see.”
She squeezed past him and pulled the door closed, making sure it was latched.
“Ren just called,” said Jessica. “Those men have gone into the building across the way.”
Karla flicked off the lights and went to the window, pulling aside the drapes. She stared out at the sparse garden, devoid of all souls, pools of light glistening on the intersecting walkways. The rain had picked up a bit. Drops speckled the puddles.