Queen of the Dark Things (36 page)

T
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B
uwulla, Australia, was a ramshackle little town, nestled in the marshy wastes of the Northern Territory, Aboriginal land, where only natives and those with the proper permits were allowed to travel. It was also one of the most beautiful places on earth, speckled with rocks covered in paintings older than Western civilization.

Colby slid once more off the back of the horse, having only in the blink of an eye before been in South America. He breathed deeply through his nose. Nothing quite smelled like the outback, especially Arnhem Land, the smells ancient, swampy, lived in. He looked around, singing to himself stories of the surrounding village, recognizing so much of it, far-flung memories finding their way back to the horizon of his thoughts. A broken-down truck, at least fifty years old, rusted completely through, stood exactly where he remembered it, swallowed up by spear grass, a paperbark tree growing up from the ground into the cab and out the passenger-side window that had long since shattered out. Behind it stood a farmhouse, its white paint chipped and peeling, graying weathered wood peeking out from beneath it.

The sky was a deep cerulean, a row of black clouds gathering in the distance, ready to douse the village with an afternoon thunderstorm. It was Gunumeleng, the first of the six seasons in Arnhem Land—a hot, mostly dry season broken up by regular afternoon storms. Soon, however, monsoon season would set in, flooding the region and filling the billabongs that had at this point mostly dried up for the year. Arnhem Land didn't have a “winter,” but this was as close as it got to the beginning of spring.

Colby looked back over his shoulder at Seere, still astride his horse. “This is dangerous, Colby,” he said. “We shouldn't spend too long here. Even if she is halfway across the world, she still commands the things of this place.”

“I know. But I have to be here. It's important.”

“I want my freedom returned to me. Let's get this over with.”

The curtains on the kitchen window of the farmhouse peeled back, a face emerging from the black behind it. Colby's arrival had not gone unnoticed. It took only a moment before a young man emerged from the house, his skin a dark, rich coffee brown, his hair black and curly. He was only ten years Colby's senior, but walked as if he were five years younger, buoyant and carefree.

“'ey, fella,” he said. “I think you've got the wrong place.”

“No,” said Colby. “I'm exactly where I need to be. I'm looking for the owner of that house.”

The stranger threw a stiff thumb over his shoulder and smiled. “This house? The one behind me?”

“That's the one.”

“Well, that's my house, eh?”

“That would make you the new Clever Man.”

The stranger's smile weakened, his eyes squinting. “Yeah. I reckon it would.”

“I'm looking for Mandu Merijedi. Where can I find him?”

“'Fraid you're a bit too late, fella,” said the man, soberly. He smiled bigger now, as if Colby wasn't in on some joke.

“I'm sorry?”

“You're too late. Mandu's dead. Been dead for ages.”

Colby stared the man straight in the eye, unshaken. He cleared his throat. “I didn't ask whether or not he was still alive. I asked you where I can find him. Do you know, or will I have to ask someone else?”

The man looked at Colby with disbelief. It was only then that he noticed Colby's red tangle of hair, the awkward shape of the nose. His eyes widened, his slackened jaw dropping slowly down into a stunned gape. “You ain't no fella. You ain't no fella at all. You're Colby Stevens.”

Colby nodded silently.

“I think you better come inside, bru. I have beer. It's cold.”

Colby smiled. “Now you're talking.”

“But the other fella will have to stay out here.”

“Other fella?”

“No spirits in the house.”

Colby looked back over his shoulder once more, and Seere nodded.

“One beer,” said Seere.

“You really don't know why we're here, do you?”

“I haven't the faintest.”

Colby nodded. “Make yourself comfortable. We're going to be here a spell.”

The inside of the farmhouse was sparsely decorated, looking very much like Colby remembered. The walls were water stained, old, tattered wallpaper curling away in spots. He walked into the house, past the door to the kitchen, and down toward a long hallway.

“Kitchen's back this way,” said the man.

“I know where it is,” said Colby, still walking.

Down the hallway he saw it, the old room whose memories still haunted him. The door was open, the smell of ten years of stale sweat wafting out past a well-worn door frame, paint chipped around the edges, stained at just the place Mandu would rest his hand and lean against it to look in. Inside was a bed, empty, still unmade, sheets crisp and clean on the edges, but thin and ragged where an unmoving body had slumbered for a decade. There was a chair beside the bed, cushion ragged beyond repair, and thirty-year-old medical equipment scattered about the room—a heart monitor, feeding tube, stainless steel IV tree with an empty plastic water bottle still dangling from it.

“Shit,” said Colby, under his breath.

The man came up behind him, but Colby couldn't shake his gaze. “I still remember,” he said, “you just sitting in that chair for hours, watching her sleep.”

“I was waiting for her to wake up.”

“Or die?”

“Either. I just never wanted to think about the latter.”

“That's how I remember you best. Just a little fella, looking after his friend.”

“How long?”

“I'm sorry?”

“How long ago did she wake up?”

“'Bout a week.”

“Her muscles had to be atrophied. How did she—”

“Too right. It was the damnedest thing. Bloody body just stood up and wobbled away. Must've bumped every wall on the way out. Made a hell of a racket. Middle of the night, it was. Just wheelin' and thumpin'. Made it outside and just shuffled off like some kinda bloody zombie.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Weren't her. Spirits be powerful things. Whatever took her away had an awful lot of fight in it.”

“Why did you let it leave?”

The man shrugged. “Mandu said to. Said if it ever got up on its own and wanted to walk away to let it. Come on. Let's get you that beer.”

Colby sat at a wobbly metal kitchen table, easily sixty years old, its lacquered top whittled down and chipped in places. The chairs were mismatched, some almost as old as the table, others decades newer but in no better condition. The man opened a rounded, avocado-green icebox, older than anything else in the kitchen, and pulled from it two, frosty, ice-cold beers.

“You don't remember me, do you?” asked the man, popping the bottle caps off on a refrigerator-mounted bottle opener.

Colby nodded, immediately trying to place him. “You're the one who set his tucker bag on fire.”

The man laughed. “That'd be me. I thought I could warm up dinner without burning it. Jirra.”

“I remember. You took Mandu's place?”

“Yeah,” he said, mindlessly thumbing an old, thick white scar across his forearm.

“He trained you?”

“Since I was a kid, yeah. I was already mostly done when you came along, though. I'd already done my first walkabout. That's why we never got to know each other well.”

“How did it happen?”

“Mandu? He said it was his time. He'd done his part, trained two great dreamspeakers.”

Colby stifled a proud, sad smile. “That's very kind of him.”

“More than kind. I was always just thankful he said two and not one. Including me with you was the nicest thing he ever said.”

“Oh, that's not—”

“You've got your own songline, Colby. There's no need for modesty. Not here in my kitchen. I know what you did. I teach the children about you. They sing the songs. You can feign your modesty with everyone else. But in here, in this house, we both know who and what you are.” Jirra raised his bottle and Colby did the same, glass clinking together. “You're gonna talk to him, ain't ya?”

Colby nodded. “I have to. There are some things I need to know.”

“You're looking for something?”

“Yes.”

“The little girl? The dreamwalker?”

“Information,” said Colby. “About her. What do you know?”

“Only that if it were anyone else wanting to go out there after her, I'd say that fella was mad as a cut snake. But you? You might be the one thing to set her straight.”

“Set her straight?”

Jirra grew a bit cold, his words hushed, his tone fearful, reverent. “She's not right. She's not been the same since you left her out there. She's one of them now. Different.”

“Different how?”

“Different as in I've never stuck around long enough to find out when she come around. She'd never set foot in Arnhem. 'Fraid we might trap her soul in that body. But I saw her a few times farther south, out in the dreaming. Walking the songlines. But not singin' 'em.”

“What was she doing?”

“Trappin' mostly. She'd find herself a spirit out in the wild, then set her swarm of kutji on 'em. Then she'd do business with 'em. Make 'em trade serving her in exchange for their life. Bloody ugly stuff. She's raised an army. Dreamtime's hers now. No one crosses her. Not here.”

“Do you know why?”

“No. For that, you'll best be askin' Mandu.”

“Take me to him.”

M
ANDU
M
ERIJEDI'S HEADSTONE
was the ornately carved trunk of a long dead banyan tree atop the tallest hill in the area, his story carved bit by bit into the thick, fig-tree bark. Colby ran his fingers over it, noting the sheer number of tales recounted about him. There were stories here Colby hadn't thought about in a decade; others he'd never even heard.

“He carved some of that himself,” said Jirra, pointing to the center-most relief: a tall man with wild hair holding the hand of a young boy.

“He knew he would be buried here?” asked Colby.

Jirra nodded. “Of course. He told me once, when I was little, that even after he died, he had one more thing to do and he needed to be here to do it. I think he just liked the view. He came up here every day for a year carving parts of that. Worked on it without anyone knowing what he was up to.”

Colby smiled. “He was always a step ahead of us all.”

“Still is.”

“I don't doubt it.” Colby looked down. There was a squared ring of painted stones marking the grave. This wasn't common at all.

Jirra pointed at them. “I didn't understand why he wanted those here until just now.” He thought for a moment. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“No. I just need some time to myself.” Colby raised the back of his hand to the horizon and counted the fingers between it and the sun. “We've got a little over an hour and a half until sunset. I'll just camp up here for the night.”

“Of course.” Jirra turned, walking back down the hill, stopping a few steps down. “Oh, one more thing,” he called over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Would you tell him we miss him?”

“I will.”

Colby made camp, first gathering kindling and some branches for a fire, then laying a small bedroll over the grave, between the stones. He sat at the edge of the hill with Seere, neither speaking, watching the sun sink beneath the trees as the sky slowly rolled into shades of orange, rose, and violet. The world darkened and the first stars poked through. Then shadows overtook the land, blackening it completely as campfires dotted it like freckles.

There was no place like the outback at night. Not anymore. Colby hadn't realized how badly he'd missed it.

Finally, Seere spoke up. “What is it you need me to do?”

“Just keep watch. Make sure nothing disturbs my sleep.”

“I don't think anything is going to come up here while I'm here.”

“That was the idea.”

When the world was black save for the stars and the fires, Colby crawled into his bedroll, the dirt beneath it soft, comfortable, molding to the contours of his body. He quickly, quietly, fell into a deep sleep. Mandu had thought of everything.

C
HAPTER
49

T
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F
OOL
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G
AMBIT

T
onight was lonelier than most. The Cursed and the Damned was all but empty. Bill was out hunting. Colby was in God-knows-where Australia doing God-knows-what. Even the few regulars Yashar served on the side without telling Colby were off in their homes and hollows, waiting out whatever hell was about to blow into Austin. It was just Yashar and Gossamer, each seated at a table, Yashar in one of the few functioning chairs, Gossamer perched nobly on a small wooden box, playing chess.

Chess was one of the few games Gossamer could play, not for lack of understanding, but because most games required thumbs. Cards to hold, dominoes to maneuver. But with chess, Gossamer could simply call out his move, and Yashar would move the pieces for him. Colby hated chess, called it a two-dimensional game that required only memorization and punished creativity. But Yashar and Gossamer both knew the truth. Colby stunk at it.

“Pawn to e4,” said Gossamer, making his opening move.

Yashar reached across the board and moved the piece, then followed by immediately placing his own pawn directly in front of Gossamer's.