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Authors: Jake Halpern

BOOK: Nightfall
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CHAPTER 4

The first floor of Line's house was a large open space with whitewashed walls, which appeared a murky green in the glow of the many stained glass windows. The walls were bare except for a number of crudely fashioned pegs where the family hung its cloaks and hats. Line lit a few candles so they could all see properly. During the brighter years of Late Morning and Noon, the stained glass helped mute the ever-present glare of the sun. Nowadays, it was so gloomy that Francis refused to enter the place alone, which is why he'd been waiting outside.

Even in the dim light, however, there was no mistaking how little packing Line had done. Farm tools—spades, hoes, and buckets—were still caked with dirt. The corners were thick with cobwebs made by strangely industrious spiders that emerged in the recent months of Twilight. Dirty plates and dishes, crusted and flaking from previous meals, lay on the kitchen table and counters. Bearing mute witness to the dirt and grime was an army of toy soldiers, perched on every ledge and in every crevice.

Line waved a hand at the mess. “I may have mentioned that I haven't packed up the house yet.”

“You may have mentioned that,” Marin said dryly. It was strange to be in Line's house without an adult present. And yet this was how Line lived—on his own—with no one to answer to. She imagined, for a moment, what it would be like to live here, too, with Line, spending her time with her own rules, rather than those of her parents.

Line led Francis into a small alcove at the back of the house, which served as the kitchen. He pushed a small wooden panel in the wall, triggering a copper pipe to splash cold water into a cast-iron pot that sat in the jade washing basin. Marin stood nearby, fidgeting with a toy soldier that she'd picked up.

Just then, Francis screamed.

A monstrous apparition was staring at them through the front window. Its face was long and blackened, except for its eye sockets—a pair of cavernous, bloodred tunnels through which two green serpents protruded. The face quickly disappeared, and then there was a knock on the door. Francis cowered behind Line.

“It's okay,” said Line, lifting his brother into his arms. “I was expecting something like this—they're a little early, though.”

He swung the front door open. A nine- or ten-year-old child stood in the doorway, wearing the gruesome mask they'd seen in the window. Marin considered ducking out the back door, but it was too late; the child had already seen her.
Will he tell anyone?
It probably didn't matter. People had bigger things to worry about these days than who was unchaperoned.

“Take off your mask,” ordered Line. “You're scaring my brother.”

“We're not allowed to,” said the boy. He turned his head, as if looking for confirmation, and a second figure emerged in the doorway. This was a grown man, wearing a yellow mask emblazoned with flame-shaped metalwork.

“Who are they?” whispered Francis, his face half buried in Line's neck.

“I am the Specter of Night,” the boy with the serpent eyes intoned. His deep voice was clearly forced. “And he is the Specter of Day.”

The man in the golden mask nodded.

“The tide has turned,” continued the boy with the serpent eyes. He spoke solemnly and deliberately, enunciating every word, as if reciting the lines from a poem. “The cycle of the stars has begun. The sun is gone. Darkness shrouds the island. We are to leave.”

Line took a step forward. “We have the envelope,” he said. “And we're in the middle of preparing the house.” He paused. “Are you done here? Like I said, my brother is scared.”

“He
should
be scared,” the boy said. “I am the Specter of Night and there are other spirits, much more gruesome than I, waiting in the woods. My face was made in their likeness.”

“Is that true?” asked Francis, looking up at his brother.

“He's repeating the lines from an old poem,” said Line. “It's just a silly game.”

“You should show more
respect
,” interjected the man with the golden mask. He pointed an accusing finger at Line. “These
customs are sacred. Prepare your house before the furriers arrive.” He looked around. “You have work to do here,
boy
.”

Line's jaw tightened. He set his brother on the ground and stalked toward the door. Marin, sensing a possible confrontation, stepped in front of Line and addressed the man with the golden mask.

“Specter of Night,” she said, inclining her head respectfully. “You have something for this house, do you not?”

The man nodded, appeased. The boy with the serpent eyes reached into his coat, pulled out a small paper bag, and gave it to Marin.
“Cover your scent.”

Francis pushed his way toward Marin. “What is it?”

“Lime,” replied the boy with the serpent eyes, using his regular pitch now. “It's what they put on dead bodies. You need to sprinkle it around the house before you leave.”

Marin bowed. “I'm sure there are other houses awaiting your arrival.”

“Blessed be the Day,” said the man with the golden mask.

“Save us from the Night,” said the boy with the serpent eyes.

And then, much to everyone's relief, they departed.

No one spoke at first. Francis kept his large brown eyes fixed on his brother.

“Was that the silversmith?” asked Marin, finally breaking the silence.

“It sounded like him. He's a friend of my
uncle's
,” Line said with a roll of his eyes.

Line sent Francis to play with his soldiers, then returned to the kitchen. Eager for something to do, Marin began to clean,
starting with wiping down the windows. As she rubbed a cloth across the dusty panes of glass, she thought again of the hag in the ocean.
The houses must be without stain.

Line cooked up a generous amount of dandelion greens, sprinkling in salt, pepper, and dried cod. When the food was ready, he served three large plates and they sat at a rickety wooden table. They were hungry, and ate in silence.

Francis finished first. He dashed to a worn-down armchair and picked up an oversize leather-bound book embossed with flowing gold script across its cover:
Tales of the Desert Lands
. It told the story of a little girl named Shiloh who was born along the equator, where the sun rose and set in a shorter cycle: seventy-two hours of Day followed by seventy-two hours of Night. Children from all of the northern islands were given this book, in order to prepare them for life in the desert. Once there, the islanders would spend fourteen years in a small city of sandstone buildings, situated on a crescent-shaped beach hemmed in by the Desert Lands on one side and the ocean on the other.

Marin stood up from the table and walked over to the chair where Francis was sitting. She eyed his book and recalled how Shiloh rode a two-humped horse across the dunes, befriended the desert nomads, and found wadis where treasures were buried. Most memorable of all was the story of Shiloh's time at the Cloister—a forbidding stone tower rising from the sand—where she spent a year isolated with other girls her age. It was a rite of passage for natives of the Desert Lands and their daughters. During this time, the “women-to-become” meditated together and used scalpels and ink to etch markings across their bodies and faces.

Francis looked up at Marin. “What's it really like in the Desert Lands?” he asked. “Your mother lived there, didn't she?”

Marin nodded. “She did.”

“And that's why she has those marks on her wrists?”

Marin nodded again. “The markings aren't only on her wrists,” she explained. “They go all the way up her back, too.”

“Can I touch them one day?”

“Francis—it's late,” said Line, eager to change the subject. “You need to get to bed.”

Francis shook his head. “I don't want to go by myself. And I'm not tired.”

“Go with him,” Marin told Line. She felt a sudden pang of sadness for Francis, this little boy with no parents to tuck him in. “I'll clean up, and we can move the furniture when you come down. And don't forget, we also have to deal with the key.”

CHAPTER 5

Line walked Francis up the narrow, creaking stairs that led to the second floor, holding his hand so he wouldn't trip in the dark stairwell. At the top of the stairs was a small landing and three doorways. One doorway led into Line's room, another into Francis's room, and a third into the room his parents had shared.

“Can I sleep in your room tonight?” asked Francis.

“Okay,” said Line. He was too tired to argue. Francis walked over to Line's bed and climbed into it. Line crawled in next to him and pulled a huge comforter over them. It was used only in Twilight, when the weather became uncomfortably cold. Francis was quiet, and for a moment, Line wondered if he'd fallen asleep. That hope was dashed when Francis turned and asked, “Did Mother know about the spirits who live here at Night?”

Line paused. Francis did not talk about their mother often.

“Nothing lives here at Night,” Line replied, patting his little brother on the shoulder. “It's too cold. The island freezes.”

“But the spirits are dead,” persisted Francis. “So it doesn't matter how cold it gets.”

“There's no such thing as spirits,” said Line gently. “Adults think that telling kids to get ready before the spirits come will make them pack up quickly. But we live on our own, so we're kind of adults already and don't need to play. Understand?” He kissed his brother on the cheek. “Now close your eyes.”

“But I'm not tired.”

Line sighed. “Do you want me to sing?”

“Yes,” said Francis with a yawn.

Line cleared his throat and began to sing “Hand Over Hand,” one of the ballads that old men and women sang as they scaled the island's cliffs. It was a slow, sad melody—perfect for chanting in rounds, with each climber on a rope singing in intervals. Line sang for a while, then hummed the tune.

Some time later, Line woke with a start.
How long have I been asleep?
It could have been minutes or hours—he was too disoriented to tell. He stood and walked downstairs. Marin was gone, and the house was in tip-top shape. She had done a great deal of work—the dishes were cleaned, the toys put away, and the tools returned to the shed. Much of the furniture had been moved, too. Marin was incredible.

They had grown up alongside each other, part of a group of children who'd been born at Sunrise. Throughout their early childhood, Marin and Kana had kept to themselves, as twins often do. In fact, one of Line's earliest memories was watching Marin lead Kana along the cliffs. For years, Line had thought her beautiful—her brown skin, her smile, her confidence, even with the elders. Yet it was Kana whom Line befriended first—the two boys became close around the time that Line's mother died.

Together, they explored the darkened edges of the forest, where Kana helped Line gather mushrooms and a medicinal plant called lekar. Lekar always fetched a good price at market, but it was hard to find so close to Night, so he mainly sold mushrooms now. This, and a little farming, was how Line supported himself. It was only within the last three months or so that Line and Marin started spending time together—and this, unfortunately, had been the beginning of things souring between Line and Kana,
and
between Kana and Marin.

Line walked into the kitchen. The old windup clock by the stove read midnight. He had been asleep for hours. Then, on the counter near the food cupboard, he saw a note.

Line,

I thought I'd let you sleep.

The kitchen chairs are in the living room. The coffee table needed to be rotated by a half turn, so it faced the other way. (Insane.) The end table from Francis's bedroom is in the parlor. I moved the desk by myself. Aren't you impressed? I also cleaned up your parents' room. I hope you don't mind.

There were a few notes on the floor plan that I didn't understand, like the bit about the
RAT
,
SNOUT
, and
TEETH
. And I couldn't find the round tables. I'll bring you some bread tomorrow.

Remember the key. It fits that door in the cellar.

“The key,” said Line aloud. He nodded—fully awake now—and set to work. He grabbed a lit candle from the dining room
and proceeded to a door at the back of the kitchen. He opened it, cleared away a thick draping of cobwebs, and headed downstairs to the cellar. The stone walls of the cellar were sweating rivulets of water, which had softened the gravel and dirt floor, making it mucky. Line could feel his shoes sticking to the earth as he walked.

At the far end of the cellar, he found what he was looking for: a sturdy wooden door, bolted and sealed shut with an old warded lock. He'd never seen the door open. His mother had told him it was a storage closet, and he'd never been especially curious about what was inside. The cellar was not a place to spend free time.

Line took the key from his pocket, slid it into the lock, and fumbled around until he was rewarded with a click. He opened the door and revealed two round tables and three large wooden boxes. He walked deeper into the closet and leaned in to examine the boxes more carefully. One of them was marked
RAT
, a second was marked
SNOUT
, and the third was marked
TEETH
.

Line sat back on his heels, intrigued. He hadn't expected the arrival of the envelopes to lead to a treasure hunt in his own house.

One by one, he brought the boxes to the main floor and arranged them in a row. Line knelt down over the box marked
RAT
and pulled out a huge animal head, stuffed and mounted on a wooden slab. It looked like a cross between a rat and a storybook mastodon. The head was twice the size than that of a horse, which meant that the body must have been gigantic. Beneath the head was a brass plate emblazoned with ornate cursive letters written in a strange alphabet.

“Wow,” said Line. “You're an ugly one.” He consulted the floor plan and concluded that
RAT
was meant to go on the middle peg in the front room. The head fit perfectly. He then walked back across the room and opened the crate marked
SNOUT
—and removed yet another mounted head. This one had interlocked plates instead of fur, two pointy tusks, and a long snout—almost like an armadillo with an especially big nose. This head hung to the left of
RAT
. Finally, he opened the box marked
T
EETH
and pulled out a third mounted head. It was almost identical to
SNOUT
, except for a set of long, jagged fangs.

“What are you?” asked Line quietly, as if he half expected the head to answer his question. “And where in God's name did you come from?”

There'd always been stories that wild boars—and animals even fiercer and more primordial—lurked in the depths of the island's forests. Line never entirely believed such tales, but he never totally discounted them, either. It was a large island, and very few people left the immediate vicinity of town and the coastline.

Line consulted the floor plan again, placed
TEETH
on the wall, and returned the wooden boxes to the basement. He then moved the two round tables into the front room. Finally, he opened the small paper bag of lime and sprinkled it as he walked around, giving the entire dwelling the air of a disinfected outhouse.

When he was done, he stopped to stare into the lifeless eyes of
RAT
,
SNOUT
, and
TEETH
, wondering what the purpose
of hanging these grotesque animals on the walls could possibly be. It was pointless—absurd.
What will I tell Francis at breakfast?

Line glanced at the small grandfather clock in the corner. It was an hour past midnight. Francis would be asleep for the next six hours. His little brother was the soundest sleeper that Line had ever encountered, and this was a good thing. Line wanted to make a quick trip to the edge of the woods to collect mushrooms for trading. And he knew of a spot that might still have some lekar, though that was probably too much to hope for.

He reread Marin's letter. She'd even cleaned his parents' room—knowing that it had to be done, and that he was reluctant to do it. Marin saw a problem, and she attacked it. They were a good team. But everything would change in the Desert Lands. Line knew this because Marin's mother had pulled him aside recently and said exactly that. She hadn't been unkind about it, just matter-of-fact:
This is the way it must be—she will spend time with other girls her age. In seclusion. And after that, she will be busy with many other things.
Tarae had lingered on those last words as she looked at Line. Her message was clear: the relationship between Marin and Line would come to an end when they left Bliss.

Line never told Marin about this conversation. Maybe she already knew. All this filled Line with a sense of immediacy—the next day, or two, perhaps, was all that he and Marin had.

He stood up straight and looked again at Marin's letter. If he went quickly, there was something he could do for her.
He'd been thinking about this for weeks but hadn't found the time. It wouldn't take long, and he'd be back before Francis awoke. He grabbed a thick wool sweater and rushed out of the farmhouse.

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