Another click of the trigger in my head. Say agin? I says.
I’m gonna kill him, says Jack. The sooner the better.
No, no, the bit before, I says. The Pathfinder with his miraculous visions.
Visions at sunrise. I seen ’em myself. Another secret I hold close in my heart. DeMalo led me there by the hand. To the bunker in the hill, to the room with white walls. Where he shared his miraculous vision. A vision of the earth before the Wreckers destroyed her. Sights wondrous beyond all imagination. Unfergettable as long as I live.
I says, You seen ’em, right? The visions, I mean. Don’t all Stewards an Tonton go there, as part of, y’know, what’s it called—
—initiation, sure, says Jack. I was set to go, but I got killed before I could. It all happens at this hill, at dawn. Hard by a place called Weepin Water. Nobody’s allowed to talk about what they see an nobody ever does but—I tell you—afterwards, they all look at DeMalo like he’s the sun itself. It must be somethin pretty amazin.
He is the lodestone, yer right, I says. An if there’s any heart to New Eden, that hill is it. We gotta go there, Jack. Right now.
Right now? he says. No way. Look at you, yer completely wired. No wonder with all that happened today, an you cain’t tell me you got any shut-eye last night in that cave.
Sleep’s a waste of time, I says.
Don’t be stupid, he says.
All right, tomorrow. Weepin Water. I’ll meet you at that hill jest after middle night. Bring torches. We’re gonna git inside there somehow.
To do what? he says.
You said it yerself, information is power. We’ll find out what there is to know about that place. It ain’t figgered in our thinkin before. It should of.
Fair enough, he says.
An don’t you do nuthin till then, I says. Not a thing. None of yer sneakin around, no dressin like the enemy. Promise me.
He smiles. Cross my heart an hope to die, he says.
His eyes gleam silver intent. As I start to git up, he grabs my hand, gives it a tug an I fall to him, deep in the fir boughs. How could I ever mistake him fer DeMalo? His scent is so surely of none but him. Warm skin an, faintly, warm sage. Like a whisper of wider lands. His end of day beard shades his face. I smooth its rasp with gentle fingers.
See? he says. We can be calm. Quiet.
I gotta go, I says.
You remember earlier? he says. When them flathead pigs was about to trample you an I swung down like a he-man to save yer life …
In yer dreams, I says.
… at great peril to my own, he says. I’d jest like to point out that’s the third time I’ve saved you from certain death. You see, there’s this thing—I dunno if you remember—it’s called the Rule of Three … have I mentioned it before?
Once or twice, I says. I linger down his nose. Slightly crooked. Completely gorgeous. I’m glad I didn’t punch yer nose, I says. I like it.
Don’t distract me, he says. How it works is, you save somebody’s life three times—
—their life belongs to you. I know, Jack.
All I’m sayin is, the pigs made it three to me. I win.
Yer pathetic, I says. Desperate. I trail around his lips, so smooth an warm. Them pigs warn’t nowhere near me, I says. We’re still two all.
He gathers me in. Desperate, huh? he says. I’ll show you desperate. Our fingers twine, our legs tangle an his lips ramble roses all over me. Till I shiver an tremble with want fer him. Who’s kissin you? he says. Who’s touchin you?
You are, I says.
Say my name, he says.
Jack, I whisper. Jack. Jack.
Now kiss me, he says.
I kiss his name to his lips. His smooth, wine-sweet lips. I should go, I says.
You better go, he says.
Our kisses grow hungry. Our bodies heat.
There’s a bark from below. It’s Tracker. I break away with a gasp an peer through the branches at the sky. Jupiter hangs low in the east. The night’s half spent already. I need to git back, I says. I push him off, sit up an start puttin my clothes to rights. He’s made a heroic effort to undress me. You work fast, I says.
Yer a movin target, I hafta. Here, he says, lemme help.
I button, he unbuttons. I tuck, he untucks. I slap his hand. I’ll do it myself, I says.
As I jump to my feet an do the job proper, he leans back on his elbows. I never do know what to espect when I’m with you, he says. But even so, I gotta say tonight’s bin particularly unpredictable.
We live in unpredictable times, I says. Tomorrow night. Weepin Water. Don’t be late.
I take hold of the rubber rope an whistle at Tracker to warn him. Then I leap from the platform. I let go as the ground speeds at me. I fall an land in a crouch. Tracker dives outta the way, startled. I scoop the spilled arrows, fill my quiver an shoulder my bow.
Take a different route back to camp, says Jack. An watch yer back.
I glance up. He’s lookin down at me through the curtain of moss an branches.
How many nights to the blood moon? I says.
Countin tonight? He looks at the moon. I’d say … seven. Why?
I was hopin he’d say different. I was hopin Slim was wrong. Seven nights an our fates will be decided. It’s all in my hands. It’s all down to me. Tomorrow night, I says. Don’t be late.
As I pass the bushes trampled by the pigs, I remember the mosstails from earlier. The panicky way they crashed from the woods across our path. Jack’s words echo in me.
Somethin startled ’em. Use yer head.
If there was somebody followin us, Tracker would of found them. He’d of let me know. He’d of warned me.
Nero don’t show.
As Tracker an me run through the woods, on a roundabout route back to camp, I look fer him. Seek fer him. Hope fer a sight of him. In the trees, in the sky, aginst the moon.
He should of come with Tracker to Irontree. It’s strange he didn’t. He loves Jack with true devotion. An he knew we was headed to meet him. Jack’s the only one we ever run to in the middle of the night.
I stop to take breath atop a bare escarpment. From here, I can see fer leagues all around. It’s a restless ocean of treetops. Frosted by the sharpness of the moon, they murmur of winter to come.
There’s millions upon millions of stars in the sky. Night after night, they rush their brightness to the earth.
But Nero’s shinin dark ain’t nowhere to be seen.
I cain’t really say this time’s that much different from all the many times before that he’s disappeared fer hours. More’n once, he’s bin gone fer a couple of days. Nero’s always had his own life, apart from me. A winged life of secrets an ancient crow ways, that calls him to do what he must. Still, this time, his absence gnaws at me. I’m jittered with unease. Why, I couldn’t say.
I lay a hand on Tracker’s head. Where is he? I ask him. Where’s Nero?
He tips back his head an howls. A full-throated wail to the heart of the night. Three times he calls to his friend.
As the sound dies away, we wait. An we wait.
But there ain’t no answer.
So on we go.
As we near Painted Rock an our feet start to slow, I signal our approach to the watch. Slim’s creaky rustheap of a voice replies. You cain’t ever mistake his birdcalls.
Tracker bounds on ahead, outta my view. Suddenly, the most unholy noise cracks the night. A shocked yelp that shatters to a high-pitched yammer. I run in fear towards the sound.