Urszula looked on, bemused. “Herding worms, are you?”
“I was trying to make myself a sword so I can cut you loose.”
She shook her head. “You have no powers here.”
“But I’ve done this before.”
“Down below. Yes. Up here, you have no powers. That is the problem with your spell craft. It weakens away from the Core.”
“But I saw people making stuff in the Sanctuary.”
“They were Masters, most likely,” said Urszula. “You are just a Hemisoul.”
“Yeah, well. I have to say, I did pretty darned well down below.”
“Hah! Any fool can Weave in the pits and tunnels. There, imagination and matter are one and the same.”
Her dissing pissed me off. I don’t know what got into me, but I ripped a branch off a bush and stripped it of leaves and twigs. The sleek bark, the color of coral, smelled like strong tea.
“If only I had my scepter,” said Urszula. “One touch and I could free myself. No matter. When morning comes, the bees will find me. They will call my brothers and sisters. Their Craft will make short work of these binds.”
I grabbed that stick in both hands as if were restraining a snake, and touched its tip to the mesh that clung to her like shrink-wrap. It sizzled at the point of contact like a lit fuse, spreading outward in all directions, sending up puffs of smoke and dust.
Urszula gasped. When the last shred of mesh had disintegrated, her rib cage expanded as she took in a long, deep breath. She spread her limbs, writhing into a position that at last gave her comfort.
“How did you do this?” she said.
“I … uh … seem to have a knack.”
As the wind carried the white smoke across the scrubby slopes, her eyes gripped me.
“You are one of us,” she said. “You have the Craft.”
“Me? A Duster?”
“We are Weavers all,” she said. “Roots are only the material of dreams. But no one dreams in the Deeps. There is only dust and stone. That is how we come to the Craft.”
“But I’ve never even been to the Deeps.”
“Don’t ask me to explain,” she said, rubbing the splint on her broken arm. “It appears you are a maverick in more ways than one.”
“I suppose I should hang onto this stick, huh?”
“Of course. It is bound to you now. It is … your scepter.”
She rose to her feet, putting pressure on her swollen ankle but it wasn’t physically able to support her. It kept flopping over on its side.
“Jeez! Don’t do that. That’s gotta hurt.”
“Pain is nothing. It is just a sense like any other. Like smell. Like taste.”
“Yeah, but … you’re gonna ruin your foot.”
“Whatever is broken can be mended.”
“I’m sorry. But I can’t watch you do that. You’re going to have to let me help you.”
***
I walked with one arm around her back and one supporting her good arm so she didn’t have to put her full weight on her ankle. On the uneven slope, it was as awkward as a three-legged race. We kept blundering into thorn bushes and cacti.
As the twilight thickened we entered a gully packed with these stunted trees with waxy, whitish leaves. Deadfalls and branches impeded our way and slowed our progress.
Every step was a struggle, but Urszula had the endurance of a mule. I was the one who had to beg that we stop for a rest. All this going downhill on uneven ground was hell on my knees.
“Are you weary, already?” she said, as I sat down on a slab of stone to catch my breath.
“It’s a lot of extra work, walking with a gimp.”
“I can go on without you. I don’t need your help.”
“Yeah, right. You wouldn’t make it ten steps on that bum ankle.”
“Wrap it tighter and I would be fine.”
I got up off the stone. “You know, it might be easier if I just carried you.”
“What?” She backed away. “Get away from me.”
“No, really. We could keep a better pace if I—”
“Get away!” She backed into a boulder and stumbled. As she crumpled to the ground I swooped in and caught her in my arms. I scooped her up the way a groom carried a bride over a threshold.
“I can’t get over how light you are. What are you made of, fiberglass?”
“Put me down!” she growled, squirming.
“Let’s just try it this way for a while, okay?”
“I can walk!”
“I know you can. But let’s try it this way for a while, okay? Humor me.”
Finally, she settled down, relenting. “I don’t understand why you do this.”
“Because I made you a promise. I couldn’t stand seeing you suffer. And … I hate those freaking Reapers. Domesticated or not, they stink. And the way they eat, maybe I could handle them if … if ….”
“If what?”
“If they were … vegetarian.”
***
The gully cut deep into shadows dark as the approaching night, the sky a slash of grey between buttresses of layered stone. Carrying Urszula quickened our progress drown through the narrow defile, though the stone underfoot was still loose and treacherous.
She kept silent the entire way down, her head bobbing with each step. A spot of moisture formed on my shirt where her eyes pressed against my shoulder. She was stoic through the pain but I guess even she had limits.
Full-blown night immersed us by the time we bottomed out onto the valley floor. We stopped to rest by a spring that seeped from a crack in the sandstone. We both drank. I redid the wrapping on her ankle, which kept coming loose and waving like a banner in the breeze.
A scraping, creaking arose across the flats, accompanied by the snap of branches. It sounded like a pair of street sweepers taking a detour through a park.
“Reapers patrolling,” said Urszula. “Moving out to the plains. Wait till they pass.”
A slight breeze flowed down the mountainside. I worried they would pick up our scent and come after us. But I kept that concern to myself as I twisted the loose the ends of her wrap and knotted them securely.
“Once we cross the border—the river—you can leave me. Go back to your people.”
“My people? What people?” There was Bern and Lille, perhaps. And … Mom … what was left of her. “If you mean Frelsi. I ain’t going back there.”
“Where will you go, then?”
“Dunno,” I said. “Go wait for Karla, I guess. And see what happens from there.”
“It is not safe in the bottom lands for you. My brothers and sisters will come hunting.“
“Well, couldn’t you … like … call them off? Have them leave me alone? I mean, I’m no threat. I ain’t going back to Frelsi if I can help it. I’m sure as hell not joining their freaking army.”
She sighed. “They are difficult. Stubborn. I don’t know if I can make them understand. I am not sure if I understand you. Maybe if they see you have the Craft ….”
Across the valley, the mesas loomed like blacked-out skyscrapers. Light from the moon and stars sketched her form with soft, lustrous strokes. We kept silent as the Reapers scraped past about a hundred yards away, between us and the river.
“I owe you, for what you have done.”
“Ah, forget about it. You don’t owe me nothing.”
She rose up and tested her ankle, stumbling as it failed to support her weight.
“What are you doing? I just wrapped it a little tighter. That doesn’t mean you can walk on it.”
“I don’t want to burden you.”
“It’s no burden. Really. You’re not that heavy. But maybe you should go piggy-back this time? We can cover more ground that way.”
“You want me … to ride on your back?”
“Well yeah. That’s the idea.”
I crouched down and she came up behind me, reluctantly. I hooked my arms beneath her knees and lifted.
“This is strange
ness,” she said. “I haven’t been carried this way since I was small.”
“Just pretend I’m a giant bug. You don’t seem to have a problem with them.” I took a step forward and paused. “Which way?”
“A cross the valley,” she said. “Keep the mountains to your back. Reapers patrol only on this side. We will be safe once we cross the river.”
***
The terrace along the riverbank had all the makings of a Reaper superhighway. The place was thick with their spoor, the ground trampled and churned, bushes uprooted, the air laden with their stench. I could them calling to each other out on the plains, their screams halfway between an elephant and a whale.
I let the bank collapse and crumble beneath my feet, descending in a sort of controlled landslide. The first river bed we crossed had no water. The rounded gravel underfoot clattered musically under my tread.
I had seen from above that these channels formed a broad complex of braids, most of them dry. They must be a bugger to cross in full flood.
Urszula hung her chin over my shoulder and snuffled in my ear. Her tears dribbled down my neck. I kept asking if she was okay, but she kept ignoring me.
After crossing yet another dry channel, I eased her down onto a sand bank.
“Why are you crying? Does it hurt? Want me to redo your splint? Did I make it too tight?”
“I do not cry!”
“Oh? Then what’s that stuff leaking out of your eyes?”
She refused to answer.
“It’s okay. It’s only natural. You’re in a lot of pain, I bet.”
“I do not cry!” With that, the last of her bravado shattered and she wept openly. I reached out my hand to console her but she slapped it away. She curled up into a ball and sobbed.
“I haven’t felt this way … in centuries. What have you done to me?”
“Me? I didn’t do anything. I’m just trying to help. I don’t like seeing people suffer.”
She shuddered and wailed. “I thought I was done with these … these feelings! I thought the Deeps had eradicated them from me. And good riddance! It serves no use to feel this way. It is weakness. I am weak.”
“You’re human,” I said. “The Deeps didn’t change that.”
Slowly, she unfolded herself and stood, her sobs having subsided into occasional sniffles.
“Let us go,” she said, her voice grim and cold.
***
The sound of trickling water heralded our arrival at the actual river, which was only several inches deep, rippling across a wide bed of coarse grit. We knelt together on a sandbar and drank, the water sweet but gritty from the glacial milk. It was much colder than the lukewarm streams I had encountered on the plains.
“We are safe here,” she said, her voice calm and relaxed. “The Reapers never cross.”
“Not sure why not,” I said. “It doesn’t pose much of a barrier.”
“In the light, my brothers and sisters would fall upon them like harpies.”
“Harpies, huh?”
I wondered how many hours we had before dawn. I had lost all track of time. I couldn’t even remember how many days had passed since I had last been on the other side. Could it mean I was already dead? But that was impossible. If everything they had been telling me true, with my soul here under the full influence of the Core, an earthly death would condemn me to the Deeps.
“Hey Urszula. What the heck is this Core thing?”
“It is the dream space. The center of this existence. Where everything becomes anything.”
“O-kay.” I said, struggling to come up with a follow-up question that would add more clarity.
“Now that we have crossed, you may go,” she said.
“So what are you gonna do? Sit here all night by yourself?”
“Maybe … I will walk home.” She rose to her feet.
“Oh no, you won’t. Come on. Let me take you a little farther.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Maybe I want to. It would give me some peace of mind, so I don’t keep thinking those Reapers came after you. It’s not like you could run. You’d be a sitting duck.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just get over here.”
She hesitated; the light glinted off the rippling water and shimmered against her lean form.
“We walk together, side by side. No more carrying.”
“Deal,” I said.
***
Again, we slogged over yet another network of mostly dry channels, some with stranded ponds. Startled frogs the size of Labrador retrievers croaked and splashed into the weedy depths as we passed.
When we finally reached the last of the dry channels, the essence of daylight had at last begun to seep back into the landscape. As we climbed the bank I noticed the strangest vegetation studding the flat spaces between us and the tablelands. Each ‘shrub’ had three dark bulges with spiky branches that angled skyward or folded back against themselves.
As the light improved, I saw that they weren’t shrubs at all, but the empty husks of giant insects—ants, to be exact—lying legs up. All had root-like things snaking in and out of the exoskeleton of its underbelly as if someone had stitched them with a huge needle and coarse rope.
When I tried to veer closer to one, Urszula tugged me back.
“Stay away,” she said. “There is fellstraw here.”
“What?”
“See there?” She pointed at some innocent-looking spirals lying on the ground that could have been extra-long curly fries or freeze-dried, corkscrewed earthworms. “Fellstraw. You touch it, it comes alive and burrows into your spine and devours the brain.
“What the hell?”
“A new and terrible weapon, bred by their Master Weavers. Already, it has decimated the lower colonies, our first line of defense. They come and spread it in the night with their winged Reapers. Workers become infested and infect the soldiers. Once the soldiers are gone, spiker slugs are free to go after the queens.”
“Do I even want to know what that is?”
“Another breed of Reaper. Smaller. Quicker. They kill with the sharp bone on their snouts. They are like the cone shell, they puncture and inject venom. I hope you never have to meet one face to face.”
“Yeah, well … me too.”
We came to a set of ant hills as big as department stores—their gritty covered with more ant carcasses and riddled with partially collapsed tunnels.
We continued past the carnage to the base of one of the first mesas, with slope of rubble that led up to a nearly vertical rise of deeply fluted cliffs.
Something that sounded like an electric hedge trimmer came careening out of the sky at us. I leapt into a briar patch as a honeybee the size of a woodchuck landed with a slap against the trunk of a dead tree, waving its antennae at Urszula.
“Oh Christ … I hate bees,” I said, slipping behind her. I couldn’t take my eyes off the stinger pulsing in and out of its abdomen. Urszula acted unperturbed. She called to it in her odd, burbling language as if she were cooing to a lap dog. She stretched out her hand and let the bee climb onto her arm. It lingered, lapping, before buzzing away in a burst of wing beats.
“This one will send for help,” she said.
***
I sat with Urszula in a patch of golden grass to await her brothers and sisters, as she called them, and watched the rising sun paint the hills. She looked far more at ease than I had yet seen her, sporting a mild smirk, which I guess passed for a smile among her kind, until they joined their Old Ones.
I probably should have left her there, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to go. Maybe I was a maverick at heart but I was no recluse. I was in no rush to be off on my own just yet. Besides, it might be better to have Urszula around to explain things when her ‘brothers and sisters’ showed up.
I was feeling kind of funny, my head filled with that jittery, buzzing fog you get after an all-nighter. There were these numb patches on my hands. I wondered if this could be
the prelude to a fade. Usually, with me, a fade came on without fanfare and swept me away, no dilly-dallying. Maybe I had finally learned how to resist.
I was not looking forward to the next trip back. I could only think of the bad things waiting for me in that cell.
Rocks began to clatter down a chute carved into the side of the mesa. Dark shapes leapt across the ledges.
“Ants!” said Urszula, her voice rising with excitement. “They have come for us!”
“Us?”
A giant, jointed feeler waved out over the cliff above us. Urszula made a clicking sound with her tongue. A large black head with mandibles the size of armrests peered over the ledge with its bean-shaped compound eye.
More rocks fell and the ant clattered down the rock fall, with a second close behind it. They stood over Urszula, probing her wounds with their palps. I backed away slowly as the first ant seized Urszula around her hips with its mandibles.
“Oh Jeez!” I picked up a rock.
“It is okay,” said Urszula. “They have come to help.”
The second ant came trotting over to me. It lunged. I dove away, but it snatched me up around my chest, its mandibles exerting just enough pressure to hold me firmly without snapping my ribs.
“Tell it to put me down!”
“I cannot,” said Urszula. “The colony has decided you are to come to Neueden. It is out of my control.”
The ant cocked its head back and lifted me high as it clattered up the rubble slope to the first vertical pitch.
“Jesus Christ! It’s not planning to go straight up that cliff, is it?”
“Don’t worry. They are excellent climbers, these ants.”
Chapter 27: North
Isobel had to pee really, really bad. To Renfrew’s chagrin, they had to stop at a petrol station at Ross-on-Wye, on the last stretch of secondary roads before they hit the motorways.
“Oh, bloody hell, my ears are ringing,” said Jessica, leaning against a pump. “I can’t stand that old school metal he plays. Gives me a splitting headache.”
Renfrew came back from the shop area, tapping a pack of cigarillos.
“What say you let me drive for a spell, Ren?” said Jessica, leaning against a pump.
“But we just started,” said Renfrew. “We’re barely out of Wales.”
“It’s such a long haul. It’s only fair we split the task.”
Renfrew shrugged. “Suit yourself. The keys are in the ignition. I can take back the helm in Yorkshire, if you like.”