Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  In the distance beyond the procession, large tents stood empty, void of the cheerful markets and vendors that should have filled them with noise and music and laughter. The barren, unoccupied bleachers and the unused fields of the canceled Skylander Games held vigil over the funeral procession like solemn monuments to a forgotten future.

  It took close to an hour to reach the chosen spot. A vast open space of white, it was a place void of city towers or the meandering paths of other Skylander pedestrians. Here, twenty stout brass columns—ignited ChemBurn flames atop each—encircled the quickfall patch. In between them, tall poles reached high overhead where Brataich Clan-crested flags snapped smartly in the high, onshore winds. Directly below was the midway point across the Hudson River.

  Conn could see Bishop Longstep patiently waiting for them ahead. He stood on the opposite side of the quickfall patch, which measured approximately twenty by twenty-foot. The bishop, pushing eighty, still maintained the erect posture of a much younger man. He had a full head of long white hair, which he wore down to his shoulders. As part of his liturgical dress, he wore the traditional biretta upon his head—a scarlet-colored, puffed-up hat that had four raised, stiffened corners. His long, cream-colored satin gown shimmered in the torchlight. Upon his shoulders lay a scarlet draping that matched his biretta. In his hands he held a small black booklet—verses of the Kirk’s teachings—that Conn assumed were read for just such an occasion. The bishop had a surprisingly unlined face, and a just-scrubbed appearance, with pink cheeks, nose, and chin. His bright and alert blue eyes watched Robert Brataich’s bed as it was lowered by the six pallbearers onto the cloudbank.

  Conn’s eyes took in the cluster of seven other clergy members, huddling behind the bishop, and found he was getting somewhat annoyed. Not so much because they had all gathered here for his father—for the late CloudMaster was far more like a CloudKing—but that nary a one of them had paid an equal deference to Professor Dob. Conn loved his father, but in a more abstract way than he had loved Dob. The professor had been far more paternal than the deceased man, dressed in his Brataich tartan-colored wraps, resting before him now upon an ornate brass bed.

  Now they needed to wait while the winds blew, and for the long line of mourners to shuffle past them. They would encircle them, keeping a good distance back from the quickfall, as the bagpipers continued piping their mournful ballads.

  Emma appeared at Conn’s side, a silk handkerchief held beneath her reddened nose. Sniffing, she took ahold of his upper arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. On her other side, Michael placed a comforting hand on her back, stroking it with brotherly condolence. His eyes glistened. Both he and Emma had always been closer to their father than Conn.

  Now standing taller, letting out a slow, shuddered breath, Emma said in a hushed voice, “I still can’t believe it. That he’s been taken from us.”

  Conn nodded his head.

  She glanced toward her father’s body, then leaned in closer to Conn. “How did they, um, secure his head back on to his body?”

  Conn stared at her, dumbfounded. “Does that really matter, Emma?”

  “No, no. Of course not,” she replied, as the bagpipes played on. “It’s just that . . . I couldn’t sleep last night, so I got to wondering. It wouldn’t be right for it to . . .” She let her words trail off.

  “What? Right for it to what?” Conn asked irritably.

  Michael, scowling, shushed them both.

  “You know, to separate again during the fall.” She gestured with a hand wave to the left, then waved the other hand right.

  Conn closed his eyes in righteous indignation. He also hadn’t slept much last night. But then again, he rarely did. And, if he was being honest with himself, he too had wondered what means the mortician used to affix his father’s cleaved head back onto his body. Perhaps a strong wrapping of some sort, or sutures, though he didn’t think either would be sufficient to withstand the jostling from a long processional walk, or multiple lifting ups and setting downs. Best would be some kind of sturdy metal spike, driven sufficiently down into the neck area then up into the head.

  Conn glanced over to his right and saw Michael shaking. His bottom lip captured between upper and lower teeth. Only then did Conn realize his brother wasn’t caught in the throes of despair, but of controlled laughter. Thinking back, that was how it usually started when they were children. It only took one kid, forcing down a smirk, or a smile, or—God forbid—stifling a giggle. Then like a virus, it would spread to them all, and choking back the ensuing laughter was almost impossible. And, of course, it always happened at the most inappropriate time. Times like now. Conn forced himself not to look at either sibling, concentrating instead on the music, on the blowing wind, on his shoes atop the cloudbank. He looked up and saw the mourners, taking up positions directly across from him, lined up on the other side of the flaming, stout brass pillars and the swaying, narrow, clan flagpoles. The sadness reflecting off their faces instantly sobered him.

  Conn saw a boy of no more than nine or ten, weeping openly into his palms. He realized it was young Brig. Brig, who never had a real father, spent much of his youth scurrying and scampering about within the Empire State’s superstructure. Lurking in shadows and behind walls, he had watched and spied on Robert, and also on Conn, Emma, and Michael. The Brataich family was, in a true sense, his family too, though he was more like a ghost figure, unable to connect physically or emotionally.

  Conn, letting his eyes drift farther back into the shuffling crowd, caught sight Maggie’s red hair. She stared back at him with a blank expression. He then looked to her right and, on seeing Misty, his heart skipped a beat. She mouthed the words, I’m so sorry Conn.

  *

  Misty stared across the white cloudbank at the tall, dark-haired Cloudwalker. She found herself scrutinizing Conn’s every expression, trying to dissect his emotional state, moment by moment—like a healer would an ailing patient. She wondered if Conn had deliberately chosen not to wear a coat on such a chilly day. Other CloudWalkers wore theirs, as did his own brother, Michael. She watched the collar of his dress shirt being buffeted by the winds.

  The bagpipers had stopped playing and the bishop began to read aloud from his little black book. He paced the outer perimeter of the empty space encircled flagpoles and torches. A span of white, the space looked, at least to her, like any other area of cloudbank surface. She briefly wondered what the significance of this place was, so far away from Midtown Manhattan. She meant to ask Maggie about it, but hadn’t felt comfortable talking about such unimportant things on a somber occasion like this. One thing had been made perfectly clear. Everything was different now. Nothing would be the same. How that affected her personally, she didn’t know. Again, it didn’t seem appropriate to speak selfishly when the whole world had flipped upside down for so many here.

  Other well-dressed religious men joined the one wearing the red hat, and together they stroke forward single file, one after the other. They were all muttering words in unison; what sounded like some kind of Scripture. Maggie hadn’t told her much about the Kirk—Skylander religion—but it seemed very different from Purgeforth. Misty’s mind flashed back to beneath the cloudbank, to the streets far below, where Grounder parishioners and solemn women, their heads always covered, wore dark frumpy dresses and kept their eyes downcast as they lived their desolate lives.

  Movement caught Misty’s eye and brought her back to the present. Conn and the others were moving around the bedded remains of the deceased. Music was playing again, a woman singing a mournful and moving Celtic song. Although she had never met Conn’s father, Misty found she was hurting just the same. Not for herself, but for him. The pallbearers, moving in unison between the brass torches, set the funeral bed down. Then the others departed and only Conn and Michael remained, until Emma rejoined her brothers. In unison they knelt, each placing a hand upon their father’s wrapped chest. Emma spoke softly, perhaps a prayer. Or well wishes to her father, on his next jo
urney. The three stood, and Emma took a step back. Conn and Michael, taking hold of the two poles at the head of the funeral bed, together lifted it waist-high. The body of CloudMaster Robert Brataich slid down the bed’s other end and fell away, disappearing down into the white void, where, undoubtedly, in moments, it would splash into river far below. A tear escaped from Misty’s eye, blazing a shining, wet trail down her cheek as she remembered her own father, consigned to the same fate only a few days earlier, though it felt like much longer.

  The onlookers began to applaud, a subdued clapping at first, then more excitedly. Smiles had replaced their sorrowful frowns. Soon, thousands were cheering and yelling, whooping and hollering, pumping fists into the air. The music too had come alive, and a happy ballad now filled the air. Misty watched as Conn and Emma embraced, them Conn and Michael. What strange people these Skylanders are, she thought. The large crowd began to move away, starting their long trek back to the city. Misty hoped Maggie would want to wait and talk to Conn first. She was fairly certain she would.

  Off in the distance, well beyond the Brataich cluster of family and friends, past the mourning line of Skylanders, she spotted six individuals standing apart. But these people were not joyful and rejoicing, Not Skylanders, by any means, they were easily recognizable by a Grounder girl like herself. Tall and awkward in appearance, the contours of High Deacon Terrance Lasher’s bald head was most familiar as he loomed; his mere presence there felt somehow sacrilegious. Three darkly clad women stood by him—two on one side, and one on the other. All had their heads lowered. And then her mother raised her head.

  Chapter 44

  Now, making eye contact with Astrid, they stared over at one another for several long moments. Is that an expression of concern? Misty wondered. Her mother tentatively brought a hand up—as if reaching out to her—but then seemed to think better of it. People continued to mill past them. Momentarily, a group of five or six completely blocked her view. When Misty looked again, both she and the deacon, along with his other wives, were gone. Misty stepped left then right, up on her tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse of them, but they’d suddenly disappeared. Why had they come here, anyway? Was it a show of condolence, of support, from those below the cloudbank? she wondered.

  “Oh no,” Maggie said, taking Misty’s arm. “We need to get moving.”

  “Why, what’s happened?”

  “It’s because of what’s about to happen. Damn. I should have been paying more attention. Someone’s been watching you.”

  “I know that.”

  “Really? You know that Captain Bryant Peirce, of the Dorcha Poileas, has been glowering at you from afar?” Maggie asked her, confused.

  “Who?

  “Don’t look. It’s best we just merge into the crowd, and try to blend in. Don’t act suspicious.”

  “And how do I do that?” Misty asked, trying to act casually, like she was just one of the many Skylanders now trudging along. She tried to keep her head and eyes lowered, but the temptation to look around was just too great. She stole a quick peek. The sweep of her glance missed him the first time, then her eyes shot back to him, a reflex reaction. The uniformed man stood twenty feet away and he was indeed glowering. She recognized him—the man who chased her in the stairwell. She took in his long cape, and the scar that ran down the left side of his face.

  “Crap!”

  “You’re acting suspicious!” Maggie murmured without moving her lips. “We’re going to have to walk past him. No way around that.”

  “But he’s seen me before, escaping down the steps of the Drake. He knows I’m a Grounder.”

  “Smile like I just said something funny,” Maggie said casually, waving toward someone off in the crowd.

  “What will they do to me?” Misty asked with a forced smile on her face.

  “You dinnae want to think about that right now, Misty.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Best case? They’ll imprison you within the Onyx Building’s headquarters for an indefinite period of time. I’m betting they dinnae take kindly to Grounders pretending to be Skylanders, especially ones of noble blood.”

  They slowly moved to within ten feet of the still-staring Dorcha Poileas captain.

  “And worst case?”

  Maggie shook her head. “Shush! Keep your voice down.”

  “Tell me?”

  “Execution. But hopefully it won’t come to that.”

  “Isn’t that extreme?” Misty said, her voice rising several octaves.

  “Aye. But they like to make an example of certain offenders. Keeps other Grounders from getting any ideas about sneaking up and living above the cloudbank.”

  “You mean like me? Shouldn’t we have talked more about this earlier?”

  Maggie shrugged. “You didnae have much choice at the time.”

  Misty nodded. “I know, I know. I’m just scared.”

  Maggie abruptly glanced up and smiled. “A chilly good morning to you, Bryant.”

  Now a mere two paces away, Pierce pulled his gaze away from Misty just long enough to peer down at Maggie. “I suppose. If you can call a CloudMaster’s funeral a good morning.”

  “Oh, aye. I suppose you’re right about that.”

  “And who is this with you, Maggie?”

  “Oh come on! You know my cousin, Adaira of the Drummond Clan. She’s staying with us for a few days. The rest of her family is sick.”

  Pierce refocused his attention fully on Misty, staring down his nose, scrutinizing her.

  Misty nodded. “Barfing and shitting non-stop, the whole lot of them. Couldnae wait to get out of there. Maggie’s my true savior,” she added in her best Skylander accent.

  Pierce chuckled at the bathroom humor. “Aye,” he said slowly, but his expression was marginally less suspicious. “I think I’ve seen you around. Drummonds dinnae get out much; keep to yourselves mostly, aye? Surprised your parents—”

  “Oh, I’ve been pushing back on all that.”

  He slowly nodded, though he continued to stare at her through narrowed eyes.

  “Well, looks like we’re holding up the line,” Maggie said, grabbing Misty’s elbow and ushering her forward.

  “Um . . . bye,” Misty said, as they hurried to catch up with those ahead of them.

  “At some point he’s going to remember who I am. I just know it.” Her heart was pounding in her chest.

  “Maybe not,” Maggie said.

  “I remember him, why wouldn’t he remember me?”

  “You dinnae look anything like that Grounder girl creeping around those stairs. It was dark, right? So relax. I think you’re in the clear. And besides, you’re with me. What would a Cloudwalker be doing with a Grounder girl?”

  Bells began to ring, different from the ones Misty heard prior to the God’s Rampage electrical storm at the Gala. These bells were far quieter; they sounded more like chimes. Misty gazed quizzically at Maggie.

  “The draft is being called into action. Septs between the ages of sixteen and sixty need to check in with the Dorcha Poileas, over at the Onyx Building’s headquarters.”

  “Is that something I should do, too?”

  “Oh please! Adaira Drummond is not a sept. The draft does not apply to people like her. Like us.”

  Misty continued walking, quietly thinking.

  “I didnae mean it like that.” Maggie put her arm around Misty’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, I can be a real bitch sometimes. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Maggie, I am a Grounder. How many rungs on the ladder is that below a lowly sept?”

  “I’m an arse. Forgive me?”

  “Never!” The two girls laughed, then a crease formed between Maggie’s brows.

  “What is it?” Misty asked.

  Maggie frowned. “Cloudwalkers are warriors, the most trained Skylanders for combat. During times of war, when draft personnel are called in to report for duty, it’s the Cloudwalkers who are their leaders. We’re officers in the Midtown army.”

  “
That makes sense,” Misty said, still not following.

  “Adaira Drummond. I went through Cloudwalker training with her. It’s kind of required. Most Cloudwalkers stay to become full cicerones, but she stopped attending after the three year minimum.”

  “Uh huh . . .”

  “You’re not getting my point. Adaira Drummond will be called up for duty, like the rest of us. War with Jersey City is imminent. Don’t you see? The real Adaira Drummond will be called up for duty!”

  Misty’s eyes went wide. “And when the real Adaira is forced from her self-imposed reclusion, what happens to me?”

  “I might have an idea,” Maggie offered. “We’ll need Conn’s help. And maybe Brig’s, too.”

  Chapter 45

  Darryl, arms and legs trembling from fatigue, took a moment to catch his breath. It was a brief lull in which the two exhausted opponents could take stock before reengaging in mortal combat. Events seemed to be happening in slow motion as his eyes were drawn to a clash of other warriors nearby. He watched the arc of a severed arm as it flew through the air—arterial spray spewing about. Darryl was ill prepared for the sudden, reverse, full-body spinning motion and the subsequent incoming strike from his opponent’s lockwood. So here he was, totally caught off guard. He was left with just one thing: A moment in time, and profound clear awareness. Just a second before that blade would strike the right side of his neck, undoubtedly cleaving his head from his shoulders, there was just enough time to realize that this lifetime might very well be over. But instinct took over—action without conscious thought—and he jerked backwards. The tip of his adversary’s blade painfully nicked the bottom of his chin. He had survived the lethal strike, and he knew without a doubt he would also survive the day. He would vanquish this warrior. But with that hopeful realization came another stark truth: that he had so miserably failed in life, not only for himself, but for her, too. Perhaps there was time left in this lifetime to do better, to make amends. He spun and swung, not seeing him, but knowing where the strike would land. Then he felt it, the cold hard steel of his lockwood slicing into its intended mark.