his hand
Before sunrise the next day, a pattering on the glass wakes me. I peel the drab curtains aside and peer through the murk. A soft pool of light glows from the bakery window – they always start inhumanly early. A mounted figure walks a kine into it. He waves up at me, and the kine tosses its head. Kit.
The cast-iron steps are covered in dew. I tiptoe down barefoot, hugging myself, hoping the low light hides the worst of my ragged nightgown.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s the Endweek. Come with me.”
“Come with you where?”
“Get your shoes on, slug-a-bed. It’ll be fun.”
“What’s fun?”
“Ha. I know you can’t resist a picnic. Better than orange ice.” My heart floats at the prospect of getting out, getting away for a day. “Didn’t you say you like riding?” Kit pats the flank of the kine. It’s a glossy black, but knobble-kneed and rather short. One of its lower horns is broken off halfway, giving it a certain jauntiness.
“I’ve got to walk Clomper and Caney.”
“Do it when you get back. They’ll keep.”
“I’ve got to learn how to pick locks.”
“That’s the after-picnic entertainment.”
“Where’d you find this fine figure of a fellow?”
“He’s a rental, a sweetheart – don’t let the look fool you. Come on. You can drive.”
“I have to change.”
“Go on, then. We’ll wait a few minutes.”
“You’re such an arse.”
“I know.”
The kine’s called Fearsome, it turns out, though he’s anything but, with his short legs and his lopsided horns.
We trot out of the southern gates and pick slowly up the limestone cliffs, heading south. The Portcaye wall vanishes behind the rolling land, and I feel freer than I have in years.
“So, where are we heading exactly?” I ask.
“You know I couldn’t find a soul to bring us prayer grass,” he says. “So we have to go searching.”
“Oh.”
“This is good for us. Getting out of town for a day. You told me you missed riding.”
The riding is for my benefit, then. Like the grass. I’m aware of his hands resting lightly at my waist.
“A day out. Walking out together?” I feel suddenly bold. “Are you courting me?”
“Hmm.”
We crest a small hill, and I give Fearsome his head. It’s exhilarating, and a little frightening, the smell of dry heather bursting under blunt hoof blows, the ocean twinkling off to one side. Kit launches loudly into a rendition of an old Crozoni romantic ballad, putting on a very bad impression of Ruzi’s voice. It feels like ages since I laughed so much. The sun’s well risen by the time we’ve run out of material, and the cliffs have disappeared under Fearsome’s hooves, sloping gradually down to a beach. No one’s nearby, though we see a few other riders picking their way through the hill heather in the distance. Kit slips off and reaches a hand up to me.
The sand here is coarser and more colourful than it is near Portcaye, peppered with pebbles. Pale, jagged rocks are sunken everywhere, rising out higher than my head in places.
There’s a row of abandoned structures – six old seaweed-drying huts – up the far end of the beach, and a thin freshwater stream trickling out of the grasses. The beach is empty in a way it never is near Portcaye. No upturned boats, no pits of half-burnt driftwood with log seats dragged beside them, no flat slabs of stone strewn with discarded fish baskets or broken crab traps.
A cluster of wading birds with curved beaks and bright pink legs pecks along the shoreline. Beyond, a heron stands submerged to the knots of its knees. A breeze flutters its feathers and whips its black crest from side to side. I take off my hair wrap to feel the salt wind lifting my curls.
The sea stretches away, a few distant fishing boats trailed by hopeful, hungry gulls.
We sit in the grass above the sand to share the sesame bread, shoo-fly pie, plums, apples and sticky honey biscuits Kit packed. Heathers unroll to the borders of a dark forest in the distance.
“How far do we go?” I sip from a flask he’s filled with fikka.
“I have all day.”
“For the grass, I mean.”
“There used to be some on the other side of those woods.”
I look at the grass all around us. “How can you tell it apart?”
“It’s shinier.”
“Just shinier?”
“I’ll know when I see it.”
I get to the apples last. They’re the tiny red apples from my childhood, with skin that stretches under the teeth before it pops, and a bit of spice to the tart flesh. They’re nothing like the kind I got on the Heanes’ farm, or in Portcaye’s markets.
Kit brushes crumbs off his top and stands. We walk to the sea to rinse our sticky fingers.
“You’ve got eleven days to learn how to use these,” he says, fishing a handful of objects from a pocket. “That’s ages.”
There’s a small lock, with a mechanism like the one on the Registry office doors, and three long, thin pieces of metal – one with a slight serration. You only need to use two.
It looks easy when he shows me, but I can’t do it. The constant sigh of waves, punctured by gull song, is starting to sound pointed – weariness mixed with distant screaming.
Kit persists, guiding my hands until I manage to fool the mechanism once. Now the gulls sound like they’re laughing.
“It’s just practice,” he assures me, slipping the lock and picks into my pocket and, despite his words, looking slightly worried.
“So … are Goldie and Lev an item?” I ask, to change the subject.
The worry lines in his face turn to amusement. “He wishes.”
“They seemed quite … comfortable together.”
Kit slices a look at me as we trail idly along the waterline. “So do we.”
And now I don’t know what to say again.
“He’s worked for them since he was fourteen – five years. That’s when the Sting Trust funds stop. Goldie must have been … eighteen.”
“Yeah?”
“Lev’s a ball of prickles, but he’s that way for a reason. He doesn’t feel equal to her. He’s alive because of her great-granny’s money – but he’s been told his whole life he’s less than, living on time he didn’t deserve, didn’t earn, by rights should be dead. You can imagine, right? Too much tension there.”
I nod, but I can’t help thinking they suit each other somehow. Gracie’s romantic notions rubbing off on me, probably.
“And Glister and the Artist?” I probe.
“Oh yeah, definitely an item. For Goldie and Lev, this is political. For Glister, it’s completely personal.”
Kit stops to gather a handful of pebbles, passes me some.
“Middle of that one.” I point. Throw-for-crow. It’s a game we all played, before. Throwing pebbles at a rock target.
Kit’s not very good at it. “Should we keep going?” I say, once I’ve won three times in a row.
“Probably. Cut my losses.” He grins.
We start back to where we left Fearsome.
“I could almost envy Zako, days like this,” I sigh. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Yeah. He’s probably eating oysters right now with his feet up.”
“Do you miss diving for oysters?”
“I … miss swimming.” He says it with surprising feeling.
“But you can go swimming. Don’t let the kraits put you off.”
“Don’t let the Skøl put you off either. It’s not banned.”
“No, it’s not banned.” Kit turns his faraway smile on the sea.
We walk through the heathers for a while, but still the forest recedes into the distance, so we mount up again. Soon the pines are upon us.
There’s more brambly undergrowth than there was up north. The trees are a softer, more spreading variety, but their needles still throw a heady fragrance.
We go on foot again.
When we come abruptly to a clearing, I think surely I’ll see a building of some sort, or a crop being raised, but there are only wildflowers bobbing their heads in welcome, grasses shedding tiny floating seeds and an invisible orchestra of grasshoppers sawing away.
“What is this place?”
Kit’s wandered off and doesn’t hear me.
Wild celery crushes under Fearsome’s dinner-plate hoofs.
“Found it!” Kit says.
Prayer grass. Shinier than normal grass, and very long. He brings a few strands to my nose. I meet his gaze. It smells like and unlike the dry flakes he got for Zako. Stronger.
“I came to this meadow with my mother. It was a settlement, once – of her people. It was all gone by the time she was a girl.”
“The trees don’t grow back, though they should, don’t you think?”
His gaze catches on something behind me, and he strides off while I tilt my face up to feel the sun and run my fingers through some fine feathery grasses. Not prayer grass, something thinner. He clears his throat behind me, and I turn. A bright orange flower spins on its stem between his thumb and forefinger, petals flapping like wings. We used to call them river lilies, though they grow anywhere it’s wet enough. He reaches to brush my curls behind an ear so he can tuck the flower there. I’m close enough to see all his eyelashes.
“Matches your eyes.” His teeth catch his lower lip, and heat crawls up my neck, not from the sun.
I spin round to scan the meadow. How different to the thick shade and ankle-deep mud on our last trip out of Portcaye together. A shiver of anticipation fills me. Then I spot a flash of purple, small florets arranged in a cone – just a shade darker than his eyes. I reach for one a bee has just vacated, snap off the stem and return to Kit. He tilts his head into my touch like a cat. The flower droops from his ear, too top-heavy. I catch it and let my eyes drift across his chest. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, so I thread the stem through the second.
He clears his throat. “No one’s given me a flower before.”
“Me neither,” I confess, before I realize it’s not strictly true. “Well. Char used to pick dandelions and daisies for everyone.” I gaze sideways at the meadow again but can feel him stepping closer. The flower in his buttonhole smells of honey and herbs. His hands drift up my spine and pull me closer. I thread my hands behind his neck.
The peaceful rustle of wind in the grasses grows louder. Two deer appear, one large, one small, running at us. What are they doing? Are they mad? Am I dreaming?
Fearsome tears grass and chews loudly, oblivious, even to the deer who turn and spring around us at the last second. He only looks up at the sound of Kit’s cursing. Then I hear them too.
Ledhunds. They burst from the bracken at the edge of the clearing in pursuit, four of them.
A hunt, I think. “We should go,” Kit says, urging me back up on to Fearsome, stuffing a handful of prayer grass into a pocket of the saddle bag.
The hounds ignore us at least, bounding past with strings of slobber dangling from their jaws and burrs clinging to their undercoats. They don’t look well fed. From the far edge of the clearing, I hear a voice egging them on. Then two hunters stride from the treeline.
We aren’t doing anything forbidden, but we’re two repayers out alone, far from town. If it was a pair of picnickers with a few hounds I would feel better. Hunters have always scared me.
“Take him and go back.” Kit gives Fearsome an encouraging pat. “I’ll catch you up.”
“No.” I haul the reins. “Get on; come with me.”
The hunters have seen us. One raises a hand in greeting.
“You’ll be faster alone.”
“What about you? We’ll look suspicious if I run off.”
“We already look suspicious. I’ll explain to them. You go on.”
“No.”
He grits his teeth, but gives up on driving me away.
We watch the hunters approach – two men, Skøl of course. One has a quiver and bow. The other carries a brander’s gun slung over one shoulder. He isn’t in uniform. I wonder if it’s illegal.
“What’s going on here?” The one with the gun points it at Kit, casually.
“We’re on an errand for our owners,” I tell them, keeping the quaver from my voice. Repayers aren’t allowed in groups of three, but we’re only two.
Kit goes for Fearsome’s saddle bag, perhaps to try and show them the grass, but they don’t like that.
“No! Keep your hands where we can see them,” says the second one – he’s holding an arrow now. They look alike, but the one with the bow is taller and wider. He has a long moustache, a scraggly beard and a brown outfit. The one with the gun’s clean-shaven, wearing green.
“What errand?” he asks.
“We’re collecting samples of the local plants and wildflowers. Owners are writing a book about them.” My lie comes easily in this place.
“Flowers?” says the same man. Horseshit, says his expression – or it would if he knew horses. The Skøl don’t seem to have an equivalent evoking kine. “Hope you haven’t been digging this place up. It’s full of bones.”
Kit stiffens.
Somewhere in the distance, their hounds howl. “Your quarry’s getting away,” I remind them.
“We’ve bagged a pretty kine though,” the tall one muses. He moves closer. “And a pretty pair of makkies.” He raises his chin at Kit. “What happened to your skull, boy? Get on the wrong side of the jailer’s razor?” He grins at his companion before he ploughs on.
“You know what I think? You way out here, skulking like rats?” The way he draws out the word rats makes me think of Venor’s voice the day Zako escaped off the roof. I shake my head numbly.
“It’s not—” Kit starts to say something, but the man talks over him.
“You’ve run off. Going to meet more makkies. Three at a time’s not allowed. This animal stolen?”
“He’s a rental,” Kit says. I can see the effort he’s making to stay calm.
“Where’s your papers and your permission then, troublemaker?” says the one in green. He pulls a stash of folded, grimy notices from one pocket, unfolds them. Wanted posters.
“We didn’t bring any papers. We’re not doing anything that needs permission,” Kit tells them.
“We’re not on any wanted posters,” I add.
The man has both old and new copies of Zako’s wanted poster. He holds up the one with the twenty-thousand bounty and the DEAD OR ALIVE in big letters, and narrows his eyes at me. “Looks like you.”
What? “That’s a twelve-year-old boy. He’s nothing like me.” I slide off to stand beside Kit.
“Not regular, you being here though, is it?” The one in brown stretches a long arm out to touch my hair. It’s curlier than usual from the salt breeze. Kit pulls me behind him, out of reach, and steps back to put more distance between the strangers and us. “Dressed like tramps too.” The man gestures at my clothes. I scowl.
“Kine’s surely stolen,” the first one nags.
“We should do our civic duty and take you back.” The other’s nodding.
“Our owners won’t like that,” I tell them from behind Kit.
They exchange another look. I’ve seen this one before. The boys on the riverbank, before they pushed me in – they looked like that.
“We’ve no conflict here with you,” Kit growls. “Just move on, friends.”
“Watch your tone, trouble,” says the one with the gun.
“Your gun won’t work on me,” Kit tells him.
The man’s pasted grin wavers. But what if they call Kit’s bluff? Of course the gun can hurt us. They’re designed to kill. I was knocked out for hours when they shot me in the Cull.
“This is crazy,” I murmur under my breath.
The man in brown raises his bow, but Kit lunges, fast as an adder, striking the weapon aside. Then he punches the man in the face, hard. The man flies backward into the tall grasses, rolling around, groaning and holding his nose while his companion waves his gun and screams obscenities. I’m frozen. It’s too fast. Do something. What?
I’ve no weapon. Then I realize what I do have. Hooves. I grab Fearsome’s side horn and stick my strong leg in the stirrup to haul myself back up. I urge him towards the man in green. Not quickly enough. The man’s panicking, lifting his gun, firing.
He shoots Kit in the stomach.
Time slows down, but Kit barely flinches, as if the strike is no worse than a bee sting. Perhaps the gun is faulty. Then Kit’s wrenching it out of the hunter’s grip and shoving it into the man’s stomach. The hunter doubles over, hands at his gut. Kit slams the butt of the gun into the side of the hunter’s head with a crack. He collapses on his face. Just like that.
He lies there, not moving.
Fearsome won’t go forward at my urging. He’s too scared. I slide off his back before he carries me further away.
The arrow that hits Kit comes out of nowhere. He slumps to his knees, crying out. The archer’s nocking another arrow and I’m there, finally, diving for his legs. I hit him at the knees and we go down in a heap. The hounds bounce around us like it’s all a great game. He doesn’t fire – instead he tries to stab me with the arrow. He misses, just catching the fabric of one of my sleeves as I roll away. Then Kit’s there, kicking him in the head.
Kit, who has an arrow sticking out of his side. Hell’s teeth.
He whistles low to the nearest hound. Blood is dripping down his shirt, over his belt. There’s so much of it.
The hounds are calming. One comes to sit in front of me and pant. One snuffles at the unconscious man with the gun.
“We have to get out of here,” Kit says. “Come on.”
I stare, sickened, at his bloody chest. “You can’t walk around like that.”
“There’s no time,” he says sharply. “You can take it out.”
A blanket of calm settles over me. I panic in all sorts of situations, but perhaps not in a true crisis.
I pull my clean spare hair wrap from my pocket in preparation, so I can hold it to the wound in his side as soon as the arrow’s out.
“You have to sit down,” I tell him.
These two could wake up any minute. We’re in so much trouble.
We have to work fast. He eases himself down on to the grass. I pull an arrow from the archer’s quiver and compare it. Just touching the one in Kit’s side draws a sharp gasp and wince from him. He may be right – it hasn’t gone in much deeper than two lengths of the head.
“Just grab the shaft and pull straight, the same angle it went in.” He grits his teeth.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He rolls his eyes half-heartedly, and I brace one arm against his shoulder and offer a silent prayer, more of a plea, as I wrench the arrow backwards.
The sound it makes coming out is horrific. I can hear it even through Kit’s screams. More blood wells. Surely he can’t lose much more than this and stay upright? I press my hair wrap over the wound to staunch the flow.
The ancestors must be smiling, because the arrow’s come out whole. I was worried the head would break off.
I tear a strip off my shirtsleeve and tie it around the slow-dripping slash on his forearm, where the arrow caught before going in.
“We have to take their gun. The arrows.” I can hear the pain in his voice.
I hadn’t thought of disarming them. Only of running away. Perhaps I’m not so great in a crisis after all.
“Even though the gun doesn’t work?” I protest.
“It does work.”
Is he in shock? If the gun worked, he’d be unconscious. Still, I do what he says.
I take their flasks as well. Fearsome’s run off with ours, and everything else.
I snap the bow in half for good measure. It’s incredibly bendy, but I know better than most, everything breaks eventually. I shoulder the gun and quiver, complete with Kit’s bloody arrow, and return to his side.
“Can you stand if I help you? We have to get you back to a doctor.” I step around to his good side and haul on his arm.
He’s rallying – he doesn’t lean on me too heavily. We limp out of the clearing, following Fearsome’s trail, deeper into the forest.
“How far do you think he’s gone?”
“I don’t know,” admits Kit. “I’m no tracker.”
“We have to leave Fearsome and go back on foot,” I decide.
I’m still holding his hand. It’s rough but cool. It’s different to holding handles or reins. Working with kine, hauling on their ropes, I’m used to feeling not the ropes, but my own skin. The callouses like beetle backs on the tops of my palms, and my pulse thudding through them, pressing against the rope, receding.
Now I only feel his hand.