Nightfall (25 page)

Kana woke in stages. At first, he was aware only of movement, a deliberate, rhythmic swaying of his body. His head pulsed with pain, a deep fatigue had settled in his limbs, and it was only with great effort that he was able to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. He was staring downward and the ground was moving.

In his state, it took him a while to realize that he was being carried over someone's shoulder. Kana opened his mouth and tried to yell. A tiny sputter came out instead. Immediately, something cold and leathery covered his mouth. The musty, humid smell of it. The same as in his dream. Kana struggled, but it did no good. The object covering his mouth was clenched like a vise, and slowly, Kana realized that it was a hand. Not a human hand, but a hand nonetheless. Then a voice spoke to him. It was harsh and guttural, though undeniably feminine. He recognized it almost at once.

“If you make noise—you will draw them to us,” purred the voice.

Kana tried to reply, but his mouth was still gagged.

“I will set you down,” said the voice, “but you mustn't make a sound.”

The hand released his mouth. His body slid downward, and a moment later, he was resting with his back against the trunk of an enormous tree. He blinked, trying to take in the scene. He was in a part of the forest where the ground was carpeted in moss and the trees were spaced well apart. All around him, great shafts of timber rose up like the columns of a long-forgotten temple. Wisps of fog hung in the air, curled together, and drifted past.

At first, he did not see who had been carrying him. He felt certain that it was the woman from his dream, but he had not managed to get a look at her. As soon as she set him down, she seemed to vanish. But then a silhouette emerged from the fog-shrouded gloom. It moved quickly, fluidly. The figure had a delicate face, pointy ears, large feline eyes, and long, flowing red hair. She was dressed in plain, unornamented animal skins, but around her long neck she wore several tight copper necklaces. Her arms were muscular but elegant; her hands and fingers seemed longer than a normal person's. She was tall, at least six feet, and her legs were toned and lean. Her brown skin shimmered as if sprinkled with tiny shards of glass. The color seemed to change as they walked—getting lighter with the moon, darker without. Her feet—like his—were clawed and covered in scales. She was equal parts beautiful and frightening.

Kana was so startled when she first emerged from the fog that he lurched backward and smacked his head against the
tree, triggering a fresh burst of pain. He put his hand to his head and felt the mix of sticky and fresh blood. He remembered it clearly now. Most of all, he remembered his sudden murderous rage. Would he really have killed Line if Marin hadn't intervened? He had never been that angry before. And yet, in the moment, it all felt so easy and right: the anger, the aggression, the violence.

“Your friends have left you,” said the creature, as if she could read his thoughts. “Your chances are better without them.”

“It's
you
,” said Kana. These were his first words and they came out sounding strained. But he didn't need to elaborate. “You're the one. Before you spoke to Marin, you spoke to me.” His voice cracked with fear. “You warned me to stay away from the woods.”

“I did—and you didn't listen,” said the creature flatly. She drew close to him in a blur of movement that left him no time to react. She was crouching now, just feet away. Her long, sinewy muscles twitched, as if tensing, but her large eyes—which were streaked with iridescent rays of amber—were as still and lifeless as two glass paperweights.

“Your friends won't last long,” she said. “They smell powerfully of fear—it will bring out the hunters, especially the ones that like to play with their prey. That little rat chasing them is the least of their problems.”

It took Kana a few seconds to understand what she was saying. But when he did, his eyes widened and he struggled to sit up. “I need to find them,” he said. “I need to help . . .” But he didn't finish this thought because, all at once, he sensed
the futility of it.
Help them how? Marin just hit me over the head—hit me because I had my hands around Line's throat.
It wasn't that he didn't
want
to help them. It was the realization that they were now probably running from him as much as anything else. And for good reason.

It was the sound of the knife that broke him away from his thoughts. Kana heard it being unsheathed and, an instant later, saw the long, curved blade. She tilted the knife toward him casually. He tried to retreat, but she had backed him into the trunk of a tree. “I took you to the cave,” said the creature quietly, with her calm, glassy, unblinking eyes. “I tried.” Then she thrust the blade toward him, pressing its tip against his throat.

“Don't,” gasped Kana. He struggled to keep his neck still to avoid being cut. All the while, he tried to think.
Why is she doing this? Why now? Why wait until this moment?
He had to stall her. “Y-y-you were carrying me somewhere,” he stammered. “You're still trying—to help me.”

“Not so, child,” said the creature. “I was looking for a place to bury you.” As she said this, she pressed the blade more firmly against his throat, drawing a pinprick of blood. “It will be a mercy. I should have done this long ago.”

“Wait,” said Kana desperately. “I'll go with you to the cave.”

The creature remained still, showing no indication that she had even heard him. Kana felt his hopes sink. Her eyes were so lifeless. “Please,” said Kana. Tears welled in his eyes. His legs began to shake and he fought to keep still. “You don't want to do this. Or you would have done it in my bedroom—weeks ago.”

The creature hesitated.

“That is true. I am weak.” Her long fingers twitched fast as
insect wings, and suddenly the blade was back in the sheath that was buckled to her belt. “But know that I will kill you before I let the hunters see you.”

Kana wiped the fresh blood from his throat. The creature bent down, tore a swath of moss from the earth, and rubbed it roughly against Kana's throat.

“To hide the scent,” she said.

Kana let out a deep breath and began to think. He could not be surprised again—he wouldn't survive it. “How far are we from the cave?” he asked. He thought of the cave drawings, of the woman and man standing there.
Does she look like the woman on the wall?

“It is very close.” For a moment, she flicked her head to the right, moving it so quickly that it looked more like a muscle spasm than a gesture.

“What about my sister?” asked Kana.

“You have no sister,” the creature replied. “But, of course, you know that already.”

Kana began to say something, but she cut him off with a hiss.

“Whisper or keep your mouth shut!”

Kana gritted his teeth and let out a deep breath. “But how can I just leave them?”

“You must,” she retorted. “And if you don't, you will die by their sides. You still have the scent of Day.”

Kana slowly struggled to his feet. The creature took a step backward, giving him some space.

“How many of you are here?” whispered Kana.

“Thousands,” replied the creature with the slightest of tremors in her voice.

“And they all live in our town?”

“There isn't enough room,” replied the creature. “Our numbers have grown. Now only the hunters are allowed to live in the town. And it is ours now—not
yours
—or is this still confusing to you?”

“I understand,” said Kana. He moved his hands to his face and massaged his temples with his fingers, as if to goad his brain to process everything that she had said. All around them now, snow was falling, covering the ground with a thin layer of white. Kana did not notice the cold, even though his feet were bare.

“You shouldn't be here,” said the creature. “You should've left on the boats with the other Day-dwellers. That has always been the understanding.”

“The understanding?”

“Yes, at sundown you leave the island. Everything must be left as you found it. This time, your people left later than usual. Even when we carved the markings on your door—our door—you stayed. You and that old man.”

“You killed him,” said Kana.

“Not me.” Her eyes showed nothing, not a trace of thought or feeling.

“But one of the hunters?”

“Yes—and they will gladly do the same to your friends.”

“And me?”

“To you,” said the creature, “they will do much worse.”

“Why? I'm one of y-you,” he stammered, pleading at her with his eyes.

“You will
never
be one of us,” replied the creature. She drew closer and narrowed her eyes. “Look at me and then look at yourself. Are we the same?”

What she said was true. Some of Kana's features were similar to hers—the fingers, the feet, the eyes—but overall, he looked more like Marin and Line. Kana felt hollow in his chest.

“But I'm still changing . . . ,” began Kana.

“And so am I,” she replied. “It happens with the rising of the moon. You may change a little more, but we'll never look the same. You cannot survive the Night.”

Kana looked away. A deep feeling of loneliness came over him—heaviness, like a weight pulling him down to the bottom of a dark well.
I belong nowhere. And I never will.

“So if I'm not one of you . . . and I'm not one of
them
 . . . what am I?”

“Isn't it obvious?” she asked, and her voice seemed to falter.

Kana was about to ask what she meant, but the creature sharply jerked her head to the right and growled—a deep, full-throated growl—like an animal that sensed an imminent threat. It took a moment for Kana to see what she was growling at because, at first, he saw only wisps of swirling fog. But then he saw two suspicious eyes and the contours of a tall, muscular body.

It was another creature. It eyed Kana, grunted with surprise, and leapt instantly onto the trunk of a nearby tree. Its talons gripped the bark and it circled up the side as if the trunk were a spiral staircase. Then it vanished. Seconds later, the amber-eyed creature leapt onto the same tree.

She turned back to Kana.

“Follow me up the tree!” she barked. “I'll hunt him back to you.” Then she grabbed her knife, pulled it from its sheath, and flung it toward Kana. Without thinking, he caught it by the handle as it whizzed past.

They were completely and utterly lost. Marin clasped Line's good hand and led him forward through the trackless forest. The interlocking of their fingers was the only scrap of comfort left to them. It was impossible to measure time, but Marin figured they'd been walking at least an hour since fighting off the rat. They climbed, descended, followed animal trails that petered out, but they were always in the forest, always surrounded by trees. Every so often, Marin would stop and press her hand to Line's burning forehead. The situation was bad—they both knew it—and it would only get worse.

Line, meanwhile, tried to ignore his fever and the raw throbbing in his hand. In fact, he tried to ignore everything and focus on Marin's hand in his, and their breath turning into mist as they exhaled. He dreamed of blankets, hats, gloves, a fire, and—most of all—light. He remembered the way the sun felt on his skin and the way it made him squint his eyes. He wanted only to see daylight again. He wanted to feel the warmth of the sun as he and Francis ran bare-chested on the beach.

It was Line who first heard the sound of water
flowing.
Please,
he thought.
Please be the Coil.
They grasped each other's hand tighter and pushed toward the sound. Line became acutely aware of his loud, ragged breathing.
Can the things hear me? Are they nearby? And what of Kana?
For a moment, Line saw Kana's pale face, lurking in the shadows. Then he shivered.
What happened to Kana? And why isn't it happening to me and Marin?
One thing was clear: they had left Kana to die. Line could still recall the viselike grip of Kana's hands on his throat.
How could I not run?
And yet hadn't all this started because Kana had risked his own life for him, venturing back into the woods instead of boarding the boat? And now Line was running, abandoning him.
What kind of friend am I?

Again, Line heard the sound of flowing water. It was growing louder.
The Coil. Let it be the Coil.

The ground turned mushy and soft; trees gave way to bushes; and suddenly, open skies were above them. They had come upon a clearing filled with waist-high grass. A fast stream flowed through the middle of it, gleaming silver in the moonlight. Snow filled the air—softly but steadily, without remorse.

“The Coil,” Line whispered. His lips were cracked, his hair was matted wetly to his skull, and he trembled uncontrollably. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, but started coughing instead. Marin wrapped an arm around him, waiting for the spasms to stop. In the moment, she was also keenly aware of the cold. They couldn't last much longer in these conditions. They had a few hours, at most, before hypothermia set in.

“You may be right,” replied Marin. She squinted into the darkness. The ground was now white with snow and reflecting the moonlight. Marin could see the flowing water, but for some
reason, it didn't give her confidence. “It looks awfully narrow to be the Coil.”

“I—I—I need water,” he said. “Just a few sips.”

He pushed forward, but Marin pulled him back.

“
Stop.
Something isn't right.” She listened intently and realized that she heard water flowing in
several
places—by the stream, but also nearby, almost at her feet.

Marin knelt on the ground, groping with her hands until she found a hole that was roughly two feet in diameter. She thrust an arm inside and felt only cold air. She scooped up a handful of dirt and flung it into the hole. It vanished, as if swallowed. Several seconds later, she heard a faint
thwack
. The drop must have been at least fifty feet.

“Another stream is flowing underground,” she said, looking at Line. “If we had fallen into that hole . . .”

There's no point in finishing that thought.

“Stay here,” said Marin. “I'll come back with water.” Line collapsed into the snow-covered grass. Marin crawled toward the stream. Along the way, she had to maneuver around two more sinkholes. When she finally made it to the stream, she drank deeply, greedily. After she drank her fill, she looked around for something that would hold liquid.

Nearby, the trunk of a downed tree lay decomposing in the fast-flowing water. Marin grasped at it, and it came apart in her hands. She did, however, find a stub of a branch that was nearly intact. It wasn't large, perhaps six inches in diameter and a foot long, but it was hollow and didn't crumble to pieces. It would hold water as long as Marin plugged up the bottom end with her hand.

She filled it to the top and walked carefully around the sinkholes back to Line. He was still lying in the grass, and for a split second she was afraid he might have gone unconscious. But then she whispered his name, and a sound gurgled from his cracked lips. While holding the branch in one hand, Marin helped him sit upright. She carefully tipped the branch and dribbled water into his mouth.

After drinking, Line rested there, his eyes tightly closed. Marin sat by his side in silence.

Eventually, Line opened his eyes and peered at Marin.

“I'm not feeling very well,” he said. It was a simple statement, but the way he delivered it brought tears to Marin's eyes. She looked away so he wouldn't see.

She bent close to his face. “You'll be fine,” she whispered. “I'll get you more water.”

Before he could say anything else, Marin took the hollow branch and returned to the stream. As she went, she visualized Line's pained face. It was coming soon—his arm and the knife.
I can't do it.
She shuddered.
Yes, I can. And I will.
Unless she found lekar first.

Back at the stream, Marin paused to splash water on her face. It was so comforting that she had to tear herself away to focus on the task at hand.

The moon lit up a broad area and she spent several minutes looking for the tiny woodfern plant: a cluster of soft, round leaves surrounding three thumblike, red-brown stems. Lekar. That was what she needed right now.

Marin ranged up and down the stream, at least twenty paces in either direction. She didn't find even a hint of woodfern. In
the distance, she could hear Line coughing weakly and calling for her. Marin's heart broke.
What if he dies?
As that thought surfaced, she returned to what Line had said—his terrifying suggestion—that they simply throw themselves off a cliff. End it all, quickly. Anything would be better than this:
Kana gone, Line dying, me alone.

The simplicity of this thought shook loose another. What if she just ran?
Get up, abandon Line, run toward the sinkhole. Leap. Headfirst. Fall. The End.

Once in her mind, it was hard to release the seductiveness of the idea. She stood still and felt her muscles tense for the final sprint. But then her mind fought back, and images of Kana as a child, and climbing with Line, formed a bulwark against any further thoughts of suicide.
No. I will keep moving—always keep moving.

Marin turned back to the stream and knelt to fill the hollow branch again. She began walking back toward Line. She was so focused on not spilling the water that her foot came down too close to the edge of a hole, which crumbled under her weight. She fell, and grabbed at the grass, pulling herself onto more solid ground. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She choked back a sob. Her branch had fallen, and seconds later, she heard a distant
plop
far below.

Marin buried her head in the grass. Her arms and legs trembled. She rubbed her face into the icy ground so hard that it scraped her cheeks. But the pain helped bring her back. She peered down into the sinkhole. A shaft of moonlight partially illuminated the distant water rushing by, along with the hollowed-out earthen walls dotted with rocks, roots, and
tiny plants. As her eyes adjusted to the murky light within the sinkhole, she saw a recognizable clump of round leaves surrounding small, red-brown stems.

Woodfern.

It was about twenty feet down, nestled around a series of embedded, fist-size rocks made slick with the constantly trickling water. She wanted to throw herself into the hole, grabbing at the woodfern as she fell—such was her eagerness. But she had to be careful. She had to think this through. Getting in was easy—getting out would be much tougher.

She extended her legs in both directions, burying them into the tall tangled grasses around her. This anchored her—a little. She then leaned her shoulders, head, and arms farther into the sinkhole.

At ground level, the hole was only two feet wide, but it steadily expanded as it went down, so that—at the level of the woodfern—the walls were about five feet apart. Marin reached in and tugged experimentally at a rock embedded in the wall of the sinkhole. As soon she touched it, the rock came loose and tumbled down. Marin scanned the walls of the sinkhole again, until her eyes fell upon a network of stringy roots that looked like a spiderweb. Marin stretched a bit farther, leaning deeper and more precariously into the hole, to get a better look. The roots appeared to continue all the way down to the water.

Suddenly, she realized she hadn't heard Line in several minutes. She closed her eyes against the fear.
It doesn't matter now. I can't help him without lekar.

Very carefully, Marin set her sack down on the ground beside her. She didn't want it dropping down the hole. Then she
prepared herself. She rolled away from the sinkhole and rotated her body so that her feet entered first. She grabbed handfuls of the tangled grasses with her arms, bunching together as many as she could to lessen the weight on any one strand of the thick growth. She descended slowly, bracing her legs against the walls. Just as she was about to fully enter the hole, the walls widened. Her feet lost contact and swung freely.
I need to grab the roots. Now!

She let go of the grass with one hand and reached frantically for a root just as she heard and felt the clump of grass—which she was still clinging to with her other hand—begin to tear. Her free hand grazed a patch of roots and clamped down, followed by the other hand, which captured a nearby web. The roots were just strong enough to hold her weight for a few seconds before tearing. They formed a kind of rope ladder that disintegrated soon after it was used. As she climbed down, Marin became aware of her breathing—it was fast and shallow, and it was proving difficult to get enough oxygen into her lungs. Her hands became sweaty, and her grip on the web of roots began to waver.