As
the shepherd boy was falling into a deep and much needed slumber on one end of
the Sway, the woodsman was coming awake with a start on the other.
He lay there for a time, eyes wide and
lungs stilled, but the disturbance in the valley refused to come to him. What
was more, since he could remember nothing about the disturbance, he had no idea
if he should be scared or simply annoyed. He knew only that Zeph was snoozing
warmly on his chest and that he’d been in one of those deep and dreamless
sleeps that only come to him on the hill. Then he’d heard something abnormal
in the Sway.
He was aware of this last part because his
ears were used to the normal sounds of the valley, the excited yips of
coyotes, the whickering wings of a night swift, the never-ending cries of the
cricket and cicada. On those occasions when he was drawn from his slumber into
the waking world, it was due to a sound that didn’t belong, like a screeching
hawk in the meadows of the Shun or the scrabbling of claws in the blackness
of—
There it was again, down in the valley.
Something pushing through the reeds.
Jaysh knew it could have been anything
milling around down there, but in his mind’s eye he saw the crushed cow from
the circle of matted grass. He’d not given the dead cow a single thought since
leaving the kill zone, but now there it was in his mind: the twisted legs, the
broken neck, the mug-sized holes gouged in its side. Had the fear of the
unknown spawned the ugly image…or was his intuition trying to tell him
something?
Deciding that he wasn’t going to lie there
in the open and wait to find out, the woodsman cocked his head to the fence
line and loosed his senses on the night, instantly aware of the dew on his feet,
the grass at his neck, and the constant eee-eee of the crickets.
Overhead, something fluttered erratically
through the night and Jaysh was fairly certain it was a bat; it had that zigzagging
flight pattern that only bats seemed to favor. But at any rate, as the creature
continued on into the night, the woodsman was left peering at the sky and watching
as the darkness began to swell and swirl and morph from one image to the next. Most
of these were nonsensical and meaningless, the designs of mad men on a bad day,
but one of them—the last one, in fact—was one that Jaysh recognized.
It was the dead cow.
And it was staring at him.
Ah’right, he thought, reaching to
the right and, again, being careful not to disturb the cat-thing on his chest.
He was padding the grass for his gear—the pack in general and the bow in
particular—but for some reason his pack was not there.
He stopped groping the
ground and folded an arm beneath the cat-thing, cradling her to his chest as he
prepared to sit erect—Only the cat-thing wasn’t there.
Jaysh shot up like the arm of a catapult,
scanning the terrain for anything lumpy or round, but finding only the flat
sides of limestone and pointed tips of granite. Once again, his Zeph was gone.
He spun to the west, the part of the Hill
decorated with statues and sculptures, and ran his eyes along the dark shapes
that rose from the ground. Some had their hands stretched to glory, others had
them locked in supplication at their chests, but only one had its hands hanging
uselessly at its sides.
Jaysh didn’t know why the shadow set up
camp among the statues—if it were trying to blend into its environment, if it
tried conversing with them after Jaysh fell asleep—but for whatever reason that
was where it went when the woodsman prepared for slumber.
But fer how long? Jaysh wondered. Once’t
I’m asleep, how long til that thing comes over to throw my gear an’ scare my
Zeph?
Before he could answer the question, the
sound of rustling grass wafted to his ears and he dropped to his knees, padding the ground and moving in
a steadily growing arc as he followed his apoplectic hands. When he finally
struck leather, a jolt of relief traveled through his body. He plucked up the
pack and tore at the bindings, digging through pouches and eventually yanking
free his skinning knife. He’d have preferred to shoot at this thing from afar,
but since beggars couldn’t be choosers, the skinning knife would have to do.
He peeled it from the sheath and hurried
to the other side of the path, moving to an assortment of large stones that had
been stacked together in such a way as to resemble a tool shed or outhouse. He
slipped behind it and pressed his back to the cold hard wall.
Outside on the slope, the rustling grasses
had given way to footfalls, several pairs of footfalls, like a whole
herd of midnight killers. Shortly after that, the footfalls left the soft soil
of the pasture and entered the hard pack of the trail, changing from muffled
thumps to sharp clopping. They might have been hooves, but Jaysh couldn’t tell.
Right after they met the trail, they moved to the stone arch in the crisscrossing
fence and stopped.
Then there was a pause, a series creaking
noises—like the groan of old leather—and a single pair of footfalls continued
through the archway.
Jaysh squatted down and peaked around the
shed. He saw the outline of something like a man passing beneath the arch,
something standing upright and walking on its hind legs. Of course, whether or
not that made it a man reminded to be seen. Proof against this
supposition was the way it came stumbling through the slabs and bouncing off
the pillars.
Jaysh’s first impression was of an invalid
or cripple or perhaps a violent criminal who’d been injured during his escape
from the dungeons. But the longer he watch, the more he thought about ugling
possession, like some poor soul who’d wandered too close to the Bottoms and was
now infected by one of the speaking mists. Because anyone with a disability or
injury would have displayed their handicap in a consistent pattern.
The creature before him, however, was
exhibiting any number physical ailments. Its arms would work, and then they
wouldn’t. Its legs appeared fine, and then went numb. If there was any pattern
at all, it was the man-thing’s use of the stones. Without fail, the creature
kept at least one hand on the slabs at all time, leaning from one rock to the
next and never letting go of his current stone until the next was firmly in its
grasp. It did this until it had lurched halfway down the interior trail and
came to a rock in the queue that rose only to its knees.
The man-thing’s head lolled forward and it
stared down at the missing crutch, apparently stumped as to where it should
place its other hand.
From the shadows of his cover, Jaysh held
his breath. This couldn’t have happened at a more inconvenient position along
the trail, for directly in front of the smaller stone was the woodsman’s
bedroll.
An’ if’n it spies that…
Tottering wildly and losing its balance,
the man-thing knelt beside a smaller stone and seemed to be inspecting
something, not the bedding on the ground, but the little rock itself. Even now,
Jaysh could see the wobbling outline of the man-thing’s arm as it reached out
to touch the stunted slab, sliding its fingers around the crest and then halfway
down its length.
The creature’s arm made to backtrack along
the stone and then stopped. Its head
rolled to the right and, as much as it could, fixed on something in the lawn.
It stared for a moment, then plucked the item from the grass and hobbled to its
feet.
With its quavering head panning the
geometry of the hill, it said, “Jaaaaysh.” Then, holding up the floppy
item from the lawn, it added, “I have…have your shoe.”
Leaning around the shed, Jaysh frowned at
the man-thing, or more accurately at the sound of its voice. As the shock of
hearing his name wore off and the panic of being discovered abated, he thought
the voice sounded familiar. It was indecisive—and perhaps unaccustomed to
making human speech—but it was a voice he’d heard before. And wasn’t there
something familiar about its stench? The stink of soured fruits and the stale
reek of smoke, as if a whole tavern full of—
No!
His mind raced back to the previous
evening, to the moment right before parting ways with his dear old friend and
walking to the hill. He remembered the three little words that the person had
spoken—On the Hill—and the mischievous hum that followed, the hum that
haunted Jaysh even now.
Jaysh stepped from behind the shed, knife
in hand.
“Jaaaaaysh,” the man-thing cooed, “there’s
my…oldest and…and dearest friend.” It held up the object in its hand. “I think
I have your…uh…,” he looked at the item to jog his memory, “…shoe.”
Without moving, Jaysh said, “I tol’ yeh
bout comin here.”
“Yes, yes, I…I know,” Iman said,
staggering forward, “but I have a story.” He tripped, fell against a massive grooved
pillar, and hugged it like a lover. “It’s about this…um…about something to do
with the…something you needed to…,” his head fell against the pillar with a wet
cracking sound and he said, “Blue Hole! It’s about Blue Hole.”
A pang of disappointment traveled Jaysh’s
body. Blue Hole was, indeed, the place where Swim Day would be celebrated and,
although he wouldn’t have told Iman this for all the vine in the world, he was
not surprised his dear old friend had deduced the location. With the Leresh
gone and the Mela poisoned, there weren’t that many options available, not
unless he wanted to use one of the ponds in the Sway and submerge his face in
cow urine and horse crap.
“Yeh ain’t goin’,” Jaysh said.
“It’s fish day, right?”
“Swim Day,” Jaysh corrected, “an’ yeh
ain’t goin’.”
Iman pried his head from the column. “Yes,
swim day. I…I knew it was something to do with the, um…the splashing and
the…uh…,” his expression brightened suddenly. “See, I heard this—this
fish tale at the…the place… the council! Yes, the council. Anyway, I
heard it and I said to myself, ‘Iman, old boy…Jaysh is doing something in the
water tomorrow and …and he really needs to hear this.’”
Jaysh folded his arms. “So’s yeh went
lookin fer me at the Wound?”
“The Nest,” Iman corrected, referring to
an establishment on the East side known as Sira’s Nest. “Someone was stabbed in
the Wound. It was a mess—but anyhow—Hey, did I tell you the council was
very, very impressed with your work at the…um…,” he pointed south,
“…down in the…uh…,” he waggled a finger, “…down where the cow was…,” he waggled
a bit longer, then let his arm fall against the column. “Very impressed,” he
said. “They just loved it.”
“Iman,” Jaysh said, levelly, “yeh ain’t
goin’.”
Iman stood there clinging to the column
for a moment, then began to chuckle. “Jaysh—old friend—as…as much fun as it
might be to go with you to the hole,” he stopped chuckling and drew a breath,
“I can’t. I have this thing over at the, uh…that place…,” he pursued his lips,
“…Oh, what’s it called…place with all the—Westpost!” he announced.
“Westpost! I am going to Westpost.” His smile softened. “So there, does that
make you happy?”
Actually, it did. Jaysh had forgotten
about the captain’s job in the Western Sway and the realization of which made
him feel a lot better.
“What’s the story?” Jaysh said, stomping
to where his gear had been scattered.
“Okay,” Iman said, “picture this:
I’m in the castle—with the royal advisers, mind you—and they’re all
listening to these whining complaints and trying to pretend like they care and
there’s this…this fishing person in front of me and he’s like…pouring
out his heart about this…this boat, and you know the council
doesn’t care. You know they want to hear my report…the report about the missing
cattle and whether or not the killer is…,” he paused, looking over at the
woodsman, “…oh, and by the way, Jaysh, the council was very…,” he closed his
eyes for a moment, “…very impressed with your work. No, really. Serit
couldn’t get enough and Mums, she went on and on, Godfry too, and later, when I
was at the Nest, I saw Gariel, and she just—”
Jaysh stopped padding the ground and
glared at him.
“—Okay, okay,” Iman said. “Anyway…anyway,
I was…I was there at the council meeting, just waiting to give my report, and
there’s this…fishering fellow ahead of me and he was wrapping up his
report, going on and on about his boat, and his livelihood, and his family,
and…to tell the truth I really wasn’t paying attention. I was still polishing my
report, you know…running it over in my head, making sure I got everything
in, you know, about the circle and the cow and the lack of prints and whether
or not to tell them I drew my sword…does it make me look prepared…or like a nervous-Nelly?
“But anyhow, I’m thinking these thoughts
and I’m not paying any, uh…any attention—but then, all of a sudden, I hear this
man ahead of me, this local fisher person or whatever he is, I hear him tell
the council that he’s out fishing in Blue Hole, up on the northern rim I guess,
and he says—get this, Jaysh—he says something comes up out of the water and eats
his boat.”
Jaysh looked up. “In Blue Hole?”
“Oh, yes! In Blue Hole! I swear to
all that’s holy! This man, he tells Serit and Reets and…and the whole council
that this thing devours his boat, says he was out there in the water, avoiding
the orange slicks, and something crashes up through the planks, sinking him
right where he sat, pretty as you please. He says it was, um…was another of
those…oh, what’re they called—water imps! Yes, it was an imp. And a big one.”
Jaysh lowered his gaze. “I guess it was,”
he said, feeling around for his arrows. Having retrieved the contents for his
pack, he was now searching the grass for the contents of his quiver.
“It killed his partner,” Iman continued,
as if that were important, “or they can’t find him. I guess it knocked the
other guy into the water and he, uh…he swam to shore. It shook him up—he looked
shook up,” he added. “Said he spent most of the day with his…um…his family.
Said he didn’t want to go to the council, but his wife made him. I guess she
told him the community needed to know, so they’d stay out of the water. And she wanted a new boat.”
Sliding the last of his arrows in the
quiver, Jaysh stood. He was only one shoe away from starting Swim Day, but all
of a sudden that didn’t seem to matter.
“She didn’t get her boat,” Iman said,
trying to sound helpful.
Jaysh moved to the small stone where Iman
had found the first moccasin, then made a halfhearted glance at the ground,
looking around until he spied something on the other side of the path, something
that turned out to be his moccasin. He snatched it up, pried it on, and turned
to the captain.
“Yeh had many’a them…,” Jaysh began,
trailing off as he realized that Iman had somehow disengaged himself from the
column, followed him along the path, and was now crouched down again in front
of the little stone. “Yeh had a lot’a them reports? Bout the swimin imps?”
Iman reached out a finger and, once again,
ran it along the crest of the diminutive rock. Only, up close like this, Jaysh
could see it wasn’t a featureless stone at all. Like the decorations on the
western end of the hill, this stone had been chiseled to resemble a person.
Admittedly, it was much smaller than the
adult-sized statues on the west end, but otherwise it looked the same. It had
the same flowing robes, which looked like a bed sheet with a hole cut in the
middle and slipped over the figure’s head. It had the strand of twine tied
around the waist and allowing the figure’s arms to protrude from the garment.
And of course it had the same fluffy pair of wings sticking out from the back.
“To tell the truth,” Iman said, stroking
the left wing, “that was the first report I’d heard.”
Watching Iman’s fingertips trace the
feathers, Jaysh said, “But yeh think it ain’t safe?”
“Oh, maybe,” Iman said, now moving his
finger along the name chiseled at the seraph’s base, “but it is Swim
Day, you know. You pretty much have to go.” He brushed at imaginary dust on the
little angel’s finely-hewn hair, then lifted his eyes to the woodsman. “Or you
could…I don’t know…put it on hold.”
Without taking his eyes from the cherub,
Jaysh said, “Yeh mean call it off?”
“No, no, not call it off,” Iman said,
coming to his feet and brushing at his knees, “just put it off a little, delay it until conditions are better
for you. You could…you could keep track of all the Swim Days you miss and then,
uh…have them later, you know, write them down somewhe—”
“I cain’t write.”
“—or, um…or keep track of them in your
head, either way, right?”
“I guess,” the woodsman said, shoulders
lifting weakly. “I could whittle a notch in a piece of wood; keep track of 'em
like that.”
“Well, there you go,” Iman said, reaching
out and putting an arm around the other man’s shoulders. “Now about that
Westpost job.”
Shrinking from Iman’s grasp, Jaysh said, “What
about it?”
“Well, it’s just…you know, yesterday, it
seemed like your scouting didn’t, uh…didn’t go so well, so I was
wondering if you’d like to come with me? Come out to Westpost and do some real
tracking, you know. None of that deer and bunny stuff.”
Jaysh remembered what Iman had told him
yesterday before they parted ways, remembered the monster to which he had
alluded and how it had apparently maimed or killed one of Jashandar’s finest.
He thought about that for awhile, then said, “I guess that’d work.”
“Sure it would,” Iman said, moving his arm
behind him.
Sidestepping the captain’s arm, Jaysh
said, “Yeh ain’t usin’ my name, are yeh?”
“Oh, no. No, no, no. No names,” Iman
said, putting a hand to his heart. “Officer’s word.”
Jaysh stared at the hand. “It’s the
other’un.”
Iman looked down, then switched hands.
Apparently unsatisfied with the pledge,
Jaysh said, “Yeh ‘member what happened las’ time.”
“Yes, I know, I know. That’s why we won’t use
names this time. You’ll be, uh…the
private! Right. Private something-or-another. And I’ll be…I’ll be the
captain. Okay? Does that work?”
Jaysh rubbed his beard. He had no doubt
that he could make it work. It was his dear old friend he was worried
about. Iman had a mind like a humming bird, always flitting from one blossoming
idea to the next, so there was no guarantee he’d remember this one when
the time came to make good.
On the other hand, if Jaysh didn’t go,
what was he going to do?
“Ah’right,” he said, “that works.”
“Good, good,” Iman said, laying a hand to
Jaysh’s shoulder and driving him through the gate. “They’re just out here,” he
added, guiding the woodsman to the two horses tethered at the fence, a
beautiful roan named Quinlin—which Iman insisted on calling Winner—and the
other a large bay named Shiloh.
Iman untied his steed and mounted.
Jaysh shoved his foot in the stirrup,
prepared to mount, then stopped. “We gona be back by dusk?” he asked, looking
up at his dear old friend.
Iman swallowed. “I, uh…I don’t have a
problem with that,” he said. “If I interrogate and—and you track then, uh…then sure, why not? We should finish by dusk,” he
said, “dusk or midnight.”
Jaysh pulled his foot from the stirrup.
“Okay, Dusk! Dusk it is!”
