Your Brother's Blood: The Walkin': Book 1 (The Walkin' Trilogy)

by David Towsey

  He seemed the only one to be suffering from rising early. It would have been normal for Samuel, the son of a farmer. For that kind of family the day started at first light and often before. Luke had probably lit candles, read ten verses, and dusted the whole church by dawn. Bellis only slept a few hours a night; though you couldn’t wake him when he was under.

  ‘Your sloth costs us time,’ Luke said. ‘It is disgusting.’

  ‘So eager to set new fires? To cut new throats?’

  Luke knelt down beside him. ‘In the name of the Good Lord I’d cut your throat and set a fire beneath you. If He willed it.’ For a moment Luke took on the grim and molten countenance of the Pastor in full sermon. Nathaniel looked away from his gaze.

  He finished his breakfast then got up and stretched. A little way off, Luke was clumsily mounting. What was such a man capable of? For Luke, the normal bravado and confidence of the young must have been twisted and become bound in the Good Book. It could have been a single moment – a scuffle in the playing patch, a sinful conversation between adults he overheard, or one of the Pastor’s services. He would have stopped playing like the other children; become awkward and shy and quick to anger. The acolyte finally settled in the saddle. He stared down at Nathaniel with unmasked contempt.

  One whole side of Nathaniel’s body ached from sleeping on the ground. It was particularly bad in his shoulder and knee. He tried to walk it off, which helped, but the dull ache was still there. He packed his gear, double-checking the urns were safely strapped in.

  It was another clear day. Back in the saddle, he soon warmed up. Buster was like a furnace between his thighs. He was thankful for his hat, keeping the sun from his face, but it did make his forehead sweat some. He was fanning himself when Samuel happened to pull alongside him.

  ‘Hot today,’ Nathaniel said. Samuel nodded. This was the first time Nathaniel had been able to talk to the boy alone. With the shaggies picking their own way through the scrub it was hard for any of them to be close enough for a conversation. Nathaniel cut straight to it. ‘Why did you come with us, Samuel?’

  ‘Ma told me to: “One of the family needs to be there”.’

  ‘Why do you think she said that?’

  Samuel thought for a while. He looked younger then, little more than a boy. A large, muscular boy. ‘He is my brother. Was. And she is my niece. It’s like Luke and the Pastor said. We’re saving their souls. That’s important.’ He looked at Nathaniel then, uncertain and wanting confirmation.

  ‘It sure is,’ Nathaniel said.

  Samuel would do whatever he was told – if it sounded holy enough. That was not good. Luke could whip him into a Leyist frenzy. Bellis might be able to stop the boy, but Nathaniel knew he himself couldn’t. Not without his rifle. Shooting one McDermott to save another.

  They settled back into the rhythm of the plodding shaggies. Nathaniel felt like a crust of bread bobbing on a river current. Up and down, down and up. Instead of water splashing his face it was dust. Buzzing, flying insects plagued man and shaggie alike – though Buster didn’t seem to mind. He swished his thick tail and that was that. Nathaniel started the afternoon shooing them away. By early evening he had neither the energy nor the inclination. It was a losing battle.

  ‘Look.’ Bellis was pointing at a group of shapes on the horizon. In the dusk light they were hard to make out, but looked like buildings. But they were deep into the Redlands. Who could possibly live here?

  The group stopped. They all dismounted and led their shaggies to the same spot.

  ‘It’s a town,’ Luke said. He sounded excited; he could smell the pyre wood burning.

  Bellis unrolled a map of Pierre County onto the ground. ‘It’s not on here.’

  Luke peered at it through his misty glasses. ‘Where are we?’ the acolyte said.

  ‘Roughly here, I would say.’ Bellis made a generous circle-motion.

  ‘There’s nothing for a hundred miles.’

  Samuel looked nervously at each of them. Strange towns in the wilderness. Nathaniel patted his arm, as he would a skittish shaggie.

  Bellis took a slug from his water-skin. ‘Either we go around it or through it. We’re still heading in the right direction.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ Nathaniel said. Bellis reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small piece of black cloth. It was the same kind that the women of Barkley wore. But it was just a scrap. ‘Where did you find that? It could have come from anywhere.’

  Bellis shook his head.

  ‘I say we go through the town,’ Luke said. ‘Maybe the girl and the Walkin’ are hiding there.’ So far he hadn’t used their names once.

  ‘There’s no lights,’ Nathaniel said. Back in Barkley lamps would be lit now.

  ‘Makes no difference if it’s abandoned. If there’s people – that could be a problem,’ Bellis said.

  ‘Someone might have seen them!’ Luke said. ‘We have to look. And it is fitting that Satan would hide his minions in an unmarked town. Be ready to strike back at the devil.’

  ‘We have to look,’ Samuel echoed.

  They remounted and headed towards the town.

  *

  It was clear the town was abandoned. The buildings rarely had windows or doors; shells of their former selves. They were made of some kind of grey stone. It looked lifeless and weak. They came to what seemed like a central street. The hairs on the back of Nathaniel’s neck stood up at the way the air moved in this place, how it whistled through the empty houses. The building-fronts reminded him of the face of a man before a pyre was lit. The soul had departed from this town. But the Good Lord had forgotten to burn it.

  Luke got off his shaggie and ran into the first house.

  ‘Luke,’ Bellis hissed, but the acolyte was already gone. The Law-Man reached for his rifle. He was trying to watch everywhere at once. Samuel joined Luke in the house. He was no less eager.

  ‘Should we?’ Nathaniel said. Bellis shook his head.

  The other two appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Not here,’ Samuel said. Luke ran to the next house. He directed Samuel to take a different building. They seemed to leap-frog each other, whilst Bellis and Nathaniel plodded along on their shaggies. Nathaniel wasn’t getting off Buster. Not for anything. He wanted to be able to leave this place and quickly.

  Five, six, seven houses were searched with no result. Luke was like a red-wink trailing the scent of chooks. His eyes gleamed in the dying light.

  There was a gunshot. First, Nathaniel heard it echoing between the vacant buildings. Then Buster reared. A sound like a plate smashing. Nathaniel fought to keep his shaggie under control. He fought to stay in the saddle. Bellis was also having trouble. He had the reins to the others’ shaggies. Luke and Samuel came cautiously to the entrance of the houses they were in. Eventually they managed to get the animals under control.

  ‘That’s far enough,’ a man called. ‘I’m already reloaded.’

  All of them tried to find the source of the voice. The way sound travelled in this ruined warren, it was impossible. Nathaniel twisted to see what had happened. Buster didn’t seem hurt. The shaggie stamped and snorted but there was nothing to suggest he’d been hit. Pieces of an urn lay scattered on the track.

  3 : 4

  ‘Who’s there?’ Bellis shouted.

  ‘You need to leave.’ A face appeared a fair way off, in the top window of a building that was missing its roof. It was the only movement in this place and they all saw it instantly.

  ‘He looks real pale,’ Samuel said. Luke strained to see without leaving the safety of the doorway.

  ‘Life does that,’ the man replied. He had some hearing.

  ‘Is it the creature?’ Luke hissed.

  ‘We’re looking for someone,’ Bellis called.

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘Is there anyone else in this town?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They might have passed through. A man and a little girl. Maybe two days ago?’

&nbs
p; The pale face was silent for some time. Nathaniel started to wonder if the man had heard.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘In a way. They’re gone.’

  ‘Which way?’ Bellis said.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Bellis, we should go,’ Nathaniel whispered. ‘That face isn’t just pale. It’s dead.’

  ‘I know.’

  They were lucky the acolyte was near blind. No doubt the zealot would have charged down the whole street chanting prayers and wielding his crucifix. Right into lead shot.

  ‘Get on your shaggies,’ Bellis said.

  ‘We can’t trust this man. There are things he isn’t telling us,’ Luke said. ‘We should try to interrogate him.’

  ‘Do what?’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘We could make him say more. We have knives to heat, and—’

  ‘They’re not here,’ Bellis said.

  Nathaniel stared, his mouth agape, as Luke reluctantly mounted. The acolyte had wanted to torture a man. And what could he have possibly said? Confirmed they were heading in the right direction? Said they were a day or two behind? That a description of Thomas McDermott was similar to what he had seen? None of that was worth causing pain; even if a Walkin’ could feel pain. But Luke had calmly suggested hot knives for what he thought was a man. Would J. S. Barkley have taken the same action?

  They rode out of the ruined town. Luke kept looking back.

  ‘Sorry about your pot,’ the Walkin’ called after them.

  Nathaniel was glad to leave. Luke had shaken him and he’d never been in a place that felt so cold. He couldn’t imagine that that might happen to Barkley one day, whatever wrongs had caused it. Barkley was stronger. They had their faith. But that was not without its costs and that worried him.

  Half a mile from the town Nathaniel stopped. He brushed off the urn fragments that still clung to his saddlebag. Buster had a few little cuts on his rump, but nothing deep and the blood was already thickening.

  ‘It won’t be right without an urn,’ Luke said.

  ‘Then we should go back to Barkley,’ he said.

  ‘No!’

  Bellis shook his head; the Law-Man agreeing with Luke. ‘We can carry ashes in something else,’ Bellis said. Nathaniel hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  ‘A Walkin’ isn’t right. A little girl Walkin’ isn’t right,’ Luke said. ‘And you want to turn back?’

  Nathaniel stared at the young man. What did Luke know of it? He hadn’t married yet. Hadn’t had a child. The Good Book didn’t cover those kinds of feelings.

  They rode until they couldn’t see the town. No one spoke as they ate. Luke read more verses aloud. Only Samuel listened.

  *

  It was getting dark. Sarah had come into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. She had gotten as far as taking a glass out of the cupboard. That was hours ago. Her mouth was dry and sticky. She was sitting at the kitchen table. In the twilight it was easy to forget. Mary was still in the shop, pretending to work hard so she could stay up a little longer. Thomas was coming back from the fields. His hands would smell of soil and leave dust on her cheek.

  She had to get out. She had barely moved in the last few days. Her body felt tired with lack of use – her muscles slack and wet. Moving from one empty room to another every couple of hours. It didn’t matter where in the house she sat, it was the same story.

  As she opened the back door, she felt the coolness of the night air. The hairs on her arms stood up. There was a cardigan on the table but she left it behind. The house was stuffy and still – it was good to be out in the cold. She glanced down at her dress. It was spotless, though she’d been wearing it for days. The cloth felt heavy with her.

  There was no one else in the alleyway. People hadn’t closed their back shutters. Perhaps they never did. They had nothing to be afraid of. Nothing that could creep into their homes and change everything. Or maybe, like Sarah, they didn’t have the energy to try to stop it. Either way, she had more than enough light from their windows. Twice she saw the silhouette of someone and hurried before she was spotted. She didn’t know where she was going. It didn’t matter. She sucked hard at the air, filling every corner of her lungs with long, shuddering breaths. Without realising it, she was crying. She didn’t bother to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

  She walked until it was fully dark. When she had to cross one of the bigger streets, she did so without looking anywhere but ahead. She took long, masculine strides and ignored any shapes at the edge of her vision. Reaching the alleys again was a relief – she had felt exposed on the streets. Anyone could have come up and talked to her. Asked how she was. Whether or not she was coping. And she would have to lie.

  The only soul she met in the alleys was a mouser. He was big and grey. He trotted up to Sarah as if they were old friends. She stood still as he rubbed his cheeks against her shins. His tail was like a farmer’s crook, ready to pull her back into line. All she could think about was yanking the mouser’s tail. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to hurt him. She didn’t trust herself to stroke him. Eventually, he caught the scent of something more interesting than Sarah. His tail dropped and he stalked off – old friend forgotten. She was glad when the mouser went. His wordless affection was too much.

  She came out onto Main. She had no idea how late it was or how long she’d been walking. The shop was across the street. Someone was standing at the door, waiting for her.

  They were in the shadows; there was no way of telling who it was. Thomas, Mary, even Bellis – she hoped for a lot of people it couldn’t be. And how many friends did she have left in town? Talk of Walkin’ hadn’t helped, no matter how hard she denied it. Jared Peekman was still fresh in Barkley’s memory. Who was at her door this late? Waiting patiently; knowing she would come back.

  She considered sneaking around to the back door. But they wouldn’t go away. Barkley wouldn’t go away. Instead, she headed straight towards her home. She kept her pace even and tried to calm her face. The coolness of dry tears made her rub her cheeks. Her eyes were likely red and puffy, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  ‘Hello, Sarah.’ Pastor Gray stepped out of the shadows. The lamplight gave life to his mess of red curls. She could almost hear his hair crackle and hiss and spit. He clasped his hands behind his back. He was between her and the shop door.

  ‘Can I help you, Pastor?’ She tried to edge round him, closer to the door, but it was impossible. He wasn’t a large man, but he seemed to fill the board-walk.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Do you need more candles?’ she said. Please, let him need candles.

  ‘No. Not candles. We’ve had plenty of things to burn recently, haven’t we?’

  ‘Plenty,’ she said, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘My acolyte, Luke Morris, speaks highly of you.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘He is your husband’s age, isn’t he?’ he said.

  ‘A little younger.’

  ‘A lot younger one day.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. She wanted to reach out and touch the door handle – just to touch it.

  ‘Would you indulge an old preacher?’ He held out the Good Book, his thumb wedged between the pages.

  ‘Isn’t it late for readings?’

  ‘And walks.’ He pressed the book into her hands. ‘Chapter seven, verse fourteen if you will?’

  The letters were fuzzy in the low light. She had to hold the Good Book under her nose. He stared at her. She felt him watching her face; his gaze as hot as the midday sun. She cleared her dry throat.

  ‘“For the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, and the unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband: else were your children unclean; but now are they holy.”’

  ‘Thank you, Sarah.’ He gave a slight smile as he took back the book. ‘I find the Good Book most illuminating when I’m struggling with a problem, or the burden of a secret, don’t you?’
/>   He didn’t wait for an answer. The board-walk creaked under his footsteps.

  Had she stumbled over her words? Over ‘unbelieving’ or ‘children’ or ‘unclean’? She had tried to read as steadily as she could but her hands shook as she held the pages. The Pastor liked to be as cryptic as his chapters and verses. He left behind a wake of warmth – Sarah suddenly felt the cold again. She rubbed her arms. She made sure he was no longer on Main Street before she opened the shop door and went inside.

  *

  Thomas kept the fire alive. He stirred the embers, sifting through the blackened flakes. Those that were spent, used up, sank to the bottom. The wood that remained had a little left to give. Each piece was like a sunset: staggered oranges and yellows and reds. He kept the fire small. ‘They will follow you.’ Sarah had been so sure. She had pressed his arm as she told him, pushing the words through his linen shirt, patches of scorched uniform, and into muscles that couldn’t feel her touch. He sat facing their trail. It was only a matter of when.

  Mary was sleeping near the fire. She frowned in her sleep. Since leaving Barkley dreams seemed to trouble her. She didn’t cry out or wake up sweating. Instead, she appeared to be tackling a difficult problem. He wanted to help her. But he knew he was the problem.

  Clouds drifted across the moon. From the hillock where they camped he liked to follow the shadows as they crossed the Redlands. They moved so quickly on the ground, whilst the clouds sauntered through the sky. He couldn’t match up the shapes either. It was true of people: the shadows they cast never fit. He had wanted to see his family. But not like this.

  He moved the water-skin farther away from the fire. He had no idea if it would make a difference, but he would do anything that might prolong their supply. It felt so light to him; full of air. But how heavy did it need to be? Not knowing was frustrating. How could he make plans when he had no sense of how long the journey to Black Mountain was? He didn’t even understand how much water Mary really needed. It couldn’t have been all that long since his last drink – a matter of weeks – but he couldn’t remember it specifically. He had forgotten the taste of water.