Darkthaw (3 page)

I wake in a sweat, the dream bleeding out into the chill morning air. Sitting up, I scrub my hands over my face and shiver. The screaming echoes in my mind. Shrill. Constant.

No. Not screaming. The Watchtower bell is ringing.

The Watchtower bell?

I leap from my bed, pushing off the wool blanket, my bare feet slapping against the cold wood floor. The sound of the bell doesn't send the same spike of fear through me it once did. We haven't abandoned Watch fully—there are still a few Watchers up on the walls each night, but they're not watching for an attack from some spirit monster from the forest. The alarm bell is kept as a way to get the settlement's attention in the case of something else urgent: a fire, a coming storm, a wild animal.

I dress quick, my pulse racing. As I pass my pa's old room, I notice Matisa is already up and gone, like always. I grab my cloak from a hook beside the door and push outside. There are people rushing toward me, headed for the east gate. At the wall, a crowd is gathering. I push through the people who
are assembling in a silent semicircle. I notice a few weapons clenched tight in weathered hands, but no one seems to notice me jostling them aside. Everyone's craning their necks at something but hanging back, like they're reluctant to get too close.

When I get to the front of the crowd, I pull up short.

A man stands outside the east gates.

A STRANGER. RUDDY SKIN, LIGHT EYES. AT LEAST
a week's worth of beard frames cheeks that have seen too much sun. His brown hair is plastered to his forehead, and one chapped hand worries a dingy, brimmed hat. In the other hand he holds the lead rope of a stocky chestnut horse laden with saddle-packs. His clothes are strange: boots with thick soles and, buttoned to his neck, a heavy coat with three bright stripes along the hem. He has a pack on his back.

The bell has long gone quiet—the boy who rang it stands on the wall above us, looking on with wide eyes. A Watcher stands a stride away from the stranger, rifle in his right hand ready, but not trained on the man.

The stranger stares at us, at the walls of the fortification behind us, and at us again. “You folks been here a while?” he asks, his eyes wide. His accent is strange.

I can't tear my gaze from this man, can feel everyone around me staring the same.

“As in a few . . . decades?”

Silence.

His brow furrows. “Do you speak English?”

Someone in the crowd clears their throat. “Yes.”

His face relaxes. “That's a relief,” he says. “Wasn't too sure . . .” He looks at the Watcher beside him, at the rifle in the man's hands. “Well, then, introductions first.” He turns back to us and gestures to himself, speaking in a long-drawn-out kind of way. “Henderson. Robert Henderson. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He inclines his head formal-like. “If you don't mind, I won't ask for everyone's name.” He glances up, tapping the side of his head with his hat. “I'll never remember. Never forget a face, but names are a horse of a different color, you know? I'm more a details man, if you catch my meaning. Comes in handy in my line of work.”

He looks at us like he expects something.

More silence.

“Not a real talkative bunch,” he remarks. He throws a quick look at the Watcher again. “But that's never stopped me. Especially when it comes to imposing. Speaking of, I don't suppose you'd let me shelter the night? My mare could use a rest, and I'd be grateful for a real bed.” He tries a smile. “Pine boughs are only comfortable three weeks running. The fourth week, it starts to wear a little thin.”

At this, people pull their eyes away to look round at one another.

The Watcher speaks, gesturing to the man with his rifle.
“Je l'ai vu dans les bois.”
He saw him in the woods.

A tall south-quarter man with a fish-gut-stained apron steps forward. “Where did you come from?” he demands.

The man's eyebrows rise, the humor fleeing his face. He points with his hat to the southeast.

A low buzz starts in the crowd.

A north-quarter woman points to the man's pack.
“C'est quoi
ç
a?”
she asks.

“This?” The man reaches behind and touches the leather, protective-like. “My parchments, a compass, a sextant—my effects.”

Compass . . . sextant . . .

“Robert P. Henderson, cartographer,” he says, like it explains everything. His brow creases at our wide-eyed stares. “I'm a mapmaker,” he says, “contracted by the Dominion to map the way west.”

Inside the ceremonial hall, the man—Henderson—is relieved of his jacket and given a chair and a cup of cooled wild mint tea. At least a hundred people crowd into the space, straining to get a look at our strange visitor. A south-quarter woman stands a distance away with more tea. The Watcher who found him lingers close, eyeing the man's pack suspicious-like.

Tom and I press through the crowd, trying to get to the front, but I notice Matisa hangs back, her head down. I spot Isi and Nishwa in the shadows at the edge of the hall. The ceremonial hall has no windows, and the light from the few candles at the table is enough to light up only the first few rows of the crowd.

“That's some good brew,” Henderson says, leaning back and peering into his already empty cup. He looks to the south-quarter woman, who hurries to fill it.

“Obliged,” Henderson says, taking another long drink.

Tom's ma, Sister Ann, has made her way to the front. She presses forward out of the crowd of gawkers and puts herself before Henderson like she's in charge. And mayhap she is: with Council disbanded, her voice has become one of the loudest in the settlement. Edith, Tom's little sister, peeks out from behind her.

“You are welcome here for the night,” Sister Ann announces. A murmur starts at this. Sister Ann glances around with a hard look, a challenge to anyone who might raise their voice in protest. No one does. “We will share what we can. You are welcome at our table.”

“Again, obliged,” he says, a wide smile on his face. This man is like no one I've ever met: he's relaxed to the point of seeming a mite addled.

“You've travelled from a place we have never seen,” Sister Ann ventures. “Might you speak on it a bit more?” At this the crowd stills. I find Tom's hand next to mine, and he squeezes it gentle.

We learned about the east from Matisa. We learned there were people there, our kind—those who didn't risk the trek west years ago—living in organized groups under a leadership called the Dominion, but she was repeating stories from her people, admitting she'd never been there and didn't know too much. There were some in the settlement who were talking about heading east once the Thaw came—they wanted to see these people who were supposed to be “our kind.” But I've noticed no one has made any plans, save us. Could be they're all still too afraid.

I share a glance with Kane, who stands beside his ma on
the far side of the crowd, but it's hard to tell if the alert look on his face is excited or wary.

Henderson chuckles. “Speak ‘on' it? Sure.” He sits back and looks around the ceremonial hall. “But this just beats all, I have to say.” He gestures to his open pack. Its contents are spilling onto the floorboards: rolled sheets of parchment and mysterious leather-covered cases. “Never thought I'd be including a settlement old as this in my maps. You people are an anomaly, you know?”

Our blank faces tell him that we do not know.

“It's a miracle you even exist.”

Sister Ann clears her throat. It's plain she doesn't like being at the disadvantage. “Many of our people were taken by a . . .” At this, she falters. There are a few in the settlement still clinging stubborn-like to the notion of the
malmaci
. But most people believe Matisa's tale about the sickness, even if they don't full understand it. Tom's ma is one. “A sickness when they arrived generations ago.”

“You're damn straight they were.” Henderson shakes his head. “It's all the old people talked about when I was a boy. The Bleed, they called it. Anyone trying to settle out here perished from it. Discouraged migration, I'll tell you what. We thought everyone was long dead.” He looks around and clucks his tongue. “But here you are.”

The Bleed
. Yes, it's exactly the right word. The stories we were told about it—about people turning into rivers of blood overnight, swelling, cracking, choking on their blackened tongues.

Bleed it
: our curse when things go wrong, an old saying I never full understood. Is this why we say it? I glance at
Tom, but he doesn't look at me; he's hanging on Henderson's every word.

“We lost many people,” Sister Ann says. She looks relieved she wasn't wrong. “Those of us who survived were . . . fortunate.” It's as close to an explanation as we've got. When I asked Matisa why some of my people survived the sickness generations ago, she said it was because we moved out of the woods, away from it. For years we thought the virtues—Honesty, Bravery, Discovery—kept us safe, but now that we know the monster wasn't real, most people understand it was just luck.

Henderson shrugs. “Whatever you say. Something was working in your favor.”

Murmurs wind through the crowd.

“But all that's over with.”

“Our luck?” Sister Ann asks.

“Nah,” Henderson laughs. “The Bleed. Word from the occasional traveller crazy enough to venture out this way is there are tribes of First Peoples living out here. Surviving just fine.”

First Peoples. Matisa's people. They call themselves
osanaskisiwak
—a word that seems to describe them having joined together with other tribes—but Henderson wouldn't know any of that. I remember Matisa's dreams—about the Dominion bringing war to her people—and all at once I'm glad she's hidden in the throng behind me, that the boys are sticking to the shadows.

“First Peoples found our settlement in the fall,” Sister Ann says. “They travelled months to find us.”

Henderson tilts his head. “Where from?”

Again, Sister Ann looks at a loss. “The . . . west,” she says. People shift in the crowd. Matisa isn't making any move to come forward, and I will the people near her not to force it. I don't want this man to ask her anything about her home.

“You don't sound very sure.”

“It's not that,” Sister Ann protests, her cheeks going pink. “We . . . we haven't ventured outside our borders for many, many years.” She's distracted by appearing foolish in front of this stranger.

The man squints at her. “Could've guessed that, by the looks of you. No offense, of course.”

Sister Ann clears her throat, trying to regain her composure. “So there is no one from the east—from the Dominion—living out here?”

Henderson raises an eyebrow. “Thought you might be able to tell me. This past year a few”—he searches for the word—“rogue types have started to press west.”

“Rogue?”

“In the best sense of the word, rebels who carve their own path. In the worst, opportunistic thieves.”

There are a few gasps.

Henderson grins. It's clear he's enjoying his audience. “See, the east is getting crowded, so the Dominion's been organizing groups to come out in a scheduled fashion. They wanted people to register their plans and whereabouts, but not everyone is so inclined. Some came out on their own accord.” He leans back. “It's free land out here—no law. Some people find that attractive, if you catch my meaning.” His gaze sweeps over us. “There's people around all right.”

The crowd buzzes at this.

“How close?” Sister Ann asks.

“That's what I'm hired to find out. Closest Dominion outpost is at least two weeks away, over the river. It's a small military camp, houses only about a dozen of the Dominion's men. It's due east of the crossing, which is a week to the south.” He notices our blank stares. “Look,” he says, bending and pulling out a roll of parchment from his knapsack. He stands and unrolls it with a flourish. He gazes around at us, expectant—like he's answered all our questions. Except I can't make heads or tails of it, and from the looks of the faces around me, no one else can, neither. It's all lines and symbols on the right half of the paper, but the left—the west—is mostly blank.

He sighs and taps a squiggled line at the center of the paper. “This is the large river, outside your gates. It runs north and south for miles but winds something awful as it goes. Takes forever if you're wandering along it. Here you are”—he points to an
X
at the top of the curving line—“and a week south”—he points to a horizontal line across the river—“is a crossing I found. This river valley gets rocky as you continue south. The river has worn through the rock here, making a natural bridge. With the river flooded like it is from the spring melt, it's the only place to cross safely for miles. I traversed along the river to the south for about a week but found nothing like that crossing.” He sucks his teeth, looking pleased with himself. “Now, supposedly there's a new settlement to the west of that crossing—they registered with the Dominion before setting out—but I don't know for sure. Heading that way was impossible—the land there is real dangerous right now.”