Skillful Death (61 page)

“Is that a quote?”

“Yes,” I say.

“From some brilliant general?”

“No. From a once-decent poker player.”

“If you’re going to follow me, only step where I step.”

“I still don’t see the purpose of stealth. If they want to find us, they can search the forest,” I say.

“This forest still holds secrets,” he says. “I’m going to visit one of them and I don’t want to leave a trail there.”

♣
   
♢
   
♡
   
♠

Bud leads me through the forest. I’m sure I’ll never learn his stealth, but after hours of practice, I can follow in his footsteps. Choosing how to place your weight seems to be the key of not leaving a trail. Before him, the underbrush parts. Behind him, it weaves together seamlessly, leaving no trace.

As the sun begins to set, I’m once again bone-tired from hiking. This time, there’s no talk of hunting food, starting a fire, and setting up a tent.
 

Birds swoop down from the trees and screech at us. Bud smiles. He brings us to a little creek that cuts a line through the trees. The banks of the stream are filled with a floating cloud of mist. I can barely see the flowing water, but I smell sulfur as we approach. Bud turns and follows the banks upstream.

I remember this creek from his narrative. The villagers were scared of the mist because it will asphyxiate you if you breathe too much of it. Bud sticks close to the bank though, and I obediently place my feet where his have landed. The shoes that Michael’s people gave us are good for hiking. I barely feel the sharp rocks which make up the banks of the stream. Where they breach the mist, they sparkle like rainbows trapped in coal, like the jewelry I found in the city.

In the dim dusk light, Bud turns and puts his finger to his lips. I’m not sure how much more quiet I can be. I focus on not making a sound as we resume walking.

It’s nearly dark when Bud holds up a hand, signaling me to stop.

“Who’s there?” a voice calls from the forest. The voice sounds strained. It creaks with age.

Bud stalks towards the voice. I see him disappear into the gloom, but I don’t want to follow him. I know I will only give away his position.

“Who would come to visit an old man at this time of day?” the voice asks.

I decide to circle the voice. Perhaps there’s a way I can help Bud.

“Night has already fallen,” I say. Based on Bud’s stories, I’m assuming something about the owner of the voice.

“So it has,” the old voice says. I think he’s moving.

I stop next to a big tree, trying to get a sense of how far away the old man is.

“Are you so blind that you cannot tell when the sun has set?” I ask.

“I see well enough that I don’t rely on the sun’s light anymore,” he says. He is moving closer, but I can’t make him out yet. He knows the terrain, and the darkness is only a disadvantage to me. I creep to my right, trying to keep my distance from his voice.

“So who would come to visit? Who?” he asks. He’s moving farther away from me, so I don’t answer. I want to give Bud time enough to do whatever it is he came to do, but I’m not anxious to meet the owner of the voice. I let my eyes drink in the darkness. There’s a glow in the trees off to the left, which is probably the moon rising beyond the canopy. I turn my head and try to use that glow to see any moving silhouettes.
 

His next question comes from only a couple of paces away. “What do you call yourself?”

I hold my breath.

His voice is lower, more intimate. “You think I don’t see you as you tremble there, but I do. What did your mother call you?”

He sounds like he’s within arm’s reach, but I don’t see a thing.

“You never knew your mother, did you?” he asks. I feel his hot breath on my cheek. “Do you still dream of her at night? Wonder what she looks like?”

He’s so close. I know that I’ll feel his boney fingers around my neck at any instant. I turn and bolt, hoping to find my way back towards the misty creek.

I only make it one step before I trip. I never make it to the ground. I hear the leaves around me shift all at once as a net lifts me into the air and bends my body into a ball.

Below, I hear the old man cackle with joy.

I thrash against the ropes and try to reach the knife strapped to my side. My arm is pinned beneath my weight and reaching for the knife threatens to dislocate my shoulder.

The old man’s cackle abruptly ends.

“Let him down, you old cannibal, or I’ll open your throat and feed the rest of you to the rats.”

“I can’t do anything with your blade at my throat,” the old man says.

“Then I’ll cut off your head and set him free on my own,” Bud says.

“Gahhh!” the old man cries. “Fine. Fine. Take me to this tree, here.”

I hear feet shuffling through the leaves below.

“Now leave me my arms,” he says.

With creaking branches above, I feel the net descend in tiny hitches. It’s swinging by the time it hits the ground. I fight my way out of the net. The first thing I do when I’ve gotten to my feet is pull my headlamp from my bag. I turn it on and sweep it around until it lands on the feet of Bud and the old man. I raise it and see Bud gripping the man around his waist and holding his knife to the man’s neck. The man’s wrinkled face is framed by wisps of white hair. His mouth gapes, showing jagged pillars of a few lonely teeth. Where his eyes should be, he has only red sockets.

“I will let you go now,” Bud says, into the man’s ear. “But if you attack us again, I’ll snap your neck and bury my knife in your heart.”

“Either would do the job,” the old man says, as Bud releases him. “No need to expend all that effort.”

B
UD
IS
WARY
OF
every step as we find our way to the old man’s shack. We stop at the fire pit, several paces from the hovel, and Bud orders the old man to sit on the ground while I stack a fire.

“You’ll have no chance to spring any more traps if you’re still,” Bud explains.

“I have no traps,” the old man says. “I only have that net to hunt. I can’t help it if your clumsy friend tripped over it. What brings you here? Did you seek me out merely to put a knife to my throat?”

“You know why I’m here,” Bud says.
 

“I see much for a blind man, but I can’t predict every move of every mortal man. What is your name?”

I drop a load of sticks. There’s a stack of firewood next to the lean-to, so I grab a few logs from there to complete my preparations. When I lift the last log, my headlamp lights up a nest of snakes. They slither off in different directions and I nearly sprint back to the fire pit.
 

“I’ve had countless names,” Bud says.

“Yes, but what’s the name your mother called you?” the old man asks. He seems to have his favorite questions.

“I have no idea. I don’t think she was aware that I was born,” Bud says.

“So you’ve learned much since you left our sylvan home,” the old man says. “So little information leaves the bamboo. Where did you come upon this knowledge?”

“Why don’t you just tell me my fortune?” Bud asks.

The old man tilts his head back towards the tree canopy and cackles.

After a minute or two, I have a decent fire going and the sharp shadows from my headlamp are softened by the flickering light. The warmth takes some of the menace out of the surrounding woods.

“I’ll tell you your fortune, if that’s what you would have. A wiser man would understand what a silly request that is,” the old man said.

“Why?” Bud asks.

“Because there are so many more important things to discuss.”

“Then tell me those,” Bud says.

“First asked, first said,” the old man says. “You’ve asked for your fortune, so that’s what I will tell.”

“Then get on with it.”

The firelight seems to turn red as the old man’s voice drops.

“You’ve found your fortune with your feet,” the old man says. “And you’ve been drawn out by the mystery that started it all. Now you face your biggest challenge. A friend will become an enemy, and an enemy will become your father. The sky will collapse to burn your soul, and you will give your heart to see God. When you return to the element of your destiny, you will finally understand the secret to which you were conceived.”

“Gibberish,” I say.

The old man laughs again. The fire flares with green light and then dwindles to nothing, until I fear it’s extinguished. Now, a second later, it burns normally. The old man is through laughing, but I can still hear his laugh echoing through the trees.

“Now, what are the more important things to discuss?” Bud asks.

“I want to finish fortunes first,” the old man says. He pulls a dirty rag from inside his shirt and dabs the corners of his eye sockets.
 

“Then finish,” Bud says, raising his voice.

“Such a demand for my talents. I usually inspire more gratitude. The future of Malcolm is so much harder to read, because the two paths diverge so far based on his decision. I will start with the easier one—with one decision, you will die six
 
deaths. You squander your first two lives, enjoy the third, betray the fourth, misplace the fifth, and relinquish the sixth to your mother. That’s the easier one. But should you take the other path, you will forget your discipline and burrow to the other side of the fence. You will partner with grace, and devote yourself to her cause. You will be struck down by what you’ve hunted and rise again after the triumvirate has freed the world from immortal tyranny.”

I barely hear the prediction because I’m too disturbed by what he called me. “How did you know my name?” I ask.

He laughs. “That’s not your name,” he says. “It’s merely what you call yourself. Your real name is something I would like to know. It’s not Leonard either, but I think that’s a little closer. You definitely have the mark of the lion, like your friend here.”

“Are we finished with fortunes? I would have you speak of those ‘more important things’ now. Perhaps they will make more sense,” Bud says.

“Yes, sense is very important to you, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“It’s another way of expressing your talent—making sense of things. You fancy yourself able to analyze and fabricate, yes? But I propose that your real talent can be expressed more as the ability to make things flow. You began making skins flow into each other with your little suits. Then you made commerce flow across the sea. You rose again when you made water flow into people’s houses. Finally, after you flowed yourself across the globe, you discovered how to make tiny charges flow through invisible paths. Am I correct?”

“Your information is as complete as my memory,” Bud says.

The old man laughs again. He’s amused by everything, it seems.

“And what of your words?” the old man asks.

“My words?”

“They flow from your mouth like water, in any tongue.”

“I don’t understand,” Bud says.

“Yes, you are not the smartest,” the old man says. “Sometimes the really obvious things pass right by you, yes? I am clever with fortunes, but I am no linguist. You could speak circles around me with all the languages you possess.”

“What is your point?” Bud asks.

“I only speak one language—the language my mother taught me. How many can you speak fluently? Ten? Twenty? Have you ever lived in a place where the natives could detect your accent as foreign?”

“I don’t know,” Bud says. “When I arrived at Denpa’s village, I could only growl.”

“I am sure there were many things you had forgotten after your time with the monk,” the old man says. “So I have one tongue, and you have at least a dozen. How many does your friend have?”

“Pardon?” Bud asks. I figure it out just before the old man says it.

“How is
he
taking part in this conversation?” the old man asks. He gestures with his filthy rag towards me.

If he hadn’t pointed it out, I wouldn’t have thought twice. I guess I just assumed we were speaking in English, but now that he makes me aware, I can hear the guttural choking sounds we’re using to communicate. Some of it is close to Russian, but not quite the same. I’m hardly an expert in Russian, but I understand this language perfectly. Is this the same language I thought I didn’t understand earlier?

Bud looks at me. His eyes narrow slightly.

“Where did he learn our language?”

Great. I was just starting to get back into Bud’s circle of trust and this old man casts doubt on me once again.

“You’re the soothsayer,” I say. “Why don’t you tell us?”

“Shall I?” the old man asks. “Never fear, Connie—this man is your friend. I can tell you have had your doubts about him recently. If I were you, I would trust him to the end.” The old man chuckles and dabs at his eyes.

“How do you know that language?” Bud asks me the question in English.

“I don’t know,” I respond in English. “Truly, I don’t. Honestly, I didn’t even think about it until he said something. It didn’t even seem different to me.”