Walk a Lonesome Road

by Ann Somerville

  “Shhh.” You’ve blessed me too, Dek thinks. But you might have cursed me as well. He won’t know until Ren’s gone. He’ll just have to deal with it when it happens.

  Walk A Lonesome Road: 21

  They ride Jesti and Wuzi out into the freezing pre-dawn, Ren’s pack on Dek’s animal. Ren looks pale and far from well. He couldn’t eat breakfast, and he slept badly. So did Dek as a result, but he’d not thought of putting Ren out of his bed. They’d clung together in silence all night, heavy emotion unexpressed, words of farewell unsaid and unwanted. Dek can still feel the press of Ren’s belly against him, the small movements of the baby within him kicking, demanding to be freed. Strange he’s got used to the whole idea now. It seems almost normal that a man could be pregnant, and yet it’s still an abomination, a crime. The whole situation’s the result of a crime against a decent man.

  They ride through the quiet streets unchallenged. A few people are about their business but it’s still a little too dark for the city to be awake. The streets of this ancient town are stone, and the padded feet of the animals thud-scuff quietly against the chilly road. Ren looks as if Dek’s taking him to his execution. Dek wishes he didn’t feel as if he was.

  They come up on the wide town square, and start to cross it. Dek sees a man—a stranger—walking with intent towards them, but before he can draw his gun, he finds himself frozen in place. He can’t even speak. Ren, too, is in this hold, panic in his eyes. Telekinetic, Dek realises helplessly. This, he can’t protect Ren from.

  The man, who’s tall and heavyset, a cool expression on rugged features, has caught up with them. Now Dek sees his original contact has emerged and is walking towards them too. “You won’t be harmed,” the TK says. “This is to protect you as much as us.”

  Dek’s contact is at Ren’s side now, his hand clamped firmly on Ren’s thigh as he stares intently up at Ren. Every fibre of Dek’s body is screaming with the need to get free, stop them doing this to Ren, but he can barely breathe, let alone struggle.

  Suddenly Ren moves, but only to get off Wuzi with the help of the strangers. His face is slack—he’s under their control. Dek’s contact still has his hand on him.

  But then Ren shakes himself and his expression becomes more normal. The telepath comes to Dek and touches his leg. He wishes to say farewell. Make a scene and you won’t leave this square alive.

  You’re really going to help him?

  He’ll be safe and cared for, as will his child. He’s no longer your concern.

  Like hell. The man gives him a creepy smile and then Dek finds he can move, if slowly—there’s still some kind of restraint on him. The TK takes Ren’s pack off Jesti and hoists it easily onto his own back. The two men step away and Dek is allowed to dismount and go to Ren, who takes his hands in his. “It’s all right. They’re for real, and the ones behind the break out. I’ll be safe.” He’s smiling, but his eyes are brimming with tears.

  “Ren....” Dek doesn’t know what to say. He’s no good at this. “This is it, then.”

  “Yeah, it really is.” Ren leans forward and presses his lips against Dek’s cheek, warm and sweet against Dek’s cold skin. “Be well, Dek. Be at peace.”

  “Good luck,” Dek chokes out.

  Ren squeezes his hands, and then looks past his shoulder. “We’re done,” he says in a thick voice.

  The TK comes forward and takes Ren by the arm. “This way.” And then off they walk across the square. Dek turns away. He doesn’t want to watch Ren leaving.

  He finds the telepath looking at him, and before he can fully form the realisation that this man isn’t done with him, a hand is clamped on his arm. This is for your own good. We must remove your memory of this business for his protection and yours.

  No! Dek screams in his mind, but he can neither move nor stop the man, only feel the grief at losing something precious and irreplaceable and....

  He gets up on Jesti, takes Wuzi’s reins in hand. Next time he takes it into his head to come to Febkeinzian for fur trading, he’s going to wait until spring. The place is too shitting cold and grimy. At least he got a good price for his pelts. Time to head back home. Been away too long.

  Why’s that guy looking at him like that? He snarls in warning, and the man holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Sorry, my friend, I was admiring your urtibes.”

  The guy’s in a suit—Dek would bet he’s never ridden an urtibes in his life. “They’re not for sale. Move along, Jesti,” he says, clicking his tongue. Yeah, maybe he won’t do this again. Bit too crazy even for him.

  Walk A Lonesome Road: 22

  The trip to Febkeinzian scares Dek a little—it’s out of character, and definitely a lot nuttier than his usual behaviour. The holes in his memory scare him more, and he wonders if it’s possible that the years of isolation have in fact made him worse, rather than just keeping him stable and out of harm’s way. He keeps coming across things which make him stutter and freeze, unable to explain their existence. A pair of unfamiliar thermal socks, the wrong size for him. Some official documents signed by an unknown Febkeinze military officer, offering the bearer safe conduct, when Dek has no recollection in the slightest of going anywhere near where the document was allegedly signed. The stirrups of one of his saddles were set far too long, and he’s missing a lot of his field medical kit, a few other odds and ends he can’t remember losing. And there’s other things too, a face, a voice in his dreams, that were never there before. Images of violence, of terror, and weirdly, of a dying child, that are new and whose source he can’t divine at all.

  He doesn’t know how to deal with any of it except as he always does, which is just to endure, but as time passes, as the spring comes fully into bloom and he starts his trapping in earnest, the images fade a little and the sick sense of losing his mind altogether, eases. Things aren’t getting any worse, and he wonders if he maybe just suffered a bit too much cabin fever this last winter. He might have to try and make the effort to go across to Kaisei’s place more often. Add a tiny bit more human contact into his existence, just for sanity’s sake.

  The rhythm of his year is much as it always has been. When he goes to Osiwen with his pelts, a little later than is his usual habit, there’s talk of a crashed flyer that’s been found a hundred and fifty pardecs northeast of the town. The strange thing is, they say, there were no bodies. Not a one. And the plane isn’t officially registered anywhere. Smugglers, the old-timers say, nodding sagely as Dek talks to them about it. A funny business for sure. He missed the investigators who were in the area a couple of months before, checking things out. The wreck was lifted out by TKs, apparently. The land will reclaim the scar in time, Dek knows, and has no further interest in the matter.

  The summer’s one of the most beautiful he’s ever experienced in the north, and he spends much of it on the trail, exploring, trapping a little, but mostly just enjoying the magnificent, dangerous beauty of his home. It’s a glorious season, one that reaffirms that it was the right thing to do to move up here, so he’s a more than a little surprised to find himself dreading the coming winter. For the first time in seven years, he even thinks about maybe going south for a few months, maybe even to Kekwe to see Tik and the family, before telling himself he’d go lock ‘em up crazy within a week. He doesn’t understand it—he’s never felt lonely before, or the least bit bothered by the winter which always holds a special appeal to him with all its perfect, stark majesty. He tells himself the strange mood will pass, and tries to keep busy.

  One midwinter night, as he’s doing some intricate stitching on a new pair of indoor shoes, he nearly has a heart attack as he hears a knock at his door. Who the hell could possibly be calling on him at this time of the night, at this time of the year? He fetches his gun down from the top shelf, finds the ammunition in a drawer and loads it, then puts his boots on. “Who is it?” he calls from the hallway.

  “Defence Force, Utag Dekan. Official business.”

  He frowns. He’s got a communicator—why
didn’t they call? But even though he’s telling himself not to let whoever it is in, he finds himself opening the door, as if his hands and feet have minds of their own. He finds two men standing there—not defs. He tries to raise his gun, but can’t. “May we come in?” one of them says, and sweeps past Dek as if he’s not even there.

  He can’t open his mouth, or stop them. What’s going on? They’re foreign—southern, Darsini or Weadenisi. Both tall, both wearing new, top quality winter gear and arrogant, faintly displeased expressions. The second one shuts the door behind him and then Dek is herded back into his own living room and made to sit. “You don’t need to be afraid,” the first one says. “We’re not here to harm you or rob you. We’re simply delivering a message.”

  “From who?” Dek whispers.

  “Here,” the second one says, and hands Dek an envelope. As Dek’s fingers touch the paper, he cries out—a sudden flood of recollection overwhelms him, images, voices he can name, faces he recognises now. A memory of a red-haired man with beautiful eyes and a gentle touch. “Ren?” he says, staring up at his visitors.

  “Yes, Ren. He wanted you to have this message. Insisted on it, in fact,” the first says, with an eyeroll at the second one. “He wanted you to have your memories back, and we have granted that wish.”

  “Is he all right? What about the baby? Where is he?”

  The first one holds up his hand. “No point in telling you, as we’ll have to remove all memory of our visit when we leave. Everything that’s safe for you to know is in that letter.” And then he turns, as if he’s done.

  “Wait!” Dek cries, getting to his feet. “Can you give him a message?”

  The second one frowns, and there’s a few moments’ silence in which, Dek guesses, they communicate through their thoughts. “Very well. What do you want to say?”

  “Just...tell him...I miss him. That...I hope he’s doing well...and that I’m fine. I’m doing good,” he says firmly.

  “We can tell him that. Now we have to go.”

  “Will I hear from him again?”

  “Not if I have my way,” the second man mutters.

  “Perhaps,” the first man says with a quelling look at his companion. “No promises, and if you attempt to contact him in any way, we’ll return and this time, your memories will be permanently destroyed,” he says, his eyes severe.

  “I won’t. Tell him thanks for this.” Dek holds the envelope close to him. “Tell him....”

  “We have to go,” the first man says, but not unkindly. “Best you don’t dwell on this, Utag Dekan.”

  Dek finds himself standing in his living room, his gun in one hand, a letter in the other, and his boots on his feet. He has no recollection how these things have come to pass. But he remembers Ren now, and the previous winter, and the real reason he went to Febkeinzian, and he guesses that someone’s protecting Ren now who’d wanted to be sure that no one looking for Ren would find him in Dek’s thoughts. After a year, it must be safe enough to let him remember.

  He puts the gun away, removes his boots, and takes the letter back to the table. He’s almost afraid to open it, which is ridiculous because why would Ren write to him to cause him sorrow? Growling at his own stupidity, he carefully peels back the seal, and extracts the single sheet of paper. There’s no signature, just an ‘R’. The handwriting is tidy and elegant—not really how he might have imagined it.

  Dear Dek

  If you’re reading this, then my pleading worked. They probably told you, but you mustn’t try to reply to this—it’s not safe for you.

  (A memory of a warning comes to Dek, and he nods.)

  My daughter was born six weeks after I left you. She’s quite beautiful, with red hair and green eyes. Everyone says she takes after me.

  (So it was his child. And ‘his daughter’—he’s decided to keep her?)

  She had some physical problems and required surgery, but is recovering well. By her first birthday, we expect her to be pretty much normal. I have named her Misawenu, Misa for short. It means ‘blessed miracle’, which she surely is. My sister is helping me to look after her here.

  (His sister! So she got out too. Dek smiles, thinking of Ren’s reaction to that news.)

  It was fortunate she was here to help as I wasn’t very well for a while. However, I’m fine now and taking things easy.

  (Dek wonders how much Ren is glossing over, and decides it doesn’t matter so long as he’s being truthful now.)

  I’m retraining to become a licensed physician here, and working as a medic as I study. My sister is doing the same. We’re hoping to set up a practice together when we finish.

  Life here is good, and people are very kind. I’ve had any amount of help, and I’m as happy as I could expect to be in the circumstances, though my thoughts are with those I’ve left behind, and I miss them. I miss you and I worry about you. I hope I’ll be hearing news of you soon.

  Everything I have now—my daughter, my sister, my new life—I owe to you, and a day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of you and bless the day I met you. I wanted you to know that all your efforts weren’t for nothing.

  Be at peace, my dear friend. R.

  There are drops of water on the paper, and Dek doesn’t know where they’re coming from, until he realises it’s from him and he’s crying. He lays the letter carefully on the table, then covers his face and sobs as he hasn’t in years, not since Lomare died, not since the first night after the funeral. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying because he’s so happy Ren’s safe, that he’s got something back from the wreckage of his life. Only....

  Only, he misses the bastard so much, and he knows he’ll never see him again. Even getting this message to him was risky, and reading between the lines, he realises Ren must have badgered someone pretty unmercifully to allow it to be sent.

  He wipes his eyes, but he can feel more tears rising. A year ago, he didn’t know Ren existed, and never wanted anyone in his life. Now he’s crying like a fucking baby over a guy who considers him a friend, but who’s moved onto his new life and new interests.

  He finds the book where he’d put Lomare’s picture and his graduation certificate, and places the letter carefully between its leaves. He probably ought to destroy it but it’s the only tangible evidence he has that Ren ever existed. That, a too large pair of socks, and his memories. At least he has the memories.

  When he returns from some late summer trapping the next year, there’s an envelope on his kitchen table. Inside, there’s a image of a laughing baby with red curls, being held up by a familiar pair of big hands. On the back, in writing that Dek is now also achingly familiar with, are the words, ‘M at one year old.’

  Dek grins—he’s not one for babies, but this child’s smile is infectious, even in a image like this. But then he looks again and realises those hands, which he would swear on oath belong to a talkative, brilliant empath, are free of any mark. He peers at it carefully—maybe the image has been altered, but he doubts it. He realises Ren is sending another, more subtle message. The tattoo’s been removed. Without that or the biochip, the Pindone authorities will have almost no chance of removing him from the country legally, and with the efficiency of the Weadenisis, Dek doubts they have much chance of extracting him illegally.

  That’s when he starts writing the letters to Ren, knowing he has no chance of ever sending them, but wanting to...connect somehow. And he makes toys for the baby—a dyed leather ball, a mobile of feathers and engraved nuts and glasstone which he polishes to a brilliant gleam. A pair of slippers made of the finest, softest gemil hide. He even makes a miniature-sized jacket like the ones the Febkeinze women wear when they’re showing off. He keeps them all in a safe box under the floor, knowing he’s being more than a little foolish, but he figures there’s no harm in this particular insanity. One night after New Year, he goes to deposit a new letter in the box, and finds it empty. He grins, and knows he has only to wait.

  Midsummer, there’s another image in an envelo
pe. The child, standing up with the help of an anonymous person, is dressed in his jacket and slippers and is giggling at a ball being held in her father’s hand. ‘M loves her new toys’ is written on the back. And his most recent letters have gone. That Ren hasn’t written to him more than on the image, doesn’t matter. They don’t really need the words.

  The fourth year, there’s a letter with an image of a sad-faced little girl in a uniform whose identifying badges are carefully obscured. ‘Poor M doesn’t want to go to school because she wants to play with her Papa.’ Ren’s letter explains that Misawenu is actually enjoying school. Ren himself is done with his classes and has begun a year’s specialist training—in what, he doesn’t specify. Dek hopes Ren’s getting the satisfaction he deserves from his new work. He’s a gifted doctor, and the world needs more of them.

  The fifth year, there’s no message in the summer, and nothing comes at New Year either. Dek’s been expecting this, and tries not to be disappointed—Ren, after all, has got to move on with his life, and doctors have a lot more to fill their days than crazy hermits.

  When the knock comes at his door, he doesn’t go for his gun, though he’s not sure, thinking back on it afterwards, exactly why he doesn’t. He flings open the door, and there, in the snow-gleaming moonlight, is Ren, grinning like a maniac. “Just passing through. Can I come in?”

  Dek opens his mouth, blinks, then hauls Ren in by his arm and slams the door. “You’re really here? I’m not being fucked with?”

  Ren puts his hand on Dek’s shoulders and squeezes. “No, really here.” He’s got a backpack on, which he unbuckles and swings to the floor. “I was hoping I could stay a few days—if I can’t, I need to let my ride know.”

  “Stay,” Dek growls and Ren grins again.

  “Hoped you’d says that.” His eyes go distant and then he nods. “Right—that’s set. Any chance of a hot drink? I’m freezing.”

  Dek busies himself with boiling water for khevai, hauling out some cookies he’d made that day as a treat for himself. Ren dumps his pack and his outer gear in the drying room, and pads into the kitchen. “I missed this place,” he says contentedly. He sits down at the table. “Missed you.”