Nightfall (27 page)

Marin opened her eyes. At first they didn't seem to work, so she blinked and tried again. And again. And again. Still she saw nothing—only a vast, empty, dreamlike darkness. In that moment, she was overcome with a deep, visceral longing for the Desert Lands. It was as if she remembered the place, from another life, and ached to return. She pined to feel the hot sun on her face and the warm sand beneath her feet. She imagined the caress of the dry winds, the taste of sweet dates in her mouth, and the sound of her mother's voice. That's what surprised her most of all. She had never missed her mother so fiercely in her life. Her mother had wanted nothing more than to bring Marin to the desert, and Marin had railed against her.
I didn't want to leave this island,
Marin thought.
And I got what I wanted.

With effort, Marin tried to move. She opened her mouth and was reassured to taste something granular, bitter, and metallic—perhaps pebbles and dirt. Her body was working and she was alive. That was something. She rocked slightly back and forth. Her upper back and neck erupted in pain. She
massaged the inflamed tendons. They were swollen and tight, and extremely tender. Nevertheless, the pain became tolerable as she grew accustomed to it. Like the pebbles and cold dirt, it told her she was alive. She was also warm. Wherever she was, the place was protected from the wind and the cold. This was, at the very least, something.

“Line,” she whispered.
“Line.”

There was no reply.

Marin groped around with her hands, searching for Line, but felt only compacted earth and cold rocks.

Quietly, she pushed herself to sitting and realized her sack was no longer on her shoulders. Panicked, she searched the ground but found nothing. The effort made her short of breath, and it took a full minute until she was able to calm herself. Breathing deeply made the problem worse; it caused shallow coughs that she had difficulty stopping. The air felt pinched and dusty. Suffocating.

“I'm glad you're feeling better.”

The voice was relatively close by—how close was impossible to say. It echoed in the musty air.

Marin said nothing. Her mind churned, trying to place the voice. She came up empty.

“Help me,” she replied. As if to emphasize her need, Marin erupted in an avalanche of coughs. She wheezed and tried to breathe, but it felt like a losing battle.

“Help you?” came the reply. “But I have helped you. You would have frozen to death if I hadn't brought you down here.” This remark was followed by a buzzing sound—almost like the hum of cicadas—which drifted down from above. She sensed
she was being watched by many eyes; but the speaker—the voice—was much closer.

“I never realized until now how frail you are,” purred the voice. “Every time I returned to my house, I found bits of your skin and hair embedded in the cracks. I suppose I should have known . . .” The voice trailed off into silence.

The darkness was total. Marin raised her hand in front of her eyes but saw nothing. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Yes, of course, I shall explain,” said the voice. “But first, tell me . . . where is
she
?”

Marin wasn't sure how to answer.

“Where did she try to take you?” asked the voice. “Where is she hiding?”

“I don't know,” said Marin as she slowly sat up and leaned back against a rock wall. She felt tired and sore, but otherwise okay. “Who are you talking about?”

“Soraya,” said the voice.

“I don't know what you—”

“This is useless,” bellowed an impatient voice from far above. “Take her to the wall—then she will speak.”

“Yes,” called a third voice. “To the wall!”

“To the wall!”
came a cascade of voices, repeating it like a mantra.

Marin heard the sound of relentless scampering, as if a great many things were moving toward her all at once.

“Enough!” boomed the voice that had been asking her questions. Instantly, the area was silent. For a moment, it was so quiet that Marin could hear only the sound of her own breathing. She struggled to think clearly. She was surrounded by a
horde of these things. A mob. And it seemed as if the only thing holding them back was the one asking her questions. He hadn't killed her yet, seemingly because he wanted to know where Soraya was.
But who was she?

“Where's Line?” Marin finally said. She had to stall. And she had to find Line. “My friend . . .”
Is he still alive? He has to be. Why would they kill him and not me?

“Where is Line?” said the voice, mimicking her words and the exact sound of her voice with the skillfulness of a ventriloquist.

“Please,” said Marin.

“First tell me where my daughter is.”

His daughter. His daughter, Soraya, is missing. That's something—a fact to build on.

“I-I'm not sure exactly,” stammered Marin. She wiped a hand across her face. Her skin was warm.
What should I say—what will keep us alive for a little while longer?
“I might know,” she said.
Hope. Everyone needs it.
Her voice strengthened. “But first tell me where Line is.”

“He hasn't woken up yet,” said the voice matter-of-factly.

Marin shivered suddenly.

“Tell me, why are you even here?” asked the voice. It was coming closer. “Did your father and mother leave you behind?”

At the mention of her parents, Marin felt for the copper box. To her relief, she found it nestled in her pants pocket. She envisioned the sharp blades, and it calmed her.

“If you could just let me see Line,” said Marin. “I'll help you find . . . your daughter.”

Suddenly, a high-pitched voice cried out from far above: “She's lying—the cockroach is a liar!”

“Make the cockroach climb,” shrieked another voice. “TO THE WALL!”

There was a loud snarl and, once again, all was silent.

“Forgive them,” said the voice. “That was rude, but don't you see . . . You stay in our houses and eat, and sweat, and breed, and shed your hair.” The voice seemed to come closer and closer, until Marin sensed that it was now just a few feet away.

“We wanted to leave . . . ,” began Marin.

“But. You. Didn't.” The voice enunciated each word slowly, as if explaining something to a very small child.

Marin felt a sharp, curious fingernail run along the contour of her cheek, as if testing the elasticity of her skin. Her heart hammered inside her chest.
Keep stalling. Find Line.

“You must see matters from our perspective. This town is ours. Of course, we understand that others may want to use our homes in the Day, which is why we have rules.”

“Rules,” said Marin slowly.
Yes, that's right. Of course there are rules, like the ones we saw on the statue of the sea hag. There's no point in playing dumb.
“That's true,” said Marin as calmly as she could. “We have no right to be here.”

As she said this, she could hear someone groan nearby.
Line.
It had to be Line. She inched toward the sound, keeping her back to the stone wall and scooting steadily.

“Yes,” said the voice. “The rules you ignored. It wasn't enough that you stayed in our homes. You had to defile everything—even burying your dead in the very place from which we gather our food.”

The voice paused for a moment, and then asked quietly:
“Would you like that? If we buried our corpses in your little vegetable gardens?”

“No,” said Marin softly.

For several seconds, there was no sound. Then the voice returned, this time more tired and frustrated than angry. “And now, my daughter has gone missing—my most vexing daughter ran away to help
you
.”

To help us.

Suddenly it clicked in Marin's head. The voice in the citadel. That was Soraya. That was
his
daughter. She was the one who had helped them.
But why?

“Do you or don't you know where she is right now?” asked the voice.

Marin thought for a moment. She was tempted to lie, but something told her that this would be unwise. It was in the voice's calm, serious tone. This was no time to play games.

“No,” said Marin. “I wish I knew—but I don't.”

“As I thought,” said the voice.

Just then, there was movement to the right of Marin. “Marin . . . ,” a voice called out groggily from the darkness. It was Line. “Marin, where are you?”

“Line—I'm here,” Marin said. “Stay where you are.”

“No, that's all right,” said the voice in an almost kindly manner. “Stand up if you like. We'll be leaving shortly. Or at least
you
will be.”

“Leaving?” croaked Marin.

“Yes,” said the voice. “In fact, we've all gathered to see you go.”

“But where . . . ?” began Marin.

Marin felt something take her wrist. It was coarse and leathery and it held her in an iron-like vise. Together they proceeded through the darkness. As she walked, she tried to plan her next move, but she didn't know what was going to happen. Attacking them with the scalpels would be a useless gesture. She'd be killed within seconds.
What can I do?
A faint light glowed in the distance. They were heading toward it.

“Line!” called Marin.

“Behind you,” he said. He was moving slowly, shuffling his feet.

Marin's heart sank—he sounded hurt. “Line—what happened? What did they do?”

“I'm fine,” Line said. He started coughing, but strangely it comforted Marin.
He's hurt, but he doesn't sound weak. He's not going to die.

The creature squeezed Marin's hand so tightly, she winced in pain. “Be careful of the
witches'
fingers
.”

Marin had seen witches' fingers while exploring caves along the coast. They were spearlike rocks that rose from the floor of caves; the ones she encountered were only a few feet tall. They formed when water and minerals dripped down from above. The creature guided her through what appeared to be a vast maze of these. Marin couldn't see the witches' fingers, of course, but she could feel them with her free hand as she walked. Some were only waist high, while others seemed to be as thick and tall as pillars on a large building.

At some point, they emerged into the open. Marin could tell because it was sleeting, slowly and thickly, showering icy granules on her head. The creature came to a stop and released her hand.

“Look up,” he commanded. She could hear the disdain and relief in his voice. He no longer had to touch her hand.

Marin did as she was told. She was able to discern a band of dark gray clouds. Slowly she came to understand that she was standing at the bottom of a very deep, narrow crevice and that she was actually looking up at a sliver of the sky above. They were somewhere in the canyon.

“Here's your chance,” the voice said.

“My chance?”

“Yes, you know how to climb—don't you?”

“You're asking us to climb
that
?” asked Marin. It looked like a wall—the vertical rock wall of the canyon.

“Not asking,” said the voice in a smooth, matter-of-fact tone.
“
Telling
.”

She felt Line's presence next to her and reached out for him. His fingers touched hers—and her heart heaved a great sigh of relief. Marin took a tentative step forward and pressed her palms against the wall of the canyon. The surface was smooth and wet; the wall itself was completely vertical.

“I can't do it,” said Line. His voice was soft, defeated. “No way.”

Marin looked toward the sound of his voice. She was about to reply but suddenly realized how the copper box might be useful. And it did
not
involve stabbing the creature. It was something else altogether.

She pressed closer to the wall and bent down, as if examining it more closely. She was conscious of the box in her pocket, its subtle weight tugging on her pants.
How did it unlatch?

Marin heard Line breathing. She reached out for him with her free hand. His clothes were wet and dirty and his forehead felt cool.

“How's your arm?” she asked.

“Better,” said Line. “Swelling is down.”

“Good.” Then she leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “Stay close—I have a plan.”

“Marin—”

“We can do this,” interrupted Marin. “Trust me—it's just like the cliffs after a rainstorm.”

The creatures had backed away, giving them room to begin their climb. Marin took off her jacket and then her sweater, cinching them tightly around her waist. She reached into her pants pocket, pulled out the copper box, and slid it between her body and the wall of the cave. Conscious of the seconds ticking away, she fiddled with the latches and opened the box. Immediately she saw the small glass bottle that was glowing faintly.
That's the one.

Everything depended on whether she could pull off the next move. Marin removed the bottle of glowing ink and screwed the top of it into the handle of one of the rods. It worked—locking into place—just as it had in her bedroom days before.

“What are you doing?” asked the voice. It sounded a good twenty feet away. Marin quickly slid the box back into her pants pocket and held the scalpel at the ready. Now came the real test. She didn't know how to use the scalpel, but she had a
hunch. Holding it in her right hand, she extended her left arm and made two long cuts through her shirt and into the skin—from the shoulder all the way to her wrist. Her skin stung momentarily, then began to glow.

“Stop her!” called a creature from above.

Steady now.
Marin hastily extended her right arm and marked it in the same manner, with two quick slashes. Again the sting, and now that arm also radiated two bright bands. It wasn't a powerful light, but it cast a muted radiance against the cliff wall, allowing her to see some of the minute cracks and crevices.

“I don't believe it . . . ,” gasped Line.

“Your turn,” she whispered. Line took the rod, but at that moment, something hit him hard in the arm. The scalpel fell and glowing ink skittered across the floor of the canyon, leaving a ragged line on the ground. Marin was struck across the head. She fell heavily and tasted cold dirt—but she had enough presence of mind to push the copper box farther down in her pocket.

“Enough of this!” boomed the voice from close by. The canyon fell quiet. And then the voice spoke again in a soft, almost sweet whisper. “Now
climb
—before I throw you onto the witches' fingers myself.”