Shepherd Hunted

by Christopher Kincaid

  Kit’s eyes watered, and she gagged.

  The axle screeched. The men stopped at another refuse pile. They eased the cart to rest. The refuse turned out to be another body. One man took the feet, the other took the shoulders. They tossed the body onto the stack. In just a moment, the creaking resumed.

  Kit turned to move away. A cold shiver ran through her. What if Timothy was…? She glanced at the cart.

  He isn’t going to be there. He made a promise, after all.

  But she had to be sure.

  She forced herself nearer to the cart. The men ignored her. Their faces looked almost as dead as those in the cart. The rotten air threatened to overwhelm her. She breathed into the hem of her cloak. It didn’t help much at all. Flies buzzed despite the chill air. Kit glanced through the twisted, blackened faces.

  Relief brought tears to her eyes.

  The cart continued on its way. “Where are you, Timothy?” She took a deep breath and coughed. After this, she would never be able to even look at an onion the same way again. She cupped her hands. It wasn’t like she couldn’t handle anyone that nun sent.

  “Timothy!”

  His named echoed down the street. She uncovered her ears and listened.

  Yes. There was something beyond the sound of the cart. Her ears flicked. Over there. Kit slipped her hood back on and ran. Kit skid around a corner and saw Evelyn standing on the edge of a fountain with her black dress stark against the white stone. A group of people gathered around her. Sick children drooped in their mothers’ arms.

  So Timothy did see her! What is she doing here?

  “Make willow tea.” Evelyn gestured. “And pray to be forgiven for the promises you make and break. Only death is a promise we all keep in this life.”

  “What can I do to keep my other children from getting sick?” a woman called.

  “Make no promises,” Evelyn said. “Smoke chases away illness, but punishment comes to those who break their word. Isn’t that right, my Timmy? Yes. We will be together.” Evelyn swept the crowd with a hand. “You too shall be together in heaven after sin is burned from you.”

  People fell to their knees. Evelyn muttered so quietly that only Kit’s ears could hear it. “Joseph. We shall be together. You broke your promise, but not me. Not my son. Together. But first we must burn with fire within. God’s punishment upon this town and me.

  “Clean!” Evelyn’s shout made Kit jump. “Clean your homes, filthy sinners. Clean away the illness. Dirt. Filth.”

  Kit moved closer to the woman, thinking, I have to try. “Evelyn.” The woman turned toward her. Kit pushed back her hood enough to allow the woman to see more of her face. “Evelyn! Where is Timothy? Have you seen him?”

  Evelyn frowned. “At home, eating dinner. He is not allowed to play outside today. Not with a dirty girl like you. My sweet, filthy boy needs to rest and be healed.”

  “So you know where he is!” Kit took a step toward Timothy’s mother. People glanced at Kit. She didn’t care what they thought. “Where is he?”

  Evelyn’s gaze cleared. “You look familiar. My Timothy is here but not for long. It is no concern for you.” She turned to the people. “Come. Let us go to where we can get well in our souls.”

  The mad woman walked through the fountain, ignoring the streaming water. People glanced at each other before following through the falling water. Only a few went around the fountain. One or two people went the opposite way, shaking their heads.

  Kit tapped her chin. She had to restrain herself from chasing and strangling the woman. I need to stay levelheaded. Evelyn seemed to know where Timothy was, but the woman was out of her mind. She could very well have not even seen the fool man. Why were those people paying attention to her anyway? Kit’s stomach grumbled, but she ignored it. Her ear twitched under the hood. Another cart approached. Oiled by the sounds of it, her hunger died when the wind shifted. As much as she didn’t want to look, she had to be sure.

  “You better be alive, shepherd.”

  Chapter 5

  Voices pulled Timothy out of the darkness. His crusted eyes blinked against the morning light, and he groaned as pain swept him. Even his hair seemed to ache.

  “At least I am alive even if I hurt.” His voice scratched the air.

  It took three tries before he could lift his head. He lay on a crisp, once-white sheet. A matching robe clung to his damp chest. The room around him was simple. A rough-hewn desk and chair butted against the wall. A chipped pitcher and mug waited on the desk. The room shimmered in the light streaming through the window, and smoke reached through a hole in the cloudy glass. Its thin, acrid fingers brushed against the ceiling.

  Timothy sank back to the yellowed pillow. He laid a heavy arm across his sweaty forehead. Memories drifted from his wool-stuffed mind. He knew where he was now. Evelyn had found him and brought him here. He let his arm fall and lifted his head again. His gaze slapped the pitcher. A bead of moisture slid down the teal surface. He tried to wet his cracked lips with a metallic tongue.

  He slid his legs off the bed and frowned down at his feet. Blue veins webbed under pale, drawn skin. He wiggled his toes just to be sure they belonged to him.

  The world spun around him when he heaved himself upright. He stumbled and almost fell back onto the bed, and only willpower kept him standing. He shuffled over to the teal pitcher and collapsed onto the chair. Voiced hummed outside. They grew louder and more insistent. Timothy’s fogged mind couldn’t make out the words.

  His arms quivered under the weight of the pitcher. Somehow he managed not to spill any water as he poured it into the mug, and it took both hands to heft the mug to his lips. He gulped the lukewarm water, wondering if the deserts he read about so long ago enjoyed the rain as much. Smoke continued to stretch into the room. It smelled vaguely of cooking meat. He carefully poured another cupful of water. If I wasn’t so weak, I’d just drown myself in the pitcher.

  “Fire burns. Fire cleans. Smoke cleans.” A single voice drifted through the hole in the window glass. “What are we?”

  “Dirt,” a chorus said. “Promise breakers.”

  The room didn’t spin when Timothy stood this time. He shuffled to the window. The street beyond opened to a large area with charred remains of buildings. Their black bones resembled fingers wrapped around a fire, and the orange-red flames licked their chops. A few wagons waited a short distance away, and their tenders wore rags over their faces. People of all types crowded too close to the fire, peering toward a single figure standing on a burned out foundation. The figure wore simple black clothes and lifted white arms toward the crowd below.

  “This smoke cleans us. Smoke and repentance saves us. God punishes those who are not clean. We are not clean. God punishes promise breakers,” the figure said.

  Flames burst in a shower of sparks. The embers cascaded over the speaker like glittering snow. Smoke hazed the speaker. Timothy squinted. Who is that?

  “Burn the sickness from your homes—”

  “Prophetess, should we leave?” a man asked.

  The figure lowered its arms and looked at the crowd. Wind pushed the smoke away. Timothy spluttered and fumbled the mug as wind shifted the smoky haze away from the figure. Water ran cool down his chest. It can’t be.

  “Water cleans only after fire. No. Not yet.”

  “Water cleans only after fire,” the people said.

  “Soon,” Evelyn said.

  “Soon. Soon. Soon,” the people chanted.

  Timothy backed away from the window. What was Evelyn doing? He hadn’t just dreamed of her. He leaned on the desk. His black-spotted arms quivered, and his knees shook.

  His name drifted on the wind.

  * * *

  “Timothy!”

  Several people glanced her direction, but Kit didn’t care. She just wanted to find her fool shepherd and get out of this town while she could still smell something. Brimstone burned in her stomach from the constant stench. The blue cloth she wound around her nose and mouth di
d little the help. Humans were lucky to have such poor smell. The storm of smoke, fear, and disease threatened to overwhelm her.

  After three days of shadowing Evelyn and sniffing death wagons, Kit had had enough. Somehow desperate fools flocked to the woman. It took long enough for her to stop wandering the town. Of course she chose this place. Kit coughed. She was tempted to just leave Timothy and get out while her tail was intact.

  Only, somehow, the boy had become a part of her when she wasn’t looking.

  She followed another wagon. The drivers weaved through the clumps of people listening to Evelyn crow. A single white hand flopped with the lurching motion. Black sores the size of coins pocked the flesh. Coins were what the people called them. An image of her shepherd lying on a wagon with those black coins all over him flashed in her mind. Kit clenched her teeth and closed the distance with the teetering wagon. The man shouldering the load didn’t bother to look at her. Bloodshot eyes stared over his vinegar-soaked mask. Kit leaned over the side of the wagon and dropped her cloth shield. A single sniff sent a shower of sparks across her vision. She staggered back, gasping and fumbling with her face mask. Kit could feel the hairs on her tail curl under her skirts.

  But at least she didn’t smell him. She had to be sure. With every wagon she had to be sure. His familiar scent of musty books and wool would stand out like honeysuckle in a midden heap. She would have preferred to save her nose, but sometimes she couldn’t see the face, nor did she want to. The thought of seeing Timothy that way—No. He is alive. He has to be alive. “Fool shepherd. Where are you?”

  She kicked a stone against the wall, and the whitewash cracked. She wiped her eyes. The smoke made them tear. Yes, it was the smoke that made her eyes tear. Nothing else.

  If you are still alive, I will kill you when I find you.

  Kit ignored the chanting and Evelyn’s droning. Why would those people pay attention to an obvious mad woman? It didn’t matter. Kit stopped at another building. She wiped her eyes. Stupid smoke.

  “You better appreciate how I am going to ruin my nose for you.” She lowered her mask and took a deep breath. Her vision tunneled, and it felt like her ears knotted under her hood. But she caught a hint of something on the wind. She took another test. Yes, it’s faint. Musty books.

  He was here.

  Kit gazed around. No carts sat nearby. She looked up at the blackened building. A broken window glittered in the firelight. She closed her eyes and singed her nose again. Yes. It was faint, but it was him. She followed the scent around the building and returned to the spot under the window.

  She grinned and raced for the entrance. Her hands gripped the iron handle, but the door refused to budge. She threw herself at it.

  “And what are you doing?” a large man asked. A dozen other men dressed in soiled clothes stood behind. “That is the house of the Prophetess.”

  Kit cursed. Timothy was in there! She pulled at the door with all her strength. The wood creaked, but the lock held. A meaty hand grabbed her shoulder.

  “Enough of that. You just want to take what isn’t yours after all the Prophetess does to help us?”

  Kit sank her fangs into the filthy hand. The man yelled and fell back. The others behind closed in. She backed into the door. What a fine fix. The scent of him addled her brains!

  A small girl with golden locks darted around the men. “There you are, sis! What are you doing? This is the wrong house, silly.”

  A grimy hand snatched Kit’s. The girl pulled Kit toward the men. “Sorry. Sorry. My sister is lost.”

  “Where do you think you are going?” The man massaged his hand.

  “Home.” The girl looked up at the man.

  The man spat. “Before I heard the Prophetess, I would have made you pay for this.” He held up his bleeding hand. “Count yourself lucky I am a changed man. Don’t come back here again.”

  “Thank you! Let’s go, sis.” The girl tugged Kit past the men and set off at a run.

  Kit’s nose lost the scent of books.

  “Let me go!” Kit dug her heels into the paving stones, but the girl tugged Kit onward. “I need to go back! He’s back there.”

  Kit snagged the mouth of the alley and pulled the girl to a stop. “Let me go.” She pried her hand free. There had to be another way into the building. A dim part of Kit’s mind whispered for her to think before acting.

  “Wait!” The girl tugged at Kit. “Colt is—Can…can you help him? You seem nice and…not like the Prophetess. I thought you would help.”

  How can I get into that building? Kit snatched her hand away. “I am busy. I don’t know what—”

  “This way.” The girl grabbed Kit’s little finger and pulled hard enough to make the finger pop.

  “Let go!”

  The girl tugged Kit’s finger. Kit had little choice but to follow. She sighed. It would be better to try to get into the building after dark anyway. She glanced back. He was alive. Her stupid shepherd was alive! I need to have a plan and not let his scent addle my brain again.

  They weaved across alleys and streets until Kit lost all sense of direction. Her little finger ached. The buildings changed from brick to whitewashed wood to gray, weathered panels. The haphazard houses teetered. The odor of the northern quarter and its smoke gave way to the usual scents of illness and fear. Her little finger twisted when the girl darted into a crushed alley, and Kit’s eyes watered.

  “Mira!” A boy with tangled brown hair stood with a stoat stick.

  The tottering buildings almost pressed against both of Kit’s arms. The girl dropped Kit’s finger. Kit tested a fist and grimaced. The finger sent twinges up into her elbow.

  Darn girl. She watched the boy’s club.

  Mira stood in front of Kit. Her head stopped at Kit’s stomach, a small shield against a fat club. Kit took a step back and felt something hard push into the small of her back. She glanced over her shoulder. A budding girl in a threadbare dress twisted a stoat stick into Kit’s back.

  “You are not going anywhere,” the dark-haired girl said.

  “I wouldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else,” Kit said.

  “You know the rules, Mira.” The dark-haired girl nudged Kit’s back. “No adults.”

  “But. But.” Mira looked up at Kit. “She can help.”

  “I can help,” Kit said. “If you will lower your…weapons.”

  The stick smacked into Kit’s back. She stumbled deeper into the claustrophobic alley. Kit’s tail bristled under her skirts. She should be trying to figure out how to save Timothy, not fooling around with street kids.

  “No tricks from you,” the brown-haired boy said, “Why did you break the rule, Mira? You know it is only us now. We have to stay away to be safe.”

  “But, Hoss,” Mira whined the boy’s name, “Colt is—I don’t want Colt taking a wagon ride.”

  Kit rubbed her back and watched over her shoulder. If she was fast enough she could take the brat’s overgrown stick and teach her some manners. Only Hoss would thwack her as soon as she managed to turn around.

  Stupid kids. Kit itched to smell Timothy’s scent again. Stupid shepherd. If it wasn’t for him she would have heard the girl sneaking up on her.

  “I can bring a doctor. I will even pay for it. Now, with that settled, I will be going.” Kit turned to face the dark-haired girl. The boy could not hit as hard as this little twit.

  “Stop her, Yuzu. She will tell people where we are,” Hoss said. Mira shouted something, and Hoss cursed. “Get off me, Mira!”

  “You won’t be going anywhere.” The girl called Yuzu hefted her club. Her arms were thin, but Kit could see tendons and muscle tensing. She looked into the dark eyes. This wasn’t a budding girl. Lines around the eyes told of age more than her petite frame and oval face did.

  “You are as old as me!”

  “I am not.” Fear flashed across Yuzu’s face. She looked at Hoss over Kit’s shoulder.

  Maybe if Kit could distract them. “From what I see under tha
t dress—”

  “Quiet!” Yuzu slammed her weapon against the building. The gray wood shuddered.

  Lilting laughter made Kit turn away from Yuzu. “She got you,” Mira said. Hoss grinned.

  Kit felt her ears twitch beneath her hood. Hoss moved close and stared up at Kit for a long moment.

  “You do look about the same age as Yuzu,” he said. Yuzu hissed. “You don’t count as an adult, Yuzu. Your chest is too small for an adult. Like hers.”

  Hoss shot a triumphant grin at both Kit and Yuzu.

  Timothy could learn a few confidence lessons from the boy.

  “So you will let her help Colt?” Mira asked.

  “Yeah, she’s pip,” Hoss said. “Not as pip as you, Yuzu, but she’s pip for sure. What’s your name?”

  Kit sighed. There looked to be no way to get away from them anytime soon. “Kit.”

  “I’m Hoss. That’s Mira. And Yuzu. Let’s go.”

  Hoss started down the cramped alley. Mira bounced over and grabbed Kit’s little finger. She looked up and beamed. Kit’s ears pushed against her hood. Kit glanced over her shoulder to see Yuzu scowling at her. Kit stuck her tongue out. The girl’s eyes widened before drawing down. Good. Best keep her off balance. Kit did not want to fight unless she had no choice. The faster she found a doctor, the faster she could get Timothy and get out of this mess.

  Kit allowed Mira to lead her to a floral-patterned curtain stretched across an opening in the wall. Waning light filtered between the buildings. Mira let go of Kit’s finger. Kit looked at the sliver of sky before ducking into the room. She had time yet. The scent of disease in the small space curdled Kit’s stomach. Mira and Hoss didn’t seem to notice, but Yuzu frowned and crossed her arms over her stomach. A small boy lay on a lumpy mattress in one corner, his hair damp. Sores stood out on his bare chest in large welts. A second mattress rested on the other side of the room. Crates, pots, dolls, and even a few books were scattered between. A pair of lanterns cast wavering shadows. Little sunlight made its way into the den.

  Mira clasped her hands against her chest, and Hoss stared at his feet. Yuzu looked Kit in the eye before turning away. What do they expect me to do? Kit thought.