Chapter 21: Whirlwinds and Chasms
I'M HALFWAY ACROSS the marketplace when I hear my name. Coyote Dan hobbles to catch up with me. A quick scan of him reveals a crude splint strapped around his leg. He's using a stick like a cane. Something about his face doesn't seem quite right, like, even though there's no sign of bruising, maybe it's a bit swollen. The way he moves suggests more pain than what his leg alone can deal out. I swallow down a quick wave of guilt for leaving him in Matt's hands.
"I've been wondering where you been hiding these days, darlin'" he says, stopping in front of me, balancing on one leg and the stick.
I just look at him. His face is definitely swollen, puffy down one side of his nose. There's a gash in his ear, and scabs behind it fading into his hair. His fingers, grasping the stick, are knobby, discolored. Two of his fingernails are blackish blue, jagged, and torn. What other injuries are hidden under his thick coat?
"I'm not that bad off," he says, reading my mind. "Better than dead, that's for sure."
My eyes scan over him again. He doesn't sound upset, but just looking at the state of him is upsetting me. For a moment I'm fixated on it. Fixated on the fact that I let this happen to him. He grins at me. One of his teeth is missing. But the laugh lines around his blue eyes, the weathered, sun-beaten stretch of skin— it's all the same. Familiar. Friendly. Suddenly, I'm awash in relief that Dan is alive. Relief that he doesn't hate me for abandoning him in his crisis. Relief that life goes on. I throw my arms around him, restraining myself enough not to knock him over, and find myself blinking away tears. One of them manages to escape and drops onto his shoulder as I pull away, my hand going automatically to my ribs.
He pats me lightly on the arm. "Aw, now, don't you go gettin' your pretty little face all upset on account of me," he says. "I'm just fine. And if it weren't for you I wouldn't be."
Short on the heels of the last emotion is anger. My jaw clamps. My voice is a low growl. "I can't believe Matt did this to you—"
"Let's just leave that alone," Coyote Dan says, too easily. Like it didn't happen to him. He takes me by the arm and turns me back the way he came. "I have something for you," he says. We begin the slow walk back to where his knife stand is, usually. He's been closed since the incident and today is no exception. His stuff is all packed away inside a small building that apparently doubles as his residence. There's a cot with a mess of worn blankets shoved against the back wall. Boxes are stacked against one side. An upturned crate near the cot holds an empty plate and a half-full glass of water beside some tools and scraps of leather. Coyote Dan takes a cloth parcel out of one of the top boxes, leans against the stack, and carefully unwraps it. Inside, not surprisingly, is a knife. He picks it up by the blade and hands it to me. The whole thing spans the length of my forearm. It's a lovely thing, the metal streamlined and gleaming like it's worked from the stars themselves. The blade is thin, almost delicate, but probably stronger than anything in the Outpost, if I know Coyote Dan. The leather hilt is soft and fits my hand perfectly. It's not fancy or decorative, but it feels right. It feels right.
I want to keep it, but I shake my head. "I can't," I protest, wanting to say that I can't afford it, but I know he means to give it to me. I didn't do enough for him, though. I didn't stop him from getting hurt. A beating, a broken leg... these can be all the difference between survival and death in the days to come. I didn't help him enough.
"Like hell," is all he says. He holds out the matching sheath, dangling it on one finger.
I look at him. He looks at me. I sigh, and take it, my hand shaking. I'll pay him later, I think. When I can.
"You're a smart girl," he says, glancing past me out the open door. "Don't forget where your advantages lie. And don't let gettin' mad get in the way. I've never seen anyone handle Matt the way you do. Play your cards right, and you might just get through this mess alive." With that, he looks again at the door.
I take the hint. I nod, and leave. Whether Matthew spared Coyote Dan on my account or not, it's probably not the best idea to be seen spending too much time with him. I'm guessing that whatever he did, or was suspected of doing, was related to Sarah's attempt to gather a rebellion. I can't associate myself with anything of the sort. Especially not with Oscar in Matt's care. I strap the sheath and knife at my waist as I walk, removing the home-made version and slinging it on my arm. Something about the act makes me sad, even though the new model is vastly superior. The poorly-stitched sheath and ugly, taped-up shank make me think of Jonas, of how he worked hard to make this for me. I look up, where I'm going, hastily reminding myself that it was for all of us, not just me, when I see them— Jonas and Apollon— on an intersecting course with mine. Apollon smiles and waves, though I note that something about the way he walks still doesn't seem quite right. Like he's holding himself too stiffly. Like he doesn't want to bounce or bend.
As we close the intermediate distance, Jonas's eyes fall on the knife he made for me, then flick to my belt, where they narrow ever-so-slightly.
"Guess getting socked in the mouth isn't so bad after all," I say, smiling at them, beating them to the punch line.
Apollon laughs, then makes a low whistle, moving sideways to check out my waist. I draw the knife, flip it around, and hand it to him. He makes an appreciative noise.
Jonas is looking at me. Just looking at me. His face is blank, distant.
"Nice," Apollon says, bouncing the blade in his hand.
I nod, and glance at Jonas, who's still looking at me. I feel myself wanting to fidget, and force my body to be still.
Apollon hands the knife back to me. I stow it in its sheath. Then I take the one stringed on my arm and hold it out to Jonas. "This is yours," I say.
There's a delayed reaction, enough to make me wonder where he's been mentally. He shakes his head, a puppet animating after a long stint without a puppet master. "Nah," he says. "Keep it. You might need it. As a backup or something."
I retract my offering and nod, looping one end of the old sheath through my belt to free my hands. "So what're you guys up to?"
Both of them offer something in the form of a shrug, a frown, a head shake. They brush me off. They're not up to anything. Not Jonas and Apollon. We start walking along toward the center of town, toward home, which is on the other side of the Outpost. I want to call them out, find out what's going on, but this isn't really the place. So I content myself with strolling along beside them. I glance at Jonas again, and I'm sure that he's a million miles away.
Apollon, walking between us, nudges me with his elbow. "Chsh," he says, smiling down at me, shaking his head. "Sometimes I wish I was a girl."
He means the knife, but I can't resist. "Yeah, so you could grope yourself, huh?"
His grin widens. "That would also be a perk."
"You might not accomplish much else."
He laughs, and slips his arm around my waist as we walk, squeezing me to him. In a low voice, he says, "I'd rather grope you."
I laugh, and reestablish the distance between us with a playful shove, knowing that he's joking, at least mostly, but I'm suddenly uncomfortable for two reasons. The first one is that Jonas' eyes dart to me. The second is, when Apollon squished me a little closer, I caught a whiff of something like flowers and honey. I know that smell. The blood drains away from my face, but I look away, down the street, still laughing. "You'd grope a goat if it would let you."
"Depends on the goat," Apollon says, shrugging.
I make myself laugh again. The conversation trails off into silence. After a moment, I gather the courage to do the next thing. I catch Apollon by the arm, stopping, but look at Jonas. "We'll catch up with you, OK?" I say. I don't expect that he can answer anything else.
Jonas, again, just looks at me, but then nods. He blinks, looking rattled, as he turns away from us and continues down the sidewalk.
We watch him go.
Then, Apollon's eyes skim down me, reserved, waiting, but maybe hopeful. I'm about to punch him in the gut when I notice he's absently rubbing himself where I shoved his side earlier. "Are you OK?" I ask, deflating.
He nods, brushing it off. "Fine."
"Good," I say. "Because I'm going to kill you."
His hopefulness melts into a puddle of frowning confusion. "Uh..."
"And if I don't," I continue, lowering my voice to a whisper, "I'm sure Matt will." I glare up at him meaningfully.
Now he gets it. "Shit," he says. He spends a moment looking, open-mouthed, from me to the street and back, probably considering escaping. Then he grabs me by the arm and pulls me to the side. We walk to the closest alley, check that it's clear, and step in. I'm frowning, rubbing my arms against the cold, and he's pacing away from me, studying the ground. It takes a while before he looks at me again. When he does, he says, "How did you know?"
I raise my eyebrows at him, considering not telling him. But I kind of have to. He can't be going around smelling like Leeta. "You smell like a hooker," I say impatiently. Maybe it's not a nice way to describe Leeta. She's a slave— presumably a lifestyle she did not choose for herself, but I can't help disliking her. She's hugging all over Oscar. My Oscar. And I only get to see him here and there. Maybe I should be thankful for her kindness. But I absolutely hate her.
"Uh..." Apollon says again.
"What the hell?" I ask him, breaking my patient streak. I whap his arm with the back of my fingers. "What are you thinking?"
Mouth still open, blue eyes wide, he barely shakes his head.
Not a satisfying answer. "Well?"
"I uh..." he rubs the back of his neck, "...Idunno."
My eyebrows crumple downward. "Are you crazy?"
He shakes his head at me properly now. "Eden," he says, "you don't understand. Just... just let it go, OK? Don't worry about me. I—"
"No!" I glare up at him, my fingers clenching down on my crossed arms. "You can't do this. You have to stop. I won't let you."
"I have to," he says, leveling his blue eyes at me. "So just shut up and leave me alone about it."
I don't know whether to be angry, frightened, or what. I'm so confused. I just stare up at him. "What?" I finally manage, calmly. "Do you like... love her or something?"
He snorts. That would be a no. Again he looks away and shakes his head. He's mulling something over. Keeping something from me. Finally, he looks back and offers a pitiful shrug and frown. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe..."
I peer at him through half-closed eyes. "Bullshit."
His chin jerks away like I've hit him. He takes a small step back, clamps his jaw shut, and crosses his arms.
Very softly, I say, "Try again."
Now he looks at me, and his blue eyes are full of poison. He hates that I'm dragging this out of him. That I won't fall for his lies. But he's my friend— my family— and I would rather piss him off than let him get himself killed. I stand my ground, and look as stubborn as I can, and wait for him to tell me the truth.
When he does, I change my mind about wanting to know it.
"She is a fountain of knowledge," he says condescendingly through gritted teeth. He glares at me, then follows up, without the gritted teeth, but still in the same belittling sing-song, "And Grey likes knowledge."
I cover my face with my hands, rub my eyes with the tips of my fingers. "Oh, God..." I mumble. Oh, God.
For a moment, we're quiet. It all sinks in. All of its horror. How did I not realize this?
"Eden," Apollon finally says, softly, touching my arm.
I lower my hands just enough to look at him, still pressing them over my nose and open mouth.
His look is pitying. He wants to comfort me now. But he doesn't know what to say. His fingers squeeze my arm as he gathers some sort of flaccid explanation. I don't want to hear it. Really, right now, I just want to lie down and sleep. Suddenly, I'm so, so tired.
I slip away from his touch and move off.
"Eden," he says, as I walk to the end of the alley.
I hush him with one arm, fingers spread, held out behind me, and keep walking.