Motherstone (4 page)

Near the top the chimney was too wide. But there, leaning down to help, were the roots of another bush. He climbed them like a rope ladder and came out on the top of a pillar standing like a gatepost at the entrance of the gorge. The red bushes were tangled so thickly on top he had to wriggle in like a snake. He crossed to the gorge side and put his head over the drop.

At once his face was wet with spray. It flew in the gorge like midges, luminous in the last sun from the west. The rapids went on and on, leaping on the walls. The tree Nick had ridden was caught in a fissure halfway down and seemed to have died there, leafless and grey. He saw how close he had come to dying, and shrank away and made himself small in the wet hollow on top of the pillar.

‘Now,’ he said to himself, ‘O.K. Nick,’ but did not know what to do. He crawled back to the chimney. There was no way to go further up the cliff, even if he jumped across to it. It curved towards the sky without a handhold. A sobbing came from his throat. He felt he had been cheated.

Then he saw a movement on the bank over the river. At first he thought it was an animal. It was quick, angular, furtive, grey. He recognized Slarda. Behind her came a second figure, smaller: one of the murderous girls, the one called Greely. He whimpered and shrank in the bushes.

Slarda was like a hunting dog. She ran, stopped, listened, pointed, ran. The girl followed. They were coming round to the mouth of the gorge. He saw them scrambling on boulders. Their crossbows were strapped on their backs.

Where the river ran into the gorge, Slarda stopped. Greely took her arm and leaned out, peering down the rapids. She pointed and seemed to shout. She had seen the tree wedged in the fissure. Slarda pulled her back and the girl spoke eagerly. Then they searched the cliff and pillar with their eyes. Sunlight was streaming up the gorge, making rainbows in the spray. Nick felt his face shining like an electric bulb. He rolled back and lay in the hollow. The flowers twinkled over him like stars. But he knew he had to look again. If his hunters had seen him he had to know. He raised himself on his knees and pushed his head through the branches.

They were still there, arguing what to do. Greely seemed to want to climb to the top of the gorge, but Slarda pointed back the way they had come and made an upward motion with her arm. She wanted the long way. Nick hoped she would win. It would give him more time. But time for what?

They started back, moving half bent over, with the eagerness of dogs. Nick looked down the gorge, into the light of the setting sun. It picked out a row of red bushes in the stone, below the cliff-top. They glowed like embers, and he saw at once they made a path for him – if he could take it. He wriggled across the pillar to its down-river side. The first bushes grew on the far side of a metre-wide gap – an easy jump – and others ran from it in a line slanting up, growing on a ledge a hand-span wide. If he could climb in the bushes, use them like a road, and if their roots were strong enough, he would come out on the lip of the gorge halfway along. He looked and shivered. He would be over water all the way, and if he fell, if one of the bushes broke, the rapids would take him.

One of Jimmy’s sayings came to him: ‘Yer don’t wanter think too much, it’ll melt yer brain.’

‘O.K., Jimmy,’ he said. He made sure his knife and food pouch were belted tightly. Then he stood on the rim of the pillar, leaned over the gap, and launched himself from his point of balance. An easy jump. But the branches were slimy. Bark slid under his fingers. He dangled by one hand, and made a wild second grab with the other, and only then was safe. He pulled himself into the bush.

‘Ride yer luck.’ Jimmy again. He did not look down or stop to think, but climbed through the branches, close to the cliff, and pulled into the next bush – and the next. They grew so close together he could not tell which branch belonged to which. Their roots curled like fingers, holding stone. He stepped along, swung along, went like a monkey, like a crab. The water boomed. The spray, almost blinding in the light, made drops in his eyebrows, ran on his face. He licked it and felt it ease the dryness in his throat.

Slowly he came close to the lip of the gorge. It was only a room’s width away. But the bushes seemed to have a harder time. They were gnarled like trees above a snowline, some no larger than bonsai trees. He tried to grip them close to the roots, and hoped their hold was strong in the stone. ‘Ride yer luck.’ He let his feet dangle, swung along, then crawled up and side-stepped on the bushes like a path. They bent beneath his weight. Far below, the rapids ended and the river ran smooth between the cliffs.

The bushes stopped short. He stood on the last and saw it bend and seemed to hear its roots groan; and he felt with his fingers for the lip of the cliff. It was there, at his full stretch, and ridged so that his grip was firm. He had no strength for a straight pull up, but was able to brace himself, lean back and walk two steps, and roll on to the cliff top. He lay there panting, then pushed himself further from the drop. He did not think he could stand and walk away.

In a moment he pulled himself onto his knees. He looked round to see where he was. It was a bare rock ledge, no wider than a one-way bridge, running west. A bank of stone rose on his left to thick green bush. He turned and looked over the gorge. The gap was thirty metres with the same ledge and bank, and hills beyond. Slarda and Greely were there somewhere. But all he had to do was climb to the bush and he was safe. They would never know he had not ridden his tree into the gorge, and died in that tumble of water.

He pushed himself to his feet and stood swaying. He knew if he got too close to the gorge he would fall in. He stumbled to the bank and looked up: a simple climb, but his strength was gone. His limbs felt as though they were stuffed with wool. He leaned his arms on the bank and rested. Then something sang towards him like a wasp and struck the stone and threw splinters at him. They cut his mouth. He tasted blood.

Another singing came as he threw himself flat, and the thing, a crossbow bolt, sprang off the bank and arced over him. He jumped to his feet and ran. Slarda and Greely were scrambling from the trees over the gorge. They stopped to reload, and Nick saw Slarda pause and strike the girl. In her eagerness to kill she had shot too soon. If they had crept closer they would have had him like a beetle on a wall.

But they still had him. There was no place on the bank he could climb and be in the trees before they closed up for an easy shot. So he ran. He ran on the smooth rock ledge, with the bank rising on one side and the gorge dropping away on the other. A hundred metres behind, over the gap, Slarda came, long-striding, with Greely straining ahead, yelping like a dog. Nick panted, heaved. Tears ran on his face. He had nothing left. He had done too much. They were going to kill him. The bank grew steeper, the trees seemed further away, far out of reach. He saw the place where the stone ledge ended. It stopped like a washed-out bridge. Beyond was emptiness, a drop to the river and the bush.

Another bolt sang by. The girl had tried a second shot. He heard Slarda scream angrily. She knew he had nowhere to go.

Nick stumbled and almost fell. He felt his feet falling from under him. Then he saw he was running in a depression. It was like a shallow ramp slanting down to the end of the ledge. Branches from the forest littered it. To Slarda it must seem he was sinking, knees and hips and waist, into solid stone. She gave a yell of fury. Nick looked back. Greely had reloaded as she ran. But Slarda made her stop and crouch and used her as support for a certain shot. Nick stopped and faced her, and seemed to look into the arrow head. It swelled and shrieked, coming at him. He did not duck, he simply fell over, and the bolt clipped a tuft from his hair. Strands settled on his face. He closed his eyes to stop them tickling, and spread his palms flat on the stone, thinking it was warm as a bed.

Later, he realized he had slept. The sun was deep in the sky, touching the hills. He half-rose in panic, then calmed himself. They – Slarda, Greely – were over the gorge, they could not get him. He crawled further down the hollow. It deepened and he rose and walked in a crouch. The clouds had gone, wind died away. The still tops of trees showed over the gorge. He stepped over a rotten branch and came to the edge. The river curled lazily, hugging the cliff. It wound through wooded hills, gleaming pink from the last of the sun. There was no way down. The cliff beneath him was undercut. And he could not have climbed in any case, he was too exhausted. His head ached and his limbs were bruised from knocks taken in the river. He felt the cut on his cheek. It seemed to be washed clean, but was aching too, and he wondered if it was turning septic.

He stared into the distance, over the hills, trying to see if Birdfolk were flying there. But he could not look at the sun, halfway down behind a flat-topped hill, and he shaded his eyes and watched the river. Down there, two or three kilometres away, was a narrow place where trees leaned across the water. A hunter as eager as Greely would climb or jump or swing across somehow. He wondered if she was on her way, and knew he had to find out what was going on over the gorge.

He tried to work out where Slarda would least expect him to raise his head, and saw no place was better than any other. But he would need to be quick. One look, no more. He raised his head. And there was Slarda, forty metres away, with loaded bow and cheek-bones gleaming. She stood on the edge of the gorge and looked tall enough to step across. The girl was dragging branches from the bush.

Slarda saw Nick. She raised her bow. But he was down and the bolt whistled by. At once he stood. Slarda was reloading and Greely had her bow on her back. He had three or four seconds. He looked at the branches. They came from a resinous tree that burned like a flare. Others were piled on the ledge. A bonfire! They would light it so he could not slip away in the dark.

He sat down before Slarda could shoot. One of them would watch, one sleep. And in the morning one – the girl probably – would cross somewhere and come back and kill him. He was finished. They would not leave him alone until he was dead.

He looked west again. The sun was gone. The sky was a dark blue cave with luminous walls. Out there was the sea, beyond the hills. And south was the Temple, probably with a new name now. He would never get there. Or get to Jimmy, heading south with Ben. And Susan, heading north, would wait for help that would never come. He felt like raising his head and howling.

But what would Jimmy say? ‘Quit yer blubbin’.’ He wiped his face. ‘Jimmy,’ he said, ‘I rode my luck.’ Now his luck was finished. What would the old man tell him to do next? ‘Use yer loaf.’ ‘What?’ ‘Use yer loaf – that thing on top of yer.’ It seemed as if Jimmy
was
there in the half-light, and Nick shook his head. He did not want to start hallucinating. But Jimmy’s advice was good – even if it made nonsense of his other advice. (Better anyway to melt his brain than wait for Slarda.) The only way out of this was by cunning. He turned it over, looking for a weakness in Slarda’s trap. It grew darker; but suddenly the sky was light. They had lit their fire. It made a yellow dome and he was just inside the rim of it. The night beyond turned a deeper blue. They would not see him well if he ran, but they would see, with their Guy Fawkes fire.

Nick stopped at that. Guy Fawkes! He saw a figure dressed in a holey cardigan, torn boots, with wool for hair, potato for a nose, burning in the flames of a monstrous fire; and slowly he grinned, and then he laughed – which hurt his mouth. He tasted blood again, and did not care. They would not leave him alone until he was dead. So – ‘use yer loaf – he would be dead.

He crept up the hollow, found the rotten branch, hauled it back. He took off his T shirt and rolled it on the branch and pulled it down. One of the sleeves fitted on a side stump. Now – what next? He crawled back up the hollow and found a clump of wiry grass growing in a crack. He dug it out with Steen’s knife, and took a lace from one of his sneakers and tied the grass on top of the branch. Hair, just the right length, and in the bad light colour would not matter. He found three chips of pale stone, and made holes in the rotten wood, and hammered in the stone with the handle of the knife. Eyes, mouth. He had a Guy: Nicholas Quinn. He hauled it to the edge of the cliff, patted it and left it lying there.

Keeping low, he scraped up an arsenal of stones. He moved along the hollow, throwing at the fire, letting Slarda and Greely glimpse him now and then. He could not throw accurately, bent double, but the important thing was to pretend he was desperate. Twice crossbow bolts hummed over his back. He threw more stones. Then he scuttled to the edge of the cliff, to his Guy. He lifted it and raised it on an angle – Nicholas Quinn peering out to see if he had scored any hits. He let it stay too long.

Thunk! Thunk! He felt the bolts jerk the Guy in his hands. Their sound was wet and murderous. At once he screamed. And cut it off. He pushed the Guy higher, leaned it over the drop, let it fall.

No sound came from over the gorge. Time passed – too much. Then, from far away, came the heavy splash of a body striking water.

Slarda gave a cry of satisfaction. Greely squealed, she sang high notes of pleasure, forgetting her priestly training in silence. The fire flared and crackled as more branches went on. They must be at the edge, Nick thought, trying to see the river and the body. But that was too far, they would not manage.

He crawled back from the drop and lay down carefully, making no sound. He did not know whether his hunters would sleep by their fire or leave at once – even search the river. It did not matter. He had no strength to care any more. All he wanted was sleep. The rock kept some warmth from the sun. He spread himself out and felt it seep into his body.

‘Jimmy, I did it,’ he whispered.

‘Good on yer, son. Yer a bloddy bottler.’

Nick went to sleep.

Nightmares: dogs with teeth like sharks, biting knee and elbow. They loped, they bounced like tennis balls, and their tongues were dripping like taps. He could not keep ahead. His legs had rusty joints, and the dogs fixed their teeth and ground on bone. Bone fingers squeezed his head, denting temples, squashing eyeballs. Light shone, flushed like water in the basin of his head. It ran into his mouth and burned it dry. Flashing head-lamps. Furnace roaring.