by Oliver Higgs
I’m relieved to find out she doesn’t think much of the flower-toting Byron.
“He just seems so phony,” she says on the third night, confidentially.
I immediately agree with her. Byron is on the other side of the fire, charming Echo again. When she laughs, I have to suppress my desire to know exactly what caused it.
“And Ambrose doesn’t like him,” she adds.
“He’s a dustbag,” Ambrose says, a bit too loudly.
“Ambrose,” Octavia admonishes, laughing.
“Big old dustbag,” Ambrose says, smiling.
“Well. Ambrose is a good judge of character. He knows with most people right away. Oh, don’t worry, he likes you,” she adds with a shoulder-nudge, and I wonder if she sees the relief that crosses my face. I want to high-five Ambrose and thank him for his support. But Echo laughs again, distracting me. I keep glancing across the fire. They’re getting along a little too well.
“So, how’d you two start travelling together?” Octavia asks.
“Oh, ah … ”
I stumble through an unclear origin, staying vague on the whole we-killed-several-people-and-fled-into-the-desert thing. It’s clearly not a satisfactory answer but it’ll have to do.
“So she’s really not your … your girl?” Octavia asks, prodding the dirt absently with a stick.
“Oh. No … No,” I reiterate, feeling a curious exhilaration take hold. Octavia smiles slightly and glances at me.
“Good,” she says, throwing the stick into the fire and getting to her feet. She goes off to get some food or rummage through her supplies, leaving me to ponder the innumerable possible implications of this single word. Did she mean “good” because she likes me or “good” as a general answer or “good” because she doesn’t like Echo or …
The fact that I’d interest her at all is baffling. It’s beyond my ability to believe that I have anything in me worthy of the attention of so perfect a creature. Therefore, she must have other reasons, and I look for hidden motivations. Or perhaps I’ve fooled her somehow into thinking that I’m more than I am, in which case I must not break the illusion. She must not see through me–to the coward, to the one who wept alone on dark days in the desert, to the one who was terrified by Cabal, to the weirdo who occasionally still talks to his dead robotic dog; no, no, this person must be kept hidden.
“It’s nice to talk to new people, isn’t it?” Echo asks later that night, as we prepare a spot a spot to sleep.
“Mmm-hmm,” I say, feeling subdued, because Echo does know that hidden person. She knows this joy is just an interlude, like the campfire, and a great darkness lies beyond it. There’s something deeply pessimistic in the depths of my mind, whispering eternally: all but sorrow is illusion.
Echo smiles to herself absentmindedly and something in me needs to make her stop, so I say:
“You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, glancing at me.
“Just that you seemed to be enjoying yourself,” I say, shrugging. “You know, laughing with Byron and all that.”
She frowns.
“He’s funny,” she says.
“Sure. Okay.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you could see us at all, with your eyes glued to Octavia.”
“What? They weren’t–glued …”
“It’s like she tied a little string to your nose, and wherever she went, just kind of pulled you along.”
I’m angry now.
“At least Octavia isn’t phony,” I say.
Echo pauses in arranging her pack and gives me a look of mild outrage.
“Byron’s not phony,” she says.
“Oh really? ‘Look at this, Mon Cheri. Here’s a flower, Mon Cheri.’ Please. And you, laughing at everything like a silly little girl.”
She draws back, hurt. She blinks. Slowly, tears come into her eyes. Her neck cranes forward then like a cat preparing to pounce.
“So anyone showing any interest in me must be phony? No one could actually care, is that it? You’re a real joy to have around, you know that, Tristan? A real joy,” she says, yanking up her pack and moving away.
“And here, take your damn blanket,” she adds, pausing to throw it at me. “I don’t want anything of yours.”
When she lies down, she faces the opposite direction. There’s a chill in the air, but I refuse to touch the blanket. In the dark, Echo sniffs once. I resolutely hold to my indignation; if it slips away, guilt might replace it.
I’ve gotten used to sleeping next to Echo. It’s hard to sleep alone now. Never had to deal with this nonsense when I lived alone. For a moment I wish I was back in the Library–but the world’s a wheel and it keeps on spinning. After a while, when I can’t sleep, I get up and find Starbucks on the edge of the camp. He’s volunteered to help the caravaners keep watch, so he’s still up, staring quietly into the darkness.
“It’s strange how those blue-coats came looking for Cabal the other night,” I comment after we’ve greeted each other.
“Strange,” he agrees.
“I mean, how did they know some of Foundry’s men were in that inn?”
Starbucks says nothing.
“They must’ve had his name or description at least, because how else could they find out what room he was in? And on the very night we went looking for him.”
There’s another brief silence, punctuated only by Starbucks’ odd robotic breathing.
“I thought you weren’t going to get involved,” I say.
Starbucks regards me.
“Jarvis gets easily attached. It would damage him if the girl died and we did nothing to stop it. Maybe I passed some information to the blue-coats. Doesn’t make us involved.”
“I just wanted to say thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome, though I imagine there’s a dead soldier who’s not so grateful. And that young man from the tavern–the talk is he got away. One day you’re going to have to deal with him.”
When I return, Echo is asleep, and I lie awake for a different reason. I keep picturing the soldier’s face, despite having never seen it. In the dark, it doesn’t matter so much that he was from Cove. It’s unlikely he was at Farmington, after all. Probably just some guy who grew up in the city-state and joined their army. In my mind, I watch him kick in the door. I hear the bang. The impact would’ve knocked him back. He must’ve known he was dead then, even if it took a while to sink in. Was he afraid of what would come? Who did he think of in his final moments?
I owe him.
I don’t even know his name, and yeah, I still hate Cove, but I owe this one soldier something–just as I owe Lectric and Echo and myself. Starbucks is right; I can’t run forever. One day I’m going to have pay a debt, and the only acceptable coin is blood.
Chapter 14.
Twelve days isn’t a very long time in the scheme of things.
But then, time is relative. The few seconds it took to kill Ballard lasted quite a while. The entire year before that, on the other hand, has blurred together into a memory that might as well have only lasted a week or two. Our time on the road to Apolis lies somewhere between those extremes, though it definitely stretches beyond its implied length.
By the fourth day, Echo isn’t talking to me. She’s being childish. I try to tell her so, but the brief flare of anger in her eyes could burn holes through me, and then she’s not talking to me “even more,” if that makes any sense. She talks to Byron and Jarvis instead. Half the time I think she does it just to spite me. Jarvis, fine–he follows her around like a puppy. But Byron? He can’t be that interesting. She refuses to go hunting with me. She sets her own snares when we stop, and at night she starts using a blanket she borrowed from the caravaners. Still, that’s okay. I just spend more time with Octavia.
There’s something sweet and pure about Octavia. She’s so … undamaged. Like that one house in a village left miraculously untouched by the Fall. Yet sometimes she’s empty-headed abo
ut the world around her. She says things that leave me staring at her in disbelief. She admires Cove, for instance. She thinks they’re working for the good of the world. She even wants to go there one day. I can’t resist telling her they burned my village. She thinks that’s terrible, but also adds:
“Oh, but you mustn’t blame Cove itself, Tristan. I’m sure those soldiers were acting against orders. Cove doesn’t do things like that.”
“Well, they did,” I say. She gives me this pitying look like I’ve tragically misunderstood the murder of my friends and family. That leaves me sour for most of the day, but my anger cools when we stop again, and we form an unspoken agreement to avoid the subject. I can’t help but forgive her. She’s just so nice to look at.
Ambrose contributes to our conversations and is frequently a topic himself. Octavia spends a lot of her time worrying over and caring for him. Occasionally, Ambrose is unintentionally rude. He asks awkward questions about Echo and brings up Cove when it’s inappropriate. Other times, he’s disarmingly childlike.
On the sixth day out from Hapsburg, the three of us wander into a patch of forest during a midday break. The land is particularly healthy here. You can feel it. Sunlight slants through the trees, illuminating small insects, suffusing the leaves until they positively drip with golden light. Bird-calls echo throughout. Theoretically I’m hunting, but really I’m prepared to starve if it means getting closer to Octavia.
Ambrose starts a game. He runs off laughing and insists Octavia has to find him. I should really thank him for this, because immediately a whole range of possibilities open up. She pretends not to notice him for a while, but when he’s finally caught, he says it’s our turn to hide and starts counting by a boulder. I follow Octavia so that we hide together, and in the stillness of that moment, standing behind her as she peers around a tree, I can see the smooth, soft curve of her skin from shoulder to ear beneath her long golden hair, and it’s as delicate as the gossamer wing of a butterfly. My desire is so palpable that it smothers everything else in my awareness.
Ambrose comes after us, and Octavia is laughing and running, and I let him catch me with feigned disappointment. They hide then while I count, and immediately Ambrose is snickering behind a bush. It’s Octavia I’m really looking for though; we’re playing a game, but not the one Ambrose thinks. I surprise her behind the trunk of a large tree. She yelps and leaps out and starts to run, but I grab her around her midriff. She turns, laughing, out of breath, and all at once we’re inches apart with her back toward a tree. Her chest is pressed lightly against me, and my hands are lingering on her waist.
When Farmington burned, I was twelve, and brief moments like that time with Crispin’s sister in the pond meant I was only just beginning to understand what real attraction felt like. During the three years that followed, the only girls I saw were Conan’s scantily clad companions. Then Echo burst back into my life, but our time has mostly been taken up by survival and fear. Thus, I have never seen a look in a girl’s eyes quite like this. Even so, I feel like I’ve seen it a thousand times before. The delicate tilt of her face, the half-lidded eyes, the sense of something hidden–it’s all oddly familiar, a thing in the genes, older and bigger than my sad little life.
And then I’m leaning in, and her lips are soft and wet against mine. Time is stretched to the breaking point, and I can hardly believe the world would be willing to give me this moment, this glorious shining instant. Things this good just don’t happen. When she draws back, I want more, but she only smiles coyly and flits away, laughing.
The rest of our time in the forest is a blur. My heart floats on a breeze. My whole body is electrified. I don’t see half the things around me. I’m too busy remembering her lips. Back at camp, a cooking fire is already blazing, bits of meat spitted above it. We have nothing to contribute, but I don’t care about eating. Everything else is a bonus at this point. Jarvis offers me some of a wildcat he snagged, and it’s the best meal I’ve had in days.
“What are you so happy about?” Echo asks despite her non-talking policy, plopping down on my right.
“Hrm? Nothing,” I say.
Ambrose snickers. He’s been doing this for about ten minutes, in fact. It’s becoming increasingly obvious, something the group can’t ignore as they sit around the fire.
“Ambrose, what’s so funny?” Jarvis asks.
“I don’t want to say!” Ambrose says in an oddly high-pitched voice, but he’s still stifling some great amusement, shaking his head, and it’s obvious he does want to say; he’s bursting with the effort not to.
“Come on,” Jarvis says.
“I saw them two in the trees–kissing!” he bursts out finally, pointing at us and laughing goofily.
“Ambrose,” Octavia mutters, her eyes widening. She buries herself in an apple, though there’s a little smile at the corners of her mouth as she chews.
A flush is rising up my neck, but I can’t suppress a smile–until I glance at Echo. Something about the way she’s looking at me kills my joy and wipes my expression clean. Her mouth is open slightly, and she’s sitting stock-still with her blue eyes, a chunk of charred meat forgotten in her hand. She gives me this long intense look that says all kinds of things I can’t decipher. Then she stands and moves toward the forest, muttering something about checking a snare. She carries my mood away with her. Things don’t feel the same after that. I still remember Octavia’s lips, but Echo’s reaction stays on my mind.
She doesn’t return until it’s time to leave. She sits in the wagon and stares out the window in silence. Her face is blank, unreadable. She doesn’t speak until we’ve stopped for the night. As I lie down to sleep, her tone becomes uncharacteristically formal.
“When we reach Apolis, I’m going north to look for Haven. You can go where you want,” she says, her face a mask as she turns away.
“Echo–I’m … we’re going together, aren’t we?” I say, sitting up straight.
“We made it out of the desert, Tristan. You’re free. I don’t need you. I can survive on my own.”
She goes away to lie down, leaving me staring after her in the dark. She’s right–I don’t have to go with her. I could stay in Apolis. Jarvis says it’s a guarded city-state, not as big as Cove or Foundry but with castle-like walls built up from the ruins of an old armory. His family is wealthy there too. Maybe they’d help me find a place to stay. We could hunt the ruins together for new treasures …
But somehow I can’t imagine being apart from Echo. I don’t even want to be apart from her now. I want to feel her lying next to me again. Apolis would feel empty without her. Octavia in the forest, with her soft lips and golden hair, was a unique joy, something separate from the world around us–but out in the wastes, between the pulse-mine and the sudden storms and the quiet nights beneath the stars, Echo became a part of me. She’s wrong. I do have to go with her. Not because she needs me but because …
I don’t need anyone, I tell myself, cutting off the thought. Still, I can’t imagine not going with her. Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, things became tangled. Like the electrical cords in my grandfather’s shop–if you left them out, they always tied themselves in knots.
Over the next few days, I’m less eager to spend time with Octavia. I’m subdued, especially on the wagon, and when she says more empty-headed things, it bothers me. Echo is on my mind a lot, but her manner is cool and distant. She remains so until the tenth day, when everything changes.
Jarvis spots the ruin first.
It’s near dusk on day nine, and the caravan has stopped for the night. Jarvis has eaten some bad meat. He’s been running a light fever and vomiting and using the bathroom a lot. Travelling most of the day doesn’t make it any easier on him. It’s not like a wagon has internal plumbing. We have to make extra stops.
The sky is a rich purple-blue fringed with dying pink embers, and we’re camping in a grassy field dotted with patches of trees–when Jarvis calls my name.
“You see that?�
�� he asks, staring into the distance. There’s a cliff a mile or two away, topped with trees.
“See what?” I ask.
“That. There’s something up there. Where’s your spyglass?”
I don’t see anything, but the spyglass vindicates him. A half-standing stone building is hidden among the trees. I don’t know how he saw it from this distance. Other signs of the World Before lie elsewhere along the ridge. Still, I’ve seen plenty of ruins, so it’s not all that interesting.
“We’ve gotta check it out,” Jarvis says. His eyes are lit up with excitement, though he’s shivering and sweating from the fever.
“It’s just some old stone buildings. They’re probably picked clean,” I say.
“No way. Tristan, you don’t understand. I’ve been to all the major ruins around here. I’ve never seen this site! We’ve got to go.”
“I don’t think you’re going anywhere, Jarvis.”
He enlists Starbucks in the cause, but the big robot agrees with me.
“You’re staying here. Besides, it’s dark, and that cliff must be an hour away,” he says.
Jarvis is undiscouraged.
“In the morning then. We can wake up early and hit it before the caravan sets out. We’ve got to. For all we know, the place is a goldmine.”
Starbucks is doubtful, but there’s no dissuading the boy.
Apolis is two or three days away. When the campfire blazes that night, most of the travelers are lighthearted. Byron is really pouring on the charm, talking to everyone, doing magic tricks, entertaining the caravaners. Despite this, Echo is strangely reticent. I’m scowling outright. Byron gives me an ill feeling. When he talks to you, it’s like his eyes are laughing, only you’re never sure quite why–is it from the joke he’s telling you, or are you the joke?
Nevertheless, he helps foster a party-atmosphere around the fire. Kitra, synthetic flesh still smeared with makeup, breaks out a sitar. She’s joined by an older, round-bellied traveler with a guitar. They play old tunes together. The man’s wife even sings. There’s a happy tale of an Irish traveler, and sadder tales of the World Before. Byron claps along. Afterwards, he makes an announcement.