Rebel Heart
Page 7
Then behind me, from nowhere, a noise an a rush. Before I can move, somethin leaps past me.
A grey shape. Big. Shaggy. Another wolfdog. A new one.
This one, this new wolfdog, he flies at the dog on my left. Goes straight fer his throat an bowls him over. Rips his neck open. As blood spills, th’other wolfdog, the one in front of me, attacks the new one. Teeth flash. Dust flies.
I scramble outta the way.
The new wolfdog warn’t runnin with the others. He’s a loner. He’s got blue eyes. Light blue eyes.
That’s rare. I only seen one other before. An he’s in a bad way. Rib-thin, matted fur, an now a bleedin wound on his flank. But he’s fightin like a demon.
Think, Saba. I need Hermes. If there’s a moment . . . if I git a chance I’ll take it. I’ll take any chance to git away, but I need Hermes here.
No, no, wait, I cain’t, the dogs might go fer him. So confused. Cain’t think straight. Move, Saba. Jest move! I start to back away, up the ridge. I keep my eyes on the dogs, tearin at each other, fightin to the death.
Nero screams above.
A loose rock. My foot slips. I go over. I’m down.
An I’m slidin. Tumblin. Fallin.
Back down the slope.
Straight towards the wolfdogs.
I’m on my back. Lyin on hard, flat rock. Hot rock. The heat sizzles around me. Cooks me. My bones ache. Eyes heavy. Dry. I squint one open. Too bright. A dull pain throbs at the back of my head.
I groan.
Nero croaks. I can feel the weight of him on my stummick.
The smell of doggy, meaty breath, hot an close. A rough tongue licks my face. My eyes fly open. The blue-eyed wolfdog’s standin over me.
Ahhh! I scrabble away an leap to my feet. Nero screeches off in a flurry.
The dog’s backin away, whinin. He stops. He sits, about six foot away. His pink tongue lolls outta his mouth, long an drippin. I frown. Is that – is he . . . smilin at me? Fer the first time, I notice he’s got one droopy ear. The right one.
Blue eyes. One droopy ear. Jest like Tracker. Mercy’s wolfdog, Tracker. But . . . how can that be? Mercy’s place at Crosscreek must be weeks from here.
Tracker? I says.
He stands. Barks twice. Takes a couple of steps towards me. Nero caws from his perch on a nearby rock.
Tracker! I says. Ohmigawd, Tracker, it’s you! What’re you do—
A arrow comes whizzin through the air. I dive. Tracker darts away. It jest misses his left flank. I look behind to see who’s shot it.
It’s Lugh. Standin on the ridge above. He’s about to shoot agin.
No! I yell. Wait! Don’t shoot!
Too late. Then Lugh’s leapin down the slope, hollerin an wavin his arms. The arrow bounces offa the rock.
An I’m yellin, Lugh, stop! It’s okay! Don’t shoot!
An Nero’s flyin all over the place, screechin an squawkin.
An Tracker’s gone. I can see him high-tailin it across the Waste.
Damn, I says. Ow! A sharp twinge in the back of my head. It’s a fair-sized lump an hurts like stink when I give it a prod.
I freeze. There’s two wolfdogs not more’n ten foot away from me. What’s left of ’em, anyways. It’s the ones that attacked me. They lie in pools of their own blood. Both got their throats ripped out. Their teeth bared in a last snarl, their yellow eyes glarin rage at death. The air hums with a hungry buzz. Flies. Hunnerds of ’em. Thousands of ’em. The open wounds, the half-dried lakes of sticky blood heave with their shimmerin bodies.
Tracker did this. Tracker killed the wolfdogs. He saved my life.
Tracker. Here. I don’t unnerstand.
Saba! Lugh runs up, crossbow in hand. He’s breathin hard. Relief an worry an anger, all at the same time, chase over his face. Saba, are y’okay?
Yeah, I says. I’m fine, thanks.
But I’m thinkin. Tracker here. Alone in the Waste. So . . . does that mean Mercy’s somewhere near? No, she cain’t be, he’s in terrible shape, so thin an ragged. She’d never let him git like that. So what’s goin on? How’d he git here? An where’s Mercy? Tough, wise Mercy. What’s happened to her?
Whaddya mean, fine? Saba! Lugh grabs my arm an shakes it. Saba, what the hell happened here?
That was Tracker, I says. That wolfdog you jest shot at. It’s Tracker. Ohmigawd, Lugh, he saved my life.
Who? He looks blank.
Then I remember. Lugh warn’t at Mercy’s place at Crosscreek with me an Emmi. That was after he got took by the Tonton. So he don’t know Tracker.
Tracker, I says. He’s Mercy’s tame wolfdog. Y’know, Mercy. Ma’s friend . . . from Crosscreek.
He stares at me. Crosscreek? You ain’t talkin no sense.
Yes, I am, I says. That wolfdog had one droopy ear an blue eyes. Jest like Tracker. It was him, Lugh, it was Tracker, I’m sure of it.
Wolfdogs got yellow eyes, not blue, says Lugh. Yellow, like these here. An there ain’t no such thing as a tame wolfdog. They’re vicious bastards. Look at you, Saba, yer a mess.
He’s right. I got blood all over me. My boots, my tunic, my britches.
Tracker killed ’em, I says. They was comin fer me an then . . . he come flyin outta nowhere, Lugh, an he fought that one an rippped his throat an then he started in on that one an then I tripped an . . . I remember fallin, I must of hit my head. Must of knocked myself out. When I come to, jest now, Tracker was standin right beside me an—
The moment Lugh hears the words “hit my head”, he pulls me to him an starts pressin an pokin at my head an talkin over me. Fergawdsake, Saba, why didn’t you say?
Ow! I elbow him away. I’m okay, it’s jest a bump.
I’ll be the judge of that, he says. He starts checkin me out, holdin up his pointer finger an movin it back an forth. I follow it with my eyes.
It was Tracker, I says. I swear it was him, Lugh.
He takes me by the shoulders. Looks at me straight. Listen to me, he says. You hit yer head. You bin lyin in the sun fer who knows how long. You must of imagined it. Dreamed it.
No, I says, no, I never.
C’mon, Saba, think about it, he says. What’s the chances of Tracker showin up here, in the middle of nowhere? Crosscreek must be weeks away.
I know that, I says.
So, what’s the chances?
I dunno, I says. I . . . not good, I guess.
More like impossible, he says. An what about this?
Lugh holds up the loose end of a piece of nettlecord rope that’s tied around his right ankle. I look down. I got the same as him, essept around my left ankle. The tether’s bin cut through with a knife, close to my boot, clean an neat. I stare at the cut rope. I fergot all about him an me bein tied together. Lately, when I do sleep, I’ve took to sleepwalkin. Tyin us together was Lugh’s idea to stop me wanderin off an gittin into trouble. Fer my own good, he said. To keep me safe.
I woke up, he says, the rope was cut an you was gone.
Nero flaps down an lands on my head. I wince. Move him to my shoulder. I must of bin sleepwalkin agin, I says.
You tryin to tell me you moved so sneaky in yer sleep? he says. That you cut us apart without wakin me up?
What, you think I did it on purpose? I says.
You tell me, he says.
I–I don’t remember cuttin the rope, I says. I don’t remember how I got here.
Oh gawd, I dunno, maybe you was sleepwalkin. He shakes his head. Jeez, Saba.
A grey shape. Big. Shaggy. Another wolfdog. A new one.
This one, this new wolfdog, he flies at the dog on my left. Goes straight fer his throat an bowls him over. Rips his neck open. As blood spills, th’other wolfdog, the one in front of me, attacks the new one. Teeth flash. Dust flies.
I scramble outta the way.
The new wolfdog warn’t runnin with the others. He’s a loner. He’s got blue eyes. Light blue eyes.
That’s rare. I only seen one other before. An he’s in a bad way. Rib-thin, matted fur, an now a bleedin wound on his flank. But he’s fightin like a demon.
Think, Saba. I need Hermes. If there’s a moment . . . if I git a chance I’ll take it. I’ll take any chance to git away, but I need Hermes here.
No, no, wait, I cain’t, the dogs might go fer him. So confused. Cain’t think straight. Move, Saba. Jest move! I start to back away, up the ridge. I keep my eyes on the dogs, tearin at each other, fightin to the death.
Nero screams above.
A loose rock. My foot slips. I go over. I’m down.
An I’m slidin. Tumblin. Fallin.
Back down the slope.
Straight towards the wolfdogs.
I’m on my back. Lyin on hard, flat rock. Hot rock. The heat sizzles around me. Cooks me. My bones ache. Eyes heavy. Dry. I squint one open. Too bright. A dull pain throbs at the back of my head.
I groan.
Nero croaks. I can feel the weight of him on my stummick.
The smell of doggy, meaty breath, hot an close. A rough tongue licks my face. My eyes fly open. The blue-eyed wolfdog’s standin over me.
Ahhh! I scrabble away an leap to my feet. Nero screeches off in a flurry.
The dog’s backin away, whinin. He stops. He sits, about six foot away. His pink tongue lolls outta his mouth, long an drippin. I frown. Is that – is he . . . smilin at me? Fer the first time, I notice he’s got one droopy ear. The right one.
Blue eyes. One droopy ear. Jest like Tracker. Mercy’s wolfdog, Tracker. But . . . how can that be? Mercy’s place at Crosscreek must be weeks from here.
Tracker? I says.
He stands. Barks twice. Takes a couple of steps towards me. Nero caws from his perch on a nearby rock.
Tracker! I says. Ohmigawd, Tracker, it’s you! What’re you do—
A arrow comes whizzin through the air. I dive. Tracker darts away. It jest misses his left flank. I look behind to see who’s shot it.
It’s Lugh. Standin on the ridge above. He’s about to shoot agin.
No! I yell. Wait! Don’t shoot!
Too late. Then Lugh’s leapin down the slope, hollerin an wavin his arms. The arrow bounces offa the rock.
An I’m yellin, Lugh, stop! It’s okay! Don’t shoot!
An Nero’s flyin all over the place, screechin an squawkin.
An Tracker’s gone. I can see him high-tailin it across the Waste.
Damn, I says. Ow! A sharp twinge in the back of my head. It’s a fair-sized lump an hurts like stink when I give it a prod.
I freeze. There’s two wolfdogs not more’n ten foot away from me. What’s left of ’em, anyways. It’s the ones that attacked me. They lie in pools of their own blood. Both got their throats ripped out. Their teeth bared in a last snarl, their yellow eyes glarin rage at death. The air hums with a hungry buzz. Flies. Hunnerds of ’em. Thousands of ’em. The open wounds, the half-dried lakes of sticky blood heave with their shimmerin bodies.
Tracker did this. Tracker killed the wolfdogs. He saved my life.
Tracker. Here. I don’t unnerstand.
Saba! Lugh runs up, crossbow in hand. He’s breathin hard. Relief an worry an anger, all at the same time, chase over his face. Saba, are y’okay?
Yeah, I says. I’m fine, thanks.
But I’m thinkin. Tracker here. Alone in the Waste. So . . . does that mean Mercy’s somewhere near? No, she cain’t be, he’s in terrible shape, so thin an ragged. She’d never let him git like that. So what’s goin on? How’d he git here? An where’s Mercy? Tough, wise Mercy. What’s happened to her?
Whaddya mean, fine? Saba! Lugh grabs my arm an shakes it. Saba, what the hell happened here?
That was Tracker, I says. That wolfdog you jest shot at. It’s Tracker. Ohmigawd, Lugh, he saved my life.
Who? He looks blank.
Then I remember. Lugh warn’t at Mercy’s place at Crosscreek with me an Emmi. That was after he got took by the Tonton. So he don’t know Tracker.
Tracker, I says. He’s Mercy’s tame wolfdog. Y’know, Mercy. Ma’s friend . . . from Crosscreek.
He stares at me. Crosscreek? You ain’t talkin no sense.
Yes, I am, I says. That wolfdog had one droopy ear an blue eyes. Jest like Tracker. It was him, Lugh, it was Tracker, I’m sure of it.
Wolfdogs got yellow eyes, not blue, says Lugh. Yellow, like these here. An there ain’t no such thing as a tame wolfdog. They’re vicious bastards. Look at you, Saba, yer a mess.
He’s right. I got blood all over me. My boots, my tunic, my britches.
Tracker killed ’em, I says. They was comin fer me an then . . . he come flyin outta nowhere, Lugh, an he fought that one an rippped his throat an then he started in on that one an then I tripped an . . . I remember fallin, I must of hit my head. Must of knocked myself out. When I come to, jest now, Tracker was standin right beside me an—
The moment Lugh hears the words “hit my head”, he pulls me to him an starts pressin an pokin at my head an talkin over me. Fergawdsake, Saba, why didn’t you say?
Ow! I elbow him away. I’m okay, it’s jest a bump.
I’ll be the judge of that, he says. He starts checkin me out, holdin up his pointer finger an movin it back an forth. I follow it with my eyes.
It was Tracker, I says. I swear it was him, Lugh.
He takes me by the shoulders. Looks at me straight. Listen to me, he says. You hit yer head. You bin lyin in the sun fer who knows how long. You must of imagined it. Dreamed it.
No, I says, no, I never.
C’mon, Saba, think about it, he says. What’s the chances of Tracker showin up here, in the middle of nowhere? Crosscreek must be weeks away.
I know that, I says.
So, what’s the chances?
I dunno, I says. I . . . not good, I guess.
More like impossible, he says. An what about this?
Lugh holds up the loose end of a piece of nettlecord rope that’s tied around his right ankle. I look down. I got the same as him, essept around my left ankle. The tether’s bin cut through with a knife, close to my boot, clean an neat. I stare at the cut rope. I fergot all about him an me bein tied together. Lately, when I do sleep, I’ve took to sleepwalkin. Tyin us together was Lugh’s idea to stop me wanderin off an gittin into trouble. Fer my own good, he said. To keep me safe.
I woke up, he says, the rope was cut an you was gone.
Nero flaps down an lands on my head. I wince. Move him to my shoulder. I must of bin sleepwalkin agin, I says.
You tryin to tell me you moved so sneaky in yer sleep? he says. That you cut us apart without wakin me up?
What, you think I did it on purpose? I says.
You tell me, he says.
I–I don’t remember cuttin the rope, I says. I don’t remember how I got here.
Oh gawd, I dunno, maybe you was sleepwalkin. He shakes his head. Jeez, Saba.
