I don’t say nuthin to th’others. Not no more. I did at first. We’d all hunt around to see what it might be, but nobody ever found nuthin an then they started lookin at me funny, so now I jest keep my mouth shut.
I don’t sleep good. I ain’t slept good fer so long that I’m pretty much used to it, but it’s bin even worse ever since Epona died. Anyways, it means I can keep watch over ’em. Lugh an Emmi an Tommo. Make sure they don’t come to no harm. If I don’t sleep, nobody can come an take ’em.
Mainly, though, I keep watch over Lugh. He sleeps long an deep. But not easy. Never easy. Most nights he talks in his sleep. Nuthin I can make out, mumblin fer the most part, the odd word or two.
Sometimes he cries. Like a little child. That’s the worst. I cry with him. I cain’t help it. His tears is mine. They always have bin. Th’only time I ever remember him cryin before was when Ma died when we was eight. There was plenty of tears shed then. Me an Lugh an Pa must of cried enough tears to fill Silverlake three times over. But tears don’t bring back the dead. I learned that.
Fer now, I got work to do. Back at camp they’ll all be wakin with empty bellies an it’s my turn to hunt. Lizard, pouch rat, snake, I ain’t fussy. Anythin ’ud do, so long as it ain’t locusts. I brought back locusts my last three times an all becuz of – well, everybody’s cheesed off with crunchin bugs, that’s fer sure.
I frown. I cain’t think how I got here this mornin. How I got to this ridge so far from our campsite. I must of come on Hermes. There he is, right over there, rough chestnut coat an sturdy legs, rippin up withered clumps of bunchgrass. You’d think I could recall the ride, but I cain’t. Strange.
I lift the long-looker to my eyes. Scan the landscape. The Waste rolls out as far as I can see. To the horizon an beyond. Dry, yellow soil. The odd hill of grey rock, striped with red. Worn smooth by the wind.
This place ’ud make a devil weep, I says.
Suddenly I hear a rumble. I feel it the same time I hear it. A low, steady tremor unner my feet. There’s a flash of movement to the left. From the north. I train the looker that way.
Holy crap, I says.
It’s a line of twisters. They swirl across the plain, in a long row. Small ones, not more’n forty foot high. I ain’t never seen such a thing. They snatch the dust as they head this way.
An there’s a windspringer. He races along, in front of the line of twisters, as they chase behind. A two-year buck, judgin by his antlers. He goes flat out. If he don’t outrun ’em, he’ll be swept up.
Nero’s ridin the thermals overhead. I whistle. He swoops down an lands on my outstretched hand.
I point to the springer. See that? I says. That’s breakfast, lunch an supper fer the next week.
Nero squawks.
You know what to do, I says. Turn him this way. Bring him to me. Bring him here, Nero! I throw him into the air an he streaks away. Nero’s a good hunter. Thinks he’s a hawk, not a crow. He’ll turn the springer from the twisters’ path. He’ll drive him right into range of my crossbow.
I start to run.
My feet feel heavy. Like they don’t belong to the rest of me. They don’t wanna move. But I make ’em. I start to go faster. As I run, I slide my bow from my back. Grab a arrow from my quiver. I leap down the dry slope of the ridge. Right near the bottom there’s a flat bit of rock that juts out. I can git a clear shot from there an I’ll be far enough away to be safe from the twisters.
I reach the rock. Dust whirls about me. The wind shrieks. I take up position. I nock my arrow to the bowstring.
I gotta stay calm. If I stay calm, it’ll be okay. This time, it’ll be okay. I take a deep breath.
Nero screams with excitement. He’s drivin the springer hard. It swerves right, then left, but he dives at it, shriekin. It heads straight this way. There’s a white blaze on its breast. Over its heart. The perfect target.
This is gonna be the perfect kill.
I lift my bow. Take aim. Straight fer the heart.
My hands start to shake. There’s a flash of white light.
Epona runnin towards me. Throwin her arms wide. An I shoot her. Straight through the heart.
Cold sweat. On my forehead, in my eyes. I blink. Epona’s dead. I killed her.
Saabaa. Saaabaaa.
My name whispers around me. I turn, lookin. Nuthin there. Nobody.
Who is it? I says.
Saaabaaa.
It’s the wind. The twisters. That’s all. Calm down. Take aim. Shoot the springer. It’s only a couple hunnerd paces away now.
I grip my bow harder. The shakin gits worse. It’s jest like before. Jest like the last time. An the time before that. Any time I try to shoot.
Then.
I notice.
My breath
tight chest
dry throat
cain’t breathe
need air
deep breaths
I cain’t, I—
cain’t
breathe
cain’t
breathe
on my knees on the ground tight throat heart fast
too fast, too—
air
air
cain’t breathe cain’t see cain’t—
Nero.
Screamin.
Nero.
Warnin me.
Danger.
Danger.
Danger.
I lift my head. Everythin’s . . . blurred.
Then. I see. Somethin movin. Movin fast. I squint. Try to see what it is, what—
Wolfdogs, I says.
A pack of wolfdogs chase hard at the springer’s heels. Six of ’em. No. Eight. Where’d they come from?
The pack splits. Six wolfdogs stay on the springer’s tail. They chase it south, across the Waste. The line of twisters churn after ’em.
Two dogs peel off. Two dogs head towards me. Comin this way.
They smell me. They smell my weakness.
Deep inside, in my belly the red hot flickers. But it’s feeble. A weak spark when I need a blaze. A fierce fire to save me. The red hot always . . . saves me.
I haul myself up. Hard to breathe. Hands shakin, but I . . . can do it, I can – my bow drops from my hands. Hits the ground. The flicker’s gone. The red hot. Gone.
I’m helpless. Hopeless. Alone.
No. Not quite.
Nero screams with rage. He attacks the wolfdogs. Dives at their heads. But on they come. They’re forty foot away now. Thirty.
Move, Saba. Do somethin. Anythin! I scrabble fer rocks, pebbles, sticks.
Nero’s slowin ’em down. He darts, draws blood, retreats. Agin an agin an agin. They lunge at him. Strike with their claws. A flurry of fur an feathers an dust. Shrieks an snarls. They’ll hurt him. Kill him.
Nero! Nero! I scream. I got rocks in my hands. Throw ’em, throw ’em. No, no, I might hit Nero. Dust an chaos. I cain’t see clear.
My breath, my breath’s comin easier. Whatever took hold of me starts to let go. But I’m weak. Shaky.
Nero breaks free. I let fly with the rocks. But I miss. The wolfdogs pace towards me. Ten foot away. Eight. Six.
One dog in front of me. One on my left. Cold, flat heat in their yellow eyes.
Nero shrieks an shrieks. He dives. They cower.
I scream an scream. I fling pebbles an dirt. I throw, they flinch, but they ain’t put off. Suddenly I remember the knife in my boot. I reach fer it. My hands, my tremblin hands.
They inch towards me. Eyes fixed. Low in their throats, they hum my death.
I don’t sleep good. I ain’t slept good fer so long that I’m pretty much used to it, but it’s bin even worse ever since Epona died. Anyways, it means I can keep watch over ’em. Lugh an Emmi an Tommo. Make sure they don’t come to no harm. If I don’t sleep, nobody can come an take ’em.
Mainly, though, I keep watch over Lugh. He sleeps long an deep. But not easy. Never easy. Most nights he talks in his sleep. Nuthin I can make out, mumblin fer the most part, the odd word or two.
Sometimes he cries. Like a little child. That’s the worst. I cry with him. I cain’t help it. His tears is mine. They always have bin. Th’only time I ever remember him cryin before was when Ma died when we was eight. There was plenty of tears shed then. Me an Lugh an Pa must of cried enough tears to fill Silverlake three times over. But tears don’t bring back the dead. I learned that.
Fer now, I got work to do. Back at camp they’ll all be wakin with empty bellies an it’s my turn to hunt. Lizard, pouch rat, snake, I ain’t fussy. Anythin ’ud do, so long as it ain’t locusts. I brought back locusts my last three times an all becuz of – well, everybody’s cheesed off with crunchin bugs, that’s fer sure.
I frown. I cain’t think how I got here this mornin. How I got to this ridge so far from our campsite. I must of come on Hermes. There he is, right over there, rough chestnut coat an sturdy legs, rippin up withered clumps of bunchgrass. You’d think I could recall the ride, but I cain’t. Strange.
I lift the long-looker to my eyes. Scan the landscape. The Waste rolls out as far as I can see. To the horizon an beyond. Dry, yellow soil. The odd hill of grey rock, striped with red. Worn smooth by the wind.
This place ’ud make a devil weep, I says.
Suddenly I hear a rumble. I feel it the same time I hear it. A low, steady tremor unner my feet. There’s a flash of movement to the left. From the north. I train the looker that way.
Holy crap, I says.
It’s a line of twisters. They swirl across the plain, in a long row. Small ones, not more’n forty foot high. I ain’t never seen such a thing. They snatch the dust as they head this way.
An there’s a windspringer. He races along, in front of the line of twisters, as they chase behind. A two-year buck, judgin by his antlers. He goes flat out. If he don’t outrun ’em, he’ll be swept up.
Nero’s ridin the thermals overhead. I whistle. He swoops down an lands on my outstretched hand.
I point to the springer. See that? I says. That’s breakfast, lunch an supper fer the next week.
Nero squawks.
You know what to do, I says. Turn him this way. Bring him to me. Bring him here, Nero! I throw him into the air an he streaks away. Nero’s a good hunter. Thinks he’s a hawk, not a crow. He’ll turn the springer from the twisters’ path. He’ll drive him right into range of my crossbow.
I start to run.
My feet feel heavy. Like they don’t belong to the rest of me. They don’t wanna move. But I make ’em. I start to go faster. As I run, I slide my bow from my back. Grab a arrow from my quiver. I leap down the dry slope of the ridge. Right near the bottom there’s a flat bit of rock that juts out. I can git a clear shot from there an I’ll be far enough away to be safe from the twisters.
I reach the rock. Dust whirls about me. The wind shrieks. I take up position. I nock my arrow to the bowstring.
I gotta stay calm. If I stay calm, it’ll be okay. This time, it’ll be okay. I take a deep breath.
Nero screams with excitement. He’s drivin the springer hard. It swerves right, then left, but he dives at it, shriekin. It heads straight this way. There’s a white blaze on its breast. Over its heart. The perfect target.
This is gonna be the perfect kill.
I lift my bow. Take aim. Straight fer the heart.
My hands start to shake. There’s a flash of white light.
Epona runnin towards me. Throwin her arms wide. An I shoot her. Straight through the heart.
Cold sweat. On my forehead, in my eyes. I blink. Epona’s dead. I killed her.
Saabaa. Saaabaaa.
My name whispers around me. I turn, lookin. Nuthin there. Nobody.
Who is it? I says.
Saaabaaa.
It’s the wind. The twisters. That’s all. Calm down. Take aim. Shoot the springer. It’s only a couple hunnerd paces away now.
I grip my bow harder. The shakin gits worse. It’s jest like before. Jest like the last time. An the time before that. Any time I try to shoot.
Then.
I notice.
My breath
tight chest
dry throat
cain’t breathe
need air
deep breaths
I cain’t, I—
cain’t
breathe
cain’t
breathe
on my knees on the ground tight throat heart fast
too fast, too—
air
air
cain’t breathe cain’t see cain’t—
Nero.
Screamin.
Nero.
Warnin me.
Danger.
Danger.
Danger.
I lift my head. Everythin’s . . . blurred.
Then. I see. Somethin movin. Movin fast. I squint. Try to see what it is, what—
Wolfdogs, I says.
A pack of wolfdogs chase hard at the springer’s heels. Six of ’em. No. Eight. Where’d they come from?
The pack splits. Six wolfdogs stay on the springer’s tail. They chase it south, across the Waste. The line of twisters churn after ’em.
Two dogs peel off. Two dogs head towards me. Comin this way.
They smell me. They smell my weakness.
Deep inside, in my belly the red hot flickers. But it’s feeble. A weak spark when I need a blaze. A fierce fire to save me. The red hot always . . . saves me.
I haul myself up. Hard to breathe. Hands shakin, but I . . . can do it, I can – my bow drops from my hands. Hits the ground. The flicker’s gone. The red hot. Gone.
I’m helpless. Hopeless. Alone.
No. Not quite.
Nero screams with rage. He attacks the wolfdogs. Dives at their heads. But on they come. They’re forty foot away now. Thirty.
Move, Saba. Do somethin. Anythin! I scrabble fer rocks, pebbles, sticks.
Nero’s slowin ’em down. He darts, draws blood, retreats. Agin an agin an agin. They lunge at him. Strike with their claws. A flurry of fur an feathers an dust. Shrieks an snarls. They’ll hurt him. Kill him.
Nero! Nero! I scream. I got rocks in my hands. Throw ’em, throw ’em. No, no, I might hit Nero. Dust an chaos. I cain’t see clear.
My breath, my breath’s comin easier. Whatever took hold of me starts to let go. But I’m weak. Shaky.
Nero breaks free. I let fly with the rocks. But I miss. The wolfdogs pace towards me. Ten foot away. Eight. Six.
One dog in front of me. One on my left. Cold, flat heat in their yellow eyes.
Nero shrieks an shrieks. He dives. They cower.
I scream an scream. I fling pebbles an dirt. I throw, they flinch, but they ain’t put off. Suddenly I remember the knife in my boot. I reach fer it. My hands, my tremblin hands.
They inch towards me. Eyes fixed. Low in their throats, they hum my death.
