Blood Red Road
Page 8

I crouch down beside her. What’s the mat er? I says.
Then I see her heels. They’re cut to a bloody pulp. She ain’t used to walkin so far. They must hurt like nobody’s business, but she ain’t made a peep.
Why didn’t you tel me? I says.
I didn’t want you to yel at me, she says.
I look at her, her face so smal an thin. I hear Lugh’s voice in my head.
She’s only nine, Saba. You might try bein nice to her fer a change.
You should of said somethin, I says. I wash her cuts an wrap her feet in clean strips of cloth. Al right, I says, put yer arms around my neck.
I pick her up. I carry her as much as I can fer the rest of the day, but even a scrawny nine year old gits heavy. I’m carryin our packs too so I hafta put her down from time to time. She ends up havin to walk a fair bit.
She weeps quietly in the night.
My heart pinches at the sound. I reach out an touch her arm but she flings my hand of an turns away.
I hate you! she cries. I wish they’d kil ed you instead of Pa!
After that, I pul my cloak over my head so’s I cain’t hear her cryin.
We got a keep on.
I got a find Lugh.
Third day. Dawn.
I clean Emmi’s feet agin an we set o . She takes two tiny steps an fal s to the ground. She won’t be doin no walkin today. I guess I ain’t surprised. I pick her up an lay her down on a grassy patch in some shade.
I run my hands through my hair. Glare at the sky. I wanna scream or run around or … anythin to git rid of al the tightness inside of me. I kick the ground so hard I stub my toe. I curse mightily.
I’m sorry, Saba, Emmi whispers.
I try to smile, make it look like I don’t care, but I cain’t manage it. I turn my head away from her.
It ain’t yer fault, I says. I’l sort somethin out.
I spend the rest of the mornin makin a dragger. I cut two of the springiest, strongest tree branches I can find. I lay ’em out on the ground an brace ’em crosswise with smal er branches to make it good an sturdy fer Em to lie on. I lash it al together with net lecord rope. Then I make a yoke to go over my shoulders an pad it with our spare tunics.
It’s ready by the middle of th’afternoon. I tie Emmi an our packs onto it. I swaddle my hands in cloth. The right one’s stil sore from bein shot, so I wrap it in a clean bandage first. I don’t want it git in worse.
Then I start pul in. The dragger bumps an thumps over the ground, but Emmi don’t complain or whimper or cry. She don’t make a sound.
The sun beats down. It’s merciless. Cruel. It makes me think cruel thoughts. Like: Why couldn’t they of kil ed Emmi, instead of Pa?
Why couldn’t they of took Emmi, instead of Lugh?
Emmi ain’t no use to nobody. Never was. Never wil be.
She’s slowin me down. Makin me lose time.
My brain whispers. My heart whispers. My bones whisper.
Leave her … leave her … walk away an leave her. What … to die? Don’t even think about it … she don’t mat er … what mat ers is Lugh … go back to the cairn … head out across Sandsea … that’s the way they went … you could be there in a couple of hours if you walked fast …
I give myself a shake. Shut my ears to the whisperin. I cain’t leave Emmi. I got a take her to Crosscreek to stay with Mercy.
Lugh said I had to keep her safe. When I find him, I got a be able to tel him that she’s okay. That I looked after her as good as him.
As I pul the dragger behind me, I wonder where he is. If he’s afeared. If he misses me like I miss him.
My missin him makes my whole body ache. It’s like … emptiness. Emptiness that’s beside me, inside me an around me, al the places where Lugh used to be. I ain’t never bin without him. Not fer a single moment from the day we was born. From before we was born.
If they touch him, if they hurt him, I’l kil ’em. Even if they don’t, I might kil ’em anyways, as punishment fer takin him.
My shoulders ache. My hurt hand throbs. The sun beats down. I grit my teeth an make myself go faster.
Why don’t Emmi cry? Why don’t she whine?
I wish she would. Then I could yel at her.
Then I could hate her.
I push the mean thoughts away, deep inside to the darkest places of me, where nobody can see.
An Emmi don’t cry. Not even once.
Fifth day. Midnight.
We lie on the ground, in a hol ow beside the trackway. We’re wrapped in our dogskin cloaks. Emmi’s tucked herself into one side of me.
Nero’s huddled on th’other side, fast to sleep, his head tucked unner his wing.
It’s a warm spring night. A soft breeze lifts the hair on my forehead. In the distance, a wolfdog howls an another answers. They’re a long ways of . Naught to worry about.
I stare up at the sky. At the thousands an mil ions of stars that crowd the night. I look fer the Great Bear. The Lit le Bear. The Dragon. The North Star.
I think about Pa. About what he told us. That our destiny, the story of our lives is writ en in the stars. An that he knew how to read ’em.
An then I think about what Lugh said.
Ain’t you ggered it out yet? It’s al in his head. There ain’t nuthin writ en in the stars. There ain’t no great plan. The world goes on. Our lives jest go on … in this gawdfersaken place. An that’s it. Til the day we die.
I think of Pa layin out his stick circles an doin his spel s an his chants, tryin to make the rain come. How he kept sayin he read it in the stars, that the stars said the rain was comin an how the rain never did come.
Wel , not til after Pa was dead. Not til it was too late. That means eether Pa was readin the stars wrong or the stars was tel in him lies.
Or maybe the truth is this. That Pa couldn’t read the stars because there ain’t nuthin there to read. An al his spel s an chants was jest him bein so desperate fer rain that he’d try any old thing, no mat er how crazy.
I used to like lookin at the night sky. Liked to think how one day Pa might teach me to read what the stars had to say. Now they jest look cold an far away.
I shiver.
I reckon Lugh’s right. He always is.
There ain’t nuthin writ en in the stars.
They’re jest lights in the sky. To show you the way in the dark.
But.But.
Pa knew about the men. Knew they’d come fer Lugh. Before I told him.
Are they here? Have they come?
They cain’t be stopped, Saba. It’s begun.
An he knew he was gonna die. Knew his story was about to end.
My time’s nearly up. I dunno what happens after this.
If Pa couldn’t read the stars, if the stars ain’t got nuthin to say, how did he know al that?
How did he know?
CROSSCREEK
SIXTH DAY. LATE AFTERNOON.
A breeze whispers by an, somewhere above my head, there’s a urry of dry clicks. I stop. I look up. Three deer-bones hung together, high in a tree.
I hear Pa’s voice in my head.
After three days, the trackway’l take you through a deep pine forest. Keep yer eyes peeled. When you see the windchimes in the tree you know you reached Crosscreek.
Without the breeze, I would of missed ’em. I lick my parched lips. Emmi, I says. The windchimes. We’re here.
I ain’t never bin so glad to be anywhere in my life. Since yesterday noon, every waterhole an every streamlet along the way’s eether bin dry or a deathwater covered in slimy yel ow bloom. An we had our last meal yesterday mornin. We couldn’t of gone on much longer.