by S G Dunster
“You’re mistaken,” Hans took the last sip from his crystal cup, then set it aside with a sigh. “Quite mistaken,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“We need to join forces. To match them. Eap said—”
“Edgar clearly neglected to tell you that here, there is no death.” He gave me a tired smile. “We live as long as we like in the untold wilderness. And here you’re willing to risk an eternity of darkness and pain for some un-told victory? The Grimms leave, and someone equally unconscionable will soon take over. It’s the way of the world. I shall sit here and sip my port, thank you.”
I clenched my hands, then loosened them when I saw his bland, knowing expression.
He was doing it on purpose.
He didn’t want to tell me no. He didn’t want be the coward. He was trying to get me to react, to be angry. And he’d use it as an excuse to dismiss everything I said, as evidence that I liked to live in conflict, like Eap.
I knew it, looking at those ice-water eyes. He was dismissing me, even as he spoke to me, putting me at a distance. It wasn’t his fight.
“You’ll get torn bloody by blyks even if you choose not to fight,” I said.
“That remains to be seen. I’ve done rather well for myself so far.” He gestured to the room, with its walls full of books, and gave me a small smile.
“You’d be willing to risk an eternity of pain and darkness and helplessness for a few flowers and books and couches?”
He smiled. “The Grimms know I only wish to be left alone. They know I am harmless.”
“But are you?” I glanced around at the carvings. Roses, dandelions. Animals and . . . a girl, ragged, lighting a lamp with a long hooked stick. “I know who you are.” I pointed a finger at him, shook it. “They know. And you and I both know you are not harmless. Not in a place where telling is power. Far from it. Don’t delude yourself. They won’t let you live.”
“They have rendered me harmless,” Hans said. “Completely harmless. They have me by the small hairs, and this they know.” He rose. “This has been interesting. Illuminating, even. I’m sorry for the girl, and for you. I did tell her not to come. I cannot pay for her mistakes, any more than I can pay for Edgar’s, but I am not untouched by your plight. The fall of Grandeur is rather troubling.”
“Yes, and—”
“But I shall stay here, thank you, and live. Now go, please, before anybody gets the idea that I’m sympathetic to your cause.” He gestured, and suddenly there was a wall between us—clear, thick.
Glass, I thought, and then felt the chill. Ice.
“There’s a girl.” I allowed the frustration to come into my voice. “A girl they sent. She’s creeping up above your place right now. She’s going to—”
“And that,” Hans replied, his voice suddenly sharp, “is going quite far enough.” He’d gone pale. “You’ll want to step back.”
He walked to the wall and gazed at me through it. “The ice,” he said, “will instantly damage your skin if touched. It is quite cold. Colder than any ice you’ve ever touched.” The ice began to slide toward me.
I took a step back. “I’m not sure about that,” I muttered, looking at his cool grey irises, the firm, unsympathetic line of his mouth. “They’re here already,” I continued. “They’ve already seen me. Someone’s seen me here. It’s done. You’re in danger.”
“There are no blyks in the vicinity,” Hans replied, gliding the ice toward me—it reached from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling. “I have ways of knowing. Quite ingenious ways, if I do say so.”
“How? And maybe she’s not quite a blyk yet, but she’s getting there. They’ve got her.”
Hans glanced up at the ceiling—the gap in the roof. “A cruel thing indeed, to stir hope where none is,” he muttered. “I have a lookout. Or would. Likely, this ragged beast scared her away.” He pointed to the Monty. “Silt will owe you a peck or two, once she returns. I dislike having to intimidate the innocent. Were she here, she would have alerted me to your presence, and we would not be having this conversation at all.”
The ice had nearly touched me. I had to step out of the first room and into the second—the one with the roses, which I realized, glancing over my shoulder, were gone. Silt? I wondered, then realized. The nightingale Eap and Lil had talked about. His imprint.
“Silt messed up.” I took a couple of hurried steps backward so I wouldn’t have to keep retreating. The ice was growing thicker, distorting his reflection so it was a blur of grey and silver, blue and white. “She’s not around. I didn’t see her anywhere. But Jenny is there.”
“Jenny?” There was a swirl of distorted grey through the ice, and it shattered, great shards falling all over. “Jenny,” he hissed. “Nobody says that name but me.”
I stuttered for a moment. “Jenny . . . I mean the girl. The skinny, ragged one.”
“Do not refer to her in such terms.”
“It’s the name she gave me.”
His eyes flared with anger, suddenly burning through the cool and calm. “Rubbish. She would never.” He hesitated a moment, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “He’s told you, hasn’t he? Edgar. He’s told you of my shame, of my sins. And he gave you means to use them against me.” His eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted, and he lifted a hand. “Using my love to twist me to your will. Jenny is lost. I know it, and Edgar knows it. What a cruel trick to play on an old man.”
“I don’t—”
“Edgar’s appealing to my guilt,” he muttered. “My soul. Him, of all souls.” He laughed then, a thin, hysterical noise like a frightened horse’s whinny. “Well, the joke turns on him. I have no soul left.”
I stumbled back. Monty leapt onto my shoulder suddenly, and I screamed—a high, embarrassing, little-girl scream.
“That’s right,” Hans hissed, moving toward me, his head lowered slightly, brow furled, grey hair tumbling crazily over his cheeks, eyes burning. “Fear me. Do not dare. Do not presume. You will not twist me so.” He flung his hand up, and the ice shards rose up, pointed at me, and then shot toward me.
Searing, awful pain tore through my cheek, my shoulder, my hip. I fell, and even before I hit the ground, the world was swimming. I saw his shadow—fingers curled like talons as he approached me. An awful coldness touched my skin as it fell over me.
“You presume to judge me, raven,” Hans whispered. He lifted a hand, and a droplet rose into the air, glittering and dangling there like a jewel. He looked at me, but he was seeing something else—something monstrous. Eyes narrowing, he spread his fingers and the droplet swelled. It grew to the size of a grape, a lemon, a basketball, swirling, gleaming, distorting Hans’ face. “You are gone then, foul dark bird.”
The water-globe swooped down and enveloped my face.
It was water. I was choking, gasping, and drinking it in, swallowing, gagging. My body was dry, but my head was drowning. Hans’ face—his eyes magnified by the water—glared down on me through the water. Not seeing me. Seeing what he thought . . . something else . . . a monster. Not me.
Stop. Please. This is a mistake. I’m not . . . I didn’t . . . . Each time I tried opening my mouth to form these words, it filled with water.
Help.
I pictured the clear sky above the plateau.
Help.
The clouds, trailing across the blue sky. They formed the worlds. Help. Me.
My mind was going fuzzy, thoughts coming thicker.
Help me.
Dad. Stop.
I’m not a monster. I’m your son.
Chapter 17
The room was fading. There was a dark line around my sight, like I was looking through a camera lens. It thickened, like an iris when a pupil focuses on something far away. He was the pupil. The center of my sight. Those glaring eyes, that hook of a nose the last thing I’d see.
A burst, a shout, a hiss of an animal, and the room flew apart in droplets. Air—real, sharp, breathable, hit my face. I shivered, gasped. A great plume of water spattered all down my
shoulders, shirt, and pants.
I choked, coughed, and vomited a little. The room spun. Shaking, I pushed myself up. Hans was running for the door that led outside. There was a ringing in my ears. No, not a ringing . . . . Singing.
A woman singing. A soprano. Operatic. It reminded me of Snow White’s voice—all that trembling, tight, birdlike vibrato. But the tone underneath was pure, like when you run a finger around the rim of a crystal. I was confused, coughing, and frightened, but that noise made me tremble with pleasure.
And it certainly affected Hans. He’d run to the doorway and stopped, his mouth gaping. The song continued to echo over us, and Hans brought his hands to his face. He grabbed at his hair, and brought it to his mouth, chewing it, and then sobbed. “Can it be true?”
The song continued, like bells—far away, but clear. “It’s you, then, is it? My rose? It’s you, then? I shall come. I shall come directly.” He gestured wildly and a huge white bird—long neck, wings as long as me—fluttered into being. Hans slung himself onto the creature’s back, and they rocketed off the ledge and into the sky toward the glimmer there, a distortion that looked like water, a bead just like the one in which I’d nearly drowned.
Toward the airship, which was now uncloaked—hovering like a great bumble bee in the sky directly above us.
“Logan!” A tinny voice called. I recognized Lil’s voice shouted through her brass megaphone. “Logan, get up! They’re coming!”
I ran outside and there were Lil and Eap, waiting on the ledge.
“What is it?” I asked him. “The singing? Hans took off after it— “
“A trick,” Eap said. There was guilt in his face.
The wind had picked up. The trees underneath us were rippling like a field of grass. A branch hurtled up toward us, smashing into the side of the plateau.
“The gliders won’t be safe,” Eap said.
“Look,” Lil pointed.
Birds. They were erupting from the trees. Hundreds, thousands of them, flying up like there was a great disturbance going on down there in the forest. They billowed up toward us like a massive curl of smoke.
“Crows?” I said. “Is there a fire down there?”
“No,” Eap growled. “Rooks.”
They turned, a sudden, dark whiplash, and rocketed up.
Toward us.
Lil grabbed my arm, sinking her nails in without realizing it.
Eap walked to the edge of the cliff and glared down at the approaching cloud of birds. I could hear their calls now—hoarse and rusty, almost like laughter. It reminded me of a voice I’d heard . . . a windy voice, coming from a mouth it didn’t belong to, bent over me in English class. You can see. You can see.
I could still hear the woman singing, a distant ring, punctuated by the awful calls.
“Never,” Eap cried suddenly, sweeping one hand, then another, across his body. He thrust his hands forward, fingers spread, and dark trails shot from each finger into the sky, diffusing and broadening like smog, which disintegrated into blots. The black blots began to flap and call—piercing, nasal cries that out-sung those of the rooks. They were black, sharp-beaked ravens. Big as turkeys, their round, glittering eyes gleamed with malevolence.
The two tides met with terrible screeches, with plummeting entwined bodies. The rooks had bald faces, which made their round, dark eyes more grotesque, and their bills looked like great, pale noses. The ravens were simply black. Flying spirits of darkness.
“We must get to the ship,” Eap said. “This will not last. I am only one. And our friend,” he bared his yellowed, square teeth, “will soon be in a rage, I should think. We shall have to contain him.”
“Move,” Lil said, shoving him aside. She closed her eyes tight. “Back up. Against the cliff, Lo.”
I obeyed her, pressing my body to the pink sandstone, and watched with growing horror as a furry body formed, long and large as a semi-truck. Its jointed, fat, hairy legs clung to the side of the plateau. It’s huge, faceted eyes fixated on me. Its airplane-sized wings, bright rainbow colors with black framing, almost like stained glass, fluttered up a breeze that threatened to send me over the edge.
A sunset moth. From Madagascar.
About the size of a commercial jet liner.
“Great, Lil,” I said weakly, as the giant, glittering moth climbed toward us. “Really?”
“Meet Mr. Smiley. He’s going to let us ride him. Aren’t you, boy?” Lil patted a leg-segment as long as she was tall and ran her fingers through the hair that covered its body, gleaming with bright, iridescent colors. The wings were almost like a holographic image—every shade in the rainbow.
She shimmied up the leg and plopped onto the thing’s huge thorax. She gestured for me. “Come on,” she called. “Climb up. He won’t eat you.”
“Mr. Smiley,” I muttered, forcing myself to inch toward it. “So nice to meet you.”
Eap didn’t wait. He hefted himself up, using tufts of hair to drag his weight onto the thing’s body. Monty leapt up nimbly after him, settling around his neck. “No time to waste,” Eap shouted. “Belly up, Logan.”
The cawing was growing louder. It was like rusty laughter—insane, menacing. It got my feet going. I ran, winced only for a second, screwed my eyes shut, and grabbed a soft, silky handful of moth-hair. Lucky for me it was strong, and firmly attached, and the moth didn’t seem to mind, or even feel it.
It had an odd smell. Like melons, maybe, mixed with must, and something metallic. So this was how Lil imagined moths smelled. Huh.
I settled myself between Eap and Lil.
“Hold tight,” Lil said. I grabbed two handfuls of the long hair that brushed over my thighs and cuddled my legs. The wings unfolded—it looked like miles of them around us, glimmering rainbow, flashing from a million metallic-looking disks as big as my thumbnail. We soared into the air, darting madly, zigzagging up toward the glimmer of the cloaked airship.
The caw of rooks faded, and the song grew louder as we approached, as the glimmer grew rapidly larger. We were going at a blinding-fast pace. I couldn’t quite breathe in.
We were hovering, bucking, rising, and falling, right by the deck.
“Jump on!” Lil called, and flung herself over the rails when the huge insect body brought us close enough.
The flight wasn’t exactly steady. We rose ten feet, sunk twenty, rose again, and the rails were rapidly approaching. I stood, shaking, on the thing’s back, and on a rise that took us past the rail, jumped onto the deck, Eap tumbling beside me.
“Full steam!” Eap roared. “Stoke her up! Oh, my,” he corrected himself, and bowed gracefully in my direction. “Captain.”
“Full steam,” I shouted.
There was a blast from the steam outlet, and the balloon above us swelled. We shot up into the sky. The rooks swirled up toward us like a dark whirlwind, hacking out that chorus of rusty laughs. “Ahead!” I yelled.
I fixed my mind on speed. On the whir of those huge metal blades, spinning invisible. Spinning so fast they were just a fuzz, a whir of metal.
We shot toward the horizon, trailing rooks. I ground my teeth as they gained on us slowly, but definitely.
We passed over the border’s edge. We were surrounded, again, in the white mists.
A spate of rooks followed, faltered, and turned back quickly, wheeling over the forest.
“Huh,” I said.
“Almost,” Lil nudged up against me, “like they’re afraid of leaving the firmament.”
She and I exchanged glances. I shrugged. “Maybe. I wouldn’t bet on it. They are the Grimms. Don’t seem to be afraid of much.” I looked around warily. “Where’s the old man?”
“It’s going down in the salon,” Lil replied, her mouth tightening, her eyes losing their excitement, like a light fading out. “You’d better come . . . help.” She jerked her thumb toward the bank of windows, which were gleaming with pearl-pinks and yellows, reflecting the clouds. The sunset. The sun was dipping down behind us.
�
��They’re changing the sky,” I said. “Wonder what that means.”
“Probably nothing.” She tugged on my arm and dragged me away from the rail. “It’s . . . him. The Grey Man.” She muttered this to herself, not to me. Her arms were folded over her chest. She looked nervous.
Lil, nervous? Seeing it made me want to put an arm around her, but I wasn’t sure what the response would be.
No, I was pretty sure what the response would be, and I was pretty sure it would hurt.
My hands clenched.
I wanted to throw him off the airship. I wanted to smash my fist into that watery-eyed, supercilious face. Weak, that’s what he was. And infesting others with his weakness like a disease. He’d gotten Lil to come down here. He’d hidden from us like he had nothing to do with us. He’d tried to kill me.
He’d tried to kill me.
The reality of it was suddenly sharp, clear. The feeling of choking, of water—it brought back flashes of a childhood terror, and I burned with rage as I stalked down the corridor.
At the entrance to the salon I stopped, confused, my anger leaching out like air from a tired balloon. The great room had changed; it was now a concert hall, hundreds of plush seats sloped to a stage, with glitter and gilding and intricate molding dripping from the ceiling, and great curtains and drapes of champagne-colored velvet.
On the stage was a gleaming, pale-wood, concert grand. Seated at the piano was a woman. Her hair was parted in the middle, and bunches of light brown ringlets framed her face on either side. Her face was heart-shaped, sweet-mouthed, wide-blue-eyed. She was young, lively, and beautiful. And she was singing.
That clear sound, like a bird, or a harp—a human voice made perfect—held me entranced.
I didn’t like opera. At all. And sopranos especially gave me a headache. When my mother would listen to Renée Fleming on full blast down in the studio while she did her sculpting, I made sure to put my earplugs in.
But I could handle this for a while. Her voice was . . . perfect. And the way she smiled and gleamed and almost laughed while she sang, as her small, white fingers pressed the piano keys . . . .