by T. Wyse
“Does that spark mean they’re in trouble? Or is this normal?”
“It only means that the Blessed has come to question themselves in some way. You would have to ask,” the man said. “Would you like to go there?”
“Yes, I would.” Kechua threw away any halfhearted notions.
“Good.” The man produced an ashen hand, drumming his fingers over the runes of the staff, which gave a tickled purr. “That way, little one, can you remember?” he asked with a soft cluck, his words soaking into the wood.
The staff gave a warbling chirp, followed by a dowsing tug to the west.
“And here you are. I think this old creature still wishes to travel with you.” The man offered the staff back.
“Thank you.” Kechua bowed and let the staff slip into his humble hands. “May I beg something of you, since you are knowledge?” He sheathed the staff again on his back.
“Not ‘knowledge,’ but I am happy to try.”
“When I left, a wise woman asked something of me.” Kechua paused, trying to recall her words. “She asked what I would have done differently in her stead. She wants an answer to—”
The old man hushed him with a raised finger and leaned over with his eyes closed. “I can sense the question in you, but I wonder if you or she truly understood the question. In your mind, she is asking for the ‘perfect’ answer, one to sweepingly solve all of the pain and sickness in your community. But this is your question wound into hers, I think.” The man shifted and closed his eyes a moment, his form shivering like a crumpled piece of paper in a furious wind. “She asks only for your understanding, for you to see the core truth of that place. She wriggles in the smothering grip of The Merciful.”
“But . . . what is the answer then? How do we survive? How do we fight?”
“You don’t,” the old man replied. “My solution is simply shared knowing. Make sure they know you, and surely, they cannot treat you with cruelty. Sometimes, there simply isn’t an answer, young man. Sometimes, we must sacrifice and be patient and hope for the best. Strive to know them as well, and act beyond fairness.”
“Thank you, Old Man.” Kechua smiled and bowed, though the words felt weightless upon his back.
“Do I not get a place upon your club?” The man grinned widely, his eyes closed. “Am I not important?”
Kechua couldn’t suppress a laugh and set down his things, carving his meeting with the old man upon the smaller of the clubs.
CHAPTER 10:
The Thieves
The afternoon sun saw Kechua walking in the dust, beside the ever-growing river. It ran fat and calm nearer to the source, gaining ferocity as he passed to the west.
He paused, precious seconds shedding and becoming minutes, and stared towards where the tendril of grey split the sky. Yet, he crushed the light between his eyes, unsure of what he saw.
It drove his feet to fly on the sands, to once more return to the grove of stilled trees.
As the snake grew, he realized it left the ground, spiraling into the air as if being churned into a drain in the sky. He arrived back at the site of the campfire and found the blaze dead. The bubbling stream had veered lazily away from it, remaining a runty trickle, not yet flowing past the first few trees.
“It smells right again,” Wolf remarked after tasting the air. He breathed deep, his tightly wound shoulders relaxing.
He visited the three mounds, marveling at the three bushes sprouting forth. Jagged thorns coated each, and only the stingiest of leaves budded forth. None rose above a foot high, and Kechua caught himself disappointed at the demure monuments before laughing. Had he become so accustomed to this new world that a tribute and miracle was a disappointment?
The day grew older, and he found his feet away from there, not running or shambling. He abandoned the solid soil of the river upon seeing a smattering of shapes rising above the horizon to the south. Night loomed warningly, and the memory of those oily creatures chilled his back.
“Would you have allowed him to walk with me, with us?” Kechua broke the silence, keeping his pace towards the buildings.
“Whatever do you mean?” rumbled the creature, not missing a step. “You do not enjoy the lessons I have to offer, the guidance and wisdom?” Wolf seemed cuttingly droll.
“No,” Kechua answered firmly. “You seem more intent to stand back and watch than guide.”
“Perhaps that will change in time,” Wolf murmured. “When you were challenged by your aspect, it was not my place to give guidance. When you faced the Guardian, you chose to face it with peace in your heart, not the burning flames of courage and war. You have done little so far in this time that has sparked my interest, or given me much hope towards your potential.” Wolf stopped, testing the wind and falling behind a moment. “Before the season ends, you will see the value in my companionship.”
Kechua kept walking, unfazed by Wolf’s melodrama. His shoulders felt low, just as the sun appeared heavy in the sky. He glanced down the staff, wondering if he would have to put his faith in a closed circle against the dark things tonight.
The staff gave a warbling tug at the buildings.
“You think we can make it?”
The staff gave an approving hum and another urging tug.
“Well, I hope so.” He nodded. “Thank you.”
He put the staff to rest once more and took to the sands. He pushed his feet with the drumbeat below but restrained himself, falling a little behind the potential even as the ruined line of buildings presented themselves.
He came to the strand of houses without breaking step. He erupted into the ghost town, warier than when he was in the nothingness of the day. Footfalls echoed in the place, recent ones, and he remembered the paths of the missing people from those first empty buildings. Each house seemed improper shelter. None sported full roofs. In fact, most lacked some fundamental structure. They either missed an entire wall or had collapsed into mostly rubble in the previous days.
A roofless house would be fine. The idea of stable walls and perhaps something to lay on for a change drove him to reject the first of many houses. He passed a pair of half-structured houses, each of them with only a single side standing. Towards the middle of the outcropping, he came upon a quandary of sufficiently whole buildings.
The four of them stood sentry, following the curve of a street, about an acre lot each. None of them retained anything but a skeletal roof, a set of rafters in remembrance of their burden. They betrayed no benefit between them, each of them looking as naked as a skinned fox or a plucked chicken.
Voices trickled from one of them. The buzzing harmony of three spoke in turn and took moments to laugh between one another. That sound trickled across his chapped soul, drawing him into the unlocked door and silently up the dark stairwell.
No trap lay waiting to spring on him. None of the gathered—two men and a boy younger than Kechua—seemed surprised at his careful intrusion. A single couch sat in the centre of the room, covered in the shapes of boxes and a layer of dust. The smell of mildew and stashed away books lingered in the skeletal attic space, though the roof was entirely gone, leaving only somewhat squat walls on either side.
“Right, just find a spot before the light’s all gone. Don’t want you tripping on anything,” the oldest offered immediately, giving a half-saluting wave. He sported a goatee, streaked with white, a beard flowing into the carefully groomed spaces on his rather gaunt face. He wore a soiled trucker’s cap and a faded plaid shirt, strands of wispy hair hanging past his shoulders.
Kechua gave a silent bow and took the last free corner of the room, beside the stairs, but with a set of stacked boxes and a squat bookshelf to back him. “Sorry to jump in. I heard you talking, and nights on the way.” He slipped his pack in the corner behind him. Something about the scene bothered him in a way he couldn’t place. They all sat away from each other in a corner of the room, but the tone of their voices and the beating of their hearts was that of comrades. “My name is Kechua,” he said
before the lingering silence became too long.
“Glad to have you. Davis.” The man pointed to himself. “Rutger.” He motioned to a meaty man in camo pants and a tank top, his hair cut so close to his scalp, it reflected the failing light like a helmet. “Shawn.” He motioned to the boy, who sported rather wide, distant eyes and the remains of an impeccably short crop of hair. Shawn wore a crumpled black tie upon a dress shirt, which emulated Rutger’s camo, featuring a splattered pattern of brown on white.
“Well, welcome to our mighty fortress.” Davis gave a wide gesture. “Slim pickings around, but still some left if you’re willing to move rubble.”
Kechua tried to nod as Davis spoke, but he couldn’t help but keep his face slightly turned to Rutger. The man barely moved and stayed silent, but there was the taste of something discordant in the firm rhythm of his drum.
“So, want to trade stories? We’ve heard ‘em all, but that’s what people ask.” Davis gave a quick nod. “Plus, we’re tired of hearing his ten-year-old deployment stories.” Both he and Rutger gave a low chuckle. Rutger’s chuckle felt real. It slipped from his throat without force, but it fought with the history written into his flesh and bone.
“I haven’t spoken to many people.” Kechua gave a grin swallowed by the shadows. “I’d be happy to share what I’ve seen.”
“I was working in the garage, and I ended up having to go into the old part of the building, the place we use for storage. The damn place is a nightmare, really. It’s full of old rusty junk that the boss just can’t bear to get rid of, stuff from the turn of the century even. There’s coal-powered junk, and even one of those electric carriages. Can’t imagine how he got it down there. After an hour, I came out of the pit, and I thought I was dreaming. The entire world’s a desert or something. The shop’s gone, and the boss with it.”
“At least my stories have meat,” Rutger cut in with his low chuckle. A darker tone underpinned it that resonated with the man’s bones.
“I thought maybe it was some sci-fi thing. You know, kidnapped by aliens, or maybe some crazy gizmo in the basement put me someplace else. It’s funny where the mind goes when you’re seeing something crazy. Maybe not so funny. Who knows?”
He paused, taking a swig of the clear liquid in the bottle. Silver-skinned cans shone in the light, wrappers and containers intermingled around them. Most of them stood empty, and the faint scent of murky sweetness wove through the dust and mold.
“So, I missed the lightshow then, but I think I would’ve been taken if I’d seen it. These two say they saw it coming; say they can’t describe it, but can’t imagine I missed something that I’d want to see, or remember for that matter. I ended up getting hungry right fast, and there wasn’t anything but the machines down there, so I set out looking for what I could. The town was a rathole, but after the lightshow, it was barely a speck. All that was left was a bunch of buildings standing down main street—that and some shacks. I was living just fine in the general store. Don’t know why it was empty, but then these two come along.” His smile was yellow and spotted in the failing light. A flurry of sparks before a red and blue light lit, and the man’s features wrinkled and distorted at the infantile flame. The flame trembled and darkened, leaving the glowing ember of a cigarette, the meager light stealing Kechua’s attention and casting everything else into blackness.
Kechua paused, frozen in a reaching half leap, only to recoil back to his spot. The smoke clung to the ember, making no unusually sinister intent known.
“If you’ve got something to trade, I’m willing to part with a few.” Davis gave a yellowed grin, puffing a ring of black towards Kechua.
“Oh, no thank you. I just had some bad experience with fire recently.”
“No kidding,” Davis muttered out the side of his mouth. “All three of us tried fires early on. Bad idea, but lighter fluid seems fine. The smokes’ve got a bit of a bite to ‘em, but that’s just more flavor.” He let out a phlegmy laugh.
“That isn’t all of it, though,” Shawn piped in, his eyes gaping even more, glancing between the two men. “You didn’t mention about the other stuff . . . ”
“Choirboy, if you want to tell him stories, you go right ahead. Just remember to spare the preaching.” Davis gave a half sneer. Kechua wasn’t entirely sure if the gesture was an understood ribbing between friends, or if there was more condemnation between them. “Alright, fine. It wasn’t the only reason I got out of there, the fact that there wasn’t food. There were things in there. It was completely dark, and there were things moving.”
“Rats?” Kechua shrugged.
Shawn’s quickening heartbeat said otherwise. “Nah, thought that at first. The lights all went out, so I had to climb my way out of there in the dark. I thought it was just my eyes screwing with me. I wasn’t about to go crying out like some little boy wanting his night-light, so I got myself over to the stairs. No, not rats though. Too big to be rats, and they scraped on the concrete floor. One way or another, I was out of there pretty quick.”
Davis chuckled, carefully tossing his used butt into a can. He gave a craved look at the pack of cigarettes, surveying his dwindling kingdom. He put them away with an irritated grunt. “Well, let’s hear your story again, boyo.”
“Hunting,” Shawn began.
“Hunting, can you believe it?” Davis chuckled. “Guess you could believe it.” He gave a smartassed grin at Kechua.
“Hunting with my father,” Shawn continued.
“Hunting with his pappy,” Davis interrupted again.
“Let him speak,” Rutger growled, making a stroking motion across the growing stubble of his rounded head. Again, the tone and gesture felt right upon the man, but the realness faded as he returned to silence. Davis gave a final chuckle, settling into a sitting stance resembling Rutger’s hunched squat.
“Was the third time we’d been hunting, and the second time we’d ever seen anything. It was this big black bear; male. We’d been watching after it for days, tracking it and all. Well, in the end, my father was off in the distance. I’d stopped to rest under this huge tree. I thought it was interesting; felt strange to me. That’s when the light came. It was . . . ” Shawn paused, his eyes were distant into his memory. “It was a sweeping wall of gems, but flying into the sky. It was like the entire world was being reduced to that one thing, and then taken away, up into the heavens. It was so fast and so quiet. I yelled to my father, but he didn’t even hear me, and then he was gone. The trees were totally stripped of their leaves, and the grass and paths were gone. We’d been by a river and that was gone too.”
“I thought . . . ” Shawn paused. “I thought it was the rapture or something. I’m not Catholic, but I’ve heard about those things. The first while, I just sort of sat there. I fell asleep, under the tree, and when I woke up, the gun I had . . . it had sort of fallen apart. The parts were fine. The metal was still there, but it just . . . fell apart.” Shawn looked down at his hands, holding a phantom rifle in them. “The screws wouldn’t really go back in, and I lost most of them in the sand.”
“I found him, being so damn stupid under that tree the first day. Good thing I did too, cause there’s nasty stuff out there in the night.” Rutger looked up.
Shawn had receded fully back under the embrace of his corner beam and was mumbling frantically. Rather than cupping his hands in prayer, he reached to hug the wooden plank resting against his shoulder and leaned his head against it.
“He’ll be like that a while.” Rutger nodded. Though not appearing the oldest of the three, his face betrayed a ragged wear, and a sharp grimness coated everything he did. He was large and muscular, dwarfing the other two by a measure of men. “I was a park ranger, on patrol in the same park he was hunting in. I was taking some time in the cave system, working on doing maps for opening a new route or two. Thing is, I was all done and ready to go. I was sitting there, pack on my back, and needed to report in before they wasted their time looking for me.”
He looked up, gi
ving Kechua a sideways look. “Was the damndest thing. I just sat there, pack on my back, looking out of the cave. It was like one of those times when you just don’t feel like moving. You’re so close to moving, knowing you need to move, but you just can’t. Just can’t find the urge to move or go on. I sat there, thinking I must be getting old, losing my edge or whatever. Then suddenly, this wall of red shoots past the cave entrance, and in a blink, it just sweeps the forest in front of me away. Just like that.”
“Didn’t question it, didn’t hypothesize. I got up, took my pack, and moved into the sand. That feeling was gone, and I realized why.”
“Why?” Kechua asked, feeling nearly dizzy from the man’s words. There was truth interwoven neatly with whatever he hid, but he couldn’t understand if it was danger or something else. Kechua glanced at the boy, who muttered and gripped the plank. Perhaps Rutger’s anomalies were carefully checked anxieties.
“You know about animals, hidden powers and all that, I would wager?” Rutger gave Kechua a frisking glance. “Well, there’s stuff that animals can sense, stuff that we don’t see coming. Tsunamis, earthquakes, that sort of thing. When the animals are acting crazy or strange, and it’s not disease, then it’s something you should pay attention to.” He nodded solemnly. “Thing is . . . the animals were normal. See, I think this is something that maybe humans could sense, at least certain humans. Whether we knew it or not, we felt it coming, and we moved to places that were safe from it. Can’t say I know what it is now, seeing these two, but seeing you here makes me think that I was right.”
“He thinks it’s some judgment, or manifestation of hell on earth.” Rutger looked at Shawn, who was locked in his frantic prayer.