Darkthaw (31 page)

Isi gets the pull-horses to pick up the pace. The jostling wakes the little boys. They sit up, rubbing the crusts of sleep from their eyes. Kane tells them, firm, to stay seated.

“Lucky!” Daniel calls. The mare and her colt have been wandering at their own pace and now stand ahead of us.
Lucky raises her head from a small patch of rock daisies and watches us go past. “Come on, girl!”

The high walls of the coulees around us are so different from the plains, the rolling hills, I feel like they're closing in on us. Can't see the sky, can't see what's coming. I feel my heart speed, my breath coming short and fast.

“Easy, Em,” Kane mutters. It's the first thing he's spoken to me in hours.

There's a low rumble over the ridge. It echoes through the valley, off the canyon walls.

Matisa speaks to Isi in their language, and he slaps the reins on the horses' necks, urging them faster. Our horse keeps pace beside the cart.

“How much farther?” I ask Matisa.

She shakes her head, her mouth pressed in a worried line.

The cart gains speed. A cold wind snakes into the valley, whipping my hair into my face. I pull it free with one hand and watch as the little boys clutch the sides of the cart. The pull-horses falter as they run, stumbling now and again in the loose shale.

“Hurry!” Matisa shouts.

We urge our horses faster still. Kane tightens his arms around me and I steel myself, waiting for those first raindrops to fall. They'll feel like fire, I know, like a peppering of hot coals, because they'll signal death. There's no shelter.
And the rains will turn the drylands into a lake of mud
.

The wind blows strong against us, and the wagon wheels screech as we rush through the blackening valley.

The pull-horses stretch out their necks as the ground becomes more even and they can lengthen their strides. And
our horse, sensing the sure ground, puts its head down and gallops faster still. We are flying along, the wind rushing around us, the hoofbeats clattering loud, echoing through the valley.

I hear a shout and look back. Isi is pointing at something ahead. I squint. In the distance I can make out two large, dark shapes, standing like sentinels in the dark. And beyond and above that, a soft glow—like the light of a hundred torches. Our horse strains with effort as the ground gets steeper.

We're climbing out of the valley. There's a wide path here, wide enough for two wagons to traverse side by side, and the earth is packed, as though by many travellers.

We're nearly there. Even if the heavens opened right now, we'd make it in time. At the thought, relief courses through me and, with it, exhilaration. I turn my face to the wind as our horse gallops, feeling my heart racing along with the beast's strides.

A laugh escapes me. I feel light as air. Lightning flashes again—the storm is moving to the northwest. I almost wish the rains would come now and drench our dusty skin.

Up we go, our horses straining, the cliff walls flying past. Up to solid ground.

We get to the top of the rise, out of the valley. Kane pulls our beast to a halt.

I feel a joy so deep I want to shout. I look behind to share the moment with Kane.

But his face is not joyful. He shakes his head. “Almighty,” he swears and swings down from the horse.

Matisa and Tom join us. She nods at Kane. “You rode well,” she says.

Kane doesn't reply. The cart pulls alongside us with the little boys, their tear-streaked faces staring out. Kane goes to them, making soothing sounds.

“Look.” Isi's staring into the dark hills before us, pointing to the glow I remember seeing from down in the valley.

My heart's still racing from the ride. “What is it?” I ask.

“Perhaps a settlement,” Matisa says.

“Should we avoid it?” Tom asks.

Kane straightens up. “Why?”

“It might be Leon's men,” I say.

“So
now
we're tired of risking our lives?” He crosses his arms, his voice cutting and bitter.

My excitement is snuffed out.

“Kane—”

“Shhh!” Matisa hisses and holds up her hand for quiet, peering into the dark before us. She draws in her breath as two shadows emerge from the dark hills.

A light appears, blinding us a moment, freezing us in place.

My eyes adjust, and the two figures before us come clear.

Their faces are pale and round, their clothes are rough and plain. One older man and one young. Their light-colored eyes watch us, curious-like. The older man holds a lantern. They have no weapons.

“Who are you?” Isi demands.

The older man gestures to the drylands valley and asks us something in a tongue I've never heard. The boy points to the hills and speaks the same.

They don't speak English.

THE VILLAGE IS CLUSTERED IN THE FOOTHILLS,
nestled like pinecones in the boughs of some low-growing spruce. It's quiet, no signs of life, but as we approach, I notice there are eyes everywhere. Lanterns dot the shadowed hillsides, and as we approach and the sun comes up behind us, they wink out. I can't see the faces of the figures holding those lanterns, but I feel their gazes.

When the man and boy beckoned us to follow, we'd hesitated. But then Blue stumbled and took a knee, righting himself with effort. Looking at our bone-tired horses, realizing Matisa still needed rest—that we all did—we decided to take the chance these two are as friendly as they seem.

There is a fence encircling this side of the settlement, one made of sheared poles sharpened to wicked-looking points at the tips and tilted forward like spears. A warning.

A sliver of fear springs to my chest, but I force myself to remember Elizabeth Sharapay and her husband. Not everyone out here is looking to harm us.

The young boy pulls aside a gate in a jangle of poles and metal, and as we pass through, the sun breaks over the hills behind us and washes the village in a rose light.

The worry in my chest eases. This place doesn't feel dangerous.

The buildings, though, are right curious. They're built into the sides of the hills and constructed with poles similar to those of the fence. Laid side by side, the poles end in steep peaks and the cracks between them are sealed with mud. The rooftops are alive—covered in earth that sprouts new grasses. Atop each of the triangular dwellings, a thin line of smoke wisps out from a metal chimney. The backs of the houses disappear into the earth like the hills are embracing them, keeping them safe from the winds.

Never seen anything like it. I look to Matisa and Isi, but it's clear from the expressions on their faces that they haven't, neither.

The old man leading us waves his hands at a cluster of speckled chickens in our path. They're nothing like our brown hens; their soft feathers are dotted white and black and they have crests of bright red on their heads. They cluck and stretch their yellow legs as they scatter.

A little girl is out in front of one of the houses, beating a rug with some sort of woven stick. She wears a colorful scarf of intricate yellow and red flowers on her head. It covers her blond hair, frames her pink cheeks. Her blue eyes widen as she sees us, but the man holds up a hand and says something, his voice gruff but reassuring. She nods, puts down her stick, and offers us a small smile before hurrying off.

“They don't seem too surprised to see us,” I remark.
I think about when Matisa and the boys came to our settlement. How some people crowded near, wanted to touch them, wanted to ask them everything under the sun. How others avoided them, hid away.

“No,” Matisa says. “And they do not seem surprised to see us together.”

She means First Peoples and . . . whatever we are. I exchange a glance with Kane.

The man beckons us forward, leading us toward a large building that stands in the center of the village, free from the hills. Thick mud walls end in a thatched roof—similar to our roofs at the settlement—and there are two small windows on the side. The man pushes open a thick wooden door. Warmth and the smell of brine rushes out to welcome us.

We are ushered into a large room. A long wooden table lines the far side, and the man gestures for us to sit. He disappears.

A woman enters through the doorway. She is clothed in a rough wool dress that is covered by a dark apron. Her head is covered by a scarf. She carries a tray with a large pot and bowls and starts laying it out before us. She gives us a mild-curious look but says nothing as she ladles out portions.

Her silence is catching. Either that, or we're all still too shocked to find our tongues. We look at one another, silent. When the woman leaves, Daniel tugs at Kane's arms and gestures at his bowl. He's hungry. Kane nods.

The little boys burn their mouths in their haste, and Kane
hurries to take their spoons away so he can blow the soup cool.

The door creaks open again. A girl our age enters, followed by the little one who was banging out the rug. The little one looks real pleased with herself, like she's finished an important task. The older girl has dark hair and bright blue eyes, with the same pink cheeks and turned-up nose. Her head scarf is bright, like the little girl's. The sleeves of her pale yellow dress are rolled to the elbows, and the hem grazes the tops of brown leather boots. She looks like the rest: strong. Healthy.

Her mouth twists as she takes us in, and I realize at once how we must look. Muddy and bedraggled, bruised and scarred. The little boys wolfing their soup like they haven't ever seen food.

Her eyes linger a moment on Kane. The little girl pushes her elbow. She snatches her arm away and shoots the girl a look before turning back to us. She smiles.

“I am Genya,” she says, her words clipped. “Welcome.”

We stare, surprised.

Tom clears his throat. “Obliged,” he says, throwing us a look.

“Y-y-yes,” I stammer.

“You speak English,” Matisa says.

Genya's smile gets a mite shy. “My mother teach me.” Her brow creases. “My uncle tell me you are come through”—she searches for the word—“valley.”

We nod.

“Is dangerous. Why you were there?”

We look at one another.

“Some men were following us,” I offer. “We went into the valley to escape.”

“Escape?” she asks. “These are bad men?”

“Yes.”

She nods, her eyes dropping to the floor like she's thinking hard. She raises them. “I know,” she says.

“You know the men?” Matisa asks.

“There are bad men. Out there.” She gestures with her hand. “But here is safe.”

I think about that nasty-looking fence. And all the guards, like Watchers, in the hills. “What is this place?” I ask. She frowns, like she doesn't understand the question. “Are you—did you come from the east?”

“Ah.” She nods. “Yes.”

“From the Dominion?” Kane asks.

She turns her eyes on him, and her cheeks go more pink. She nods. “They allow us to come.”

“These bad men,” Matisa says. “Have they come to your settlement?”

Genya shakes her head no. “We don't see them; only hear about them before we arrive. But we make our village safe.”

The woman from before bustles in with a tray heaped with braided bread and boiled eggs and something in a covered dish. She places it before us, then turns and speaks to Genya before she leaves.

Genya smiles at us. “You are hungry,” she states. “Eat.” She gestures at the food. “After, you will rest. You are safe here.”

‡

When we have eaten, Genya tells us we can bathe and change.

Matisa and I are led to a different building in the center of the village.

We follow two women, winding our way past the curious houses and a row of barns. This village is a quarter the size of our fortification, but the goings-on feel familiar. People bustle about feeding chickens, digging gardens, hauling wood. They turn curious eyes on us as they work, but their gazes don't linger. They're friendly but busy.

Inside the building are two rooms—one a kitchen, the other a sizable room with rows and rows of spring wildflowers hanging from the rafters, drying in the warmth of the cottage. There is a table with other herbs laid out, drying.

With a pang, I remember Soeur Manon's hut. Everything is so different here, yet it feels so familiar. The bustle of this little settlement, people going to chores, laughing and shouting.

A small part of me yearns for those ordinary things—the things I used to think were a bother. Collecting eggs, hauling water . . .

I wonder what Kane is thinking right now.

He and the boys followed Genya to her family's dwelling to wash and find new clothes. I felt a mite uneasy being separated, but it wasn't because I'm worried about what these people have planned for us. There's nothing sinister here; just hardworking people making a life. It's clear they don't want trouble from outsiders, but they're willing to help people in need.