Текст книги "Ice Country"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Nine

Life marches on.

Bad shiv happens, people cry—not me, but some people—and then everyone forgets about it, keeps on keeping on as if nothing bad happened in the first place.

Wes lost his job after three weeks of not showing up. I’ve gained more respect for him than ever before, because he put Joles before his job, before Mother, before everything. Not that it helped.

Buff’s been great too, spending all his days off with me, scouring the town, peeking in windows, asking people itchy questions, like “Where were you on the night…” and “Have you seen a little girl…” We even romped through the Red District one night, sneaking down alleys that aren’t safe even during the day, picking fights with guys we had no business picking fights with. The two black eyes would’ve been worth it if we’d found out anything at all about where Jolie might’ve been taken, and by whom. But nobody knew an icin’ thing, or if they did, they weren’t talking, other than with their fists.

Abe told Buff I have to go back to work tonight or he’ll stop paying me, by order of the king, which I think is a bunch of bearshiv, because the king don’t know me from a three-legged goat. I could be dead in a cold grave and King Goff would go on nibbling on his fire country delicacies as if nothing had changed.

But I’m going back to work anyway, not because Abe says I have to, but because I need a distraction, and our family needs a bit of that meaningless silver, so we can keep eating.

Buff’s pretty much kept me up to date on the job, what he’s seen, what he’s done. It hasn’t been that much different than the first day. He and the others slide down the snowy part of the mountain, hike through the unsnowy bits, and then either deliver trade items—like bear meat and furs—or pick up fire country goods. Then they climb back to the top. Easy breezy.

Just like life, Buff and I march on, too, out of the Brown District, through the Blue District, and around the White District, even though that’s the long way. I’m in no mood to see any witches today.

As high and formidable as they are, the greystone palace walls do little to hide the grandeur of the king’s royal castle. Surrounded by the turreted wall, the heavy stone blocks of the castle rise up in five different places. Four thin towers that nearly reach the clouds can be seen from almost anywhere in ice country. And the fifth tower, in the center of the four thin ones, is the marvel of the Icers, rising higher than the others, splitting the clouds in half. It is said that from the uppermost lofts of that tower, the king can see direct sunlight, no different than in fire country.

With the teeth-chattering cold of night already fallen, we’re stuck waiting on the outside, as winter whips the snow-filled air around us. Neither of us have the faintest clue as to why we have to do this job at night, but it doesn’t really matter because we’ll do it either way. It’s too cold to talk, so we pull our slider masks over our heads.

It’s the clearest night we’ve had all winter, and the dim light of a few stars pokes through the intermittent cloud cover. The brighter light of the moon glows overhead, casting a surreal sheen on everything. If we have to work at night, tonight’s as good a night as any.

When the palace gates open and Abe ambles out from inside, everything I thought about him changes in an instant. He was actually…inside? Maybe he does get his orders directly from the king. Maybe he does have as much power as he says he does.

He seems to recognize how impressed I am. Icin’ eyes. Always giving my thoughts away for free. “Welcome back,” he says, directly to me. “I just had a chat with Goff”—he says the king’s name casually, like they’re old friends—“and we got special cargo arrivin’ in a few days, so we hafta deliver some extra goods today.” He’s speaking words I understand, but when you put them all together like he does, they make no sense. Questions pop up in my mind, but I swallow them away, because questions are against the rules.

Nebo arrives next, looking as skittish as a pup that’s lost its mother. I try to greet him, but his eyes never leave the ground, darting around like he’s trying to locate his lost marbles.

Brock and Hightower arrive last and together, which makes me wonder whether they’re friends, whether they talk at all. Well, not talk talk, but something like conversation, with Brock saying something and Tower grunting a response, maybe adding an extra grunt that Brock can then respond to.

They nod a greeting, which we return, but no one says anything about my sister, for which I’m glad. I haven’t given up on her, not by a longshot, but that don’t mean I want to talk about her all day and night.

“New guy,” Abe says, and both Buff and I look at him. He laughs, not in a nice way, but like he enjoys making us look foolish. “You,” he says, pointing at me. “Daisy.”

Something in me snaps. Or maybe was already snapped from the night Joles was taken from me. Whatever the case, I can’t control my fists, which start swinging at Abe like I’m taking on a whole gang of Red District rowdies. The first punch is a gut shot and bends him at the waist—the second takes his head off. He spins from the impact, torqueing around in an awkward, twisting way, and then goes down in a heap.

Brock’s on me like a beggar on a bear steak, while Hightower holds Buff away from the fray. “You didn’t just do that,” Brock says, half-laughing, like he’s been hoping I’d do something crazy. “Nice punch,” he adds, which surprises me. What’s the plan? Compliment me to death?

I grit my teeth and wait for him to pull a knife. He doesn’t.

Although I hit Abe with everything I had and my hand is stinging, he’s pulling himself to his feet, massaging his jaw, one eye closed and the other one all bugged out and angry as chill.

“I’ll leave,” I say. “I’ll find another way to pay the Hole back.” Even as I say it I wish there was another way, wish I could take back those two punches thrown only out of frustration and anger and sorrow about my sister. Not because Abe called me Daisy, a stupid lowbrow insult. That was just removing the lid covering what’s been boiling up in me for days.

Abe laughs again and it sounds slightly maniacal. Okay, a lot maniacal, which I suspect is the only way a laugh can sound when it comes right after taking a haymaker uppercut to the jaw.

“That’s not the way things work around here,” he laughs. He cracks his jaw, sighing, like it was out of place and is now as good as new. “You’ll take your punishment and then we’ll get on with the job. Other than that, your only other option is a shallow grave.”

I’ll pass, thanks. “Whatever,” I say, secretly thankful for whatever’s coming. Whatever it is, it’ll be better than losing the best—and only—job I’ve ever had.

Brock moves forward, his arms out like I might bite him. “I gotta ’old you,” he explains. I don’t want crazy-eyes holding me, but I don’t have much of a choice, do I? So I relax and let him pull my arms behind my back, clamping them tight so I can’t defend myself.

“Now wait just one minute,” Buff says, struggling against Tower’s iron grip.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I earned this one.”

Abe saunters up, cracking his knuckles, impressing me further at how well he took my best punch. He’s not a big guy, but not small either, and clearly there’s a toughness in him that’s beyond flesh and bone.

I lick my lips, waiting for the first blow to come.

When it does it’s like a wooden plank to the gut, taking every last bit of breath out of me. But that’s not the end of it. Oh nay, not by a mile. While I wheeze and try to get my breath back, Abe lays into me like an avalanche, pummeling my stomach, chest, and finally my face. No stranger to a good beating, I take every punch with dignity, never crying out, but wishing that each shot will be the last. There’s blood running down my lips and I can feel things swelling all over, but still he continues the barrage.

The only strange thing about it all: Abe seems to start taking a little bit off his punches near the end. It’s not like him—at least not like I’d expect. I’d expect him to beat on me full force from start to finish.

When he’s finally done, I’m hanging limp from Brock’s hold, all fight sapped out of me. Through watery, puffy eyes, I can see Buff’s red face, his taut muscles, the last remnants of his fight to break free from Hightower to help me. In a weird way, I’m glad he didn’t. I got what I deserved, and now I can hold my head high again.

I spit out a clump of blood. This morning I had black eyes; tomorrow I’ll have black eyes on black eyes on swollen lips.

The price of a temper.

“We’re even,” Abe says, not looking at me, as if he might be trying to convince himself. He glances at the castle guards, who are laughing and watching. “You’ll take a regular load plus the extra cargo.”

~~~

With the moonlight guiding us, we make it down the mountain in record time. Or at least most of us do. Nebo’s five or six minutes back, trying not to kill himself on one of the many dark, protruding boulders that we zigzag around.

Although Abe’s beating left me hurting every place from the waist up, the exercise feels good, and the cold’s left me numb. I’ll pay for it tomorrow, but tonight I’m okay. Even the hefty load I’m carrying didn’t bother me too much. I’ve got three bear skins, four sizeable jugs of melted snow water that are starting to freeze, and the “extra cargo”, which basically looks like some big bags of some kind of herb. I want to ask about it, but at this point a question might get me killed.

My muscles start locking up during the hike to the border, but I bite back my grunts and soldier on, determined to bear it like a man. I don’t know why, but I want Abe’s respect now more than ever.

As the cloudbanks roll away overhead, the brilliant night sky looms above, full of more stars than I even knew existed. It’s like the whole sky is stars. And the moon is a pale globe, bigger than I’ve ever seen it, fuller than full. An owl hoots softly somewhere in the forest, as if asking us our names.

We don’t offer them.

The sound of axes tearing into wood clucks through the forest. There are jackers working this late? I wonder to myself. And this far down the mountain—all the way at the border? It doesn’t make sense. There are trees aplenny around the Districts, and more are constantly being planted. We could never harvest them all. Then who?

Abe sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles. The chopping stops and his whistle is returned. Clearly someone’s expecting us.

We trod on, breaking out from the trees and stepping onto the hard-packed dirt that runs right up to the trees. Further on into the flatlands the landscape is powdery, what the Heaters call sand. I wonder what it’d feel like to walk on it, but I know now’s not the time to find out. We have a job to do.

Out of the tangle of the forest, we walk faster, skirting the edge of our two countries. Ahead of us a group of Heaters emerge from the shadows, lugging axes and picks and shovels. The choppers. Not Icer lumberjacks after all, which makes more sense. But are the Heaters allowed to harvest ice country trees?

Abe doesn’t seem bothered at all, just strides right up, dumps his cargo on the ground in front of them. “It’s all here,” he says. “Extra cargo, too, this time.”

The rest of us catch up and unload everything we’re carrying, save for our sliders. I straighten up, feeling instant relief in my back and bones, hoping there’s no pick up tonight. Hiking back up the mountain will be hard enough without tugmeat strapped to our backs.

With coppery eyes and more black hair than a Yag, a short, barrel-chested man steps forward, hand extended as if ceremonially accepting the trade items. “Thank ye,” he says, his voice scratchier than a gnarled thicket. “Load up, you tugs!” he bellows.

The Heaters behind him move forward and grab the packs and sling them over their backs, staggering under the weight. These men don’t look like the two muscly border guards I saw before. They’re tanned and lean, yah, but their leanness is over the border to skinny. The rags they wear around their midsections are tattered and dirty, like they’ve been wearing them for weeks, maybe months. Scars crisscross their backs, arms, and chests in a pattern that matches the leather, multi-tasseled whip hanging from the bushy-bearded spokesman’s belt.

To me, they look like prisoners.

Chapter Ten

We transfer goods to the fire country prisoners three more times that winter, always at night, always to different locations. The day trips are pretty stock standard, trading ice country goods for fire country goods, but the night trips always include the strange bags of mystery herbs.

“Do you think those herbs are some kind of drug?” I ask Buff as we walk through the Blue District. We’ve given up on the Red District. If someone took my sister there, she’s well hidden, because we’ve scoped out every last shivhole in that shivvy District.

“Can’t be,” Buff says. We’ve talked about the herbs a dozen times, but always end up chasing ourselves in a circle. “The only drug I’ve ever heard of is ice powder. If there was some herb floating around, we’d know about it.”

“Maybe it’s the king’s secret stash,” I say.

“It’s possible,” Buff says. “You mean, kind of like a leader to leader exchange thing.”

“Yah, with the fire country guy—what’s his name?—uh, Roan.” It’s the only explanation I can come up with. Other than that, the herb is just an herb, and why would it require all the night work, secrecy, and smuggling in by Heater prisoners?

I know I shouldn’t care about the herbs, or the trade with the Heaters, or anything other than getting Jolie back, but my theories are the only thing keeping me sane. Every day that passes without seeing Jolie is like a bruise on my soul, an ache in places that are impossible to reach and that don’t heal, not with time, not with talk, not with sleep.

The lawkeeper stopped the search weeks ago, chalking it up to a mysterious disappearance, despite the fact that Clint, Looza and I all saw someone take her. But I won’t stop searching, not now, not ever.

Now with winter waning and the throes of a frosty spring upon us, I know that if I don’t figure out what happened to Jolie soon, it might be too late. It might already be too late. Shut up! I tell myself. If I think like that, I might as well curl up in a thick patch of snow and let the Cold take me.

Speaking of the Cold, incidents of the disease have been on the rise as of late. Some say it’s because the winter was one of the coldest yet, and others believe the Heart of the Mountain is angry with us for all of the evils that take place in the Red District. Me, I don’t care either way. If the Cold will come, it’ll come. Who am I to question the why or the how?

I pause in front of an arched doorway. The Blue District isn’t nearly as well off as the White District, but it beats the chill out of the Brown. The streets are clean and free of beggars, the houses are solid and well-maintained, and the people are smart enough to slam their doors in our faces as soon as they realize we’re not from around these parts. I’m not saying I like it, but there are plenny of bad folk who might try to take advantage of them, so they’re right to be cautious.

Another door to knock, this one painted bright green under its white archway. Recently touched up by the look of it. Smooth and bright. I rap on the door with my knuckles as Buff rubs his gloved hands together beside me, trying to generate some heat.

Someone hollers from behind the door, but I can’t make it out. Unusual for this District. Usually the people are quiet and timid. The boisterousness of the cry reminds me of a good old Brown District welcome.

The door opens.

Nebo stands before us, bald and short and altogether the most unintimidating person you could ever meet. His mouth forms an O and he sucks in a gasping “Uhhh!” and then tries to slam the door.

I swing my foot out and wedge it between the door and the jamb. The heavy wood crunches my toes, but I’m already moving forward, lowering my shoulder, barging my way inside. Nebo’s thrown backwards and into the house as the door rebounds off the wall with a solid thud.

He tries to scramble away from us on his arse, but runs right into a table leg, his eyes full of terror.

“Whoa there, Neebs. We’re not going to hurt you,” I say, feeling somewhat bad about the jittery man’s response to our forced arrival.

“Like—like—chill you’re not,” he says. What is this man so afraid of?

“Nay, really, Neebs. We didn’t even know you lived here. We were knocking on every door on this street,” Buff says.

Neebs is shaking his head, his eyes closed. “Go—go away.”

“We just want to ask you a few questions,” I say. Although I’m pretty sure the nervous little man can’t help us with Jolie, clearly he’s scared of something and I want to know what. Plus, he’s been working for Abe/King Goff much longer than us, so he might know more about the mystery herb.

“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay,” Neebs drones on.

“It’ll only take a minute,” Buff adds.

“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay.”

Ten “nays” and we haven’t even asked a question yet. Nebo’s as still as a statue, still on the floor, back against the table leg. He looks sort of like a child throwing a tantrum, his eyes all squinted shut, his mouth crunched in an overdone scowl.

I kneel in front of him and he twitches, like he can sense how close I am. “First question,” I say, as soothingly as I can. To my ears my voice sounds like grated rocks.

“No questions,” Neebs says.

I ignore him, say, “Why don’t you want to work for the king anymore?”

“Rule one: no questions,” Neebs says.

“We’re not on the job,” I say, “and you’re not Abe, so I’ll ask you any freezin’ thing I want to.” It comes out a little harsher than I’d planned, but I’m getting frustrated. I repeat the question.

“Bad man,” Neebs says.

“Abe’s a bad man?” Buff asks, sliding in beside me.

“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay,” Neebo hisses. His eyes are still closed and his mannerisms are so jerky I wonder if he’s got more wrong with him than just silver problems. “The king.” He clamps a hand over his mouth as if he just swore at his mother.

“The king is bad?”

“Not saying any more,” he says, pouting out a lip like a child.

“What are those herbs?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Drugs?”

He shakes his head but I don’t think it’s an answer.

“Tea leaves?”

Another shake of the head.

“Spices?”

His eyes flash open and I’m surprised to find them clear and blue. “Not spices,” he says.

It’s like my mind is trying to climb a sheer rock face, and its fingers are scrabbling for something to grab on to, but they keep coming up empty, keep sliding down it, getting torn by the stone, slipping farther and farther toward a fall that will eventually kill it. Nothing makes any sense. That’s usually when everything makes sense. It hits me.

“Is it some kind of medicine, like the concoctions the healers use?”

The look on his face tells me I’ve hit on something that’s close to the truth. “Abe made me promise not to talk about all that,” he says.

“All what?” Buff says with a growl, but I warn him off with my eyes. I don’t want to scare him back into his shell.

“Nope,” Neebo says, crossing his arms.

“What kind of medicine?” I ask. I soften my voice. “Please—it’s important.”

He bites his lip, as if he has to keep it from telling me everything.

“Please,” I say again.

“Uh-uh.”

“What’s the special cargo we’ll be picking up soon?” I ask.

His eyes close and he goes back to shaking his head.

“Do you know what happened to my sister?” I ask.

He stops shaking, but doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t give an answer. Just sits there.

We leave, knowing more than we did when we arrived, and yet knowing nothing.

~~~

It’s quiet on the home front. Mother’s passed out on the floor in front of a dwindling fire, a blanket draped over her, clearly placed there by Wes, who’s sitting in a wooden chair just watching the last few flames dissolve into hot embers.

He doesn’t acknowledge my arrival. Not even when I slam the door much harder than is necessary. I hate going home these days.

“I knocked about a hundred doors in the Blue District,” I announce. Wes flinches, as if I’ve pulled him out of a daze, but doesn’t turn or say anything. “No one was really in the talking mood.”

Wes just stares at the fire. He’s beginning to scare me. He’s always been the strong, responsible one—the replacement for my father. Mother could never cope, could never be the one to provide for us, but Wes was stalwart, unflappable. “Get on with what has to be done,” he would always say, mimicking one of my father’s favorite expressions and sounding a chill of a lot like him. But now, ever since Jolie…

Well, he’s still out of work. And it’s not like he’s just been sitting at home staring at the fire. He’s tried to find a job, but things are tight right now, and nothing’s available. Nothing respectable anyway. Luckily I’m making enough to support us—barely. I think that’s what hurts him the most, feeling like he’s relying on someone else, like he can’t stand on his own two feet.

I hate seeing him like this.

“You should get some sleep,” I say. Wes nods. “Are you gonna be okay?” He nods again. “Goodnight.”

My mother shifts in her sleep, murmurs, “Your hair is all a mess, Joles, let me braid it for you.”

Wes’s shoulders shake as he cries.

I go to bed, crying on the inside.