Freewalker Page 2

  “Can we go chop down trees with Merritt?”

  Roan looks up, grateful that Bub has liberated him from these dark thoughts. “After we finish here,” he says, marveling at how the boy’s grown in the past year. He must be half a head taller.

  “O-kay!” Bub scurries back to the weed-pulling contest.

  “What did he say?” asks Lona.

  “We gotta finish first!” yells Bub, yanking up roots.

  Roan can hear Merritt’s axe in the nearby wood. He’s a good carpenter and an amiable man, but Roan still wishes they didn’t need the help of these workers from Oasis. Alandra had argued that even with the mild weather, they needed more than lean-tos for shelter. Buildings were required. For that task they needed craftspeople with proper tools, and people who could bring food and supplies to see them through the winter. People who knew the lay of the land and could ensure a crop come summer.

  “You and Lumpy might enjoy surviving on grubs and termites, but children need a bit more than bugs to eat,” she said.

  Still, Roan was reluctant to reveal the location of Newlight to anyone, even the Forgotten, and why shouldn’t he be—hadn’t the first visitor to Longlight brought about its ruin? Alandra kept insisting, though. It wasn’t that he doubted her dedication to the children’s health and well-being, but in their many disagreements she was always quick to dismiss his concerns. Her relentless single-mindedness was making him wonder where her allegiances truly lay.

  In the end, a carpenter and four other workers from Oasis had joined them, a skilled group of people whose commitment is undeniable. For here, unprotected by the caves of Oasis that had maintained their youth, they’ve already begun to show their true ages, deep wrinkles appearing on their faces. Loren directs the building construction, Bildt oversees the cultivation, Selden the food preparation, and Terre, an accomplished weaver in her own right, commits time to work as an apprentice healer under Alandra. Roan likes them all, more or less. He has to admit the shelters went up quickly, the gardens were planted with success, and the children are happy, relishing their new lives. What more could he ask for?

  And yet, these people from Oasis are clearly more than mere craftspeople. Roan can see the wariness in their eyes, the physical discipline they maintain. They must have been sent not only to help, but as guards—of him and the children. It’s not an unreasonable precaution, there is always the threat of the Brothers. But the fact that they do not acknowledge this other purpose has only served to increase Roan’s suspicions.

  “I won! I won!” shouts Lona.

  “I got twice as many as you!” protests Bub. “Plus you got lots of broken roots, the weeds’ll grow back!”

  “Roan!” Lona wails. “Are my roots all broken?”

  Roan, with a deeply serious look on his face, strides over to the baskets, inspecting each one intently. He picks up weeds from each basket, sniffs them, pinches them, and finally bites them, eliciting a squeal of laughter from Lona. Then he pronounces his verdict. “Without a doubt, you are both supreme weed yankers and for this reason I am appointing you both to a new position.” And laying his hands on their heads, Roan declares, “I hereby dub you Captains of the Weeds. Congratulations.”

  Proud smiles break out across Lona’s and Bub’s faces. “For true?” Lona says. “For really true?”

  “For really true.”

  Lona whoops and elbows Bub. “Come on, Captain, let’s yank!”

  “I still pull better than you!”

  Roan watches as they dive back to the ground, hands gripping weeds. But Lona suddenly stops mid-motion. Her head bobs, her eyes roll back, and she collapses.

  “What—?” begins Bub, and without another word, he’s crumpled down beside her.

  “Come on, you two,” Roan smiles, thinking it’s some kind of game. As he reaches them, however, he sees that their faces are pale and lifeless.

  Terrified, he bends over Lona, and puts his ear to her chest. All he can detect is her hollow shell, and a great darkness within her. Steadying his breath and focusing deeper, he hears it. A faint heartbeat. She’s not dead. He instantly reaches with his mind to sense Bub. Like Lona, Bub’s consciousness feels so indistinct and distant that Roan can’t reach it. Hoping against hope that the other children aren’t also stricken, he shifts his attention outward—and the voice of Alandra is the first signal he picks up. Six were with her in the main residence, sorting herbs when they collapsed: Sake, Dani, Beck, Anais, Tamm, Korina. She’s already attending to them, along with Runk and Theo.

  Anxious shouting draws his attention. In the distance, other cries, other voices. Merritt’s screaming for help with Gip. Bildt with Geemo. Lumpy’s yelling at Jaw and Jam, splashing them with water but they won’t wake, won’t move.

  Terre, the healing apprentice, ashen-faced, appears at the garden’s edge. “It’s struck them too?”

  “Every one is down,” says Roan, fighting to stay calm.

  “Could you reach them?”

  “No. But they’re still alive. Barely. Help me take them to Alandra.”

  Roan carefully places Lona in Terre’s arms and takes Bub in his own. Moving as swiftly as he dares, he picks his way across the familiar path toward the lake, taking care to protect his charge from jutting branches. He sees, coming from the water, from the forest, from the fields, Lumpy, Bildt, and Merritt, catapulted forward by the burden they hold in their arms. Roan’s apprehension grows at the sight of each limp child. But nothing could prepare him for the panic that hits him as he follows them into the residence. Loren and Selden frantically prepare beds for the new wave of victims. Lumpy’s beside Jaw, tears filling his eyes, begging the unconscious boy to wake up. Terre, swiftly laying Lona safely down, joins Alandra, who’s shouting out instructions as she rushes from child to child.

  “Put them down on their backs! Heads slightly elevated! Make sure their airways are clear! Terre, bring me the salts!”

  Brushing the hair from Bub’s forehead, Roan scans the room and as his gaze drifts across the fourteen small beds, he struggles to control his own anxiety. These children are teetering on the edge of death, and he’s responsible for their lives.

  “I don’t know what’s happening yet,” Alandra says. “Give me one full day with them to formulate a diagnosis.” She holds Bub’s wrists, taking his pulses, assessing the strength of his organs and blood and energy fields. Her downcast face tells Roan all he needs about the prognosis.

  “Will they last a whole day?” Roan asks.

  “The sleep is deep but they live. Go,” she says. “And take the others. Let Terre and me do our work.”

  Roan stands and signals everyone but the healers to leave. Lumpy squeezes Jaw’s arm, releases it, and rises. Roan silently guides his friend outside.

  Merritt and Bildt, their faces fraught with worry, rush at Roan. “Did she say anything to you?”

  “Only that she needs time.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Bildt sighs. “You’ve never seen anything like those children either, Merritt.”

  “I don’t like the look of it,” says the burly carpenter.

  “Trust Alandra,” Bildt says, her voice quavering.

  “I think Bildt’s right,” says Roan. “We’ve no choice but to wait and let Alandra do her job.”

  Watching the Oasis people slowly disperse, Roan can’t help wishing he trusted them. They may be visibly shaken, but he’s certain they know more than they’re saying.

  “Want to walk?” Roan asks, turning to Lumpy.

  Lumpy, head bowed, his face pinched with worry, blinks away tears as they both head to the lakeshore. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m reacting like this. They’re still breathing, Alandra’s treating them, she’ll fix them.” His eyes, red as the craters that scar his face, search Roan’s. “Won’t she?”

  Jaw and Jam had become Lumpy’s constant companions, their friendship a salve for the wound of losing Lelbit. Lumpy had wandered the Farlands for years never meeti
ng anyone who shared his experience, but then he met Lelbit, who had been scarred by the Mor-Ticks, too. Like Lumpy, she was the only surviving member of a family devastated by the lethal insects. He had admired her courage, and between them there had grown a quiet tenderness. What her death cost him, Roan has no way of knowing—Lumpy never talks about it—but is there a limit to how much loss he can sustain?

  “Yeh,” Roan says, trying to believe his own words. “She’ll figure it out. If anybody can, it’s her.”

  “You don’t sound very convinced.”

  Though Roan has a theory, he’s not exactly sure how to put it into words—or that he should, even to Lumpy. Still, he can’t find it in himself to lie, and in the end, his silence tells all.

  “If you know something...”

  “She asked for one day. Let’s give it to her.” But the words of Kamyar, the storyteller Roan met so many months ago in Oasis, continue to trouble him. Ask many questions. Accept nothing at face value. Beware the Dirt Eaters.

  They sit in silence, watching the sun’s waning rays shimmer on the water. While the light fades, and the two friends fight to keep their hopes alive, Roan’s snow cricket jumps onto the dock and begins to sing.

  “Okay, okay,” Lumpy says to a rustle near his chest, and takes from his pocket a white cricket with faint black spots on its wings. “Go join him, then.”

  When they first came to this new land, they were all amazed to see that it abounded with the rare insects. It didn’t take long for one to adopt Lumpy, an attachment he’d yearned for ever since he lost the snow cricket that saved his life.

  Soon the music of crickets surrounds them. “You think it will help?” asks Lumpy.

  “Can’t hurt.”

  It is well into moonrise when Lumpy says goodnight. Roan steps off the creaking dock and winds his way through the settlement, pondering the buildings, the walkways, the gardens. They’ve accomplished so much, far more than he ever expected. And it will all have been for nothing if the children do not survive.

  Following the white stone trail to the top of the spotting hill, Roan hikes to the rise that provides a lookout over the water and forest. Now that he’s alone, the dark emotions he’s been battling threaten to overtake him. His thoughts keep returning to his sister and the night, three years ago, when her hand slipped from his and he fell face down in the snow, never to see her again. His parents had entrusted him with her care. He had failed them—and her. These children trust him completely, they’d placed their lives in his hands. And now he’s failing again.

  It could be that this place isn’t what he thinks it is. There might be a disease or a toxin in this idyllic environment that only the children are susceptible to. It’s possible their gifts created the vulnerability that struck them down. Maybe it’s an attack of an altogether unexpected nature. But these suppositions are hollow, meaningless. He knows where the germ of the answer lies. Alandra knows it, too, and she’ll have to face the truth in one day’s time.

  Suddenly the hill, the water, the forest, all vanish. And before Roan, branches with orange, peeling bark hang limply in the humid air. Beside the smooth-skinned tree stands a boy, a few years younger than Roan, face brown and open.

  “HOW DO YOU DO THAT?” THE BOY ASKS.

  “DO WHAT?”

  “CALL ME THIS WAY.”

  “I’M NOT CALLING YOU.”

  “YOU DON’T NEED MY HELP?”

  “I’M IN GREAT NEED OF HELP.”

  “MAYBE I HAVE WHAT YOU NEED.”

  The boy disappears and the vision ends as abruptly as it began. But standing alone again on top of the spotting hill, the moon high in the sky, the lake below, Roan knows the boy is of this world, somehow reaching out through space and perhaps even time. The experience was certainly unlike any he’s ever had with the Dirt Eaters in the Dreamfield. No. This boy seemed innocent and natural. And his voice so full of hope.

  OUR STOWE

  OUR STOWE, CHILD OF LIGHT

  TURN YOUR MERCIFUL EYE UPON US

  THAT WE MAY BE BLESSED

  WITH YOUR HELP AND PROTECTION

  —LITURGY OF THE CONURBATION

  “IT’S STUFFY IN HERE.” Stowe is scowling.

  Their driver winces. The fan is immediately turned up. No one likes it when Stowe scowls.

  “Air circulation is not the problem. I want to stretch my legs. I want to be outside.” Stowe glowers at the car-camera that is monitoring her every movement. “These dresses I am obliged to wear are heavy, hot, and uncomfortable. They clench and cinch and are stifling and unbearable. Let me out. I would like to walk to the factory.”

  “I am sorry, Stowe, but you do know that prolonged exposure of your person is not permitted by security.”

  “But Willum, everyone in the City loves me.”

  “You are very much loved, but there are outsiders...”

  “Rebels? Are things so out of control that rebels, by the hundreds, stalk the City streets, waiting for a chance to assassinate me?”

  Willum glances at the car-camera. “No, no, of course not. But precautions must be taken.”

  “You know very well I can protect myself. Besides, they could never get through this.” She knocks on the front panel of the dress, which cracks with the sound of fila-armor. She glares at the impenetrable material, which was invented, she is sure, to make her life perfectly miserable.

  Her eyes catch Willum’s for a moment. She does not miss how carefully he picks his next words.

  “... Under most circumstances you are able, yes. It is the unforeseen that worries us and there has been an inordinate influx of people from the Farlands.”

  “Oooo! And are they dangerous to me as well?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then stop the car.”

  “The crowds, Stowe. You know how people react when they see you.”

  “But we’re on a bridge, Willum, there’s hardly anyone around. Stop the car.”

  “That is not advisable.”

  “I need air. I am suffocating!”

  Stowe watches the driver’s eyes nervously dart in the mirror from her to Willum. She can see the enabler behind his ear throbbing. He must obey—but who? Willum lets out a large sigh and nods. Obviously relieved, the cleric brings the electroengine to a stop. The cars behind and in front of theirs also come to a halt, the doors fly open, and blue-robed clerics scramble out to either side of the bridge, scanning in every direction.

  “Only a few minutes,” says the ever cooperative Willum. Stowe’s door opens. She bursts from her seat to stand on the bridge. A strong wind buffets her face, flaps her four skirts; even her high stiff collar is bent back by the force. Stowe loves the wind. It should do nicely to obscure any words passed between her and Willum.

  Below her, green water. Above, green sky. And on both sides of the inlet, dozens and dozens of airtight domes, all built during the Consolidation, when the rebels massed against the City and the skies rained red. Once used to protect the elite from the toxins that ravaged the environment, the domes now house the laboratories so crucial to keeping the old ones alive. Beyond the domes the new architecture of the Masters is a testament to their triumph over the traitors. Glittering spires, obelisk-shaped towers and, rising above it all, the Great Pyramid, a masterwork of glass, the throbbing heart of the City.

  This is the City, the only metropolis to survive the Consolidation, and it adores her. Her image is everywhere, on posters, signs, even giant billboards, like the one that rises at the end of this bridge. She is the City’s own true daughter, a mirror into its future. To the citizens, she is perfection, she is mercy, beneficent beauty, possibility, hope. But it is Darius who has made her so, and what is he to her now? A murderer. A liar. This City is his creation, its citizens his. And he controls it just as he controls her.

  The line-up of cars grows ever longer behind her cavalcade. Judging by their colors, many are privately owned, a privilege reserved for citizens who contribute to the glorification of the amal
gamated City—designers, engineers, architects, doctors, and the like. But as with everything in this Conurbation, not a horn honks or driver curses. All will wait patiently for however long the delay may be. No one ever complains in the City. And if they do, they don’t complain for long.

  “Good,” says Stowe. “Now we shall talk.”

  “You are due at the factory.”

  “Center of our civilization, I know. Willum, I love these visits. I realize the importance of our workers’ contribution and acknowledge that it would never do to keep them waiting. But—”

  “The guards are very nervous. The wind is so strong.”

  “But this won’t take long,” she insists, turning to him. “I’ve had a bad dream, Willum.”

  “You’ve had bad dreams before,” he replies, unsympathetically.

  Nevertheless, she can hear the kernel of curiosity beneath his dismissal.

  “Not like this one.” She scrutinizes his face, ready to detect exactly how much he knows and determine how much she should reveal. “In this dream, I see a man wearing a cloak of many feathers.”

  He seems unfazed, but she has his attention now, yes she does. “And who was this feathered man?”

  “The one who brought death to Longlight.”

  “Stowe, you should always call me when you have nightmares like that.”

  That tone, worried like a doting parent. Why does it simultaneously gratify and repulse her?

  “Were you able to get back to sleep?”

  She feeds him the bait, her eyes steady. “In this nightmare, the Bird Man speaks to the Keeper. He had displeased the Eldest in some way. Failed on a mission. But he has been punished.”

  Willum’s gaze remains unblinking. “Clearly your dream capacity has blossomed.”

  Oh, he treads so carefully. But he suspects. Will he mention his suspicions to anyone?

  “Do you know of such a Bird Man as mine?”

  “I know what I have been told. Which is not much. I was a journeyman in the barrens of the outer circle when I was called to this position.” He pauses, catching the wary gaze of one of the clerics. “Walk. They will follow.”