Rebel Heart (29 page)

Down, down, down I fall. I land smack on my back. Knock the breath from my body. Sharp pain at my temple.

I plunge to the dark below.

Down to the bottom. Where the dark things crouch. Where the old things wait. Where they crouch an wait fer me.

The darkest depths beckon me down. Black water of pain, it closes over me.

Let go, it’s safe to let go.

Betrayed.

Deceived.

Let go.

I open my mouth.

I let the darkness in. It begins to fill me.

Somethin grabs my wrist. A hand. Strong. No, let me be. I pull away.

Too strong.

Up.

Up.

Up from the dark.

Then.

Cool air hits my face.

I gasp.

Gasp.

Cough.

Breathe.

No! I says. I start to struggle. Let me be!

Don’t fight me! Hand unner my chin, towin me. I’m hauled from the water. Laid on my side on rocky ground.

Nero, I says.

There’s a rush of air. A splash.

I turn on my back an open my eyes. I’m lookin up at the night sky. Lyin on the edge of the rock pool. The roar of the waterfall from the cliff above.

Nero. The hawk got him. I drag myself to my knees. Nero! I cry.

A dark shape swims towards me, one-handed. It’s a man. He holds Nero in his other hand, keepin him above the water. As he gits closer, I can see who it is.

My heart seizes.

It’s DeMalo.

DeMalo. The Pathfinder. Master of New Eden. I’m dreamin. This cain’t be true. He climbs outta the pool, gaspin fer breath, his chest heavin. He drags a wave of water with him an it splashes me. It’s cold. Real. No dream.

He’s alive, says DeMalo. Wounded but alive.

Give him here! I take Nero with careful hands, my breath caught in my throat. Nero! I says. His eyes glitter up at me. He gives a feeble croak. He’s bleedin, I says, he’s hurt, we gotta fix him.

I’m camped just over there, says DeMalo. Can you walk?

Yes, I says. I’m already gittin to my feet, my eyes checkin Nero over. There’s blood on his breast an head.

When I saw it was you, I couldn’t believe it, says DeMalo.

I hardly look at him, barely glance at him. Please, I says, we gotta hurry.

This way, he says. As he leads me away from the falls an the pool, he checks the sky. He gives a piercin whistle. It was my hawk, he says. Culan. I was night flying him. Not expecting visitors. I’m sorry.

I’m right behind him. My heart’s racin. I’m coughin. My clothes an hair hang heavy with water, my boots squelch with every step. He’s barefoot, bright in the night in his white shirt an britches. Water drips offa him too. He used to wear his thick black hair long an tied back. Now it’s cut to his collar.

The path’s rough. I stumble an Nero squeaks protest. How far? I says.

We’re here, says DeMalo.

A simple tent among the trees. Nobody around.

Where’s yer men? I says.

I’m alone, he says. This is my retreat. You’re perfectly safe.

I hesitate. He holds open the tent flap. The crow’s wounded, he says.

I follow him inside.

I hear him movin around. I can jest make him out, a shape darker than the dark. Then the sound of flint an a soft white glow lights the tent.

He sets the lantern on a table. Bring him here, he says.

Simple outside, simple inside too. Big enough to stand up in. A narrow bed, a stove, a chair, the table, a wooden chest. A few other bits. Some books. Good fer one, close quarters fer two.

DeMalo’s fillin a bowl with clean water. He brings it to the table, then goes to the chest an takes out a blanket an a little tin box. He moves silent an smooth. He don’t look to be in no hurry, but somehow everythin happens fast.

Sit, he says. He drapes the blanket around my shoulders as I sit on the chair, huggin Nero close, soothin him. Now, he says as he opens the box an starts takin bits out, we’ll clean him up and take a look. He pours tincture in the water an dips a clean cloth. Move him close to the light, he says.

His voice is low. Deep. Warm. The few times, the few words I heard him speak before – back at Hopetown, in the cells – unsettled me. Chilled me. Not now. Somehow, he don’t seem like the same person. Or maybe it’s me.

I can fix him myself, I says.

You’re in no fit state, he says. He cleans Nero’s head first. Gently.

I don’t dare breathe till I see how bad it is. Jest a scratch, I says.

He dabs cranesbill salve on it. It’s this other I’m worried about, he says. Okay, Nero, brave fellow. He starts to clean his breast. As the water in the bowl turns red, we can see the damage. A tear in the flesh, luckily not near to his heart. It’s not deep, says DeMalo. Looks like Culan just caught him with a talon. I don’t see any damage to his wings or muscles. He’s okay.

Oh! I gasp out, a sob, or laugh a shaky breath. I kiss Nero’s head. D’you hear that? Yer okay.

It needs a couple of stitches, he says. Can he take it?

He can, I says. I dunno about me, though. I cain’t abide a needle goin into flesh. I bin known to faint.

DeMalo flashes me a smile. A real, proper smile. I ain’t never seen him smile before. His eyes light an crinkle, his teeth gleam, white an straight. He shakes his head as he cleans a thin bone needle. That’s funny, he says.

Funny? I says.

He starts to thread fine gut through the tiny eye. I’ve seen you in action, he says. You’re hardly short on courage.

Yeah, well, I says. We all got our weaknesses.

A quick flick of his eyes my way. Weaknesses, he says, or desires? D’you think it’s important we learn to conquer them?

Jack. Betrayer. Deceiver.

Yes, I says. Nero croaks. Is he really gonna be all right? I says.

I promise, he says. Hold him still. DeMalo moves his hands slowly towards Nero. He slashes out at him, fightin, defendin hisself. I soothe him, hold his beak closed. DeMalo begins to stitch the wound. Nero struggles. He cries piteously.

Tears spring to my eyes. You’re hurtin him! I says.

I’m sorry, it can’t be helped, he says. Try to keep him still.

Jest hurry!

You’re a mighty warrior, Nero, he says. A crow with the spirit of an eagle. DeMalo’s hands work careful an sure. That’s one, he says. One more to go.

Good boy, I whisper to Nero. Brave boy.

He cries in little peeps now. The same as when I found him lyin on the ground, fell outta the nest an his ma nowhere in sight. I’m cryin a bit too. I cain’t stand that he’s in pain. I feel it worse’n if it was me.

There we go. DeMalo’s finished. Keep it clean, he says. Don’t let him worry the stitches.

I take Nero on to my lap an dab the salve on his poor flesh.

How’s that, my friend? DeMalo crouches in front of me. Puts out a finger to stroke him. Nero gives him a sharp nip. I guess I deserve that, he says.

DeMalo looks so different with short hair. It’s wet still. Messy. He smells of somethin green. Fresh. He takes the salve pot from me, dips his finger in it an, before I know, he’s smoothin it gently on the cut on my temple.

An I let him. Fer some reason, I let him. I stare straight ahead, not movin, hardly darin to breathe.

DeMalo. I thought of him so many times. An them dreams I had about him, in the vision lodge an other times too. Always so strange an . . . disturbed me. But here we are. Like we know each other. We don’t. I can count on two hands the number of times I seen him. An we never spoke, not really. You don’t speak with yer enemy.

It’s a long drop down Weeping Water, he says.

I give a little laugh. Weepin Water, I says. That fits.

Were you trying to kill yourself? he says.

I says naught.

When I pulled you out, you said no, he says. Let me be, you said.

I don’t remember, I says. I – I jest jumped. Becuz of . . . Nero.

Now I do look at DeMalo. An he looks at me. Properly, fer the first time ever, we look straight at each other. The lamplight brushes his broad cheekbones, his lips, the smooth gleam of his skin. His face is strong. Watchful. Beautiful. With heavy-lidded eyes, so dark they’re almost black.

I feel this pull towards him, between us. I felt it when I first seen him. Like there’s a thin, tight, invisible thread that runs from him to me. An there’s somethin about him – a kinda stillness inside of him – that makes me wanna tell him the truth. That believes he won’t judge me.

Maybe I did mean to kill myself, I says. I didn’t think it outright but . . . maybe the truth is, I didn’t – I don’t – much care one way or th’other.

To walk alone isn’t easy, he says. What about your friends? Your brother and sister? Where are they?

I left, I says.

You’re not the same as them, he says. You’re nothing like them.

I don’t unnerstand, I says. Why’re you bein nice to me? I killed Pinch. You put a price on my head.

Silence. Then, the sudden patter of rain on the tent roof. A moment later, it’s poundin down. It thunders onto the ground outside, splashes in through the flap.

As if we’re not wet enough already, he says. He gits up an pulls the flap to an we’re closed in. Alone. The air’s suddenly heavier.

I stand up. Nero’s cradled in my arms, already fast to sleep. I gotta go, I says. I’m shiverin. Shakin. My clothes hang chill an wet an heavy. My feet’s numb with cold.

DeMalo’s lightin another lantern. He don’t look at me as he says, Somebody waiting for you?

Emmi. Lugh an Maev. Tommo an Slim. Ash an Creed an the rest.

No, I says.

He says, It’s night, it’s raining, Nero’s been injured, you nearly drowned and you’re suffering from delayed shock. Have I forgotten anything?

Yes. I bin betrayed by Jack. Deceived.

No, I says.

Well, then, he says. He takes Nero an settles him in a little crate next to the stove. I clutch the blanket around me, my teeth chatterin. DeMalo takes a pile of clothes from the wooden chest an puts ’em on the bed. Dry clothes, he says. He moves back to the stove an starts to feed it more wood. He crouches, his back turned towards me.

I scuttle to the bed an skin off my sodden gear. Use the blanket to rub the clammy wet from my body. I’m cold to the bone. I ain’t never bin so cold. My teeth chatter in my head. I fumble into a soft shirt that hangs past my knees, thick socks. They’re clean. They carry a faint smell of him. Now I know what it is. Juniper.

Come, sit by the heat, he says.

I dash to the chair by the stove. Pull my knees to my chest an the shirt down over ’em. I hug myself, shiverin. He goes an strips off his wet clothes. I can hear him. If I turned my head, jest a little, I’d see him. DeMalo. Takin his clothes off, not more’n a few foot away. This has gotta be the strangest thing I could ever imagine to happen.

I ain’t fled. I ain’t run or fought him or tried to kill him. I’d of espected the red hot to kick me in the gut the moment I seen who it was pulled me from the water. But no. Not a sign of it.

This ain’t like me. But I ain’t like myself. I’m . . . a me I never bin before. I feel unfettered. Light. Free. Free of Lugh an Jack an everybody else who especks somethin from me. Who especks me to be what they want. I don’t owe them nuthin.