Rebel Heart
Page 66
What happened to yer clothes? he says. Where’d you git that red dress?
My heart jumps. How could he have seen? He was in the canoes with the rest by the time I showed up.
What dress? I says. I didn’t have no dress on.
Don’t lie, he says. I notice everythin about you. Things other people don’t. When you looked down, from the landin stage, I seen you.
I, uh . . . ran into a little trouble, I says.
Trouble? he says. What?
I’d rather not say, I says. I . . . it was foolish, but . . . I’d rather jest fergit it. It don’t matter.
He takes my arm. Don’t treat me like a child, he says. I’m a man. I care about you.
I know, I says.
You said to trust you, he says. You kissed me.
Hot shame fer that false kiss tightens my heart. Tommo, I says.
He’s pullin me to him, leanin in, meanin to kiss me agin. I pull back. Turn my head away. A heavy beat of silence.
I’m sorry, I says. I shouldn’t of. It was wrong.
You deceived me, he says.
I’m sorry, I whisper.
Here. He shrugs off my bow an hands it to me. Carry it yerself. I ain’t yer beast of burden.
He turns away. I stop him with a hand. He looks at me, his eyes so dark in the night that I cain’t read ’em.
The dress, Tommo, I says. Nobody . . . I don’t think anybody else noticed. Please. You won’t say nuthin.
His mouth twists. You can trust me, Saba, he says.
A mockin echo of my words to him. My hollow words. A tiny bow of his head an he starts back up the path to camp. I watch till he disappears outta sight.
I set Nero to fly. Barefoot, my bow on my back, I start to scramble my way over the rocks. I gotta be alone. I gotta think.
It’s carved from the mountains, this Glasswater Tarn. A rough, unfriendly shoreline. I nearly fall once, scrape the skin of my hand as I save myself. The sharp shallow pain feels good. I clamber to the top of the biggest rock yet. I’m lookin down on a wide stretch of stony beach.
What was a large Wrecker buildin sprawls along the top. Broken steps, wide an shallow, rise to it from the beach. Made of white stone, the place stands a ghost in the mountain night. It’s collapsed, but fer one end. You can see it was two floors high. Lots of big windows to look out onto the lake, still shards of glass in a few of ’em.
Keeled over onto its side, halfways up the beach, a big boat dreams as its body flakes to rust. There’s the memory of what looks to be a waterwheel at its stern. A boat with a waterwheel. I never thought of such a thing.
I climb down to the beach. My bare feet wake the sleepin stones. They shift an whisper to each other. I walk up the stairs an step inside the bit that’s still standin.
It was one big room. The floor’s crumblin, the ceilin too. In the middle of the floor, a ball lies smashed, some of it still covered with tiny glittery bits of lookin glass. I crouch an pick up a piece. I wonder what this place was. Parts of wooden chair scattered about. A long stone-topped table on iron legs, partly buried unner rubble. I go to it.
On the floor, unner the middle of the table there’s two dusty old boxes. I drag ’em out an put ’em on it. I open the smaller one first. A stack of round plates inside. They’re stiff black plastic, a little hole in the middle of each one. I lift the lid on the bigger box. Some kinda Wrecker tech. A round heavy metal plate, a spindle in the middle, a metal arm with a tiny needle. I study it fer a moment.
There’s a crank stickin outta the right-hand side. I give it a go. It’s stiff, but I manage to turn it a few times. The round plate starts to spin. I slip a black plate onto the spindle. I lift the little metal arm. Drop it on the plate. Sound blares out. I snatch the arm off an back away. I stare at it, my heart beatin fast.
I put the arm down agin. On the very edge of the black plate. This time I take gentle care. Music starts to play. Sweet, sad music. Stringboxes. A woman starts to sing. Words I ain’t never heard, that I don’t unnerstand. It slows down. It stops. I stare at the machine. It only lasted a few seconds. It was like the music in DeMalo’s bunker, but with a voice too. Wrecker music. Sounds from time past. From a gone world.
I turn the crank round an round till it won’t turn no more. Then I set the music to play agin. It flows out. The singer, long dead, long fergot, starts to sing.
I go an sit at the top of the crumblin steps. I lay my bow beside me. I gaze down the silver gleam of the lake an I listen.
It’s the song of a heart to the cold night sky. To moonlight on dark water. The song of a heart that yearns fer somethin it won’t ever have. The music breathes in me. Aches in me.
I don’t know nuthin no more. Why DeMalo reached me the way he did. Why the heartstone burned fer him. I don’t hate him. I know I should, but I don’t, an I don’t want him to be dead. To of died in the fire. I dunno why Maev had to die. An Bram. Lugh’s right. It was my fault. What happened to them is down to me. I dunno how to put things right. I don’t think I can. It’s all gone way beyond sayin I’m sorry.
I ain’t got no peace, anywhere in me. I don’t think I ever will.
Thick, soft flakes of white drop around me. It’s snowin. Creed did say snow was on the way. I look up at the sky. Nero soars across the face of the moon, turns an starts flyin towards me.
Then. From across the lake. From the edge of the night. From the place where the darkness ends an the moonpath begins, a boat glides into view.
A man’s paddlin. All the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
The heartstone starts to warm.
I stand. I take a step forwards. Then another an another till I’m halfways down the beach. There I stop. The long-dead singer sings her song as Nero guides the boatman into shore.
The paddler’s head is bowed to his task. Then he lifts it. An I see who it is.
He lands the boat. One last stroke of the paddle, then a watery swish, a pebbly crunch, an he’s jumpin over the side an pullin it outta the lake.
Nero swoops down. He raises a hand in thanks. Nero rises agin with a cry of farewell.
He walks towards me, up the beach, his boots loud on the rocks. His head’s down, like he’s watchin his feet. My heart beats with his footsteps. The heartstone burns in the hollow of my neck. He stops close to me. Still lookin at the ground. Then, slowly, like he ain’t sure of hisself, he raises his head.
I ain’t never seen Jack at a loss fer what to say before. But he jest stands there. Lookin at me. The music stops.
I speak first.
I thought – that second explosion, I says. The ammo store. Creed thought it might be you set it off.
I did, he says. But I chose somethin with a long fuse.
I knew you couldn’t be dead, I says. I would of felt it. I’d know.
Oh, he says.
What’re you doin here? You said what you had to.
Not everythin, he says. We was kinda rushed.
Please, Jack, I says. Don’t make things harder’n they already are.
He brushes the snow from his hair. From mine. His hand falters. Drops. It’s snowin, he says. There’s some cover over there. Can we talk?
I look away. I give a little shrug. He follows me up the beach, up the steps. We go into the room with the music box, now silent once agin. He hugs hisself, lookin around. I hate these Wrecker places, he says. Full of ghosts.
My poor eyes. They’re hungry fer the sight of him. His hands, his neck, his hair, his shoulders, everythin. I let ’em look their fill. I cain’t possibly hurt no more’n I already do, so what’s a bit more heartache?
My heart jumps. How could he have seen? He was in the canoes with the rest by the time I showed up.
What dress? I says. I didn’t have no dress on.
Don’t lie, he says. I notice everythin about you. Things other people don’t. When you looked down, from the landin stage, I seen you.
I, uh . . . ran into a little trouble, I says.
Trouble? he says. What?
I’d rather not say, I says. I . . . it was foolish, but . . . I’d rather jest fergit it. It don’t matter.
He takes my arm. Don’t treat me like a child, he says. I’m a man. I care about you.
I know, I says.
You said to trust you, he says. You kissed me.
Hot shame fer that false kiss tightens my heart. Tommo, I says.
He’s pullin me to him, leanin in, meanin to kiss me agin. I pull back. Turn my head away. A heavy beat of silence.
I’m sorry, I says. I shouldn’t of. It was wrong.
You deceived me, he says.
I’m sorry, I whisper.
Here. He shrugs off my bow an hands it to me. Carry it yerself. I ain’t yer beast of burden.
He turns away. I stop him with a hand. He looks at me, his eyes so dark in the night that I cain’t read ’em.
The dress, Tommo, I says. Nobody . . . I don’t think anybody else noticed. Please. You won’t say nuthin.
His mouth twists. You can trust me, Saba, he says.
A mockin echo of my words to him. My hollow words. A tiny bow of his head an he starts back up the path to camp. I watch till he disappears outta sight.
I set Nero to fly. Barefoot, my bow on my back, I start to scramble my way over the rocks. I gotta be alone. I gotta think.
It’s carved from the mountains, this Glasswater Tarn. A rough, unfriendly shoreline. I nearly fall once, scrape the skin of my hand as I save myself. The sharp shallow pain feels good. I clamber to the top of the biggest rock yet. I’m lookin down on a wide stretch of stony beach.
What was a large Wrecker buildin sprawls along the top. Broken steps, wide an shallow, rise to it from the beach. Made of white stone, the place stands a ghost in the mountain night. It’s collapsed, but fer one end. You can see it was two floors high. Lots of big windows to look out onto the lake, still shards of glass in a few of ’em.
Keeled over onto its side, halfways up the beach, a big boat dreams as its body flakes to rust. There’s the memory of what looks to be a waterwheel at its stern. A boat with a waterwheel. I never thought of such a thing.
I climb down to the beach. My bare feet wake the sleepin stones. They shift an whisper to each other. I walk up the stairs an step inside the bit that’s still standin.
It was one big room. The floor’s crumblin, the ceilin too. In the middle of the floor, a ball lies smashed, some of it still covered with tiny glittery bits of lookin glass. I crouch an pick up a piece. I wonder what this place was. Parts of wooden chair scattered about. A long stone-topped table on iron legs, partly buried unner rubble. I go to it.
On the floor, unner the middle of the table there’s two dusty old boxes. I drag ’em out an put ’em on it. I open the smaller one first. A stack of round plates inside. They’re stiff black plastic, a little hole in the middle of each one. I lift the lid on the bigger box. Some kinda Wrecker tech. A round heavy metal plate, a spindle in the middle, a metal arm with a tiny needle. I study it fer a moment.
There’s a crank stickin outta the right-hand side. I give it a go. It’s stiff, but I manage to turn it a few times. The round plate starts to spin. I slip a black plate onto the spindle. I lift the little metal arm. Drop it on the plate. Sound blares out. I snatch the arm off an back away. I stare at it, my heart beatin fast.
I put the arm down agin. On the very edge of the black plate. This time I take gentle care. Music starts to play. Sweet, sad music. Stringboxes. A woman starts to sing. Words I ain’t never heard, that I don’t unnerstand. It slows down. It stops. I stare at the machine. It only lasted a few seconds. It was like the music in DeMalo’s bunker, but with a voice too. Wrecker music. Sounds from time past. From a gone world.
I turn the crank round an round till it won’t turn no more. Then I set the music to play agin. It flows out. The singer, long dead, long fergot, starts to sing.
I go an sit at the top of the crumblin steps. I lay my bow beside me. I gaze down the silver gleam of the lake an I listen.
It’s the song of a heart to the cold night sky. To moonlight on dark water. The song of a heart that yearns fer somethin it won’t ever have. The music breathes in me. Aches in me.
I don’t know nuthin no more. Why DeMalo reached me the way he did. Why the heartstone burned fer him. I don’t hate him. I know I should, but I don’t, an I don’t want him to be dead. To of died in the fire. I dunno why Maev had to die. An Bram. Lugh’s right. It was my fault. What happened to them is down to me. I dunno how to put things right. I don’t think I can. It’s all gone way beyond sayin I’m sorry.
I ain’t got no peace, anywhere in me. I don’t think I ever will.
Thick, soft flakes of white drop around me. It’s snowin. Creed did say snow was on the way. I look up at the sky. Nero soars across the face of the moon, turns an starts flyin towards me.
Then. From across the lake. From the edge of the night. From the place where the darkness ends an the moonpath begins, a boat glides into view.
A man’s paddlin. All the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
The heartstone starts to warm.
I stand. I take a step forwards. Then another an another till I’m halfways down the beach. There I stop. The long-dead singer sings her song as Nero guides the boatman into shore.
The paddler’s head is bowed to his task. Then he lifts it. An I see who it is.
He lands the boat. One last stroke of the paddle, then a watery swish, a pebbly crunch, an he’s jumpin over the side an pullin it outta the lake.
Nero swoops down. He raises a hand in thanks. Nero rises agin with a cry of farewell.
He walks towards me, up the beach, his boots loud on the rocks. His head’s down, like he’s watchin his feet. My heart beats with his footsteps. The heartstone burns in the hollow of my neck. He stops close to me. Still lookin at the ground. Then, slowly, like he ain’t sure of hisself, he raises his head.
I ain’t never seen Jack at a loss fer what to say before. But he jest stands there. Lookin at me. The music stops.
I speak first.
I thought – that second explosion, I says. The ammo store. Creed thought it might be you set it off.
I did, he says. But I chose somethin with a long fuse.
I knew you couldn’t be dead, I says. I would of felt it. I’d know.
Oh, he says.
What’re you doin here? You said what you had to.
Not everythin, he says. We was kinda rushed.
Please, Jack, I says. Don’t make things harder’n they already are.
He brushes the snow from his hair. From mine. His hand falters. Drops. It’s snowin, he says. There’s some cover over there. Can we talk?
I look away. I give a little shrug. He follows me up the beach, up the steps. We go into the room with the music box, now silent once agin. He hugs hisself, lookin around. I hate these Wrecker places, he says. Full of ghosts.
My poor eyes. They’re hungry fer the sight of him. His hands, his neck, his hair, his shoulders, everythin. I let ’em look their fill. I cain’t possibly hurt no more’n I already do, so what’s a bit more heartache?
