Chasing the Valley

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  I lower my hand, embarrassed. I hadn’t even realised I was doing it.

  ‘I know it’s itchy,’ says Teddy, ‘but trust me – scratching doesn’t help.’ He gives a cheeky grin. ‘Know what it is yet?’

  I open my mouth, slightly outraged. What gives him the right to ask?

  Of course, the taboo has been broken in our crew already. I know that Teddy is Beast and Maisy is Flame. But that’s different – I haven’t actually seen their neck markings. And besides, it doesn’t stop my squeamishness about revealing my own proclivity. What if it’s something useless, like Butterfly? Or something shameful, like Darkness?

  I knew a few people in Rourton whose proclivity was Darkness, and they always lived on the outskirts of society. Proclivities like Darkness or Night don’t seem trustworthy. They make you seem sneaky, like a thief or a liar. Someone who can skulk in the shadows, or prowl through the dark.

  ‘No idea,’ I say. ‘Hard to see my own spine without any mirrors.’

  For a second I think Teddy might offer to check, but he closes his mouth and shrugs. Good.

  ‘I think your proclivity will be Flame,’ says Clementine. ‘It’s the most common proclivity, isn’t it? You took down that biplane pretty spectacularly with the flare. And it would look sort of . . . right.’ She gestures at my auburn hair.

  I shrug. ‘Well, it’s not finished developing yet, so it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I can’t use it.’

  ‘It’ll be ready soon, Danika,’ says Maisy quietly. ‘When it’s really itchy, that’s when you know you’re close.’

  ‘Oh.’

  For the next few kilometres, I can’t think about anything except my proclivity. I wonder when Maisy found out her talent was Flame. Did she check her spine in a bathroom mirror, locked away in her father’s mansion on High Street? Did she tell Clementine right away, in a bubble of excited whispers? It must be nice to grow up with a constant companion. Someone to protect you, someone to share your secrets . . .

  ‘Get down!’

  Someone pushes me to the ground. I swallow a mouthful of snow and dead leaves. There is barely a second to register what’s happening – the rattle of engines, the shriek of falling metal – before the first bomb explodes.

  Three biplanes scar the sky high above the wintry trees. The first bomb blasts a crater about forty metres from us; snow and broken foliage spin out like shrapnel. A flock of birds explodes from the undergrowth, squawking and flapping in panic.

  ‘What –?’ starts Clementine.

  ‘They know we’re around here somewhere!’ Teddy says, pulling her upright. ‘They’re going to blast this mountainside to bits.’

  ‘Move!’

  Maisy plunges her burning twigs into a nearby pile of snow, extinguishing the flames. We can’t carry a smoking beacon through this attack or they’ll spot us in seconds.

  There’s another explosion, further down the slope. This time, the effects of the alchemy bomb are obvious: a sea of crimson flowers explodes from the impact point. The sight is utterly perverse. In a deadened world, in the middle of winter, their petals spatter like blood. But the pilots haven’t spotted us yet – they’re simply blasting the slope at random. If they knew where we were, we would have been hit already. This means we have a tiny chance, if we can find cover before they spot us . . .

  ‘Come on!’

  Every inch of me wants to run, to sprint. To escape this horror as fast as my muscles can manage. But that would draw the attention of the pilots overhead. The branches of the canopy are too thin, too bare, to give us adequate protection. So we throw ourselves into the undergrowth and crawl.

  I take the lead, scanning the wilderness for signs of shelter. The leafless twigs are sharp; every movement scrapes my face, and I have to close my eyes to protect them. I’m crawling blindly now. If we pass by any handy caves or ditches, I won’t even see them.

  Crash!

  Another bomb hits, too far away for us to spot its effects. Within seconds there is another explosion up ahead, only twenty metres from our position. The aftershock crumples my body. I’m flung backwards, a rag doll in the snow.

  I lie, stunned, unknowing and uncaring. My ears are ringing with the agony of the sound. There’s nothing but the clamour of more falling bombs: crashes and thumps and the howls of dying animals in the distance. Are some of those howls my friends? I don’t know. We are all going to die anyway. Maybe I’m already dead.

  A face swims into focus above me. ‘Danika!’ it mouths. The sound comes from a great distance, as though the speaker is shouting across an abyss. I blink and try to focus. It’s Clementine. Her curls fall above my face like a golden scarf, tickling my skin. I want to brush them aside. I want her to leave me alone.

  ‘Danika, move!’ she tries again.

  This time her words register. My ears still throb, but I’m starting to get a grip upon myself. I force my body up onto its knees. I tell myself that this is not real, this is just a dream. None of this is real. The pain is not real, nor the fear nor the shock. And so, if it isn’t real, I can force myself to keep going. It will be just like my father is reading a storybook to me. This is happening to someone else, because it cannot be happening to me.

  Clementine offers me her hand. I accept it. The others are clustered around, waiting for me to come to my senses. Later I might feel ashamed, embarrassed that I wasted precious seconds like this, but for now I’m only grateful that they stayed.

  We push upwards. Maisy takes the lead now, and she takes us slightly to the side. At first I wonder why she would make our trek harder. Then I remember the explosion ahead of us. We have to avoid the sites of previous explosions; if we crawl across a smoking crater, we will be easily visible from the air. Besides, the alchemy bombs could have left any number of perils behind – a pit of spiders, perhaps, or poison that burns like acid through our skin.

  ‘Over there!’ Clementine points through the snow.

  My eyes and ears are still slightly distorted by the explosion, so it takes a second to figure out what I’m seeing. It’s a ledge of rock, like a mini­ature cliff face on the side of the mountain. There are dark shadows around its base. Caves. If we can reach them . . .

  There is something sticky running down my face – probably blood, although it’s hard to tell. I might just be imagining it. But it doesn’t matter because now I’ve got hope, and that’s a lot more effective than a bandage would be. I refuse to die of blood loss when we’re so close to safety.

  Another bomb explodes to our left. It’s not close enough to throw us aside, but I still feel the whoosh smack my face.

  ‘Watch out!’

  The bomb shoots fireworks into the sky. A few sparks collide with overhanging tree branches, and suddenly there is fire in the canopy. I don’t understand how it’s happened, since everything is so wet and cold. Surely these trees can’t burn in the middle of winter. But alchemy wins out over nature, and burn they do. Flames leap from tree to tree, sparking odd colours. Branches shrivel and fall. They hiss as they hit the ground, extinguished by snow . . . but some fall into thicker patches of undergrowth, and fire is everywhere.

  The fog of the morning is gone. Instead there is smoke. Thick, grey smoke that fills my lungs and pushes me away from my goal. I struggle to keep up with the feet in front of me. I don’t even know who I’m following now – I just trust that they’re heading in the right direction. Branches thwack into my face. I cough and splutter. I fall. I push myself up again and keep going, because the others have already waited for me once and I don’t think they’ll do it again.

  Suddenly, we’re below the shadows of the rocks. There’s a clatter of shoes and palms upon stone. I’m vaguely aware of my knees hurting, so I pull into a crouch and scuttle forward. There’s another explosion behind us; it spews something wonderful into the air. The scent of baked apples, I think. Apples and cinnamon. Or maybe I’m
just imagining it and I’ve been blasted into insanity.

  The cave is cool. The cave is dark. And so I drag my body over the threshold, cough out a lungful of smoke, and slip into unconsciousness.

  When I wake, it’s dark. everything seems a blur of light and shadow. I think I’m in my parents’ old apartment, spinning around beneath the lanterns as my father’s radio plays. Or perhaps that sound is my mother singing. ‘Oh mighty yo, how the star-shine must go . . .’

  I blink and suck down a deep breath. The world crawls back into focus. I’m lying on stone, inside a cave. There is cold rock all around me. I can see white and shadow outside – snow in the night, perhaps. Someone has draped a blanket across me. No, it’s a sleeping sack. I can smell the dirt and sweat.

  ‘Danika?’ says a voice.

  I crane my neck around. The others are already awake. They’re sitting by a campfire near the back of the cave, sipping some kind of liquid that smells of spices.

  Clementine puts down her drink. ‘Are you all right?’

  I suddenly remember collapsing after the explosion, staggering around like a drunkard in the snow. Shame flushes into my system. I almost got the entire crew killed. ‘What happened?’

  Maisy frowns. ‘Do you remember the bombing?’

  I nod. The movement hurts my head, but I try not to show it. I’ve already revealed my weaknesses to my crew today; I’m not about to make it worse. ‘Is it over?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s over,’ says Teddy. ‘They used up all their bombs, then they just flew off like nothing had happened. Left half the mountain burning, mind you, but Maisy put out all the fires near our cave.’ He pauses. ‘Well, she nicked a few sparks for our campfire first, so at least we’ve managed to save our last match.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Danika?’ says Clementine.

  I force myself up onto my elbows, ignoring a wave of nausea. ‘Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You were in front when that explosion hit – you got it worse than us,’ she says.

  I feel a ripple of gratitude. It would be so easy to blame me, to tell me off for risking all their lives. I had no right to have a breakdown out there on the slopes, not when all our survival was at stake. But Clementine is blaming it on my proximity to the blast rather than my stupidity.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’ she adds.

  I move to shake my head, but it hurts too much. I stop abruptly and say, ‘No, thanks. I think I just need to rest.’

  ‘All right,’ says Teddy. ‘Sounds like a good idea – I might turn in soon, too.’

  I nestle back down beneath the sleeping sack. On my side, I have a clear view of the world outside the cave. The sky is black, and wind blusters against the rocks. Before I close my eyes, I just make out a swirl of white dust falling from the night. I don’t know whether it’s snow or cinders.

  For almost a day, I slip in and out of consciousness. I know that we have to keep moving. It isn’t safe to stay in this cave, so close to the scene of the bombing. The hunters will be here soon. They will scour the landscape for survivors – or for our corpses. But I feel as though I’ve been drugged.

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Teddy, when I try to apologise. It’s the third time I’ve woken – or is it the fourth? – and he’s keeping guard while the others doze. ‘You got whacked pretty hard by that blast, I reckon. Anyway, we could all use a rest.’

  The only positive is that I’m starting to feel better. Each time I wake, I feel stronger. The world is clearer and my head throbs a little less. Around midday, I feel well enough to sit up against the cave wall and eat an orange. The juice is sweet and refreshing on my tongue.

  By the time we hit late afternoon, the others are restless. The twins keep offering me food: leftover porridge, mostly, and mugs of spicy cocoa. They’re obviously anxious to get moving, but no one has the heart to force me.

  It’s up to me now. I have to make up for the weakness I showed during the bombing. I have to force myself to move.

  ‘What’s the plan from here?’ I say.

  The others exchange glances.

  ‘Well,’ says Teddy, ‘if you’re feeling up to it, there’s a smallish peak not far from here. More of a crag, really, but it’ll give us a better view of our options.’

  I frown. ‘Options? Don’t we just want to get out of the mountains?’

  Teddy hesitates. ‘Well, maybe. But Maisy reckons there’s a passageway somewhere in the mountains – a sort of shortcut east, that’ll take us towards the Valley.’

  ‘A passageway?’

  Maisy nods. ‘A narrow gorge, heading west to east. The smugglers use it a lot, apparently. And it must be nearby, because it starts just below Midnight Crest.’

  ‘How do you know about it?’ I say.

  ‘It’s mentioned in a lot of geology books, as an example of fissures in sedimentary rock. They call it the Knife, actually, since it slices into –’

  I sit up straighter. ‘The Knife?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  For the first time in over a day, I let my mouth stretch into a smile. ‘Well, then, we’re going the right way. It’s just like the song: I shan’t waste my good life, I must follow my knife . . .’

  ‘Follow my knife,’ repeats Maisy. ‘Yes, that could be a reference to the Knife as a passage east.’

  ‘It’d explain the frozen night line too,’ Teddy says. ‘That’s why the song reckons you should cross the mountains near Midnight Crest – it’s what you use to find the Knife.’

  I force myself to rise. It’s not as painful as I was expecting; a day of rest and decent food has done my body good. There’s still a slight throbbing in the back of my skull, but I think I can cope with that. At least I’m not likely to collapse as soon as we step outside.

  Maisy collects a fistful of smouldering twigs to transport our fire, then stamps out the remaining embers. We scatter the burnt twigs and cover them with snow.

  ‘Don’t want to leave an obvious trail,’ says Teddy. ‘Not if we can help it, anyway.’

  Outside, the mountainside is almost unrecognisable. Half the trees have burned away, and the undergrowth is ash. Maisy has to extinguish her fire twigs because the spiral of smoke is too obvious in this barren landscape.

  Burnt sticks crunch beneath our boots as we struggle through the snow and ruined forest towards the crag. The air still stinks of smoke, which meshes oddly with the cold tang of the winter wind. I suck on another orange as I walk.

  By the time we reach the crag’s peak, the light is just beginning to fade. It’s a decent observation point: a rocky chunk that juts out from the mountain like a wart. We stumble towards its edge, then drop to our knees. This is nothing compared to the mountains’ major peaks, but it still feels dizzyingly high. I almost don’t trust myself to get any closer – in my current state, I’ll probably topple over the edge.

  ‘Look,’ whispers Maisy.

  I follow her finger. Down below, to our left, a seam of shadow stretches away between the mountains. ‘Is that the Knife?’

  She nods. ‘I think so. That bit where it twists, near the end, is supposed to resemble a knife’s handle.’

  ‘We’re going now, then?’

  Clementine gives me a quick look, then shakes her head. ‘It’s too late. I think we should find a spot to camp tonight, and look for a route down there tomorrow.’

  I want to agree with her, to succumb to the temptation to sleep again. But I’ve already cost us enough time today. We have to make up for lost time. If the hunters are scouring these mountains for us . . .

  ‘I reckon we should keep moving,’ says Teddy. ‘The sooner we get into the Knife, the better.’ He turns to face us, but then frowns, as though something behind us has caught his attention. ‘Hey, look over there.’

  I turn quickly, afraid that we’re under attack. But he’s poi
nting to the landscape in general, not any immediate danger nearby. I scan the horizon, trying to figure out what’s drawn his attention. There are no more mountains to our south; our current slope just falls down into flat plains. Empty land.

  ‘What is it?’ I say.

  Teddy frowns. ‘Do you reckon that’s the wastelands?’

  I don’t know much about the wastelands, except what I’ve heard in folklore and ghost stories. They are vast and empty, covering a great swathe of Taladia between the Central Mountains and the southern cities. Down in the far south there are magnificent cities full of richies and the palace of King Morrigan himself. These wastelands, just like the mountains, separate the south from places like Rourton.

  ‘That’s why we have to turn east,’ Maisy whispers. ‘Follow my knife. If we kept heading south from here we’d hit the wastelands.’

  The rest of us nod, a little awestruck. There’s a good reason we don’t dare cross the wastelands. Years ago, the land was blasted to bits in weapons tests – the soil is toxic and the landscape is dotted with landmines and unexploded bombs. Not just normal bombs, either. They’re the first experimental alchemy bombs, from when people were just learning to imbue their weapons with magic. If you trip the wrong wire, or stumble across the wrong patch of rocks . . .

  ‘Does it matter?’ says Clementine. ‘We’re going the other way.’

  Teddy glances back towards the Knife, then turns his head to face the wastelands. He frowns again, as though trying to figure out what bothers him about the scene.

  ‘If the wastelands are so empty,’ he says, ‘then why’d they build a train line between Gunning and . . . that?’

  He points to a murky shape in the distance. It’s too far away to make out any details, but if I strain my eyes I can imagine it’s some kind of fortress. A city wall, perhaps, or a stone tower. It’s just sitting there, alone, in the middle of the empty wastelands.

  And Teddy is right about the train line. I hadn’t noticed it in the shadows, but it re-emerges from behind a cluster of crags to our west, pylons glinting in the evening light. It runs straight down out of the mountains, across the wasteland towards the unknown building. The line falls back down to ground level as it crosses the wastes; clearly, this building is its destination.