Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

“Thank you, Mrs. Romano,” said Misty, “for taking care of my father. For all you’ve done for us.”

  “Nonsense, it’s what decent people do for one another, that’s all.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “Do you know where they took her? Where the deacon lives in the city?”

  Mrs. Romano stared back, her expression more serious now. “Don’t go there, Misty. Your mother is a survivor. She will make peace with her life as it is now, as the Purgeforth Scripture dictates. And you must do the same.” She gestured toward Misty’s father, now asleep on the thin mat. “Your father needs you. It will be a good week before he is strong enough to return home. Then the two of you will start over. Build a new life. You both will go on.”

  Just like that, the man gets away with what he’s done? Misty slowly nodded her head, hoping that her true thoughts hadn’t escaped onto her face. “I will try, I promise.”

  A minute or so later she heard Mrs. Romano having words with Aurora. The woman was right; Aurora was a terrible cook.

  Misty knelt down next to her father and watched him sleep. His breathing was now steady and some color had returned to his cheeks. She placed a palm upon the wrapped bandages then leaned down next to him. “I love you, Father. I have to do this. I have to go find her. Get her away from him, so our family can be whole again. Please don’t be mad, or ever think I’ve deserted you.” She saw his eyes rapidly moving beneath his closed lids. Good—sleep was what he needed.

  She rose to her feet and, like Mrs. Romano had done, used the palms of her hands to smooth away the creases in her own black dress.

  The previous night, soon after Aurora had fallen asleep, Misty had packed a small satchel with some clean undergarments, enough food to last her two or three days if she was judicious, and her long coat and scarf. Also included were the tartan frock and the journal. Swinging the satchel over one shoulder, and moving as quietly as she could, she headed out of the Romano’s grotto toward the same subway service-line corridor she and Aurora had traversed through just a few nights ago. How different her life had been before that night, she thought as she stepped into the dark tunnel.

  Misty heard voices coming from up ahead. It was not uncommon for a young woman to be seen wandering around the subterranean tunnels alone this time of morning. But she was not just any young woman. Gossip concerning the Casper family would have spread like wildfire, all the juicy details of their predicament common knowledge amongst other Grounders in this part of the city. It would be best to stay out of sight.

  Misty looked about for a place to hide, and spotted a darkened alcove some fifteen feet away on the right. She quickened her pace. As she ducked into the shadows, hoping she hadn’t been spotted, Misty inched backward until her back was up against a metal door. Moments later, she watched a procession of identically dressed women wearing black, just like herself, but with black bonnets covering their heads, secured in place with ribbons tied into bows beneath their chins. With hands together, as if in prayer, one by one, the seven walked past, their profiles identical and their noses raised high in righteous superiority. These were no ordinary women, but Purgeforth Prioresses, religious devotees that served the Deacon. Misty listened to their murmured words, words she herself had been instructed to repeat thousands of times in her young lifetime.

  “. . . and thus contrite, we abhor the many desperate ways of sin. So while we are alive, while eating, drinking, sleeping, the vain delights elude us, cannot tempt us. Thus awareness comes, avoiding perpetual night. We dispatch such vain pleasures unto an eternal flight to hell, into the arms of the dark master.”

  Only then did Misty consider their presence, their being here. They were coming for her. It made perfect sense. She would be expected to become one of them, a Purgeforth Prioress whose life was dedicated to religious Scripture. It would be a life of piety and celibacy; she could never marry, or have a family of her own. For a brief moment, she thought about showing herself to them and offering herself freely. She had grown up with Purgeforth, she knew that the Prioresses were cared for and protected. She would no longer be poor, or hungry. And being a Prioress would offer her a much better chance of being able to see her mother again. She came to her senses and shook herself of the thought. No! I would rather die than let the deacon—the man who has destroyed my life and so many others—win.

  Misty thought about her plan, which wasn’t so much about planning as it was about hope. She hoped that she could make her way to the streets above without being accosted, and then find a building that provided access to that realm above the cloud. She hoped that she would be able to find Conn, the Skywalker who had made her a promise.

  “What I need to do is stop thinking so much,” she said aloud.

  She stole a glance around the corner, the procession of women now off in the distance. Hurrying from the alcove, she double-timed it down the corridor. A different kind of procession was headed her way, but they weren’t interested in her. There were no fewer than ten large rats in the line that scurried her way, single file. Rats were one of the few species, other than humans, that had survived these hundreds of years since the Ruin Event. Meat and protein hard to come by, except for them. Wild rats tended to be stringy and tough, but there were grotto farms that caged rats, bred them, and fattened them up for eventual slaughter, and Misty’s mouth watered at the thought. As the rats scuttled past, Misty’s stomach grumbled loudly, reminding her that she’d slipped out of the Romano’s grotto before she had a chance to eat breakfast. I should have brought a weapon, she thought belatedly, watching them fade away into the darkness of the tunnel. Misty had never hunted for her meat before, but this would have been a good time to start.

  Misty mounted the last steps, exiting the subway entrance and blinking in the increased light of street-level Manhattan. There were far more people milling about the city now that it was morning. Although direct sunlight never made its way down through the cloudbank, there was still enough of a glow that she felt the sun’s warmth just the same. Misty pulled her scarf out from the satchel and wrapped it around her nose and mouth to protect herself from the ever-present acid drizzle. She then pulled up her oversized hood, which obscured her face even more. Heading south down the sidewalk, she became just one more faceless dark figure amongst dozens of others.

  Three nights ago, standing on this very street, she had watched the kilted Skylander carry the dead body away on his shoulders. He’d turned left into what she assumed was an alleyway. It made sense that he would take the most direct route upward. She suddenly felt lightheaded, wishing she’d eaten something before heading out. She passed by two large men. Their dark, hooded faces turned slightly, taking her in as they passed.

  Misty crossed the street, and then slowed, fairly certain she’d come to the same alleyway. It was a narrow space, no more than twenty feet across, and all of the buildings were black with rubber shingle siding. She strained to find an entrance that would allow her some way of going up. The concrete under her feet was cracked and strewn with all sorts of junk: rusted pipes, a turned-over trash bin, and a rusted-out metal cube she assumed must have been some sort of technology before the Ruin. She spotted another small shape on the ground and nearly shrieked as she recognized a bloated, rotting human hand.

  Misty stepped around the disembodied appendage, averting her eyes and trying to control her breathing, and hoped she wouldn’t discover the rest of whoever the hand had belonged to. Street level was a dangerous place, and she felt sobered by the reminder. The deeper into the alleyway she went, the more junk she found strewn about. It seemed to have gotten darker too, and her imagination ran wild at the thought of what terrible things lurked in the nearby shadows. Stacks, then more stacks of rusted-metal items rose along both sides of the alleyway. She slowed as she spotted what lay ahead. A solid wall stood tall before her, and her heart sank, realizing she’d come—literally—to the end of the road. She looked left and then right for some
kind of doorway entrance, but found none. Turning around, ready to head back the way she’d come, she hesitated. Something was just now registering. She spun back around to better examine the shingled wall. There it is! The thin, almost imperceptible seam that ran around the wall off to the right was almost impossible to see, but Misty had been looking for it. It could very possibly be the outline of a door, and as she approached it, she became more certain.

  But how do I get in?

  There didn’t seem to be a handle or a knob of any sort. Looking down, she saw an arc-like scrape along the concrete. She smiled. At least she knew which way the door opened. At waist-level, she noticed that one of the rubber shingles protruded farther than the others. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and gave it a little tug. Secured at the top, it easily swung up—like a flap. Behind it was a doorknob. Grasping it tightly, Misty turned the knob. The door was heavy, and pulling it open required use of both arms. It was spring-mounted, and she was forced to prop the door open with one foot in order to be able to see into the blackness ahead. Within moments she noticed the dim outline of ascending steps on a stairway. She stepped forward, and the door slammed shut behind her.

  Misty was more than a little accustomed to the dark, living a life a hundred feet below the streets of Manhattan. To gain her bearings as her vision adjusted; she extended both arms out sideways to feel for the nearest wall. But it was the sensation moving higher, away from the ground that was uncomfortable for her. Going back is not an option, she thought, and even if it were, what would I be going back to?

  Her arms outstretched, Misty felt for the wall on the left. As her fingers grazed the rough surface, which was also a tad moist, fragments of cement came loose and tumbled to the floor. Imperfections in the rubber shingles combined with the mighty battering ram of time had allowed acid rain to infiltrate the building’s defenses, weakening its very structure. She wondered how long it would be before this building suffered the same fate as so many others, crashing down from the cloudbank in a deadly heap of dust and rubble. She shuffled forward in the darkness until her right foot made contact with the riser on the first step. Up she went, first slowly then faster as she gained confidence. Soon, she was taking two steps at a time. At every thirty-third step—she’d been counting—the staircase leveled out onto a right-hand-side, ten-foot-long landing, before the staircase would rise again for another thirty-three steps. Up, up, and around she went. She liked the echoing sound her shoes made, bouncing off the walls. Somehow it made her feel less alone. Perspiration soon began to drip down the nape of her neck and the center of her back. Gasping for breath, she decided to take a short break. How long have I been climbing? Ten minutes? Fifteen? God, how did people do this centuries ago, and on a daily basis?

  Glancing around the landing, she realized she could see everything in far more detail now. She didn’t think it was something as simple as her eyes having better adjusted to the dark. Looking directly above, the stairwell was indeed lighter. She now could make out the winding stairwell, and the flickering light of lanterns that hung on the walls of the upper landings. Misty figured the stairs went up another twenty flights. She wiped her brow with her sleeve. Stopping mid-motion, she noticed a door on the adjacent wall. Of course. Although she hadn’t seen or noticed any before in the dark, each landing would have to have such a door. Misty stared at it, tempted to see where it led. No, where I need to go now is straight up. Into the light.

  Chapter 18

  Conn awoke to Graham Gould’s concerned face, hovering right above him. Trapped between his full lips was the stem of a pipe. Aromatic tobacco smoke lazily rose from the glowing bowl up into the air.

  “Oh good, you’re awake. You took a nasty tumble. Been out cold for close to ten minutes now.”

  Confused, Conn looked about the smoky room, and realized he was flat on his back, on the floor. “I dinnae understand. What . . . what happened to me?” He rubbed at a substantial knot on the back of his aching head.

  Gould offered Conn his hand. “Come on, let’s get you up off that dusty floor.”

  Conn took the older man’s hand and, with his help, managed to rise to his feet. Swaying, he reached out for the racksmith’s worktable to steady himself.

  “Here, drink some of this.”

  Conn stared at the ancient-looking metal flask held out to him in the old man’s hand. “Um . . . no, that’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “Drink!”

  Conn did as told and took a swig. The warm 26th century version of Scotch whiskey burned the back of his throat. Across the room, the old racksmith was using a long pole, a brass hook at its end, to secure an out-of-reach rackstaff. The same dark staff that Conn had attempted to grab earlier. “You ken,” said Conn, rubbing his head again. “That pole would have been handy ten minutes ago.”

  “Aye, but I needed to see if the two of you had any chemistry,” Gould replied. His eyes twinkled with excitement, in a way that reminded Conn painfully of Dob.

  “Well, there certainly was something in that one. Maybe a different staff, aye? One that doesn’t knock me on my arse would be better suited.”

  “Rubbish! You’ll want a rackstaff that is more than mere mechanics or functionality.” The old man swung the now-ensnared rackstaff around and lowered it enough to grab hold of it. “See? No reaction. Clearly, not meant for me.” The racksmith smiled, revealing a mouthful of crooked, brown-tinged teeth. The pole swung around, the rackstaff still swinging from its lanyard. Gould, from the other end, waved it closer to Conn. “Let’s try this again.”

  Conn took in the rackstaff’s detail, now that he was close enough to reach out and grab it himself. It really was beautiful. A rich mahogany color, he could see the stained, swirling grain in the wood, and the intricately carved paw that had been worn smooth over time. He took another swig from the racksmith’s flask before setting it down on the table. Clenching his teeth, he reached for the dangling rackstaff.

  Conn went rigid, his eyes wide open and fixed. Though he managed to stay standing this time, the rackstaff sent an energized jolt coursing through his entire body. This rackstaff possessed something powerful. Something magical, thought Conn. And in an instant, he was transported somewhere else.

  Another place.

  Another time.

  The sun was high in the sky with a strong wind coming up from the south. Conn stood upon the cloudbank, though some part of him knew he wasn’t himself. The surrounding Manhattan skyscape appeared all-wrong. Almost twice as many high-rise buildings surrounded him. With a quick glance to either side he saw he was among many others. Perhaps two hundred of the Brataich clan, consisting of men mostly, and they wielded half-extended rackstaffs, the sharp blades of the lockwoods glinting in the sun. The very same deep-mahogany rackstaff with the intricately carved paw was grasped tightly in his own left hand. A distant, primal-sounding yell came from beyond.

  The man closest to Conn, whoever he was, said, “Aye, and so it begins . . . for home and honor. Defeat is not an option!” The man, who was nearly a half-head taller than Conn, sneered toward those who were rapidly approaching from the north. Three single-file columns of men, an attacking force equal to if not greater than their own. Their kilts’ distinctive tartan colors of royal blue, with narrow lines of yellow and green and orange, made it clear that they were under attack by none other than the Macbeth clan. A clan long gone in Conn’s time.

  “Come, Darryl. Today we become heroes!” The big man let loose his own primal scream, then strode away with his rackstaff held high over his head. Conn, or Darryl, as he was called here, followed close on his heels, running along a narrow cloudbank path he didn’t recognize. Long lines of Brataich warriors, hollering various war cries, raced across the bank to meet the oncoming enemy. He could hear the beating of his own heart pounding in his ears. The large man, his friend, who he somehow knew was named Banyan, was the first to encounter the attacking enemy, although other enemy lines were now converging too. The sharp tip of an enemy’s rackstaff
suddenly appeared, thrusting out through Banyan’s broad back. As crimson blood spurted from the wound, Conn felt its wetness splatter onto his own face. As Banyan’s body toppled over to the side, Conn—using a two-handed swiping motion, called a cruge strike—brought the blade of his weapon across the exposed neck of his friend’s killer. The man’s head slid from his shoulders with little resistance. The headless corpse toppled onto a quickfall patch, where the body disappeared into the mist below. In a flash, two more Macbeth warriors were upon him. He heard the whirling sound of lockwoods slicing through the air.

  An instant later he was back within Racksmith Graham Gould’s cluttered workspace. The old man, still standing on the far side of his workbench, wore an odd expression: a mixture of curiosity, and something else. Fear.

  Chapter 19

  It seemed the higher Misty climbed, the less sure of herself she became. It seemed incredibly unlikely that she’d be able to find one Skylander in an unfamiliar realm, and much more likely that she’d be caught and punished the second she stepped foot into their world.

  It’s too late for second thoughts, she admonished herself as she came to a stop midway up the present flight of stairs. But that knowledge didn’t stop her from having them. She glanced down into the darkness below. Before she could make a definitive decision to go up or back down, she heard multiple voices on the stairs above her, and the clomping of feet descending. She quickly slipped her shoes off and hurried back down, stepping lightly on her tiptoes. Reaching the landing, she stopped then glanced back up, and instantly regretted the decision to do so. Two men wearing flowing dark cloaks were quickly descending the flight of stairs right above her. They were close enough to easily catch her. She also realized if she could see them, they most certainly could see her too.

  “You there . . . Halt!”

  Instinctively she looked back up the stairs and made eye contact with one of her pursuers, a young man with a scar that ran down the left side of his face.