Rift (8 page)

“Spar, cut the rope,” she said. He glowered, but complied. “Hands also.”

Slowly, Spar did what she asked. But his face was terrible to look at.

“Now we run,” Loon said, urging the man into a walk and then a ragged jog. Behind them came Spar, with the woman in tow.

The rain hit them like a wall. Thunder quaked the land beneath their feet and claimed the sky over their heads. Lightning struck a small tree fifty feet away. Its two halves burned in the rain—another out-of-place thing. Loon began to wonder if Spar was right, that these two brought evil with them. Before they found these Reevers, Loon and Spar had evaded the Tallgrass clavers, had never seen a Mudder, and had stumbled on Gopher Hole, a perfect place to rest from their long journey. Now they were fleeing maddened clavers with a feud to settle, and were exposed in a plains storm with a coward and an invalid for company. Maybe the owl had spoken truly.

When they ran out of breath, they hunted among the rocks of a gully for an overhang to rest under. But there was nothing. Loon raised her face to the rain, letting it drench her. Meanwhile, Spar allowed the man to dig in his pack. From this he pulled a sheet of
thin, yellow cloth that the wind whipped about. After a long while the Reever shaped a small hut in the flat of the gully. They all climbed inside except Spar, who refused.

As the night came on, the old woman began to moan. Her companion used small patches on her skin, but if he prayed for her, he kept his prayers to himself. Each time the thunder roared, he winced, but he no longer covered his ears.

Loon rested among their packs, pretending to sleep. Through the slits of her closed eyes she kept watch on the stranger as he tucked papery blankets around the woman and murmured to her. She liked the way he cared for her, as though an old woman mattered. Maybe, in his clave, old women
did
matter. Maybe the shiny circles they wore around nose and mouth were big tech against the bad air, the sickness folk called indigo for its blue shadows around the lips and nails. Maybe big tech let zerters last into the gray years.

Lightning erupted nearby, turning the yellow tent fiery. In that instant the Reever’s face looked like it was carved from amber, his eyes like a living being trapped within. Loon thought again of her first glimpse of him, shoving soil in his mouth and swallowing. She knew it was merely the food kernels that he ate. But the memory thrilled her and would not fade.

When she spared his life, he had soil on his breath.

4
 

1

Day five
. Over their tent, the sky shrieked with wind, bellowed with thunder. The noise was stupefying. Reeve lay next to Marie for warmth, shuddering at every crack and boom. He thought he heard rocks exploding, the land ripping, but in truth he knew little about what was going on. He’d read about storms, seen them from Station—but how utterly puny those views were compared with the actual thing. The sky which he had cowered under the last four days, finding its immense emptiness unnerving, had now shown him how benign his first impression was.

The tent walls registered a yellow blot of lightning. Then a primordial roar shattered the world. He huddled in misery, thankful at least for the coming of night so that the filthy girl could not watch him and he eventually might sleep. Amid the disturbing sulfur smell of this world was now added the body odors of three people in a tent who hadn’t showered for days, and one who may
never
have showered.

Strange how, amid all his troubles, he could long for something as minor as a shower. And warmth. After days of the cool sun and relentless wind, he’d
thought he could never be warm again. Now, with the rain, his chill was profound. Despite their blankets, he feared hypothermia. But there was no time to be sick or weak. To gain strength, he tried eating the dried meat that the claver called Spar favored. It was awful—but as Marie said, they had to learn. Once, the girl had brought him small, bluish berries. Their sweetness was a revelation, but he’d paid dearly for his excess of enthusiasm.

The girl was little more than an animal. She spoke seldom and stared at him as though he was outrageous in some way. And though she was only a teenager, her companion deferred to her, acting like an obsessed bodyguard and demanding similar deference from him and Marie. The creature was even more filthy than the man—especially her fingernails, which were crusted with dirt. The man, in contrast, kept a trim beard and an almost military demeanor. At first Reeve thought he might be able to overpower him, but the fellow’s reflexes were fast, and the sword was not just an affectation. It looked like an antique of some sort, with its sheath and belt, but Reeve had seen him spear millipedes with it, in swift feats of casual accuracy. When he cooked them he offered to share with no one, including the girl. Not that Reeve would have accepted—it was repulsive enough to watch him eat. But Marie hadn’t eaten anything for a day. He feared her head wound was infected, and it caused him a sharp worry that he might lose her. She was the only one that he knew in all the world.

Beside him, the girl sat bolt upright. In the next instant she had scrambled to the tent opening.

Reeve pushed up on his elbows. “What is it?”

But she was gone, darting out into the storm.

Without taking time to put on his boots, Reeve plunged outside. Wind and rain flew at him out of sheer darkness, with grunts and the clang of metal coming from close by. Mudders, attacking. Squinting,
he saw shadows struggling. He spun around, looking for a weapon. A large rock was his only choice. On his hands and knees, he groped blindly for one, grabbed the largest he could hold in one hand, and pivoted, just in time to face the charge of a burly figure. He dove for the knees, smashing the rock into the man’s kneecap. His attacker bellowed, bringing a blade within an inch of Reeve’s nose.

In a flash of lightning, Reeve caught a glimpse of a long-haired figure crouching, about to push through the tent door where Marie lay helpless. Meanwhile, his attacker had fallen, but now struggled up, staggering. Reeve rolled toward the tent, shouting, “I pissed on your food, claver!”

The figure turned from the tent flap, and behind him he heard a bellow from the man who’d charged him. The one at the tent brought a boot to Reeve’s stomach. Reeve clutched the boot with both hands, yanking so hard he thought he’d dislocated a shoulder. But his muscles were charged with steel, and he sent the claver catapulting forward, crashing facedown in the mud. He saw strands of silver roping through the claver’s hair. Reeve grabbed on to a hunk of that hair and hauled with all his strength. The claver brought a fist down on his forearm, hard enough to break it in two. Blinded for a moment by pain, he was set upon by someone from behind, who bound his arms to his side in a choking embrace, forcing him to his knees.

The long-haired one crawled toward him, brandishing a short knife. As Reeve struggled uselessly, the claver held the knife between them at eye level. “I’ll take your organ while you watch.” It was a woman’s voice. Behind him, the iron hold on his arms tightened.

Then, with a soft
thunk
, the woman’s head left her shoulders. She still knelt before him, blood pumping from the severed neck. Reeve felt himself hoisted to his feet as his assailant backed up. Spar was advancing
on them, holding his weapon in front of him. He feinted to one side and the other while Reeve was dragged backward. Then, in a wrenching movement, Reeve sprawled to the ground in a heap with the claver. He came eye to eye with the girl, Spar’s companion, who had crouched behind to trip them. In the next moment, Spar thrust forward, piercing the claver through the chest.

The girl rose to her feet, tugging on Spar’s hand. She led him to a spot where a claver lay groaning, in need of Spar’s long steel. It was quickly done.

When Spar returned, he handed Reeve a claver spear. They waited, poised for more, but they were alone in the rain, which had softened now to a mere downpour. When they caught their breath, Spar said, “Best to leave now, before the Mudders look for their friends.”

Reeve glanced at the tent. “Marie can’t travel tonight.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you, boyo,” the man said. He turned to the girl.

She nodded.

“Leave me my pack,” Reeve said. “I earned it.”

The man snorted. “You’d be dead three times over, if it weren’t for us.”

“I need my pack,” Reeve said, moving closer to it.

“Spoils of war, boyo.” Spar crouched, ready to fight.

Reeve gripped the spear he’d been given, wondering if the pack was worth dying for.

“Reeve,” a voice came from behind.

Marie was standing outside the tent, dressed in boots and heavy jacket. “He’s right. We can’t stay here.”

“But, Marie …”

“Get packed,” she said, her voice wobbly.

He paused, trying to gauge how far she could go, then deciding any distance would help, with the rain to cover their tracks.

They scavenged the bodies for the best weapons. Reeve gave Spar his choice among the handmade daggers and spears.

Affecting not to notice this courtesy, Spar shoved the two best knives into his belt and hoisted the pack on his shoulders.

Reeve locked gazes with him. “I’m not
boyo
. I’m Reeve.”

The man produced a mean half smile. “Where you headed, boyo? You got any idea where you goin’?”

Reeve wiped the smelly rain out of his eyes. “The Rift,” he said, simply.

Spar snorted, shaking his head. “Now what
rift
might that be?”

When Reeve didn’t answer, the claver spat to one side and turned to follow the girl, who had traipsed off.

“What’s the girl’s name?” Reeve called after him.

Spar threw back: “Call her Mam, or I’ll have your head.”

Reeve gripped his spear, considering something rash. Slowly, he fought down his anger and, with Marie, set out down the ravine after them. Trudging by Marie’s side, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Good enough.” She glanced at him as they sloshed through rivulets of muddy water. “You would have stayed here with me?” she asked.

By the tone of her voice, Reeve hesitated to answer.

She shook her head. “Your heart is too soft.” After a minute she said, “If I fall behind, leave me. Do you hear, Reeve Calder?”

“Would you leave me?”

“Yes.”

Her face was hard, but he didn’t believe her for one instant.

Reeve took up a position at the rear of the party, apparently trusted now, unbound and with a weapon. He watched as Marie walked bravely on. He wouldn’t abandon her, despite her decree. They went back a
long way—all his life—and she was his last link with the world as it was Before. The world of Station. The world where he might have reconciled with his father … if such a feat was possible. The world where a view of Lithia was a forbidden prize, a lark.

So many times on coldwalks he’d gazed down on Lithia and longed for her adventures. Now, slogging through the rain and mud, he cringed at this foolishness. The real thing was nothing like his fantasies. He supposed that would prove to be true about much else, as well.