The Elves of Cintra (32 page)

“Maybe. Some of them. I don’t know. I’ve only been with them a few days now.”

“What about you? Now that you know.”

He looked off into the darkness, making up his mind. For some reason, he found himself remembering Meike. How much trouble would it have been for him to have taken her with him? Even knowing as little about her as he did. Even knowing he might not have saved her anyway.

Rabbit was looking at him from the cradle of her arms. Waiting.

“I don’t put people out,” he said.

She waited, too. To hear the words.

“Okay,” he agreed. “You have a deal.”

T
HEY WALKED THROUGH
the darkened streets, the girl leading, the cat ambling along beside him, hopping every now and then as if to prove to him how strange things had become. The world was silent around them, the buildings dark and the sky vast and empty.

“Why do you carry that staff?” she asked him.

“I’ll tell you sometime. How do you know where to find plague medicine?”

“The Lizards keep stores of it to trade with. They don’t have much use for most of it. Their immune systems aren’t affected in the same way as humans, so the medicines mostly don’t help. What kind is it that you need?”

“Cyclomopensia.” He reached in his pocket, took out the empty container Owl had given him, and handed it to her. “Look familiar?”

She examined it carefully and then pocketed it. “I think I’ve seen it. We can take some of the other kinds, too. In case.”

He glanced at her, but she kept looking straight ahead, a step or two in front of him. “What if my kids don’t like you?” he asked after a moment. “I probably can’t change it if they don’t.”

“Some of them will like me, I bet.”

“Some of them, yes.” He thought of Owl. She would be quick enough to take Cat under her wing. Maybe Candle, too. But he wasn’t so sure about the others.

“Are you worried about me?”

He thought about it a moment. “I don’t know.”

She reached down abruptly and scooped up Rabbit, cradling him in her arms. “Don’t be. I can take care of myself.”

He didn’t know about that, either.

NINETEEN

B
EAR STOOD IN THE SHADOWS
fifty yards from the little shed in which Owl kept watch over River and Fixit. It was nearing midnight—or maybe midnight had already come and gone, he couldn’t be sure. He had taken the first watch after dinner and carried the heavy Tyson Flechette out into the darkness, choosing this spot in which to hide, the shadows so thick and deep that no one approaching would see him until they were within a dozen feet. At least, that was what he hoped. If a predator had eyesight good enough to spy him out from any farther away, they were all in a lot of trouble.

But experience had taught him that even the most dangerous predators in this postapocalyptic world lacked good eyesight. Something about the quality of the air or the ingestion of poisons from food and drink had weakened the vision of living things in general. There were exceptions. Hawk was one, Cheney another. But the eyesight of the monsters and the Freaks had not evolved in proportion to their appetites and their cunning and strength. Their hearing was keen, though. It didn’t pay to move around a whole lot at night if one of them was hunting. Their sense of smell was pretty good, too, most times. If they were four-legged rather than two-legged predators.

He knew these things because he had made it his business to know. All the way back to before he was a Ghost, before he even knew where Seattle was or that he might one day end up there. He knew it from the time he was six and had to stand guard while the rest of his family toiled in the fields. In those days, it was believed that not all of the land had been poisoned and that some of it, particularly in distant corners of the United States, was still fertile enough to grow crops. That idea lasted about five years, and then it became clear that whether or not everything was contaminated was beside the point. There was no way to harvest what was grown and no sustainable market to purchase it. You could grow crops if you wanted, but you were likely to end up feeding the wrong mouths.

Bear learned it the first time the raiders appeared, took what they wanted of the crop, and burned the rest to the ground. He learned it when they took his two uncles, whom he never saw again. He learned it when they killed his dog.

He tried to tell his family that it was too risky even before the raiders appeared, but they were not much interested in hearing what he had to say. They never had been. Bear was big and slow and gave the impression of being a trifle stupid. He took his time answering questions and seldom spoke unless spoken to first. He ambled when he walked, and he always seemed to be trying to figure out where he should go and what he should do. He was enormously strong, but his strength seemed to bother him. He walked carefully and responded tentatively. He thought everything through. He saw life in slow motion. His brothers liked to joke that he could do anything, but by the time he got around to doing it, everyone would have gone to bed.

Bear didn’t like being thought of as stupid. He didn’t like being called names and made fun of. Who does? But there wasn’t much he could do about it that didn’t involve crushing someone’s ribs, so he learned to live with the abuse. His parents had too much else on their minds to spend time worrying about him, let alone trying to protect him. So he was pretty much left to deal with things as best he could.

He dealt with them by choosing jobs that kept him apart from the others. Standing watch. Running errands. Engaging in heavy lifting for which only he, of all his siblings and cousins, was suitable. His father worked with him, and his uncles sometimes, and they didn’t make fun of him or call him names. Mostly. He wondered about that now and then, thinking back. It might be that they had, and he just didn’t want to remember.

Bear was smart, beneath his slow-moving, slow-talking, slow-acting veneer, and he knew how to pay attention. While others got along as best they could in a world they hated and a family that valued work over everything, Bear spent his time absorbing and remembering. He learned, and he didn’t forget.

Little things.

Big things.

Everything he could.

That’s how he knew how best to keep watch against the predators. That’s how he knew how to stay awake and not fall asleep in the slow, heavy hours of early morning when your most pressing need was to close your eyes. That’s how he knew that no matter what Panther or Sparrow or the others thought—even Hawk—it was his job to protect them all.

He glanced over to where his family lay sleeping on the ground, Candle and Sparrow in sleeping bags, the boys rolled up in blankets. There was no fire, no warmth to be found other than from their own bodies. But the night air was mild, and there was only a little wind. Behind the sleeping forms, the shed in which Owl tended River and Fixit was still and black. On the dark ribbon of the highway, some hundred yards from where they were settled, nothing moved.

He shifted the weight of the Tyson Flechette from one thigh to the other with a slow, methodical movement. He glanced over to where the boy who had shot Squirrel lay curled up next to the north side of the shed, a small black puddle in the darkness. He didn’t like the boy, and if Owl had allowed it, he would have agreed to give him to Panther for disposal. But Owl wanted the boy unharmed and had charged Bear with seeing that he was left alone. Bear took this charge, as he took all charges that either Owl or Hawk gave him, very seriously. He didn’t have to like it. He just had to do what he knew was right.

Bear was a soldier; he understood orders and he responded to them. Not because he couldn’t think, but because he believed in order. He believed in a place for everyone and everyone in their place. He didn’t understand kids like Panther, who often did whatever they felt like. In a family, you survived by knowing your place and behaving in a consistent, orderly fashion.

You did what you were told to do. You did what was right.

When you reached a point where the two didn’t agree, it was time to move on.

He had found that out the hard way.

H
E IS ELEVEN
when the stealing begins. It isn’t anything important at first—a tool, a small sack of grain, a piece of children’s clothing, that sort of thing. One by one, they disappear, not all at once, but gradually. Bear thinks nothing of it, but his father and uncles take it seriously. Theft is an unpardonable offense in the world of his childhood. Too much has already been taken away to allow the taking of anything more. The older members of his family still remember the world as it was before everything was ruined or destroyed. There is bitterness and resentment at that loss, a rage at the inexplicable madness of it. Blame is easy to assess and difficult to fix. But the sense of deprivation is raw and festering, and theft is a reminder of how easily you can be dispossessed.

His father believes it is one of his children, perhaps going through a phase. He questions them all. Rigorously. His brother, perhaps frightened at the intensity of the accusation, points to Bear. For reasons that Bear will never be able to fathom, his father believes his brother. Bear is convicted without a trial. None of the missing items is found. No one steps forward to say that they have actually seen him stealing. But he is different than they are, aloof and circumspect, his motives not entirely clear, and that is enough. He is not punished, but he is consigned to a back corner of their lives and watched closely.

He accepts this, just as he accepts everything else—stoically, resignedly, with a quiet understanding of how it will always be for him. But he thinks, too, that he should solve this puzzle. He doesn’t like being thought of as a thief. Someone else is doing the stealing, and he will find out who it is. Perhaps that will convince the others their behavior toward him has been wrong.

He waits for the theft to happen again. It does, although not right away. This time, it is a weapon, a small automatic handgun. An antique, by all reckoning, a relic in an age in which lasers and flechettes and Sprays are the norm. But it is a theft nevertheless, and his father is quick to act on it. He searches Bear’s space in the house first and questions him anew. Bear has been too visible, too much in the family eye, to commit these offenses, yet neither his father nor his siblings seem to notice. Even his mother, who still loves him as mothers will their disappointing children, does not stand up for him. It is as if their perception of his character has been determined and cannot be altered. Stung by this injustice, Bear feels the distance between himself and his family widen.

But three nights later, he catches the thief. He has taken to patrolling the grounds and buildings at night, keeping watch in his slow, patient way, determined to prove to them that he is innocent. The thief is trying to steal a box of old tools when Bear comes on him unexpectedly and throws him to the ground. It is a boy, not much older but much smaller than Bear. The boy is dirty and ragged, a wild thing. He admits that he is the thief and that he stole to help his family, a small group of vagrants who have taken up residence in an old farm not far away. He pleads with Bear not to give him up, but Bear has made his decision.

Bear takes the boy to his father. Here is the real thief, he announces. He waits for his father to apologize. He cares nothing for the boy who stole from them beyond redeeming himself. He has not given any thought to the boy’s fate beyond that. It is his belief that the boy will be whipped and released. Bear is neither angry nor vengeful. He does not think that way.

His father does. Thieves are not to be tolerated. The boy begs and cries, but no one listens. Bear’s father and his uncles take the boy out into the small stand of woods at one end of their property and do not bring him back. At first, Bear thinks they have released him with a warning. But small comments and looks tell him otherwise. They have killed the boy to provide an object lesson to his family and others of what happens to thieves.