Follett and his men soaked up the bright sunlight from a blue, cloudless sky and the white, reflecting snow. There was no wind, and a great peace sat with them on the peak of Das Kagel. It was a bleak bounty, and each man used it to heal the memory of traveling blind through the freezing tunnel that had burrowed into their hearts like a decaying parasite.
The men had found game to eat and wood for fires, warming their bones and stomachs with a stew of rabbits and foraged roots. The Calcas had shown them how to make primitive rugs from the skins of their dinner so they could sit on the snow. Each man had made his own shelter using the remains of the hacked-apart tents. Although they resembled ancient, sheltering saints, they had thawed out enough to believe they were not dead. They even talked about their journey before the cave and the tunnel.
The giant was discussed with the most passion, rehearsing the tales they would one day tell in taverns. Each wonder of their meeting grew in radiance and in dimension. Only Pearlbinder saw no humor in the subject, having been deeply affected by the experience. He had changed his headgear, removing his beaten hat and replacing it with a turban wound from a yellow silk scarf. The color amplified his sternness.
“What will befall O’Reilly?” Alvarez whispered to Follett.
Follett had no idea, but he had been practicing an answer for over an hour, waiting for someone to ask him.
“When healed, he will return home,” he finally said.
“Dost thou think him safe?”
“Safe from what ill?”
There was no conviction in the question.
“From being devoured by that beast.”
“Thou cared not to call him a beast when he bore thee over the falls.”
“I knew not that thou hadst traded O’Reilly with him as payment.”
Far above, a flock of birds flew languidly over them. It was the first normal life they had seen in days.
“The giant told me he would heal his wound and become his companion,” Follett said, avoiding Alvarez’s eyes.
Alvarez did not answer but violently spat on the ground.
Some kind of optimism was trying to grow among the men. They guessed they had seen the worst of the journey, but that was because they could not imagine anything worse. They all prayed to different gods for sleep without thought and to awake alive and to return to the world of hot blood and loud days.
The next day half their gods granted half their prayers. The weather was fine but changing, and the horses sniffed keenly at the departure, even though the track that spiraled downward from the top of Das Kagel was very narrow. It forced the men to ride in single file, leaning toward the mountain’s tapering snow-clad walls.
“What manner of pathway be this?” asked the Kid loudly, to those traveling before and after him.
“ ’Tis the only way down,” answered Follett.
“I have heard the path gets wider as the height declines,” added Pearlbinder, whose confidence had returned with a vengeance.
He now rode tall and gleeful in the saddle, and seemed to be enjoying either this new difficulty in the journey or the other men’s unease in it.
He continued, “It is said that it was built by a race of men who no longer exist, and they had no knowledge of horses.”
“Then it is not but a goat track, a footpath down,” commented the Kid.
“It wasn’t made to descend!”
“What then?”
“The few who keep a memory of this place declare it was made for escape or sacrifice.”
“How the fuck do you know that?” snarled the Kid.
Pearlbinder would not fall into the trap of proclaiming his ability to read or of any other research he had undertaken before setting on Follett’s quest, and he was smugly savoring the youth’s ignorant irritation. He was just about to rub the Kid’s nose in his own stupidity when part of the outer track crumbled under the hooves of the last rider, and Tarrant and his mount slid toward the edge.
The rider quickly gathered the reins and pushed forward on the mare’s neck to make the beast step up onto the scree. The sound of the rocks and snow sliding down the incline and falling off the edge locked into the breathing and muffled heartbeats of both men and horses. Tarrant had taken one hand off the reins and was reaching up to find the hard rock under the snow-covered wall, as if to stabilize both himself and his mount. The men, witnessing the insanity of this pitiful gesture, shivered and pressed themselves inward and away from the precipitous drop.
Follett, who had been riding just ahead of Tarrant, unsheathed his lance and thrust it backward. Tarrant let go of the rock and lunged at the spear as if to grab its blade. With great disdain, Follett twisted the shaft and flipped it away. Then he twisted it back, let it fall against the horse’s bridle, and yanked. The stickleback rear of the blade hooked into the bit.
Follett dug his spurs hard into his horse, and it jolted forward, pulling the head of Tarrant’s horse with such force that it had no choice but to clamber over the slippery, disintegrating track. Follett pulled on the shaft again, and the horse shuddered and found firm ground. Men and beasts remained motionless, holding their breath and listening to the sound of an avalanche somewhere below.
Follett took the lead, slowing their pace for the next four hours. The silence continued until they reached a wide, sunlit plateau. Smaller footpaths spidered out from the path in different directions, some freshly used. It was the first clear sign of recent occupation, and the men assumed an altered stance and a heightened awareness.
“We will camp and make a Scry here,” said Follett. “Alvarez, prepare.”
They dismounted, tethered, and unpacked their horses, and stretched out in the stillness of the place, lighting pipes of tobacco and other leaves. Only Pearlbinder stayed in his saddle, pushing his head upward into the sunlight as if trying to breathe above water. The Kid lit a small, knobby black cigar and sidled up to Tarrant. “You were near a goner back there.”
Tarrant turned his slitted eyes toward the Kid.
“ ’Twas a dangerous defect in that pathway.”
“I thought you were a goner.” The Kid grinned.
“Weren’t my time, then and there.”
“Could have been.”
“No.”
“Could have.”
“No.”
“You old men pretend to know everything.”
Tarrant ignored the insult and focused hard on the Kid. “I do, because I am much older than you know. I have lived in many times and have a bounty and a credence within the years. I will not die on this steep place.”
“How the hell do thee know that? You didn’t die because Cap saved thy spooky life. You all treat me like I know nothing. Just old men saying they know it all.”
As he spit out his words, the Kid looked from one man to another for a glimmer of recognition. Then his eyes stabbed toward Pearlbinder, still seated proudly on his horse in the sunlight.
“What about him? What’s his game?”
“He glories in the warmth. It brings memories of his homeland,” answered Tarrant.
The Kid grinned wide and said, “ ’Tain’t what I mean. He’s been different, changed since the giant lifted him up in his hands like a cricket. Made him something else. Look at him wearing that bonnet.”
Tarrant looked away, not wanting to be drawn into the young man’s disrespect. “ ’Tis a turban, not a bonnet” was all he said to close the story.
“Easter bonnet,” chortled the youth.
“Hold thine tongue around the Pearl, child.”
“I fear no pansy.”
“Thou shouldst be afeard of him. Don’t let his ways deceive thee. There be no smut of balm in that man.”
“He was mighty soppy ’bout his horse in the cave.”
“That’s a different matter; they shared travails together.”
“Or he just fucked it too much. P’raps he likes ’em big like she-horses, or big dog-headed he-monsters.”
Tarrant turned away from the youth, saying, “I want none of your mockeries.”
The Kid sniggered and looked around again toward the statuesque rider, then unzipped the dead cigar from his grin and pulled the brim of his wide hat over his face, cutting out the sun.
“What sustenance will the Oracle partake of in this wilderness?” asked Alvarez.
“We must seek more bones,” said Follett, cringing at the memory of his feeble attempts to save the contents of the spilled box from the fast waters. He could still hear the giant’s mocking laughter.
“Or thou couldst send the Calcas back to fetch what remains of O’Reilly.”
Follett ignored the grim jest.
“But giants eat bones, do they not?”
“Tend to the Blessing. I will go ahead to forage. We need to find some bones with haste and steep them in confession, or we won’t get the saturation needed for the next prophecy or direction.”
“Thou wanteth human bones, then?”
“Verily. I don’t want to go down this mountain blind.”
“Are there people up here?”
“We are no longer in the wilderness. Common men dwell below. I have seen signs of occupation and husbandry already. Those woodpiles were made this year.”
Alvarez grunted, and Follett turned his horse back toward the other men, stopping to have words with the Kid, who got up, dusted his clothes with his hat, and rode after his captain.
“Blessing?” Alvarez said to himself, and spat again.
Only he and Tarrant could face seeing or dealing with the Oracle more than once. And Tarrant’s interest wasn’t practical; his was some kind of morbid fascination that Alvarez had no time for. Something about his superstitious, injured soul was resigned to disgust and used it as a cleansing, preferring it to the black, ornate guilt demanded by the religion of his birth. Each time he had to confront the box, he looked deeper into it, trying to see the squirming thing inside, forcing himself to experience the repulsion on a deeper and deeper level.
The other men moved aside as he lifted the crate from its pannier and carried it over to an outcrop of jagged rock. In the shade, and before releasing the latches, he begun to hum his way into a song. The sun gleamed on the other side of the rock and the brilliant sky stretched itself beyond the rolling cloud. Even the breeze seemed coddled in warmth. The sound of the world floated up in the rising air, and the birds that had been so far above them before now began to wheel below. All was settling into a crippled belief of kindness until the Blessing sang back. Alvarez gritted his teeth and continued his song, letting the resonances meet and entwine. Some of the men covered their ears or walked away, hoping the wilderness might dilute or smother the duo in camp. Time passed slowly in the warmth, and the trees’ branches waved aside the hours. Some slept in this moment of calm. Some reflected on future wealth, allowing the sun to glint on invisible coins and to dapple all the dark shadows of life into an unfocused haze.
Then came a far-off call that opened everybody’s eyes.
“Cooee.”
One of those well-used but meaningless words that has mysterious properties. Up close and said quietly to a child, cooee can instantly demand joy and affection, but cried loudly, and with the right emphasis, it can travel miles, defying all the laws of normal acoustic velocity. Now the word echoed up the mountain, announcing that Follett and the Kid had completed their task and would soon return to camp, and that they should not be mistaken for intruders.
“Captain found bones,” said Tarrant.
Alvarez stopped for a moment, but he was prompted to continue by a different sound coming from the wobbling box.
Outside the small forester’s hut, cleated into a large fissure of the mountain, Follett and the Kid were packing up their spoils. The old man had just given the first long-distance call.
“Will it do?” asked the Kid, wiping the blade of his broadsword with a stolen rag.
“Yes, if we pour enough into it. Gather the legs of the small one and the woman,” said Follett. “And I want thee to steep tonight.”
“Ah, boss! I made the obligation just before O’Reilly.”
“I am aware of that, but they were old confessions. Tonight thou canst add these fresh ones.”
“Dost thou think what I just did will make my confession more juicy?” the Kid asked bluntly. “Because if thou dost, then thou hast the wrong man.”
Follett looked long and hard at the Kid and saw that it was true: there wasn’t the slightest flicker of guilt, not a smidgen of regret. And for a moment it made his old blood run cold. The murder and dismemberment of the forester and her child would have driven most men insane, the constant reliving of its brutal details erasing all ease and composure from the soul. But for the Kid, it meant no more than chopping wood or gutting a fish. Follett’s momentary shock was suddenly replaced by a sudden wonder, which was instantly supplanted by pride in his own acumen in selecting such a troop of heartless men.
“Thou should have taken Tarrant. He’s a family man; he would have given thee buckets of shame.”
The Kid was right, of course. Follett had missed a major opportunity.
“Sometimes thou talkst like a cunt priest.” Follett spat.
“That’s because I be fluent with the Scriptures; had every damned one of ’em read out to me. I even had to write some down.”
“Writing will wither thee, child. Scriptures should only ever be spoken out loud, not hidden away in books. Thou art a man, not a squirrel or a termite.”
The Kid braced himself. “I ain’t no kid! Nor will I be compared to any rodent or vermin!”
“I compare thee not to vermin but to those creatures that would be all-knowing in the parasites of words. Scrawl down the heart’s voice of what should be spoken from one man to another.”
The Kid did not understand and it was boldly displayed on his face.
So Follett explained. “Writing is the shame of man. It dilutes the guts of meaning. If thou be not man enough to hold great learning and the saying of events in your memory, then thou should not attempt to keep them imprisoned. The world was turned by scrolls and books. The making of those bricks of paper even contaminated the tower of language itself, making it less than a woodpile or an old maid’s collection of rags. Words are power, and writing is only a pissed shadow.”
“And that is why you condemned Scriven?”
“Damned right, I did. I wrote a line of text in his guts with my lance for the stealing of words.”
The Kid looked at his feet and considered his next words very carefully.
“But some of those words he wrote were his own.”
“Makes no difference. If he be stupid enough to scribe what he already spoke, then serves him right. But stealing other men’s words, worthy men’s, and Steeping and scribing them after they been said are acts of blasphemous contempt.”
“Enough to die for?”
This was to be the Kid’s last question.
“So be it, surely enough to die for. Especially when those words be mine. He dared to gather and steal the words of my Steeping and set them on paper, and that condemned him and stopped any future such disgusting acts. Make no mistake on this: if I find a book of paper about thy person, I will dispatch you instantly. No thief of notions or speech rides with me. And I will do all in my might to wipe out such things, even if it means winding everything backward with sacrifice.”
The Kid had no more words in any shape or form, so he left Follett’s side and went to collect the bones. On the way back up to the other men, the Kid remembered the bloodstained pages of Scriven’s hidden notebook as they were thrown into the wind. He remembered Follett’s rage as his red hands tore the thing apart, fury in his eyes and spittle flying from his mouth in a bellow of curses.
They did not speak until they were in sight of the thin gray column of smoke rising from the campfire. Both men could already taste the reassuring warmth of hot coffee and feel the heat of the tin cups. The Kid would never again speak of books to this man, so he returned to the previous question about getting the best out of Tarrant.
“Naught is lost by using me to do the slaughter!” the Kid announced.
“What?”
“I mean thou canst still get a juicy one out of Tarrant if you give him the job of peeling and chopping the bones, and then giving a Steeping directly after.”
Follett nodded and then made a funnel of his hands. “Cooee.”
It’s difficult to explain a sound, especially one you will never forget or ever want to hear again. That was the kind of sound that issued from the box as its occupant heard the call from beyond the camp. Alvarez removed the slatted lid. When the air touched its wrinkled skin, the Oracle shivered and emitted an offensive odor that was mellow in its discord. As Alvarez stared into the box, his voice cracked and became dry, and the lullaby he had been singing vanished. The voice from the box also changed, turning spitefully human.
“No, Mumma, more, give more.”
It was a demand, not a request, and every man heard it in a part of his body that he could never admit to having. Pearlbinder’s hand instinctively moved toward his hunting knife, and the Calcas joined like twins. Some of the party were not convinced that the language came from the box at all, thinking it more likely that Alvarez was speaking ventriloquy under his tongue, either in mockery or, worse, in some kind of possession.
All went quiet, and then Follett and the Kid rode in, large hanging bundles slung behind their saddles. Follett stood in his stirrups and looked at the silent men.
“Tarrant,” he called.