Dawnbreaker: Legends of the Duskwalker - Book 3 (6 page)

W
ren sat
on the couch and stared at his hands clasped in his lap. There was a small red spot beside his left thumbnail where he’d picked at a tag of skin and torn it free. It was a bad habit. Mama always told him not to do that. It hurt when he pressed on it, but he was pressing on it anyway.

They’d moved up from the bar to the apartment above, both for comfort and for privacy. Now they were seated in the front room, Haiku in one chair, jCharles in another, with Wren across from them on the worn leather couch. Wren couldn’t quite bring himself to raise his eyes to Haiku; the scene was too strange. It’d been well over a year since he’d sat in the same place, and jCharles had sat in the same spot he was in now, and Three had been there, where Haiku was now sitting. Seeing the reality somehow made the memory more real, more immediate; like maybe if Wren didn’t look up, that really would be Three sitting there.

“You don’t have to do this, Wren,” jCharles said.

Wren nodded, but didn’t look up. It was foolish, and he knew it was foolish, but
almost
believing Three was there was
almost
enough to give him courage. Three had called him a soldier once. So many memories of the man rushed and swirled through his mind. Some moments were indistinct, more impression than image. Others were so clear, remembering was nearly the same as experiencing. Except for Three’s face. Over time Three’s face had become indistinct in Wren’s mind, and noticing it now frightened him. Was he forgetting Three? How could he ever do so?

“I know much of his past already,” Haiku said, gently reassuring. “Most from having lived it alongside him. Some, I’ve discovered through searching. But not this chapter of his life. If you could help me record it, it would honor both the man and his House.”

Wren glanced up at Haiku, sitting across from him. The man was sitting quietly, his big book open on his lap, pen in hand. His expression was warm and kind, expectant without any trace of impatience or annoyance. Waiting. And looked like he would wait, without complaint, for however long it took. Wren couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen someone use an actual pen before.

Tell his story. To honor Three and his House. Wren could do that. A deep breath. Then he let his mind go back, back to a time he’d refused to allow himself to remember for a long time. And having given himself permission, the memory came back, acutely vivid. The bar, the people, the smell. Mama’s hand, hard and cold and trembling, squeezing his. The fear.

“He was just sitting there,” Wren said, at last. “When we first came in. In the front corner of the place, behind the door. Mama didn’t notice him, but I did. Because he was there, but it felt like he shouldn’t have been. That was when we met him. That was when I met Three.”

Now that the door of his mind was open, Wren couldn’t stop the flood of images. Three, sitting at that table, staring down at the drink on it, refusing to look up at Mama or down at him. Three, pulling him away from Mama while she lay dying, leaving her behind in order to save him. Three, lying in Mama’s arms as the last of his life seeped away.

“And that’s when he began to help you?” Haiku said, a gentle prompt.

Wren shook his head, more to clear it than in answer. “No. That was later.”

He continued for a few moments, telling as much of that first encounter as he could recall, surprising himself at just how very much that was. Things he hadn’t realized he’d noticed came to him, things that hadn’t seemed important at the time that gained new significance in looking back upon them. But as clearly and fully as those first images returned to him, something inside revolted against him and Wren suddenly found it difficult to proceed. The rush was too much, the memories overwhelming. Having fought to keep that part of his life distant and locked away, once freed they came like the ocean to a sinking ship, impossible to resist.

His face flushed hot then suddenly cold, and his heart raced as hard as if he’d been running as fast as he could for a mile. jCharles sat forward, like he was going to stand up, but Haiku stayed him with a raised hand.

“So your mother took you out of the bar through a back door,” Haiku said a few moments later, picking up where Wren had left off, gently leading. “And then...”

He trailed off, leaving Wren to once more take up the story from there. The words called him back, fixed his mind on that moment. But Wren found his mouth had gone dry and sticky. The images still swirled.

“Through the back, and...” Haiku repeated.

“And then we went to a chemist,” Wren managed to answer. “Can I have some water?”

“Sure, buddy,” jCharles said, and as he was standing to get it, Wren heard the clicks and whirs of Mol’s approach. She passed by and waved jCharles off, moving towards the kitchen for the water herself. She returned moments later and sat down beside Wren, handing him a plastic cup with her left hand while draping her right arm over his shoulders. Wren sipped the cool water, let it sit in his mouth for a few seconds, feeling how it swished and swirled as he moved his tongue through it. He swallowed, took another sip, then a longer pull.

“And what happened at the chemist’s?” Haiku asked.

Wren stared down into his cup. “Bad things.”

Telling the story was much harder than he’d expected it to be. After that initial burst of information, Wren spoke little, answered directly, without elaboration. It was easier for him that way, to think of each event in isolation, to tell only what seemed necessary. Eventually he decided he’d been too eager. Told too much, too quickly. This way was better. One step. Don’t linger too long, don’t rush too far ahead.

But over time, Haiku’s careful, respectful tone and insightful questions began to work their cure. His voice was quiet and words kind, and gradually he drew forth the answers he sought. Wren’s responses lengthened. Without his notice, he began to share more details, to offer information more freely, to expound without prompting. And all the while, Haiku’s pen flowed across the pages, capturing every moment, freezing each in ink.

Cautiously, compassionately, Haiku led Wren through the journey, recording it all in his leatherbound book. Occasionally they stopped for breaks, sometimes at jCharles’s or Mol’s prompting, sometimes because hunger or thirst or weeping demanded it. Wren hated crying. He fought it off as much as he could. But at times the tears were irresistible. The memory of leaving Mama, knowing she was dying. The shock of the guards’ attack when they first reached Morningside, when their journey was so nearly done. Mr Carter’s death, and Dagon’s. The utter helplessness of being pulled from Three’s arms by the surging crowd. Asher’s cruelties. His mother’s return as a Weir. Mol sat with him as he relived those terrible moments, her arm tight around his shoulders, her cheek pressed to the top of his head, her tears falling freely with his.

Whether it took an hour, or two, or four, Wren didn’t know. He completely lost track of time in the telling. But it didn’t seem to matter. Once the barriers had been brought down, Wren found the courage and the determination to tell it all. And tell it all he did, right down to the final seconds of Three’s life, his death, and the giving of his remains to the fire and the setting sun.

Only once did Wren notice Haiku stop writing. It was when Wren told of how he brought Mama back from being a Weir.

“I don’t understand,” Haiku said, lifting his pen. “What do you mean she ‘came back’?”

“She was a Weir, and then she wasn’t.” Wren took a drink of water, wiped the corners of his mouth with his fingers. “I mean, she’s still kind of one. Her eyes and... stuff. But she was herself again,” he said with a shrug. “Like she woke up.”

“How is that possible?” Haiku asked, and then looked to jCharles. “That can’t be possible.”

“I assure you it is so,” a voice said from near the door. Everyone jumped, and turned to find Chapel there, leaning against the wall. Wren had no idea how long the man had been standing there.

“
Spatz
, old man!” jCharles said, which earned him a reproving look from Mol. “I swear I’m gonna have to tie a bell around your neck. I thought you went out!”

“I did,” said Chapel.

“And?” jCharles asked.

“I am returned.”

There entered a side conversation which ran for a long while. Wren did his best to explain what he could about awakening the Weir, which wasn’t much. Chapel identified himself as formerly of the Weir, and answered Haiku’s questions in his typical enigmatic way. Wren noticed Haiku didn’t record anything in his book throughout that discussion. After a time, Haiku returned to the final moments of Wren’s tale and resumed writing, though he didn’t seem quite satisfied with what they’d told him. Nevertheless, his full attention was once again on Wren, and Wren did his best to finish a full and good account of his time with Three.

By the end, Wren was exhausted emotionally and physically. But as he slouched back on the couch and let his head rest on its cushioned back, he noticed he felt lighter somehow. Not happy, certainly. But healthier. Relieved. Content, maybe. Like some great burden had been taken from his shoulders, or some deep sickness drawn from his body. The flickering flame of memory he’d fought to quench blazed brighter than ever now. Three’s face was as clear and bright in his mind as ever before, and while there was still sorrow, it dimmed in comparison to the love and gratitude Wren felt. Three had died for him. More than that. Far more than that. Three had truly given his life for Wren; not just in that final moment and act, but in every day, in every hour of sacrifice leading up to it. From the moment Three had given his word, he too had given his life. And having told all that Three had done for him, that gift became powerfully real to Wren in that instant, and utterly precious. The weight of it rested upon him, not as a burden, but as a blessing that commanded his affection and his awe.

“How did you know to prepare his body that way?” Haiku asked. Wren noticed the man’s eyes were shining like he might cry, but his face also almost looked glad.

“From him. We just did it the same way he showed me. After Mr Carter. And Dagon.”

“But you say you waited until the sun was setting,” Haiku said.

“Oh,” Wren said. “Yeah.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, it just seemed like the right thing to do.”

Haiku smiled and nodded. “It was, more than you know. And now you have done him a double honor. You upheld the tradition of his House, whether you knew it or not, and gave his remains the due tribute he likely would have been denied elsewhere. And the record you have kept, which you have relayed to me,” here Haiku held up the book from his lap, “will be preserved. His memory will live on, not just in you, but in those who otherwise would have never known him.”

Haiku closed his book and set it aside. He stood and came to kneel in front of Wren, and looked him squarely in the eye.

“Three could not have been more properly and fully honored had he passed on while our House still stood in its former glory,” he said, and then bowed his head. “I am deeply grateful.”

“I’m glad I did the right thing,” Wren answered.

Haiku looked up at him and smiled, and then rose to his feet.

“Thank you all,” he said, looking to jCharles and Mol. “For your hospitality, and your forbearance. I know this was not an easy time for any of you.”

“It was well worth it, friend,” jCharles responded. “I loved Three like he was my blood. You showing up is like having a piece of him back, in a way. Of course, you know, I don’t know how you ever tracked him to us, and normally I wouldn’t care too much for that.”

Haiku smiled his easy smile. “I assure you it was not easy, nor would it be easily repeatable.”

“Yeah, well,” jCharles said. “You being Three’s kin makes it a little easier to swallow. If you’d given me any other explanation, I’d have blown you right back out that front door. But Three used to pull some of that same business. Spooked me then, still spooks me a little now.”

“Serendipity, Coincidence, Destiny, Providence,” said Haiku, his eyes twinkling. “The convergence of random events leading to seemingly meaningful moments has many names. Sometimes we just get lucky.”

“Yeah,” jCharles said with a smirk. “I’ve heard a few folks cheatin’ at cards say things about like that.” Haiku just smiled in response.

The mood of the room had altered with the ending of the tale. It had been a solemn time, almost sacred. Now there was an almost casual air, as if everyone were glad to return their focus to the mundane tasks of everyday life. Like after a funeral, when one of the bereaved laughs at some quiet joke, and gives everyone else permission to breathe again. For Wren, however, the sanctity of the story lingered dreamlike. The images and emotions had been refreshed and would not quickly fade. The others seemed like they were speaking too loudly, too quickly.

“So you got your story,” jCharles continued. “What now?”

“An excellent question,” Haiku said. “I’ve been on this journey for so long, I’d not given much thought to what might come after.”

“Well,” jCharles said, “you’re more than welcome to stick around here until you get it figured out.”

“Thank you, but no,” answered Haiku, “I’ve disrupted your lives far too much as it is.”

jCharles casually pointed at Haiku and glanced over at Mol. “Now who’s that remind you of?”

Mol smiled and nodded. “Brothers for sure.”

“So that’s settled then,” jCharles said. “You’re stayin’ for dinner.”

“Thank you, but it’s really all right,” Haiku said in mild protest.

“It’s not a request, Haiku,” Mol said, rising to her feet. She bent and kissed Wren on the head without hesitation, as if he were her own, and he accepted it as readily. “You made demands on our time, now we’re returning the favor.”

Haiku smiled and bowed his head in acquiescence. Mol turned back to look at Wren, and ran her fingers through his hair. “Wren darling, would you like to help me in the kitchen?”

Wren knew the offer for what it was. She didn’t need the help, but had over the past days found ways to involve him in her daily affairs, keeping him occupied and giving him reason to keep close. Normally he would accept the invitation. At that moment, though, his whole body felt completely spent. A great weariness settled on him.