The Pulse

by A. E. Shaw

  Move towards the sea. It’ll be a good place to start. They will be used to the new, there by the sea, because the seas must bring new things every day. They will be prepared for my coming, there. They must welcome important guests from across the sea all the time. They’ll know how this should go. The proper procedures. Should he ask for their leader? Or will they recognise immediately that he himself is already their leader?

  By this point, with all these considerations only distracting from his pain, Aiden is considerably further down the mountain. He is feeling better by the moment. As he progresses, it gets easier to breathe, and the air seems wetter, tastier, savoury, reminds him of something.

  Then he sees something. What’s that? Isn’t that smoke? He knows smoke very well indeed, even in this light, couldn’t mistake it. Smoke, coming up from further down, further around.

  The idea comes bright and surprising like a flame finding its way to life: maybe it’s Michael? Maybe he’s alive after all. Michael could make a fire in the centre of the ocean, of that he’s certain, for that kind of skill was his entire reason for being. Would he be happy to see Michael again? Yes, he probably would. Given that Alej is gone (and this, to Aiden, is absolutely a given), Michael would be of good use to him right now. He decides that, whether it’s Michael or not, he must know. He can’t have anyone simply wandering around out here.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Fence

  Miles away, Selina and Alej have reached the foot of the mountain. They’ve barely slept - Selina insisted they kept on into the darkness; slowly, carefully, down, down, all the while keeping an eye open for traces of Aiden. She moves with such purpose, weaving her way between the ridges and gulleys, that Alej asks if she knows where she is: given that she came up here, she must remember something.

  “No, I don’t remember a thing.” She stops still as the ground begins to level out, eyes forwards, scanning as best she can in the pre-dawn dimness, apprehensive. “Alej, I still think…”

  He knows what she’s going to say. “We really can’t go back,” he says, as her sentence tails away. “Everything is broken. Maybe it’s different from before, now.”

  Selina nods, a deep sigh attached to the motion. He’s firm, and definite. And right, she knows. But it doesn’t change her feelings. “Maybe,” she offers, without any conviction. She realises she doesn’t know enough of Alej to understand whether he’s trying to give her courage or whether he’s excited for the change, truly believing that a better future might lie at the bottom of the mountain. Either way, he’s trying, and that’s nice.

  She remembers manners, good grace, things she had drilled into her when she was young, things she tried to teach Aiden, over the years, but never needed to impart towards Alej, because he’s always been quieter, kinder, and, how to say, less consequential.

  If she’d had to choose between Aiden and Alej as a companion to be stuck with, who would she have picked? It’s true, Alej can recognise food, but Aiden knew - knows, knows, he isn’t dead, repeat that Selina, he isn’t dead - a lot of things, and when you’re heading for the unexpected, isn’t that useful? Well, that depends on where the world is. If it’s as it was, then Alej will blend in, can keep out of trouble. Perhaps he can find food, but perhaps he’s too timid. Aiden would march right in and thank them all for coming to see him. He’d be dead within moments, Selina reflects, because no-one would tolerate that. Would they? Would they understand him as…different? She doesn’t think so, but there were exceptions, there. If they saw him that way, there’s a chance they’d be kind instead.

  “But it’s pointless thinking about what might be,” she says, without even noticing she’s speaking out loud, but she continues, because she’s started “because it’s been so long, and even before things were changing so quickly.” She remembers the haste with which she was removed from society. “It’s better to be safe than obvious, better to go in quietly, to be careful, to sneak. I never imagined I would be sneaking back home.”

  Alej smiles. He finds Selina very pleasant. He never knows what she’ll say next. Of course, his conversation has generally been in the line of learning and gardening, and before they left the castle Selina and he, well, they talked little, but spent time in comfortable silence. She thought him slightly mute, and he thought well, he didn’t think all that much about her at all, only that she was there, and that she was nice, if, as we’ve noted, a little out of place. So here, outside the confines, she surprises him with her words. She must always have had that capacity, to speak on such interesting matters, but it’s nice to be invited to share it with her. Aiden shared all his thoughts and words whether Alej asked him to or not, but with Selina, it feels as if he’s being rewarded. Even if it is only because he’s the only one there.

  She’s kicking in the dirt, scuffing her toes into the mud as if the little ridges she’s drawing will offer some protection against whatever it is she fears about what comes next. They’ve come a long way down, and exhaustion covers them both.

  Here, the ground is flat. It stretches out a way further, as far as you could kick a ball, but then there’s a fence. It’s not as solid as the fence around the castle, indeed, it’s not much of a prevention at all - it’s the kind of thing you could imagine clearing if you really leapt at it, and definitely something that even the least athletic could get over, under or through. It’s simply posts and bars. It’s nothing much at all, not even head-height on either of our two travellers.

  Alej looks at Selina, inquisitive, curious, interested, and she can’t make out his expression through the murk, but replies accurately enough anyway.

  “This isn’t how I remember it,” she says, and she leaves it at that, because she’s thinking of her last look back, waving farewell to her family for, she thought, ever.

  Beyond the fence, the ground changes. It’s no longer tufty, springing lumps of grass, interspersed with firm soil. They can’t see the details yet, but when morning comes they’ll see it all as it is, so there isn’t a great deal of point in keeping you waiting for an understanding of the texture of it all.

  This ground has been burned. Recently? No, probably not, because it’s not blackened, but covered in clumps of thick, springy moss in vibrant green, and pus-like yellow, emphasising the strange contours of the dark, lumpy ground which bubbles up in between these patches. It’s soft to a slow walk, sucking in places; quicksandish, without the fine grain. It stretches away, yard upon yard of super-organic surfacing, without explanation or intention.

  Past that, the land will become hard again, scattered still with moss, fine grazes of plantlife finding their way down tough, well-worn paths. Then we find a road flattened here, tramped and traipsed solid, stretching long away at its own angle, this one road leading to the softland and the fence and the foot of the mountain, or does it lead away from it, the other way, back into the soup of dust and debris that forms what’s left of the city?

  For now, it’s still dark, and there’s nothing to observe this by. The distance is still too much for anything beyond a sift of black edges against thick grey-dark sky.

  Selina knows that there is something terribly, terribly different from when she was here last, all the emphasis on the terrible, for you can feel it, something has hung over this land for so long that you can all but see it, a signpost of misery and unpleasantry heralding the barren landscape ahead.

  “Alej?” Selina asks, reaching her hand out because she wants to check that there is warmth somewhere, anywhere. The world used to teem here, right here, right up to that very fence, and now it’s utterly silent.

  Alej is staring, just staring. He doesn’t take her hand, doesn’t even see it. Selina finds her way next to him, puts her hand to his shoulder, squeezing, reassuring. He is tense, stock still under her grip, and she wishes she knew how he worked. It’s a lot to take in, she understands, and if this situation was any other way, she’d probably be overwhelmed too, but there’s something to Alej’s complete awe and confusion that makes he
r feel more in tune with what’s in front of her. There’s no salve for seeing the world up close for the first time, and no manual for its effects.

  “We should rest,” Selina says at last, feeling that something should change from the standing, if only because her legs are beginning to buckle beneath her, and she doesn’t want to fall. And now, part of her doesn’t want to fall not for the discomfort and potential embarrassment of falling where she stands, but because she doesn’t want Alej to have to concern himself with her, which, good soul that he can be, he might.

  He only nods, and asks “Where?”

  They backtrack a little way, to a dip in the land. As it goes, both slide straight into sleep as soon as they allow themselves to. They curl together, not cold, exactly, but not warm either. Maybe it’s just right. The wind doesn’t bite at them flat down here, and even when there is a loud, high-pitched, piercing sound that wraps itself about the distance just beyond the fence, neither of them hear it, for they’re both too far gone into the backs of their own heads to register things from this world at this time. It’s as well, for if either had heard it, then they might have been tempted to follow its sound, to see what it was. Not only would they not have found out, but they wouldn’t have lasted long at all, and then the rest of our story would be short a major character or two, and the entire outcome of the world and the tale itself would be drastically different.

  Selina doesn’t dream of far away or long ago, but of Aiden, just the other night. She dreams of trying to look into his face, to see his eyes, to see him, and then when she does catch his face, there’s no expression, only a fuzz where features ought to be. She is frightened and unnerved, imbued with a thumping sense of dread where her heartbeat ought to be.

  When she does wake, rather than her thoughts going to the day and the place they’re at, she is strained with thoughts of Aiden she feels sure she shouldn’t be having. No, she has dealt with his absence, and besides, ahead of them, there is a land in which they may yet find him.

  Alej dreams of tending things, of tasks that were once menial and normal that now seem distant and sad. His dream self toils away, doing things that will never bear real fruit, a miserable truth on his own awakening.

  When they finally stir enough that they jar each other, open their eyes and admit that they’re ready to go, they look at each other, and exchange laughter. For Selina, it’s nervous and sad, maybe a touch excited…just in case. Just in case this change isn’t as bad as it feels. In case her family…but she can’t think about that now. For Alej, the laughter is because it’s what Selina does, and he trusts that her actions are the right ones.

  “Okay,” Selina says, hoisting herself to her feet, exhaling solidly, as if all her doubt could be expelled with enough force. “Let’s go.”

  Just keep walking. If anything’s going to happen, caution and trying to hide won’t help. She’s about to warn Alej, try to prepare him, but then she bites her tongue, because it’s not fair to put fear on him, especially not for something that might not be there after all. Let him keep a little of that wonder in his eyes, she thinks. Could come in handy.

  She goes first, hopping right over the fence, her legs still stiff from sleep, wooden as its straights. Alej leaps over after her. They pause. Selina looks at Alej. His gaze is only ahead, on an empty distance.

  Keep walking, she thinks to herself. It’s all we can do.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Man

  The smoke is a fire. It isn’t a hastily put together fire, either, no, it’s a proper camp fire, inside a ring of rocks. There’s something on it, something cooking, probably (great deductive skills, Aiden). And next to the fire, something else. Some kind of a tent. ‘Tent’ is the only word Aiden knows for such a thing. Tents are used for wars, and for travelling between far places. Is there a war coming? Or is this accommodation, kindly provided for his journey?

  He leaps downwards, legs folding and buckling, but Aiden isn’t scared of his own frailty because it isn’t something he knows is dangerous. He clutches his pail tight: it clangs about, jewels now only just contained by the silk and the leather, at least they haven’t left me, and with a haul and a flail so it is that he arrives at thick, tanned hide draped about a frame of something or other. He yanks at it, it’s sturdy and well-rigged, and lo and behold, there’s an opening. Is someone waiting for him?

  Yes, more or less.

  “Hullo?” Aiden offers his best greeting, in the grandest voice he can imagine (basically a shout).

  There’s the someone. He’s filthy. That’s the first thing Aiden can see of him, and this is no small observation. It is impossible to see the detail and shape of this man for the dirt that covers him. Aiden is shocked, for even after the fire, his ex-companions had the decency to look better than this. What happened here?

  He looks more closely; is this someone he knows? Is it Michael? This shows you the extent of the dirt, that he can’t tell immediately that no, of course this isn’t Michael. For starters, the man has a mop of hair that is matter and tangle, riddled with grease and leaves and this simply will not do, no, that isn’t how a person ought to look, not out where anyone might see them, why is he here, like this, how long has he been here?

  “Who are you?”

  The man is surprised, his eyes opening wide to reveal clear cold whites, shocking against the filth. He steps out from the tent and moves too, too close. Aiden backs away, not for personal space, more appalled to be near something so strongly scented.

  “Nooooo,” the man replies, voice guttural like it’s not been used in forever. “No.” His body tenses up into an attack pose. Aiden does not recognise it, and he responds only with affront.

  He supposes there is a chance that this man, this creature, is in some way an important part of his story. Everything is for me.

  “What are you here for? Are you an elder? A guard?”

  The man looks Aiden up and down, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He is coiled, poised, but to Aiden he appears only to be oddly crooked.

  “Guard?”Aiden asks, louder still. The man says nothing. Aiden tries one of the two old languages Eldringham gave him a basic grounding in. Nothing.

  “Protector?” Aiden tries, in another. Finally, the man tilts his head, his eyes showing recognition. Look at Aiden, there, shining and pale and bloody and tattered and with those pretty, pretty sparkles around his neck…clearly, he is no threat, but he is certainly a disturbance.

  “You see,” Aiden says, happy to speak for two, although his voice remains crackled with fire damage, giving his words a peculiar rattle that befits their oddness, “I am worth protecting, or, indeed, serving.” He adds, in case the truth of who he is has not yet sunk in, “I am from above. My name is Aiden. From the castle.”

  The man makes a lengthy sound that falls between a laugh and a hacking.

  Aiden frowns, taking it as some form of challenge. He folds his arms, his pail banging into his hipbone. Aiden searches his mind for references to the adventurers and the mappers and the heroes of the past, scans what he recollects of the biographies of the great men of the Empire, and before it, those who discovered new shores and conquered them, and those who searched the Seas for secrets and treasures, and all of them, all of them had strong, useful companions. This man seems to fit that bill.

  As the peculiar noise issuing from the man’s gnarled mouth continues, Aiden pitches his voice dramatically high and pronounces, “I have no need to explain myself to you! I think you’ll understand in time. If you are good to me, perhaps we can come to some arrangement. I am in need of a manservant, and despite your unpleasant appearance it seems likely you are strong.”

  The sound slips well into a laugh, recognisable and reverberating, like the gong from a lifetime ago. Words gutter out; the accent is thick, but it is the language Aiden has always known. “Strong, I am strong.”

  He looks to the sky, again, now patterned by clouds, pretty enough that he would take time to appreciate them, if only he
could, but he can’t, because he has this man to deal with.

  “Jere,” says the man, holding out his hand, palm downwards, odd, like a lady offering the back of her hand to be kissed by a knight in shining armour.

  “Jere?” says Aiden, looking at him doubtfully, no idea what to do with the proffered hand.

  “Name.”

  “Jere?” Aiden repeats again. The syllables don’t sound right. Or like syllables at all. It sounds more like an exhalation.

  Jere shrugs, dismissing the repeated question. “Yes. Jere.” He casts his hands in an open circle, dismissive. “Name.”

  “I suppose it will have to do.” Aiden offers with a twist of his lips. He must trust this world is doing the best it can for him.

  “Aiden. Come in,” Jere says, gesturing to the space he’s cordoned off to exist in for this season, skins clamped tight about…bones?