Rebel Heart (4 page)

Think, Saba. I need Hermes. If there’s a moment . . . if I git a chance I’ll take it. I’ll take any chance to git away, but I need Hermes here.

No, no, wait, I cain’t, the dogs might go fer him. So confused. Cain’t think straight. Move, Saba. Jest move! I start to back away, up the ridge. I keep my eyes on the dogs, tearin at each other, fightin to the death.

Nero screams above.

A loose rock. My foot slips. I go over. I’m down.

An I’m slidin. Tumblin. Fallin.

Back down the slope.

Straight towards the wolfdogs.

I’m on my back. Lyin on hard, flat rock. Hot rock. The heat sizzles around me. Cooks me. My bones ache. Eyes heavy. Dry. I squint one open. Too bright. A dull pain throbs at the back of my head.

I groan.

Nero croaks. I can feel the weight of him on my stummick.

The smell of doggy, meaty breath, hot an close. A rough tongue licks my face. My eyes fly open. The blue-eyed wolfdog’s standin over me.

Ahhh! I scrabble away an leap to my feet. Nero screeches off in a flurry.

The dog’s backin away, whinin. He stops. He sits, about six foot away. His pink tongue lolls outta his mouth, long an drippin. I frown. Is that – is he . . . smilin at me? Fer the first time, I notice he’s got one droopy ear. The right one.

Blue eyes. One droopy ear. Jest like Tracker. Mercy’s wolfdog, Tracker. But . . . how can that be? Mercy’s place at Crosscreek must be weeks from here.

Tracker? I says.

He stands. Barks twice. Takes a couple of steps towards me. Nero caws from his perch on a nearby rock.

Tracker! I says. Ohmigawd, Tracker, it’s you! What’re you do—

A arrow comes whizzin through the air. I dive. Tracker darts away. It jest misses his left flank. I look behind to see who’s shot it.

It’s Lugh. Standin on the ridge above. He’s about to shoot agin.

No! I yell. Wait! Don’t shoot!

Too late. Then Lugh’s leapin down the slope, hollerin an wavin his arms. The arrow bounces offa the rock.

An I’m yellin, Lugh, stop! It’s okay! Don’t shoot!

An Nero’s flyin all over the place, screechin an squawkin.

An Tracker’s gone. I can see him high-tailin it across the Waste.

Damn, I says. Ow! A sharp twinge in the back of my head. It’s a fair-sized lump an hurts like stink when I give it a prod.

I freeze. There’s two wolfdogs not more’n ten foot away from me. What’s left of ’em, anyways. It’s the ones that attacked me. They lie in pools of their own blood. Both got their throats ripped out. Their teeth bared in a last snarl, their yellow eyes glarin rage at death. The air hums with a hungry buzz. Flies. Hunnerds of ’em. Thousands of ’em. The open wounds, the half-dried lakes of sticky blood heave with their shimmerin bodies.

Tracker did this. Tracker killed the wolfdogs. He saved my life.

Tracker. Here. I don’t unnerstand.

Saba! Lugh runs up, crossbow in hand. He’s breathin hard. Relief an worry an anger, all at the same time, chase over his face. Saba, are y’okay?

Yeah, I says. I’m fine, thanks.

But I’m thinkin. Tracker here. Alone in the Waste. So . . . does that mean Mercy’s somewhere near? No, she cain’t be, he’s in terrible shape, so thin an ragged. She’d never let him git like that. So what’s goin on? How’d he git here? An where’s Mercy? Tough, wise Mercy. What’s happened to her?

Whaddya mean, fine? Saba! Lugh grabs my arm an shakes it. Saba, what the hell happened here?

That was Tracker, I says. That wolfdog you jest shot at. It’s Tracker. Ohmigawd, Lugh, he saved my life.

Who? He looks blank.

Then I remember. Lugh warn’t at Mercy’s place at Crosscreek with me an Emmi. That was after he got took by the Tonton. So he don’t know Tracker.

Tracker, I says. He’s Mercy’s tame wolfdog. Y’know, Mercy. Ma’s friend . . . from Crosscreek.

He stares at me. Crosscreek? You ain’t talkin no sense.

Yes, I am, I says. That wolfdog had one droopy ear an blue eyes. Jest like Tracker. It was him, Lugh, it was Tracker, I’m sure of it.

Wolfdogs got yellow eyes, not blue, says Lugh. Yellow, like these here. An there ain’t no such thing as a tame wolfdog. They’re vicious bastards. Look at you, Saba, yer a mess.

He’s right. I got blood all over me. My boots, my tunic, my britches.

Tracker killed ’em, I says. They was comin fer me an then . . . he come flyin outta nowhere, Lugh, an he fought that one an rippped his throat an then he started in on that one an then I tripped an . . . I remember fallin, I must of hit my head. Must of knocked myself out. When I come to, jest now, Tracker was standin right beside me an—

The moment Lugh hears the words “hit my head”, he pulls me to him an starts pressin an pokin at my head an talkin over me. Fergawdsake, Saba, why didn’t you say?

Ow! I elbow him away. I’m okay, it’s jest a bump.

I’ll be the judge of that, he says. He starts checkin me out, holdin up his pointer finger an movin it back an forth. I follow it with my eyes.

It was Tracker, I says. I swear it was him, Lugh.

He takes me by the shoulders. Looks at me straight. Listen to me, he says. You hit yer head. You bin lyin in the sun fer who knows how long. You must of imagined it. Dreamed it.

No, I says, no, I never.

C’mon, Saba, think about it, he says. What’s the chances of Tracker showin up here, in the middle of nowhere? Crosscreek must be weeks away.

I know that, I says.

So, what’s the chances?

I dunno, I says. I . . . not good, I guess.

More like impossible, he says. An what about this?

Lugh holds up the loose end of a piece of nettlecord rope that’s tied around his right ankle. I look down. I got the same as him, essept around my left ankle. The tether’s bin cut through with a knife, close to my boot, clean an neat. I stare at the cut rope. I fergot all about him an me bein tied together. Lately, when I do sleep, I’ve took to sleepwalkin. Tyin us together was Lugh’s idea to stop me wanderin off an gittin into trouble. Fer my own good, he said. To keep me safe.

I woke up, he says, the rope was cut an you was gone.

Nero flaps down an lands on my head. I wince. Move him to my shoulder. I must of bin sleepwalkin agin, I says.

You tryin to tell me you moved so sneaky in yer sleep? he says. That you cut us apart without wakin me up?

What, you think I did it on purpose? I says.

You tell me, he says.

I–I don’t remember cuttin the rope, I says. I don’t remember how I got here.

Oh gawd, I dunno, maybe you was sleepwalkin. He shakes his head. Jeez, Saba.

Look, I says, all I can remember is, I was huntin an there was this windspringer, runnin in front of a storm – ohmigawd, Lugh, you never seen nuthin like this storm before. There was this . . . long line of twisters, little ones not more’n forty foot high, an they come rollin outta the east, jest sweepin right along there. It was amazin!

I wave my arm at the plain in front of us. Lugh an me look out over the bleak face of the Waste. The mid-mornin sky’s so clear you can see all the way to the horizon an into next week. No bushes ripped out. No churned up ground. Not a single sign that a storm might of passed.

There was a storm, I says, it happened, truly it did. Nero seen it!

I look to him, like he might suddenly start talkin an back me up. But he’s busy with crow concerns, tearin at the ripped flesh of one of the wolfies, gorgin hisself on fresh kill.

Well, anyways, I nearly had him, I says, this springer, but then this pack of wolfies come outta nowhere an two of ’em – these two here – they come at me an then Tracker shows up an they start to fight an . . . then I . . . I fell an hit my head an when I come to, you was here an . . . that’s it.

We stare at each other.

Lugh. Golden as the sun itself. His skin, his long hair that hangs in a plait to his waist. Eyes the blue of a summer sky. So different from me, with my dark hair an eyes. Ma used to say I was the night-time an Lugh was the day. Th’only thing the same is our birthmoon tattoo on our right cheekbones. Pa put ’em there hisself, to mark us out as special. Twins born at the midwinter moon. A rare thing.

Lugh huffs out his breath. Goes to where my bow an quiver lies on the ground, my knife too. While he picks ’em up, he whistles fer the horses an they start pickin their way down the ridge towards us. Hermes an Rip, Tommo’s horse that Lugh rode here on. He comes back. Hands my weapons over.

A full quiver, he says. That means you didn’t shoot even one arrow. Not at the windspringer, not at the wolfies. How come?

I go to speak. Stop myself. I nearly said. It nearly came out. About the shakes an the breathin an . . . the rest. But I cain’t say. I mustn’t. I cain’t burden Lugh with my troubles. His soul’s heavy enough. Whatever it is that ails me, it’ll pass.

Saba! Lugh says. How come you didn’t shoot?

I . . . I dunno, I says.

You know what I think? he says. There warn’t no storm. There warn’t no windspringer an there warn’t no blue-eyed wolfdog that come outta nowhere to save yer life. You dreamed the whole thing. You was sleepwalkin.

No, I says. No.

You rode here in yer sleep, he says, an somehow you fell an knocked yerself out. While you was dreamin of blue-eyed wolfdogs an twister storms, these two wolfies an that one I chased off, they sniffed you out an got in a fight over the meat.

What meat? I says.

You, you idiot, he says. I came jest in time to save yer hide. If I hadn’t of, they’d of ripped you to shreds an vultures ’ud be pickin at yer bones right this second.

I glance at the sky. Sure enough, the big dead eaters is startin to circle above the wolfies. No, I says, no, it warn’t like that, Lugh, I swear it was Tracker who—

Shut up! Jest shut up! he explodes. Gawdammit, Saba, give it a rest an stop lyin to me!

His face is hot. Flushed dark red. The little muscle in his jaw – the one Emmi calls his mad muscle – is bunched tight an jumpin. It happens a lot these days. This quick snap of rage.

I ain’t lyin, I says.

Well, you ain’t tellin me the truth, he says.

What, like you tell me the truth? I says.

We stare at each other a long moment. There’s tired lines carved deep in his face. Dark smudges unner his eyes. Suddenly, his shoulders slump. His anger drains away. As quick as it comes, it’s gone.

What’m I gonna do with you? he says. He hooks a arm around my neck an pulls me to him. We lean our foreheads aginst each other. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I . . . I jest want things to be the way they was. I jest want you an me to be us agin.

Me too, I whisper.

You smell bad, he says.

I know, I says.

No, he says, I mean, you smell real bad. I cain’t stand it. He shoves me away. Go cut some big muscle meat offa one of them wolfies, he says. We’ll stew some tonight an wind dry the rest.

Hermes an Rip stand waitin, well away from the dead wolfdogs. While I stone off the vultures an git on with slicin one of the wolfies into chunks, Lugh goes an starts checkin the horses over, bridles, bits an reins, the cattail mats on their backs.

We jest need to git outta this place, I says. It’s doin all our heads in. Is Buck’s leg healed enough fer us to move on?

I ain’t riskin a good horse jest because you cain’t wait to see Jack, says Lugh.

I didn’t say that, I says.

You don’t hafta, he says. I know what you mean.

You do not, I says. Heat starts to crawl up my neck.

Oh really? Then how come yer turnin red? I swear, this . . . obsession you got with him . . . all of yuz. Lugh puts on a silly little voice. D’you remember the time Jack said this? Did I tell you about the time Jack did that? I’m sick of hearin his name.

Anybody’d think you was jealous, I says.

I jest don’t want you to git hurt, says Lugh. I keep tellin you, Saba, he ain’t gonna be there. He ain’t gonna show at the Big Water. Jack’s long gone. A guy like him . . . he gits a whiff of somethin new an he’s off. He’s only in it fer hisself, you can see it in his eyes. Once he’s got what he wants, he moves on.

Jack ain’t like that, I says. My cheeks feel flamin hot now.

What’s the matter? he says. Too close to the mark? What did Jack want from you? Did you give it to him?

Shut yer mouth, I says.

Lugh stops what he’s doin. Gives me a hard stare. Did you lie with him? he says. Is that how you paid him to help find me?

I gasp. Jump to my feet an face him square. You take that back!

I seen the way he looked at you, he says. The way you looked at him.

The way I look at people’s my own business, I says. You took aginst Jack the moment you met him, when all you should be is thankful.

An there it is! he says. The hourly reminder of my debt to Jack.

Well, maybe that’s because you don’t seem to appreciate that you wouldn’t be alive if it warn’t fer him, I says. None of us would. I don’t unnerstand you, Lugh. Why you ain’t grateful that—

Do NOT tell me I oughta be grateful! he yells. He storms over, grabbin my arms, shakin me hard. I am not grateful, d’you hear me? I do not! Wanna! Hafta be . . . grateful.

He ends on a whisper. He stares down at his hands holdin my arms. At his fingers diggin into me. Hangin on to me. Then, Why did you let ’em take me? Why didn’t you an Pa stop ’em?