D'Arc

by Robert Repino

  Mort(e) watched it all from a bench at the end of the pier. No one seemed to recognize him in his straw fedora hat, windbreaker, and aviator sunglasses. He resembled any other old cat in the city. Maybe he would have to pose as some homeless stray in order to get by in a place like this. That sounded nice. Once in a while, he would tell people at a bar or at the park that he was in fact Sebastian the Warrior, and they would laugh and say, “Good one!”

  His heartbeat spiked when D’Arc emerged from the crowd. With a duffel bag over her shoulder, D’Arc pulled an identification card from her belt and showed it to the guards waiting at the gangplank. An eager crewman arrived to take her bag. She handed him her sword as well, and said something that Mort(e) interpreted as a warning to keep it safe. The young human nodded and ran off. D’Arc looked around until she spotted Mort(e), sitting where he told her he would. She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to show that she did not approve of his disguise. She said something to the crew members and then ran over to him.

  They embraced. Mort(e) did not realize how cold he had become sitting there in the breeze until he held her close. “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  “Of course. Is there anything else you need to do before you go?”

  “No. Just needed to sit with you.”

  They parked themselves on the bench. She slipped her hand in his and squeezed it before resting her head on his shoulder. He placed his chin on her forehead and listened to her breathing. More crew members boarded the ship—humans, canines, cats, a raccoon, a pig. The choir continued to sing.

  The al-Rihla blasted its horn. The engines growled, churning the water. The crowd became more animated. Sailors stood on the deck and waved. On the pier, hundreds of arms waved in response. D’Arc wrapped her arms completely around Mort(e), the way she had when they were still pets, when he was just a small thing in her paws.

  “I have to go, Old Man.”

  “I know.”

  Another blast from the horn. They stood up, still embracing, taking in deep breaths of the other before letting go. She left him there and went to the gangplank, where the crowd let her pass through. She crossed over and stepped inside the ship. Mort(e) swallowed.

  The al-Rihla retracted its catwalks. Crew members untied the ropes and pulled them onto the deck. The enormous chain lifted the anchor from the riverbed while the engines switched into a higher gear. With a shudder, the ship began to move.

  D’Arc appeared on the top deck, sword in hand. When she saw Mort(e), she unsheathed the blade, which frightened the short woman next to her. D’Arc held the sword aloft, a defiant pose in the face of the unknown. Mort(e) heard himself laughing.

  The ship puttered out into the middle of the river and pointed south, toward the sea, to the delta through which Mort(e) first brought Sheba. Once the al-Rihla disappeared around a bend, its horn let out a final report.

  The crowd dispersed around him. Mort(e) felt a chill as the wind penetrated his jacket. He wandered to the foot of the pier. In the street, the traffic jam slowly untangled itself to allow the vehicles to get through. The city would go about its day. So much noise, too many smells. But so much life.

  Mort(e) glanced at the river once more, watching it slide from the past and empty into the future. To the north, a light fog cast a haze over the ruined dam. For a moment, he thought he heard the beavers humming while they worked, the sound of it bouncing across the water.

  And before he knew it, he was running toward the dam, no longer cold and hunched over. He would find Castor. He would stay and help. And when the beaver asked him why, what changed his mind, Mort(e) would smile and say, The water flows.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Story of D’Arc

  D’Arc leaned on the gunwale as a sharp wind carried the scent of the approaching ocean. The land on either side opened and gave way to the great expanse, a gray sea under a white sky, much like the day she had first entered this body of water. The day she became the person she was never meant to be, the person she had nevertheless come to accept. The same delta birthed her again, only this time she chose her own path. She reached out and took this life. She would hold onto it with her claws and her teeth if she had to.

  But before she could stand in defiance of the approaching fog, the endless sea, D’Arc needed to weep for the life that she was shedding. The tears formed salty trails in her fur before dropping into the water. The home she left, the people she lost, would remain with her. Her children, the Old Man, the brave husky—they would appear before her when she needed them to give her strength. And sometimes, at her weakest, they would cry out to her. They would ask her what she was doing, who she thought she was. She would beg them to stop and they wouldn’t.

  The other passengers moved about the deck, some taking photos with old cameras. A man stood near the bow and waved at the pilot, a canine stationed in the front of the tower. D’Arc had met the man the day before. He was a former college professor named Harlan who had once taught agricultural science. He was chosen to oversee the garden on deck, as well as identify edible plants wherever the ship made landfall. Though she could not make it out at first, Harlan seemed to be demanding that the ship go faster.

  “Come on!” he said.

  The engine revved under D’Arc’s feet. She gripped the railing to keep from tumbling over. Harlan wanted more speed. “Let’s see what she can do!” Soon others joined in. The engine jumped to a higher gear, with a different pitch. The boat began to bounce on each wave, its bow lifting and dropping. D’Arc could hear the windmills spinning, barely able to keep up. The wind dried her tears into tiny specks of salt.

  The humans howled like wolves. Harlan’s cap flew off his head, revealing a pink bald spot. The animals pounded their palms on the gunwale like a giant war drum. They chanted the name of the boat in three deep syllables. AL-RIH-LA! AL-RIH-LA! D’Arc had never laughed so hard in her life, but she could not even hear herself. So she let out a scream that faded into a long howl.

  The engine slowed to its regular speed. The captain had seen enough. The crew booed the pilot before applauding and breaking into another fist-pumping chant.

  D’Arc looked beyond the people on deck to the land they left behind. She saw nothing but the white sky on the horizon. She turned again to get the complete view. The ocean grew calmer here, stretching in all directions. The al-Rihla was a mere toy bobbing on the water.

  “It’s gone,” she whispered. All of it pitched over the edge of the world. The terror and the regret and the sadness built up one last time and then lifted away, releasing her, letting her fill her lungs again.

  D’Arc propped her elbows on the railing and tilted her head over the side. In the overcast light, she saw only a dull reflection on the choppy water, something closer to a shadow, a person no one had ever seen before.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, there are too many people to thank. I start of course with my tireless agent Jennifer Weltz and her team, who have been guiding me for nearly five years now. I hope this is merely the latest of many accomplishments we share.

  I will never be able to thank Bronwen Hruska and Soho Press enough for supporting my work, even as it threatened to grow from a quirky one-off to an unwieldy series. My editor, Mark Doten, has turned this novel from a weird fever dream into a coherent story, and his optimism and advice kept me writing even when I was not entirely sure where things were headed. Given how much they did to improve and promote the books, I have to name names: Abby Koski, Meredith Barnes, Paul Oliver, Rudy Martinez, Juliet Grames, Dan Ehrenhaft, Rachel Kowal, and Amara Hoshijo. And Kapo Amos Ng has once again produced an amazing cover.

  My friends in the Emerson Diaspora have been listening to me talk about The War with No Name for a while now, and somehow they still hang out with me. Ashley Wells endured months of pretentious griping about my writing process, for which I am eternally grateful. Brian Hurley and Jane B
erentson have been the most enthusiastic champions of my work. I look up to all of them both for their own writing and for their love of life. And though a great distance separates us, I have to thank Mike Hennessey, who encouraged me to keep writing even after I asked him to read some of my shitty poems back in 2000. I’m with you in Rockland.

  A literary community is vital to the success of any book. There are so many people who have helped spread the word about this series, either by sharing with their friends and colleagues, organizing an event, or saying some kind words. They include Eric Smith, Katelyn Phillips, Brad Andrews, Ryan Britt, Corey Redekop, Annalee Newitz, Charlie Jane Anders, Jane Satterfield, Clea Simon, Kelly Caldwell, Alex Steele, Bridget McGovern, Katharine Duckett, David Hahn, Maria Haskins, Matthew Gallaway, James Scott, Paul D. Filippo, Cat Rambo, Ismet Prcic, Alex Norcia, Steve Perry, Pat Murphy, Nelson Appell, Rick Kleffel, Sam Sattin, Shane Jones, Mac Rogers, Ronald Koltnow, Michael Kindness, Daniel H. Wilson, Josh Christie, Kelly Justice, Anmiryam Budner, Cathy Stiebel Fiebach Steve Himmer, and Jenn Northington.

  A special note of thanks goes to Dan Fitzpatrick, who offered advice on the military jargon I used throughout the book. I hope I did it justice. And also, I have to admit that I kind of borrowed the story of Yeager and Amelia (“Will we die?”) from Jennifer and Vincent DiPillo. Thank you!

  Finally, to my parents and my brother, Nick: I love you, I miss you, I’m proud to be one of you, and I’m grateful every day for all you’ve done for me. See you soon.