The blood moon’s comin at us quick.
I ride through the gate of Starlight Lanes as the first shades of dawn light the eastern sky. Slim’s on watch in his slingchair. Though that heroic item is completely lost in his bulkitude of flesh an blue frock. As he struggles to his feet, it comes with him, attached to his backside. Lugh says one time it’ll disappear up Slim’s rear exhaust an bagsy he ain’t gonna be the one goes after it.
Damn thing, he says. I swear it’s shrinkin. He wriggles loose with grunts an curses. That knave, Bobby French, he’s went an sold me a pup agin. A man pops wind when you handshake the deal, that tells you he’s nervous. I should of asked myself why. How’d the politeness offensive go?
He ambles over to hold Hermes’ head while I swing myself down. As my boots hit the ground I stumble. More tired than I know. Dumbed by it all.
Whoa there! Slim catches my arm. Where’s Miz Mercy got to?
I says, She stayed to help a Steward couple settle in with their baby.
His whiskery face cracks a wide grin. Hark at you, so casual! He grabs me in a one-armed hug. So, you bin baby stealin! Ha ha! He cackles with delight.
Finders keepers, I says. Somebody threw it out.
Ain’t you the cool one, he says. An don’t the bunny always come through? He waggles the manky old rabbit’s foot at me. That’ll teach you to mock, he says. I bin rubbin this old fella bare to send you luck. I wanna hear it all, soup to nuts, but later’ll do. Go bag some zees. You earned yer beauty sleep tonight. He bows his head, with a fancy swirl of his hand. I shall attend to yer mount, oh great one, though I be but a mere humble vessel. Okay if I tell everybody mission accomplished?
When they wake, I says, that’ll be soon enough. I need to see Ash, though, right away. Would you tell her I’ll be in the grove? I head towards the forest garden an washpond. Oh! I talk to him as I walk backwards. Anythin to report?
Jest a heads up, he says. Creed’s pressin me hard to show him the weapons dump at Nass Camp. He wants to know ezzackly how much firepower we got. That boy’s brewin trouble. Best give him somethin dangerous to do right away.
Thanks, I’ll think of somethin, I says.
You done good tonight, Angel, he says. Keep on provin me wrong. Who knows? I might even find I like bein a peacenik.
We smile at each other. I wobble as my heel hits a rock.
Oi! Look where yer goin, he says. With a salute, he trundles off with Hermes.
I duck inside the shed where I left my gear. I grab my bow an head fer the grove.
I zing the shots. Fast as I can. No time to think. Snatch, nock, pull, let fly. I scatter the target. Arrow by arrow. I’m tired. Off centre. Wobbly.
Lugh put up this big moss bullseye fer Emmi to practise. Tucked it outta sight in Peg’s nuttery, hopin to spare her from all the Dutch uncles. But everybody swarmed on it, anxious to keep target trim. An any time Em twitched a finger she’d git don’t-do-that-do-this, no, don’t-do-this-do-that till she quit the grove in protest. Now she shoots at wormy apples in peace.
Oh, the relief of my bow in my hands. The rightness of my whiteoak bow. It cleaves to me like my own flesh. The gift of a dead man, Namid the Star Dancer. Warrior an shaman. Auriel’s grandsire who lives in my dreams.
Arrow by arrow, I steady. Shot by shot, I move closer to the heart. I pull my self in. Shoot my self back to true. My hands, my eye, my body, my mind. Then, I’m on it. Hittin it. Time after time.
An everythin but the centre falls away. An it’s simple. Perfect. No quarrel, no quibble, no trade-offs. No coldness in Jack. No lie upon lie that might betray me.
Hands start clappin. Behind me. I jerk at the sound an my arrow flies wide.
It’s Ash. She stands there, clappin me, knee deep in a thick mornin ground mist. There’s a smile on her lips, in her eyes. She’s tall an solid an steady an familiar an I’m suddenly exhausted. Jest like that. My bow goes limp in my hands. She comes up an hugs me. Tightly. Strongly. I lean aginst her. My throat tightens. Weak tears threaten salt trails. She steps back to give me a good lookin over.
The Angel has triumphed, she says. First time I ever bin woke by them words. Well. I’m proud of you. An so would Maev be. She told me to hang in with you, you know that? Mark my words, Ash. If anybody’s gonna carve a new path, it’ll be that one. If yer smart, you’ll stick with her. That’s what she said. She was right.
She thumbs my eyes dry with clumsy tenderness.
It worked, I says. I think this could really work. Was it hard, though, Ash. Much harder’n fightin. I had no idea.
You sent fer me, she says. I’m here an I’m ready. What’s the job?
I didn’t notice before. She’s dressed fer the road. She’s brought her pack.
I says, I need you to ride faster’n you ever rode before. I need you to—
Saba! Saba! Come quick! Emmi flies towards us, flappin in high excitement. It’s Lugh an Creed! They’re gonna kill each other! Hurry!
With a clatter of curses, Ash pelts off. An I’m right behind her.
It’s a dustup at dawn. A two-dog fight in the junkyard. We hear the rumpus well before we reach them. Everybody yellin, Tracker barkin, Moses bellowin. They’re brawlin on a junkpile. Strugglin an tusslin. Throwin punches that mainly miss. Creed’s split Lugh’s lip. Lugh’s blooded Creed’s nose.
Make ’em stop! cries Emmi. Lugh! Look out!
Creed’s grabbed him by the waist an hauls him down. Metal an iron. Slabs an sheets. Beams an girders. Edges to cut. Blocks to break bones. Stupidity times a million.
Gawdamnn eejits! Ash yells. Git offa that pile!
Slim’s in there shoutin at ’em an Tommo’s tryin to grab a arm or leg to separate ’em, but it’s too wild fer their safety an they beat a retreat.
What the hell’s goin on? What set ’em off? I says.
Who knows? Slim mops his head with a kercheef. I’m in the stables, next thing I know, it’s a brouhaha. Damn, I’m too old fer this.
I was asleep, says Tommo.
Creed’s the more wily fighter, the victor of many a scrap. I know fer a fact this is Lugh’s first punch-up. But he’s taller an heavier an he ain’t a bad wrestler. He’s also wearin boots. Barefoot, on a heap of metal, Creed’s on a hidin to nuthin. He must know it, but he’s fightin like he means to win. They’re breathin hard. Hot-eyed with fury.
Molly’s yellin, Creed! I ain’t gonna stitch you agin! Stop it! Lugh! Dammit, you two, stop this right now! Her colour’s hectic. Her mushroom pail stands beside her. Another early mornin walk in the woods, it seems.
Any time now, there’s gonna be blood, says Slim. One of ’em’ll crack their head wide open. You better wade in there an break it up, Angel.
I’m already pilin in fast, shoutin, All right, that’s it! That’s enough.
Tommo an Ash help an between the three of us, we somehow haul ’em off the junkpile. Worked up past thought, Creed rushes me. I sidestep, hook his foot an he’s down. He slams on his front an lays there, winded.
I says, Right, who started this? Lugh?
No reply. He won’t look at me. Won’t look at nobody. He wipes his bloody mouth with his sleeve, his breath comin harsh, his chest heavin. He’s a fought-to-a-standoff mess. Shirt ripped. Britches torn. Scraped, bruised an drippin with sweat.