We Leave Together

by J. M. McDermott

  We remained as wolves. We remained alert. We did not need to warn each other that this could be a terrible trap.

  We sniffed the ground for any remnant of the stain. It was still everywhere, worse than the red valley. Salvatore’s smell was everywhere, too. We trailed it through the trees, around the lake, through what used to be hedges and fields, and out into the city.

  He might have been coming into the estate. He might have been leaving the estate. Either way, we followed what we could to the edge of the ferry where his scent grew thin from all the ash and smoke that blew and fell, and the people running over the ground.

  Remain as wolves. Run through the streets in the night to all corners of the huge wall. Howl in the dark and call to him. Call out to every dog that remembers in their blood the singing of the wolves. Call out his name. Cry out with me.

  Cry out, husband.

  Cry out with me.

  Salvatore must die.

  CHAPTER 15

  Caravans traveled along different roads. They clung closer to the waters to trade for fish from the boys that lived near the shore in the spiraling shantytowns. These young dervishes of mud jump to the roadside with their hands waving overhead. They held them up and shouted for the caravan driver. The driver kept fishhooks in a small sack. He traded two hooks for each good fish.

  Past the merging rivers, the pebbled shoreline grows a rocky shell. Young oyster divers leap nude into the surf to gather supper to feed the fullers in the wool factory who stripped lanolin from the sheets of wool in ammoniac tents.

  The end of winter, the sheep faced their fate in the mouth of the shears. The wool, too rich in oily lanolin to roll into decent yarn, has to dance with the fullers.

  The liver and ammonia stink of weeks-old urine hung in the air. The caravan driver burned pine cones in a bucket, and he held it up in the air. They cracked and snapped in the heat, but they burned the edge of the smell out of the air.

  Djoss asked him why he moved this way.

  The caravan driver said that raiders kept away from the fullers, on account of the stink. Further north, past the city, nothing mattered.

  North and north for weeks, and then they turned east.

  And that is where my husband and I encountered the caravan, at the edge of the fullers, with the stink of the demon in his cart, where Rachel rode. He told us of his escape from a raider camp, and how lucky he was for the porter’s Senta sister.

  ***

  Another koan felt in the slanting light of an empty room. Rachel’s voice echoed in Jona’s mind.

  A Senta student asked the master if the prayers of the faithful reached the ears of the Gods. The master snorted at his student. Of course not. The prayers need only reach the ears of the one praying.

  Jona stared at Rachel’s naked neck. He hoped his prayers reached his father’s soul, in the bowels of Elishta. Then, he pushed the hope aside.

  Rachel wondered aloud if her prayers aimed to the nameless, unseen deities that had fallen from the clouds ignored, and fallen into the unholy pits of the planet. Her hand reached up to the ceiling and down in an arc like a meteor.

  If so, she whispered, I pray that all of the Nameless demons kill themselves and leave your children alone. We want no part of your selfish ways.

  CHAPTER 16

  Jona, long before he was the last of the Joni and had a name all his own, knew nothing of the war. He knew a war was happening, and that was all he knew of it. He did not know what it was. The only servants in the house were women, or old, crippled men. All the strong men were off fighting.

  His father said that Jona might have to fight in the war, someday, if it kept on like this. A city to the north sent wave after wave of troops south into Dogsland’s countryside. Dogsland sent wave after wave back north.

  Lord Joni kept a large garden for the women that worked on the estate. He let them grow anything they wanted, and keep anything they grew.

  Jona liked to sneak out of his room at night—he never slept—and raid the garden. A big, yellow dog chained up and mean got rid of rabbits in the night. Baiting the dog was better than the garden. Jona slipped out of his room, climbed down a trellis, and ran over the lawn to the dog near the fence.

  Jona untied the dog’s leash and let the animal run free through the grounds. Jona ran with the dog for a while, but the dog wasn’t chasing anything. The dog stopped to sniff hard at the ground, and leave a trail of dog’s water behind him.

  Even against the walls that kept the city out, Jona’s grandmother had planted vines with big, fat leaves that made it look like the woods never ended at all. Jona and the dog ran along the fence together.

  Owls kept counsel among the leaves of a fat ash tree, gossiping like women. The dog came here to sniff through the owl pellets. Jona heard the dog crunching on hairy rodent bones.

  Jona wanted to climb the tree to touch an owl. He grabbed a low branch. He pulled himself up and wedged his boot against another tree next to him. He had to use his hands to feel for new black branches against a black sky full of clouds.

  He got up high enough to scare the owls to the higher branches. He stopped because his hands rubbed raw on the bark. He straddled a branch, resting his left foot against another branch for leverage.

  A wind swam through the branches. A sea storm was coming. Jona stayed where he was, waiting for the rain to come. He looked up at the dark sky, watching the city lights bounce off the boiling night clouds.

  He listened for the sounds of the dog down below. He looked down at the black ground. He couldn’t even see shadows.

  Thunder rolled in.

  Then, lightning.

  In the flash, a naked man covered in blood.

  Jona froze.

  Thunder.

  Lightning again, and this time, Jona saw his father’s face, all twisted up like a ghoul, and the man’s face covered with dog blood, and the dog hanging limp from the nude man’s mouth.

  Jona clawed higher up the tree. His hands didn’t bleed, but they felt like they might bleed.

  Thunder again.

  The rain fell hard. Jona clung to his tree all night, terrified. He only came down for breakfast when he heard his mother calling him.

  Was this a dream, a piece of a dream, or a memory?

  I don’t know. The man was arrested, and hung high like a criminal.

  His wealth was lost at sea. Lands were lost. A mother remained, with a boy, and she had to send her son to temple school like a beggar.

  ***

  There’s another dream I have at night.

  Jona and the kitchen girls climbed up the ladders cutting oranges off the branches. They’re all giggling and giggling. One of the girls—the one with freckles and a club foot—cuts into the orange in her hand with the knife. She bites into the flesh. The chef down below screams at the girl. The girl waves her hand at the woman. She hands the orange—her face all sticky—to the girl on the ladder near her. That girl takes a bite. She hands the orange to Jona.

  The chef is screaming now, all red in the face. She calls the children filthy thieves. Filthy dogs. Filthy, filthy dog thieves.

  Jona hands the orange back to the girl with the freckles, and she has orange all over her face, and everyone has orange on their face and no one is working.

  And another girl cuts into another orange, and the children pass the oranges around.

  Then, Lady Joni has run out into the grove, and she’s screaming, too, and all the girls are listening now. They climb down the ladders, hanging their heads. They don’t look well. Lady Sabachthani tells the chef to take all the girls into the kitchen for a good whipping.

  Jona comes down, and then his mother has him by the lapel of his little white suit—all stained with orange juice. She drags him up to his bedroom, and locks him in. She tells her son, curtly, that he is never, ever to share food with anyone.

  Jona spends three days in his bedroom, with only his mother visiting him. She tells her son that he is different, and he can’t share food
with anyone else.

  When he’s finally released, she tells everyone that her son recovered from the illness. The girl with the club foot and freckles had died. The rest of the girls were sick and under Lady Joni’s personal care.

  Jona looked down at where he had been so happy picking oranges, and the orange trees were gone. Lady Joni had them torn away for making her son sick.

  “But I wasn’t sick, Ma,” said Jona.

  “Hush,” she said, “Don’t call your mother a liar. You were sick. You’re lucky you didn’t die.”

  And Jona didn’t understand.

  ***

  The boy at night, waiting for the world to wake up, used up candles that his father had bought on the black market—candles were rationed—and burned black-market coal. Coal was also rationed. The boy read books, but he hated them. He played with blocks, building night cities full of people that never slept, and books became the large foundations of castles, or the high city walls with paper flags in the wind. Boys and girls wandered in the dark, and shared songs and dancing and the best games. And down this avenue the parents waltzed in grand balls.

  Tiny cities spread across his floor in the flickering light. At the end of the night, the boy tipped over the largest palace—where his mother and his father lived—and the tumbling towers—a different architecture each evening—ruined all the buildings below like a volcano.

  Then, Jona kicked his way through the streets, humming lullabyes to everyone because now was time for bed, but not for him.

  He had other games, too, but they were normal enough. Imaginary monsters must be vanquished. Balls must be thrown and bounced. Pranks will be played upon the sleepers. Jona spent entirely too much time by himself, for a boy, when no one watched him in the long night hours.

  ***

  Jona’s name was not Jona, yet. His father had named him Tintaba. His mother called him Little Taba. His father called him Young Lord Joni. The children in the house called him Taba. The staff in the house called him Lord Tintaba Joni.

  The visitors that came for his father called Jona “Lord Tintaba Joni”. Three men, each wearing a king’s man’s uniform and each far beyond their fighting years. One man used his sword like a cane. He held the pommel and leaned into it. His knee wouldn’t bend. This limping man hailed the boy. “Lord Tintaba Joni, lord of these lands, please give the king your precious time.”

  Jona frowned. He walked right up to the man with the sword like a cane. “Who are you?” he said.

  The three men did their best to bow to the young lord. The gesture took them effort. One man made sounds as if he was lifting a heavy load. The one with the sword for a cane had to balance precariously on the tip of the sword’s pommel on the ground. The third was merely very stiff, and struggled to force his stiff body low enough to qualify for a bow.

  “Lord Joni,” said the stiff one, “We are the King’s Guards, and we have come looking for your father. Can you direct us to him?”

  “I don’t know where he is,” said Lord Tintaba Jona, “What do you need him for?”

  “We wish to discuss very dull, boring, unexciting things, my Lord,” said the man with the sword like a cane, “If you’d like we can talk about them with you. You seem like a mature young man, who can handle boring, dull, unexciting conversations.”

  “I’ll go see if I can find my father,” said Jona, “Wait here.”

  “Gladly, my Lord,” said the tall, stiff man.

  Jona ran up the stairs to the top floor. His father liked the top floor—even though it was the hottest floor in the summer—and pushed papers around a desk near the south wall.

  Jona knocked. His father’s voice called out for a few more moments.

  Jona leaned against the wall across from the door. “Father, some men are here to see you. They’re dressed the same.”

  “Oh? How many are there?” asked Lord Joni.

  “Three,” said Jona, “And they’re wearing the same clothes.”

  “They’re king’s men, Lord Joni. They are here to arrest me.” The old Lord opened the door.

  “What does that mean, father?” said Jona. He stood up from the wall. He looked up at his father.

  Lord Joni smiled. One hand clutched the doorknob. The other hand, hanging at his side, trembled. The man was pale. “They’re going to take me to speak with the king, Lord Joni, and I will be going away for a while. Please, don’t worry,” he said.

  “I’m not worried, father,” said Jona, “They’re old.”

  “Old, you say? Undoubtedly any young king’s men would be assigned to the army for now. Did you know there’s a war on?”

  “Of course, father.”

  “Do you know what that means, Lord Joni?”

  “It means that there are only women and old men everywhere. All the men are off in the woods or at sea because the king says so.”

  “All except me and few others like me,” said Lord Joni, “Unfortunately, fighting in this stupid war may be the best I can hope for now. I was allowed to remain here instead of fighting because of the ships. Do you know how our family earned money?”

  “No,” said Jona.

  The father took his son’s shoulders and led him into the study. Mounds of paper burned in a trash bin. Heaps and heaps awaited the fire, upon the desk.

  Old Lord Joni led his son past the burning papers to the open window. Smoke from the fire leaked into the sea air. The sea breeze carried the smoke into the city beyond the garden. He picked up his son so the boy could see the ocean in the distance. “We owned ships,” said Lord Joni, “They used to be some of the best ships in the world. Now, they are all at the bottom of the sea.”

  “Ships don’t belong on the bottom of the ocean,” said Jona, “That doesn’t make any sense. Ships sail on top of the water, father.”

  “Of course, they’re supposed to stay on top of the water,” said the old Lord. Tears welled up at the corner of his eyes. “Unfortunately for us, our ships were sunk at sea. Every man on board was killed. Every pebble of coal was lost, and now the king is very upset with me. Swords and arrowheads cannot be made without coal. Armies cannot fight without weapons. This was a terrible blow against Dogsland. And, because they are my ships, I must bear responsibility for them.”

  Jona looked up, and tears burned at his father’s collar, melting the edges of his fine shirt. The man cursed. He abandoned his son in the window and leaned over the fire in the trash bin. Each tear that fell flashed like a firecracker in the fire.

  “Father?” said Jona. Jona reached up and touched his father’s belt. “Don’t cry, father.”

  The man breathed hard. He choked down his tears. He placed his hand on his son’s head. “We may hate the king, but he is the king and we must respect him no matter what. Do not hate these men that came for me, son,” said Lord Joni, “Are you listening to me, Lord Joni?”

  “I am,” said Jona, “Don’t be sad.”

  “Where is your mother?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Go find your mother. She will already know. Just find her, and stay with her. You’re going to have to take care of her while I’m gone, Lord Joni. The household and everyone in it depends on you, now.”

  “I’ve always been the man of the house,” said Jona.

  “Good boy,” he said, “That’s my brave young man. Before you go find your mother, make sure all these papers are burned. Do you see all of these papers?”

  “I do, father.”

  “Burn them all. Let no one enter this room until all this paper is burned, not even your mother.”

  Jona watched his father stroll out the door. He thought about how scared his father looked, with shaking hands. The door closed too loudly. Jona sat at his father’s chair behind the desk. The chair was far larger than Jona was. Jona clutched at his stomach, and rocked a little. He watched the fire burn. Eventually, he stood up, and tossed more papers into the flame.

  Dinner had been such a habit, that it wasn’t until the table had an absenc
e that young Jona remembered anything.

  Servants were missing. Food was a thin soup, with barely any meat and fewer vegetables. The house was still full of fine furniture. The lands hadn’t been sold, yet.

  And his mother leaned over her soup, and she had her head in her hands, and she wept unabashed.

  Jona watched her, confused. All he had asked her was when his father was coming home and now she was crying.

  That sick feeling in his stomach came back. He didn’t feel like eating his soup. He pushed his bowl across the table.

  Jona’s mother, through her tears, collected her breath long enough to speak. “Jona,” she said, “Eat your soup.” The last word trailed off into her sobs.

  Jona pulled his soup back over, and picked up his spoon.

  “I don’t like it,” he said. He took a bite of it. His eyebrows crossed. He wondered why he had to eat bad soup and how come his father wasn’t here, and why his father had taken all the servants with him.

  Eventually, his mother said, “I don’t like it, either, Jona.”

  “Who’s Jona?” he said.

  “You are now, little one.”

  “I’m Lord Joni. I’m the man of the house until father comes back, so I’m Lord Joni.”

  “I know, my Lord,” she said, sadly. “You are also no longer my little Taba. Now, you are the man of the house, and your new name will be Jona Lord Joni, for you have no father to give you a name. You have only a title. Your father is already home. He is dead, and we buried him very quietly under the house. We couldn’t risk a funeral.”

  “I don’t understand.”