Stone Rider

by David Hofmeyr

  The place has a sour smell. It comes from the chicken coops out back.

  Frank Stone emerges from the cabin as they roll to a stop in front of the well.

  “Hey, Frank,” Adam says, dismounting. His breath clouds in the chill air.

  Frank is bone-lean. He’s nineteen but looks older. Tough as leather. Tall and stooped at the shoulders. His clothes—a denim work jacket and jeans—are ragged and they hang on him. His cheeks are gaunt. His skin is dry, burnt teak by the sun. His eyes bloodshot and lined with crow’s feet. He walks with the aid of two crutches, favoring his good leg, the right one.

  Frank lifts his chin at Kane. “Who’s this?”

  Adam glances at Kane, who sits astride his bike, one boot anchored to the ground, the other resting on a gear pedal. “His name’s Kane.”

  Frank snorts. “He doesn’t speak for himself?”

  Kane doesn’t move. He remains silent.

  “Where’s he from?” Frank says.

  “Other side the desert.”

  Frank narrows his eyes. “There’s nothin other side the desert.”

  “Can he stay?”

  “Got enough mouths to feed.”

  “It’s just us, Frank.”

  “That’s a fact,” Frank says, looking at Kane.

  Kane leans his byke against the well. “Good to meet you,” he says with a small nod.

  “He can bunk down in the shelter, can’t he, Frank?” Adam says.

  Frank massages his chin and turns his gaze on Adam. “You’re late. Where’ve you been?”

  “Rode the canyon some.”

  Frank shakes his head.

  Adam leans his byke—his kin’s byke—against the well, next to Kane’s.

  “He’s got nowhere, Frank.”

  Frank mutters under his breath and sighs. “Maev brought us potatoes. Got chicken soup and fresh bread.” He turns and hobbles into the shack, the metal of his left leg gleaming in the moonlight and making a clanking sound on the wooden porch.

  “Chicken soup,” Kane says. “Been a while.”

  “I’ll get the shelter set,” Adam says.

  —

  The cabin has a sweet smell of wood smoke and baked bread. Maev, a neighbor with kind and otherwise intentions, has delivered a bounty of food in exchange for eggs, and to win his brother’s affection, no doubt. Bartering for Frank’s love. Not an easy task.

  Adam’s mouth waters as he circles the kitchen table, ladling steaming soup into clay bowls. Strings of chicken meat cling to the ladle. The room is small and Adam has to shuffle sideways in the gap between chairs and wall. He serves Kane and sits opposite him.

  Kane unfolds his hands on the table, breathes in the aroma of the soup and glances up at Adam. Adam nods and Kane lifts his spoon and makes a loud slurping noise as he tucks in.

  Frank leans back on his stool and watches them wolf down their food. Then he sets about his own bowl.

  Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers are flat and crooked, the fingernails chipped; his joints are bruised and swollen-looking. These are hands that have seen harsh weather. Working hands.

  He fixes his eyes on Kane. “Got skills?”

  Kane shrugs and spoons up his soup.

  Adam bites into a hunk of bread. “He can skip stones better’n anyone I ever seen.”

  “Not exactly a skill a Rider needs.”

  “He can dive too. Dived right down to the bottom of…” He stops speaking midsentence.

  Frank looks at him, his spoon poised midair. “You dive with him?”

  Adam says nothing. He pretends to focus on the food.

  “You got no business diving to the bottom of that lake.” Frank glares at Adam. “Dammit, Adam! What are you doin swimming when you ought to be working?”

  “Can’t work a whole day, Frank,” Adam says, swallowing.

  Frank shakes his head and lifts his spoon to his mouth. “You’re wrong there,” he growls.

  Silence falls on the room. The only sound is the slurping of soup and the slow boil and spit of the pot. Frank pushes away his empty bowl, takes a ragged breath and digs his thumbs into his belt.

  Kane keeps spooning up his soup, eyes down.

  Adam runs his hands along the table edge and notices how the wood is worn and chipped. He looks at the empty plate in front of him. The clay is scratched and rough. His eyes travel to the window and the ripped and stained curtains pulled shut against the darkness.

  “Well,” Frank says. “S’pose you boys ain’t thinking about work anyhow.”

  Adam stares at the window and says nothing.

  —

  When the meal is done, Adam leads Kane to the shelter. They unbolt the trapdoor and descend the stairs with a lit candle. Adam first, Kane following. The air smells musty and it carries the sharp, unsettling tang of chicken shit from the coop. A smell that lingers on every part of the property. But down here it smells different, tinged with the odor of earth.

  The shelter is little more than an underground hovel. There are no bales of hay or any kind of farming gear. Dust-covered seed bags slump against a bare wall next to a twisted roll of wire. In a dark corner, an empty O2 canister complete with a set of hanging masks. They cast weird shadows high on the wall. Shelves, running along the wall, are littered with tinned food, boxes of supplies. The floor is cement, polished with wear. It’s a brutal, functional place. But it’s warm, and when the winter descends and grips the land they come down here to ride it out.

  “Frank’s not as mean as he thinks,” Adam says, placing the candle on a barrel. It makes a hollow knocking sound as he sets it down. The orange flame flowers a pool of yellow light and the corners of the shelter disappear into gloom. A draught comes from under the door and the flame gutters. A night wind rattles the bolt.

  “He’s a good man,” Kane says, throwing his sleeping roll on the floor. He sits to remove his boots. With a grunt and a sudden jerk, he manages to free his right foot. He rests his elbows on his knees—one foot booted, the other in a blackened sock.

  “You can see it in the eyes. Eyes don’t lie. Not ever.”

  Then he pulls off his other boot and flings it across the floor. Adam watches it skid to a stop.

  “Helluva thing,” Kane says. “To lose a limb.”

  Adam perches on the barrel, trying to fathom the stories Kane’s wolflike eyes hide.

  Kane strips off his suit and Adam gets another view of his welts and scars. The air duct throws a rhombus of moonlight on Kane’s back. Adam has never seen a body so bruised and battered. Not even his brother’s.

  It’s like some creature got its teeth into him.

  The trapdoor creaks and they both look up the stairs, but no one arrives. The door moans, bracing against the wind.

  Kane hangs his sling and his leather bag of river stones from a hook that has been hammered into a support beam.

  Adam looks up at the wooden beams holding up the roof of the shelter. There used to be owls up there. They must have found their way in through the air duct somehow and shared the shelter with the Stone kin during the storm nights. He spent days staring at them and they stared back at him with their quiet eyes. He still finds their pellets sometimes, but the owls are long gone. There used to be mice too, but not anymore.

  Kane eases himself down onto his makeshift bed, then props himself up on his elbows. He looks at Adam and his eyes gleam. “When last you see the Colonel?”

  “Couple of moons back, maybe. Why?”

  Kane shrugs. “Maybe I’d like to see him before the Race.”

  “That’s unlikely.”

  “Why? Because of who he is? A Warlord?”

  “He’s protected. Sky-Base pays him to put down mine strikes and any rebellions. Like them past ones about solar-rocket tickets being too expensive.”

  “Rebellions don’t happen that often anymore. So he’s not really a Warlord. He’s a tyrant.”

  “Yeah. Reckon so.”

  “Scorpions his thugs?”
/>   Adam nods. “Most of my cash would have landed up in his pocket some way or another.”

  Kane looks hard at him, as if mulling something over.

  Adam slides off the barrel. “Less you see the Colonel, the better. But he’ll be there come Race day. You can bet on that.” He makes for the trapdoor stairs.

  “Adam!”

  He half turns. It’s the first time Kane’s used his name. The sound of it startles him.

  “You gotta ride to earn a ticket to Sky-Base,” Kane says. “No way out but up.”

  Adam looks at him and—for no reason he can fathom—he feels fear slide up through his gut. He climbs the stairs and fumbles with the bolt on the door. “Lock it from the inside,” he mumbles. Then he steps up into the night and shuts Kane inside.

  —

  “He’s dangerous,” Frank says. “I told you. Stay alone. Stay safe.”

  He stands hunkered in the doorway to his room, a dark silhouette against the amber light within. There’s only one bedroom in the cabin and that’s always been Frank’s. Adam bunks down on the couch. His ma’s desert-flower print faded to a uniform gray, the fabric worn and threadbare.

  Adam says nothing. He punches his pillow.

  “You shouldn’t have brought him here,” Frank adds. “Nothin good will come of it.”

  Adam looks up. Stares at Frank’s metal leg, jutting from his jeans. “He’s just some kid.”

  Frank shakes his head and coughs. “He’s not. He’s different.”

  He releases a crutch and supports himself with one hand on the wall. He coughs until his face is blue and his eyes bloodshot.

  “You okay?” Adam says, rising.

  Frank wheezes. He shakes his head and waves Adam away. “You’re different too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The way you help people. You’ve got a generous heart, Adam. It’s liable to get someone killed someday.”

  Adam says nothing.

  Frank leans on the wall and looks at him. “He really swim to the lake bottom?”

  Adam sees verdigris weeds drifting through dark water. The flat calm. No bubbles rising to the surface. He sees Kane shoot up in a sudden spray, his eyes wild and yellow, the silver sand running down the length of his outflung arm.

  “I don’t know. I guess he did…after I showed him how.”

  Frank shakes his head. He shuffles to the cabin front door, the metal of his left leg and the two crutches making an uneven knocking on the wood floor. He checks the lock, rattles the door handle, lifts the gray curtain and looks out at the night. He stands for a while, saying nothing, staring out towards the old oak tree. He looks troubled.

  “Another rooster died today,” he rasps. “Fourth one this month.”

  Roosters dying is bad news. When you breed chickens, you keep your roosters alive. You feed them well. You protect them. If all your roosters die, you die soon after.

  “Add that to the others stolen for the fights and…well, do the math.”

  “So I’ll work the mine. Get more dollars than working for Old Man Dagg. Buy us more wire for the coop. Maybe get us some meds for…” Adam’s voice trails away. He knows money won’t buy what Frank really needs. A flesh-and-blood leg.

  “You’re just like Pa,” Frank says. “Know that?”

  Adam watches his brother, the line of his back, the narrow shoulders. “I’m nothin like him.”

  Frank shakes his head. He turns and looks at Adam. “Wish you’d be generous with Pa too. I know you think he jumped, but he couldn’t have. He was the best Rider alive back then. But he chose the mine over racing. To be with us.”

  “So what happened? If he loved us so much?”

  “You know what happened. Ma died…and he just…Well, he got lost, is all. And—”

  “I’m nothin like him,” Adam repeats.

  Frank sighs and watches him. “People break, Adam. It happens.”

  Adam looks away. He notices a fluttering shadow dance against the cabin wall. A moth. It circles the candle in erratic loops. Then it turns too close to the flame and, with burnt wings, flounders in a pool of hot wax. Adam flicks the singed moth and watches it stick to the floorboards.

  A wind tunnels under the door. Adam gazes at the gusting candle flame, lost in thought.

  No. He’s nothing like his pa. It occurs to him maybe he and Kane are the same. Maybe they both belong on their bykes, drifting through desert tracks, not stuck underground. Maybe Kane only makes sense when he speaks with his byke, and his sling, and his stones.

  “You see that boy use his slingshot?” Frank wheezes, as though reading his thoughts. “I’ll bet he uses it pretty good.”

  Adam says nothing.

  Frank lets the curtain fall. He moves towards Adam and reaches out his hand. He winces. Grips the crutch again. “Damn leg.”

  “It’ll be okay, Frank,” Adam says. But he can feel the room fill with his lie.

  Frank shuffles across the floor to his room. He stops at the door and turns. “If I could go back, I would. I’d get my name off that Race ticket. I shouldn’t have gone. Shouldn’t have left you.”

  “It was fine at Maev’s. Besides, you had no choice. Race and live how you wanna live or work the mine. That’s Blackwater Law.”

  Frank shakes his head. “I could’ve won. I should’ve. Lost my concentration, is all. Stupid mistake.” He points his crutch at him. “But you won’t make mistakes.”

  Adam looks at his brother and his stomach churns.

  “Listen to me, Adam. You’re important. Don’t ask me how I know that. I just do. I feel it. You matter. You’ll make a difference. But I’ve been holding you back. We put in those hours training for a reason. Not for you to stay here and let ’em go to waste.”

  “Frank, I—”

  “You won’t be alone. I’ll be with you. In the byke’s echo. You’ll never be alone.”

  “But—”

  “What happened to me won’t happen to you. You can ride, like Pa. We both know that. Chickens won’t last and then the mine’s for you.” He shakes his head. “But that’s not your path.”

  Adam regards the outline of his brother. His features are hidden in the dim light, but Adam knows he’s looking at him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. But it’s Frank who speaks again.

  “I love you,” he says. Then he turns and enters his room, leaving the door ajar.

  Adam looks at his brother’s door. Listens to his uneven step beyond. Hears the rasp in his breath. Sees the light blown out.

  And that’s when he knows he can’t do it. He can’t leave Frank behind.

  He licks his fingers, snuffs out the guttering candle and plunges the cabin into darkness.

  He knows he’ll never be on that starting line again.

  He glides through a desert, infinite in all directions. The sun rides high with him, a blazing white disc. Heat waves float from the ground. Then a cry goes up. He turns. Wild animals flank him, either side. To the left, a lupine shadow. To the right, a sinuous panther. The animals lope beside him, quick over the ground.

  Adam! Adam, wake up…ADAM!

  There’s panic in the sound of the voice in his head. It conjures a figure and, for a brief moment, Sadie sits in the room beside him. He can smell her dusty skin. He can feel the warmth of her next to him.

  A hand to his shoulder. Shaking him.

  GET UP, ADAM! GET UP!

  —

  A crash and the shatter of glass. A rapid-fire succession of hard objects hitting the walls. RAT-TAT-TAT. RAT-TAT-TAT. A scream outside. Wild-throated and high-pitched. Adam sits bolt upright, covered in a cold sweat. His heart hammers in his chest. He’s half awake, half sunk in his dreams. A bitter taste fills his mouth.

  It takes him a few seconds to realize where he is.

  His head jerks from side to side, eyes flicking across the room. The drawn curtains allow a bar of mote-swirling sunlight to spill into the cabin. He vaguely recalls animals from his dream. Then everything comes crashing
in on him.

  Something small and dark explodes through the window with a loud crash. It zings overhead and smashes into the clay plate stand against the wall. Adam ducks his head, throws up his hands to shield his face. The stand comes crashing down in a cloud of splinters and glass. He coughs in the choking dust.

  A whoop and a holler, outside in the half dark.

  Another window smashes and another missile, dark and fast, zips through the air. Adam cringes and hears the whine of it above his head. It clatters into the wall, rebounds off and bounces down on the couch, resting at his naked feet. A stone—round, smooth and hot from flight. Adam kicks it away.

  Slingstones!

  He’s wide awake. Wide-eyed and fumbling for his jeans and his shirt, draped over the back of the couch. He rolls off the sofa bed with his clothes bunched in his fist.

  Not fast enough.

  A flash of pain flares on his shoulder. A deafening smack and a white-hot blow to the side of his head. Adam is slammed sideways. He hits the floor hard, sprawling. His hand flies to his temple and comes back sticky with blood. It’s just a graze, though. It has to be. A direct slingshot to the head is a kill. Every time.

  He leans against the seat back, breathing hard. His head throbs. His right shoulder throbs. He feels dizzy, disorientated. He turns his chin to his shoulder and sees a raised welt and the rapid bloom of a purple bruise.

  More missiles come zinging into the room. He pulls on his jeans in a cold sweat.

  Voices screaming. Growing louder and louder. Then another fusillade of stones comes flying through the shattered windows. The room is full to bursting with incessant din. Timber splintering. Glass crashing. And, all the while, laughs and curses and cries from outside.

  Adam hunkers down, back pressed to the fabric, knees tucked to his chin, trying to think.

  Where are you, Frank?

  And Kane? Where’s he? Still in the shelter?

  A horrible tearing sound and dust and plaster rain on him. Adam throws up his arms to shield himself. Part of the ceiling collapses.

  “FRANK!” His voice is hoarse with panic.

  There’s no answer from the room next door. Another crash and the shatter of glass. Another hail of stones flies through the air. They rattle into the couch, like bullets. Blood drips into Adam’s eye.