Jango (15 page)

"Is that so? Did you make him alive?"

The Funny frowned and pondered. Then after a few moments he nodded.

"That's it," he said. "I made him alive."

The spikers now fell silent in awe. They looked on as the dead man sipped water, and they saw his eyelids flicker, and his chest move slowly with his breaths. Everyone had heard of the strange powers that went with being a Funny. Mostly it was telling fortunes, or putting on small curses. This was the first time they had heard of a Funny bringing a dead man back to life.

They became respectful.

"We have meat back at the camp," they said. "Will you eat with us?"

The Funny felt it at once, the change of tone, and understood that it was connected with the dead man.

"And him, too?" he said, nodding at the limp figure.

"We'll carry him."

They made a simple stretcher out of branches and carried him back to the camp. The Funny followed behind.

The Wildman slipped in and out of a half sleep, too weak to speak. He saw trees going by, and clouds beyond the bare branches, and he felt a lurching motion and heard voices. Then he knew he was being lowered to the ground. He felt the blessed heat of a fire. Turning his head, he located the flicker of flames. His soaked, chilled body shivered as sensation began to return to his skin. He smelled roasting meat.

Hands pulled at him, hoisting him to a sitting position. A piece of cooked meat was pushed into his mouth, but his tongue was thick and heavy, and his jaw couldn't move. The meat fell from his numb lips.

"Soup," a voice said. "Give him soup."

Now a ladle was at his mouth, and a warm rich broth was trickling down his throat. He choked, but he swallowed. The soup pooled in his belly and warmed him. He opened his eyes, tried to smile his thanks.

A spiker woman was stooping before him, looking intently into his face.

"I know you," she said. "You're the Wildman."

The Wildman could only blink in reply, but what he blinked was yes. The spiker woman stood up and called out in a loud voice.

"It's the Wildman! We've got the Wildman!"

"Not so wild any more," shrugged the old woman by the pot.

"And guess who wants the Wildman, eh?"

This produced laughter. Everyone, it seemed, knew the answer.

When the Wildman next woke, unaware that he had fallen asleep, he found himself in motion, on the bed of a wagon jolting down a stony road. He lay still and looked up at the sky. The dull winter day was drawing to a close. He tried to lift himself up but found he was still too weak. But at least his mind was now clear.

Where am I?

He remembered standing on the high wall of the Nom. He remembered his dive. He remembered that moment of perfect stillness as he fell.

If I could live like that forever, he thought. If I could dive forever.

He twisted his head and saw the dangling legs of the man driving the wagon, and the rolling flank of the cartox beyond. He could hear other footsteps too, treading the path alongside the wagon. Judging by the openness of the view, they were east of the Great River, most likely in the hill country. That was Morning Star's country. She was one of the hill people. He recalled her friendly face, with its puzzled gaze. Then he remembered Seeker, his one true friend.

But that's all over now, he thought. Our ways have parted forever.

Then they were leaving the road and rumbling over a streambed. He could hear the splashing of the wagon wheels in the water. The wagon entered a tunnel. The rock roof of the tunnel was not far above his head. He could see the water dripping down its sloping sides, and the sleek green weeds growing there. Then there was daylight again, and a crisscross of shadow breaking the light, and the wagon lurched to a stop.

Voices all round him called out, harsh threatening voices. The ones who had accompanied him answered, laughing, confident.

"That's it, throw us out! But see what we've got first."

Now once more the Wildman felt himself lifted and carried a short distance. When he was set down, he was on the ground, but his back was against a timber wall, and for the first time, he could get a proper look at where he was.

He was in a hollow in a hillside, the walls formed of rock and grass, with a roof built over it of interlaced branches. Bramble and bracken were woven into the branches, to create a cover that was in no way wind- or rainproof, but was designed to conceal the space beneath. The Wildman recognized the style. He had been in many such hides in his younger days. This was a bandit camp.

Within the hollow, on either side of the stream, there were several huts walled with wattles and thatched with straw. Between the huts a fire was burning, with wet wood baffles above to break up the smoke. The camp was well made and well hidden, and judging by the number of men and youths standing staring at him, it was the home of a large band.

One of the youths came close, to peer at him. The Wildman realized with astonishment that he recognized him.

"Shab!" he said, his tongue thick in his mouth.

"Is it really you, Wildman?" said Shab, shocked.

The Wildman gave a feeble nod.

"Is it true you've come back from the dead?"

Again he nodded.

Shab backed away, as if he were face-to-face with an unnatural being.

"Shouldn't have done that, Wildman," he said. "Dead should stay dead."

"The Funny did it," put in one of the spikers who had come with the wagon.

"Never known anything like it," said another.

"Better tell the chief."

Shab gave a surly shrug.

"Dead should stay dead," he muttered.

"If the chief finds out, it'll be you who'll be dead."

"Finds out what?"

"That we had the Wildman here and we let him go."

"Who's letting him go? Look at him! Like a drowned cat. He's not going anywhere."

"So you'll tell the chief."

Shab shrugged again. The Wildman had followed this exchange without understanding why Shab was showing so much reluctance. Back in the old days of Spikertown, he and Shab had run together for weeks at a time. Why now wish him dead? If he had been stronger, he'd have smacked Shab round the head and it would all have been settled soon enough.

"Heya, Shab," he said weakly.

Shab turned his back on him. He gestured to his companions, saying, "Put him in the rest house. I'll tell the chief."

The Wildman was picked up by two of the band, one on each side, his arms round their shoulders, and heaved into one of the huts. Here there was a bunk piled with straw. They laid the Wildman down, then left him alone in the shadows. Outside the hollow, dusk was gathering. Here, beneath the double roof of canopy and thatch, there was almost no light at all.

He closed his eyes. Shab will tell the chief, he thought, and the chief will come, and he'll explain to me what's going on.

And after that? The Wildman had no plans after that. He had fled the Nom in fear of the cleansing and because they hadn't wanted him there. But he had no new destination. Maybe he would go far, far away.

He heard footsteps approaching, then the swish of the door curtain as someone entered the small dark space of the rest house. He turned to look, but all he could see was a black figure against the deep shadows.

"You the chief?" he said.

"That's right." It was a woman's voice: one he knew well. "Remember me?"

"Caressa?"

"Always knew you'd come back."

She turned in the doorway and called out, "Light!"

"You don't want to see me, Princess."

"What's this about you being dead?"

"I don't know. Maybe I was dead."

"And now you're back."

A burning stick was handed through the doorway. Caressa carried the flame to where the Wildman lay, and by its flickering light, she studied him. He too looked at her. In the months since he had last seen her, she had become even more handsome. The mass of dark hair framed big black eyes, broad cheeks, full lips: but there was an authority in her that had not been there before. Caressa had always been demanding. Now she had the look of one who expected to have her demands met.

"Those are hoodie clothes you're wearing," she said.

"Yes."

"You a hoodie, Wildman?"

"Not any more."

"Let's get you some dry clothes."

She gave orders to the unseen men outside the door. Then she knelt down by the Wildman's side and brushed his long wet hair with her fingers, as the flame crackled on the burning stick.

"They sucked you dry, Wildman. They turned you into dust."

"I'm back now, Princess."

"Back from the dead."

The clothes came.

"You need help?"

"No," said the Wildman, ashamed to be dressed by others.

Caressa left him alone in the hut, with the burning stick stuck in the earth floor. The Wildman heaved himself up into a sitting position and explored his limbs. He raised first one arm, then the other. His strength was returning.

Moving slowly, resting between each move, he peeled off his wet clothing and dressed himself in the borrowed garments. The flickering flame dwindled and went out. He finished dressing in darkness. Then he drew back the door cloth and sat watching the scene in the campsite outside.

It was dark now, and the members of the band were gathered round the fire holding pieces of meat on the points of their knives, roasting them in the glowing embers. The firelight played on their faces, and their quiet voices drifted across the hollow with the smoke. It was the kind of scene that the Wildman had been part of all his life, before he became a hoodie. Now, looking from outside at that ring of firelight and comradeship, he felt a sudden ache of longing for the old days.

Always was a no-good, he thought. Always was a bandit. This is where I belong.

He saw Caressa's high beauty as she moved among her men, and Shab's face as he looked up at her, seeking signs of favor that would never come. Easy to understand now why Shab didn't want him to return from the dead. But the Wildman knew Shab had no chance. There was too much longing in his face. That was the kind of look that made Caressa cruel.

So now she was the chief.

The Wildman laughed softly to himself. Good for her, he thought. Caressa the spiker queen, and no king anywhere to be seen.

She turned then, as if drawn by his thoughts of her, and sensed that he was watching from the darkness of the hut. She left the fire and came to where he sat.

"Come to the light. Let's see you."

"Soon," he said.

So she sat with him, while her band roasted goat meat and drank brandy and bantered round the fire. Only Shab did not join in. He glanced round from time to time, his gaze reaching into the shadows where they sat, and kept a bottle of brandy to himself.

"So how's Shab doing?" said the Wildman.

"Shab's good," said Caressa.

"He's there for you, Princess. If you want it."

"So he is, if I want it. But I don't."

"You got other plans?"

"I said I'd wait for you, Wildman. And so I have."

She spoke softly, just a whisper in the night, but there was no tremble in her voice. The Wildman marvelled at her certainty.

"You don't want me no more, Princess."

"Why's that?"

"I've been away too long. There's not as much of me as there was."

"Maybe I don't mind about that."

"You're the chief now, Princess. You want more than I can give you."

"Maybe I do. And maybe I'll get it, too. But I always wanted you, Wildman. Since I was nine years old. And I always will."

Shab now rose from the fire and came over to them.

"You looking at me, Wildman?" he said.

"Some," said the Wildman.

"Back off, Shab," said Caressa.

"Nobody looks at me that way," said Shab. "Not unless he wants to do more than look."

"Go and lie down, Shab," said Caressa. "You're drunk."

"You want to do more than look, Wildman? Or are you getting too old and wise?"

"Don't do this, Shab," said the Wildman quietly.

"Seems like I'm doing it," said Shab.

"Look at him!" said Caressa, now angry. "He near died. How can he fight you? Shame on you, Shab. Wait till he's strong again."

"There's no place for him here," said Shab stubbornly. "He goes or he fights. That's my right."

"Best to get it over with," said the Wildman. "Give me a hand, Princess."

"I won't allow this."

"You must," said the Wildman. "You're the chief."

It was every man's right among the bandits for his quarrels to be settled man to man, under the eye of the chief. Caressa gave him her hand because she had no choice, but as she did so, she shook her dark mane with anger.

The Wildman rose and found his balance. He was so weak that one push would send him back to the ground. But maybe that would be no bad thing. Maybe if Shab forced him to his knees, Caressa would see him as he truly was, not as she had dreamed him when still a child.

He took one step forward and so came into the light. Caressa was gazing at him, and he caught a sudden smile on her face. It was his clothes. He looked down at himself and saw gaudy red and bright blue and flashes of gold thread. He was a bandit again.

Shab stood before him, flexing his arms and bouncing lightly from foot to foot. The others in the band, now aware there was going to be a fight, came and gathered round.

"This settles nothing, Shab," said Caressa, her voice sharp with anger.

"It's my right," replied Shab.

"Then get on with it. I'm tired of it all."

Shab took one step forward, to within striking distance. The Wildman stood still, arms loose by his sides. Without being aware of it, he had adopted the Tranquil Alert.

"You ready?" said Shab.

"I'm ready."

Shab stared at him, shaking with hatred. The Wildman looked back, amazed by the hatred, himself empty of all passion. He found he could read Shab's intentions long before he acted on them.

Shab lunged out with one fist.

The Wildman acted on instinct. Not moving a muscle, he flooded Shab's will with his own will. Shab's blow stopped short.