Rebel Heart (30 page)

Right now, there ain’t no world outside of this tent. It’s as if everybody an everythin has faded away. Disappeared. Apart from DeMalo an me. An suddenly I know that this is where I’m meant to be. Right here. Right now.

All roads lead to the same place.

That’s better, says DeMalo. I glance over. He’s jest pullin a dry shirt over his head. I catch sight of a tattoo on the smooth skin of his chest. A red risin sun over his heart. My own heart quickens at the sight of his body.

He scoops up my wet clothes that I left in a heap an hangs ’em, along with his, to dry near the stove. Water’s drippin through one corner of the tent. He sets a tin unnerneath. He pulls the plug from a green bottle an pours dark red liquid into two glass jars. He drags a stool over, sits on it an hands me one of the jars.

To chance meetings, he says.

To chance, I says.

We drink. It slips over my tongue, warm an rich an soft an deep. Like a sad song. I ain’t never tasted nuthin like it. What is it? I says.

Wine, he says. He holds his jar up to the light. Very old, he says, very rare. A whisper from a lost world.

The rain rains. The air’s thick with the storm, heavy.

We drink some more. It’s delicious. I’m startin to feel a bit warmer. A bit bolder. D’you have a name? I says. Besides DeMalo, I mean.

Seth, he says. But nobody’s called me that for a very long time.

Seth, I says, tryin it out. I tip my glass to him. Thank you fer savin Nero.

What about you? he says. No thanks for saving you?

I says naught. I hug myself an drink the wine.

Three, he says.

I look at him.

That’s how many times I’ve saved your life, he says. Once at Freedom Fields, once from Vicar Pinch and just now.

The rule of three. If you save somebody’s life three times, their life belongs to you. No. That ain’t nuthin but Jack’s stupid nonsense.
Don’t even think that name. Betrayed. Deceived. I hate him.

The rain thunders onto the tent. Water drip drip drips into the tin. Wood crackles an spits inside the iron stove. I stare into my wine. Why did you? I says. Save me all them times? You shouldn’t of. We warn’t on the same side. We still ain’t.

Whose side are you on these days? he says.

Nobody’s, I says.

Not even your own, it seems, he says.

None of this makes sense, I says. You bein kind to me, fixin up Nero. Why didn’t you let me drown? Ain’t you the one who put a price on my head?

Yes, he says.

So, why all this? I says. What now? What d’you want from me?

We look at each other. I can smell the warmth of him. His skin. His hair. Somethin old starts to thrum in my blood.

The rain’s slowin to a patter. It stops. He gits up, throws back the tent flap an checks the sky.

It’s nearly dawn, he says. I’d like to show you something. Will you come?

What is it? I says.

He’s pickin up a lit lantern. Something wonderful, he says. He sees my hesitation. Do you have to be somewhere?

They’ll all be waitin. Angry with me about Jack, blamin me that he took Emmi, waitin fer me to make things right. I cain’t face ’em. I cain’t take no more of my own wrongness. Always wrong about everythin. Hate fer Jack burns in my gut.

Saba, says DeMalo. Are you expected somewhere?

No, I says. I drain my wine, put the jar on the table an stand up. Let’s go see this wonderful somethin. Oh! I pluck at the shirt. Better put my clothes back on.

They’re wet, he says. Look in the trunk. I’ll wait outside.

There’s only three things in the trunk – a green dress, womanly skivvies an a good pair of pigskin boots. More suited to Molly than me. I ain’t never wore a dress in my life. What’s he doin with gear like this?

I check my own stuff. He’s right, it’s all soppin wet. Nero sleeps in his little box by the fire. I mutter curses as I step into the dress an fumble with the buttons that close it up the front. I block out nigglin thoughts of Emmi as I pull on the boots. I duck outside into the cool air.

I find a pale, pink world. Dawn ain’t far off. DeMalo’s waitin. The hawk – Culan – sits in a nearby tree. He turns his fierce yellow eyes on me an ruffles his feathers. DeMalo looks at me in the dress. It fits well, he says.

He says it like he knew it would.

Nero’s sleepin, I says, I—

We won’t be long, says DeMalo. He’ll be fine. Come, we need to hurry.

I follow him outta the trees, over a clear-runnin stream an through a lush, grassy meadow damp with rain. DeMalo keeps a check on the sky as he hurries us on.

This is good land, I says. I never seen finer.

This is New Eden, he says.

We come to a little hill covered with blackberry brambles. The air’s heavy with the sweet promise of ripe fruit. There’s a rusted metal door set into the hill, where it ain’t quite so thick with bramble. It stands open.

Here we are, says DeMalo. The brothers will show you in.

What—? I whirl around. Outta nowhere, there’s two Tonton suddenly with us. You said you was alone! What is this?

The two men bow their heads, clenched fists held to their hearts. One of ’em holds a lit lantern.

Everyone’s here, master, he says.

What’s goin on? I says.

You’ll come to no harm, I promise, says DeMalo. They’re an escort, that’s all. I’ll see you in a moment. He holds out his hands to the men. They grasp ’em, eagerly. She’s an honoured guest, he says. Thank you, brothers. Then, with a smile an a nod, he disappears around the hill, outta sight.

Me an the two Tonton stare at each other. Me. Two Tonton. I’m sniffin fer danger, on sharp edges, jest in case. The one with the lantern smiles an bows his head. Follow me, he says.

He goes through the door. I hesitate. Please, says the second one. We cain’t be late.

I go through the door. He closes it behind us. In front, the first Tonton lights our way through pitch blackness. We go down some steps, into the ground. It smells dry. Musty. Thick, earthy silence closes around us. I hate bein unnerground, closed in. Sweat damps my forehead. He leads us through a long narrow room with wide shelfs set in the walls, like bunks. We go through a doorway into another room, then another, but there ain’t nuthin in ’em.

What is all this? I says.

A bunker, says the man behind me. From Wrecker times. There was ten of ’em in here when the Pathfinder first come. Ten skellentons, that is. He says it was their hidin place.

What was they hidin from? I says.

Who knows? he says. War, pestilence, some kinda calamity.

We must be close to the centre of the hill by now. At the end of a narrow passage, the lantern man opens a closed door an we go through.

Twelve heads turn towards us. Twelve quartered circle brands. Stewards of the Earth. Six boys an six girls. Young an strong, dressed simple. Their right hands fly, clenched, to their hearts.

Long life to the Pathfinder! they says. The two Tonton reply likewise.

I’m paused in the doorway, one foot in, one out. Not only my guide, but a few of the Stewards hold lanterns too, so the room’s well lit. It ain’t long an narrow, like th’other rooms we jest come through. This one’s big, maybe twenny paces across each way. It’s got white, smooth walls, built pretty much square but round in the corners. A white ceilin an floor.

I realize that all eyes is on me. Wary eyes. Starin at my birthmoon tattoo.

The one that the Pathfinder seeks has come, says the lantern man. She’s his honoured guest. Please, he tells me, come in.

As I do, noddin at the Stewards, they shift away. Nobody wants to stand too close to the Angel of Death.

If only they knew.

She’s dead.

Auriel said so.

The second Tonton closes the door behind us. It disappears, becomes part of the smoothness of the wall.

It’s time, he says.

Stand around the edges, says the first one. Backs to the walls. That’s it. Now, blow out yer lanterns.

The puff of quick breaths an the light huffs out. We’re all in the dark. The blacker than black.

It’s silent. A deeper silence than any I ever knew before. All I can hear is the beat of my own heart. To my left, where the door is, a sudden waft of cold air. The faint tang of juniper. DeMalo’s jest come in. Silence agin.

Then. The tiniest pinprick of light in the ceilin. Directly in the centre of the room. A bird begins to sing. I jump. In the darkness of the room unner the hill, there’s a bird singin. How did it git in here? I dunno what kind it is neether. I never heard this song before. Another bird joins in. A different song. Then another bird, with another song.

The pinprick grows to a weak beam. I start to see DeMalo, standin in the centre of the room, right unnerneath it. He lifts a chunk of clear, glassy rock. The light beam latches onto it. The rock starts to glow with a faint pink light. An it ain’t jest the rock that’s glowin pink. It’s the whole room. In front of us, beside us, behind us. Gittin brighter an stronger every moment.

The Stewards murmur an shift. Now the light’s growin, changin to dark blue an red an gold. All around us. I can see now that it’s the walls. They’re changin.

The birds still sing. An somethin’s joined in that ain’t a bird. Sounds like a stringbox. It’s singin along with the birds. I cain’t tell where it’s comin from. It’s jest . . . here. In the room. Slow an sweet. It’s the most lovely thing I ever heard.

The light brightens. Brighter an brighter. Golden, yellow.

It’s the dawn. Dawn grows on the walls, all around the room. The birdsong fades an more stringboxes join in the song. Other musicmakers too. It’s so beautiful, it sends chills up an down my spine.

The music gits louder an louder, quicker an quicker.

Suddenly, green leaps out at us. Fer a moment or two, I cain’t figger out what it is. Then I see. It’s grasslands. But I’m seein ’em like Nero must do. From above. All around me, on the walls, a bird’s eye view of grasslands an blue sky an clouds. I’m movin fast, like the fastest bird that ever flew. The sound of wind weaves in with the music.

I’m a bird! I whisper. I’m a bird! Oh! I turn this way, that way, so’s I can watch everythin, everywhere, all around me. Everybody else is doin the same, exclaimin. I catch DeMalo’s eye. He smiles. I laugh.

Great herds of buffalo thunder over the plains. There’s mountains up ahead. Vast mountains with snow on the top. We fly over ’em, into ’em, past eagles in the sky. We soar on the wind, on the music. There’s animals I ain’t never seen before. Shaggy big-horned creatures leap from crag to crag. I try to touch ’em. My hands go right through to the cold of the wall.

We look down on mighty rivers, swoop low to sparklin clear lakes where fish jump. Great forests of green trees. Then it’s blue. Blindin blue an sunlight dancin on it. Water. Water. Endless water. Not a river. Not a lake. Somethin else.

Is that the Big Water? I says. I’m with DeMalo now, in the middle of the room.

Yes, he says. The ocean.

The roar of waves. Giant fish, smooth black with white bellies, leap high an splash down. Smaller ones, grey an sleek, burst to the surface an leap – six of ’em at once – fer the joy of swimmin free. Then we’re unner the water. Hunnerds of fish swim together. Fast. Movin this way, that way. Other kinds of swimmin creatures. All sizes an shapes an colours.

Some of the Stewards sit on the ground, quiet. Others move around the room. I turn an turn. I gasp. Cry out at one wondrous sight after another. I cain’t take it all in. My heart’s beatin fast, like I’m runnin.

What is this? I says to DeMalo. Where is it? I wanna go there!

It’s our world, he says. The way it used to be.

We’re back on land, flyin over vast plains. Herds of beasts gallop below. Many kinds of springers an horses. Long-neck spotted ones, black an white striped ones. The rumble an dust of their hoofs. Huge, slow grey beasts bellow their long noses. Big cats roar an chase. Jackals chatter an tear at the dead. Birds of all colours shriek an squawk an take to the sky in dancin, rapturous flocks. Funny-faced creatures hang from trees by their long tails, their young clutchin tight. Great waterfalls tumble an roar. Trees. Flowers. Snow. Ice. Insects. Lizards. Butterflies. Strange, marvellous creatures, big an small.

We go to cities. By the sea. On the land. The lost cities of the ancient world. Their tall skyscrapers. Mysterious machines. So many people. Walking an eatin an laughin an playin an dancin. Travellin in cars, on two-wheelers like Em’s from the landfill. They soar in their flyin machines that I seen when I crossed Sandsea.

Pa was right, I whisper. They did go up in the air.

Higher an higher we fly. Higher than any bird could ever go till we leave the wide wonder of the earth an sky behind.

Stars come out, all around us. On the ceilin, on the walls an unner our feet. Then on one wall, a little blue ball floats in a ocean of stars. On the blue ball, there’s bits of green an white.

The music’s slow now. Quiet. Tears track down my face. I ain’t cryin. But I cain’t seem to stop the tears.

Then the stars go out, one by one. The little blue ball gits fainter. The music fades. Till we’re in darkness once more. Silence once more.