The Elves of Cintra

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BEAR STOOD IN THE SHADOWS fifty yards from the little shed in which Owl kept watch over River and Fixit. It was nearing midnight–or maybe midnight had already come and gone, he couldn't be sure. He had taken the first watch after dinner and carried the heavy Tyson Flechette out into the darkness, choosing this spot in which to hide, the shadows so thick and deep that no one approaching would see him until they were within a dozen feet. At least, that was what he hoped. If a predator had eyesight good enough to spy him out from any farther away, they were all in a lot of trouble.

But experience had taught him that even the most dangerous predators in this postapocalyptic world lacked good eyesight. Something about the quality of the air or the ingestion of poisons from food and drink had weakened the vision of living things in general.

There were exceptions. Hawk was one, Cheney another. But the eyesight of the monsters and the Freaks had not evolved in proportion to their appetites and their cunning and strength. Their hearing was keen, though. It didn't pay to move around a whole lot at night if one of them was hunting. Their sense of smell was pretty good, too, most times. If they were four–legged rather than two–legged predators.

He knew these things because he had made it his business to know. All the way back to before he was a Ghost, before he even knew where Seattle was or that he might one day end up there. He knew it from the time he was six and had to stand guard while the rest of his family toiled in the fields. In those days, it was believed that not all of the land had been poisoned and that some of it, particularly in distant corners of the United States, was still fertile enough to grow crops. That idea lasted about five years, and then it became clear that whether or not everything was contaminated was beside the point. There was no way to harvest what was grown and no sustainable market to purchase it. You could grow crops if you wanted, but you were likely to end up feeding the wrong mouths.

Bear learned it the first time the raiders appeared, took what they wanted of the crop, and burned the rest to the ground. He learned it when they took his two uncles, whom he never saw again. He learned it when they killed his dog.

He tried to tell his family that it was too risky even before the raiders appeared, but they were not much interested in hearing what he had to say. They never had been. Bear was big and slow and gave the impression of being a trifle stupid. He took his time answering ques–tions and seldom spoke unless spoken to first. He ambled when he walked, and he always seemed to be trying to figure out where he should go and what he should do. He was enormously strong, but his strength seemed to bother him. He walked carefully and responded tentatively. He thought everything through. He saw life in slow mo–tion. His brothers liked to joke that he could do anything, but by the time he got around to doing it, everyone would have gone to bed.

Bear didn't like being thought of as stupid. He didn't like being called names and made fun of Who does? But there wasn't much he could do about it that didn't involve crushing someone's ribs, so he learned to live with the abuse. His parents had too much else on their minds to spend time worrying about him, let alone trying to protect him. So he was pretty much left to deal with things as best he could.

He dealt with them by choosing jobs that kept him apart from the others. Standing watch. Running errands. Engaging in heavy lifting for which only he, of all his siblings and cousins, was suitable. His father worked with him, and his uncles sometimes, and they didn't make fun of him or call him names. Mostly. He wondered about that now and then, thinking back. It might be that they had, and he just didn't want to remember.

Bear was smart, beneath his slow–moving, slow–talking, slow–acting veneer, and he knew how to pay attention. While others got along as best they could in a world they hated and a family that valued work over everything, Bear spent his time absorbing and remembering. He learned, and he didn't forget.

Little things.

Big things.

Everything he could.

That's how he knew how best to keep watch against the predators. That's how he knew how to stay awake and not fall asleep in the slow, heavy hours of early morning when your most pressing need was to close your eyes. That's how he knew that no matter what Panther or Sparrow or the others thought–even Hawk–it was his job to protect them all.

He glanced over to where his family lay sleeping on the ground, Candle and Sparrow in sleeping bags, the boys rolled up in blankets. There was no fire, no warmth to be found other than from their own bodies. But the night air was mild, and there was only a little wind. Be–hind the sleeping forms, the shed in which Owl tended River and Fixit was still and black. On the dark ribbon of the highway, some hundred yards from where they were settled, nothing moved.

He shifted the weight of the Tyson Flechette from one thigh to the other with a slow, methodical movement. He glanced over to where the boy who had shot Squirrel lay curled up next to the north side of the shed, a small black puddle in the darkness. He didn't like the boy, and if Owl had allowed it, he would have agreed to give him to Panther for disposal. But Owl wanted the boy unharmed and had charged Bear with seeing that he was left alone. Bear took this charge, as he took all charges that either Owl or Hawk gave him, very seriously. He didn't have to like it. He just had to do what he knew was right.

Bear was a soldier; he understood orders and he responded to them. Not because he couldn't think, but because he believed in order. He believed in a place for everyone and everyone in their place. He didn't understand kids like Panther, who often did whatever they felt like. In a family, you survived by knowing your place and behaving in a consis–tent, orderly fashion.

You did what you were told to do. You did what was right.

When you reached a point where the two didn't agree, it was time to move on.

He had found that out the hard way.

HE IS ELEVEN when the stealing begins. It isn't anything important at first—a tool, a small sack of grain, a piece of children's clothing, that sort of thing One by one, they disappear, not all at once, but gradually. Bear thinks nothing of it, but his father and uncles take it seriously. Theft is an unpardonable offense in the world of his childhood. Too much has already been taken away to allow the taking of anything more. The older members of his family still remember the world as it was before everything was ru–ined or destroyed. There is bitterness and resentment at that loss, a rage at the inexplicable madness of it. Blame is easy to assess and difficult to fix. But the sense of deprivation is raw and festering, and theft is a reminder of how easily you can be dispossessed.

His father believes it is one of his children, perhaps going through a phase. He questions them all. Rigorously. His brother, perhaps frightened at the intensity of the accusation, points to Bear. For reasons that Bear will never be able to fathom, his father believes his brother. Bear is convicted without a trial. None of the missing items is found. No one steps forward to say that they have actually seen him stealing. But he is different than they are, aloof and circumspect, his motives not entirely clear, and that is enough. He is not punished, but he is consigned to a back corner of their lives and watched closely.

He accepts this, just as he accepts everything else–stoically, resignedly, with a quiet understanding of how it will always be for him. But he thinks, too, that he should solve this puzzle. He doesn't like being thought of as a thief Someone else is doing the stealing, and he will find out who it is. Per–haps that will convince the others their behavior toward him has been wrong.

He waits for the theft to happen again. It does, although not right away. This time, it is a weapon, a small automatic handgun. An antique, by all reckoning, a relic in an age in which lasers and flechettes and Sprays are the norm. But it is a theft nevertheless, and his father is quick to act on it. He searches Bear's space in the house first and questions him anew. Bear has been too visible, too much in the family eye, to commit these offenses, yet neither his father nor his siblings seem to notice. Even his mother, who still loves him as mothers will their disappointing children, does not stand up for him. It is as if their perception of his character has been determined and cannot be altered. Stung by this injustice, Bear feels the distance between himself and his family widen.

But three nights later, he catches the thief He has taken to patrolling the grounds and buildings at night, keeping watch in his slow, patient way, de–termined to prove to them that he is innocent. The thief is trying to steal a box of old tools when Bear comes on him unexpectedly and throws him to the ground. It is a boy, not much older but much smaller than Bear. The boy is dirty and ragged, a wild thing. He admits that he is the thief and that he stole to help his family, a small group of vagrants who have taken up resi–dence in an old farm not far away. He pleads with Bear not to give him up, but Bear has made his decision.

Bear takes the boy to his father. Here is the real thief he announces. He waits for his father to apologize. He cares nothing for the boy who stole from them beyond redeeming himself He has not given any thought to the boy's fate beyond that. It is his belief that the boy will be whipped and released. Bear is neither angry nor vengeful. He does not think that way.

His father does. Thieves are not to be tolerated. The boy begs and cries, but no one listens. Bear's father and his uncles take the boy out into the small stand of woods at one end of their property and do not bring him back. At first, Bear thinks they have released him with a warning. But small comments and looks tell him otherwise. They have killed the boy to provide an object lesson to his family and others of what happens to thieves.

Bear is stunned. He cannot believe his father has done this. The other members of his family support the decision–even his mother. It does not seem to matter to any of them that this was only a boy. When Bear tries to put his thinking into words, he is brushed aside. He does not understand the nature of their existence, he is told. He does not appreciate what is nec–essary if they are to survive. He finds them all alien and unfamiliar. They are his family, but they are strangers, too. He sees them now through differ–ent eyes, and he does not like it. If they can kill a small boy, what else are they capable of? He waits for understanding to come to him, but it does not.

Then, one night, without thinking about it, without knowing it is what he intends until he does it, he leaves. He packs a small sack of food, water, and tools, straps his knife and stun gun to his waist, and sets out. He walks west without knowing where he is going, intending to follow the sun until he reaches the coast. He has no idea what he is going toward, only what he is leaving behind. He has misgivings and doubts and fears, but mostly he feels sadness.

Still, he knows in his heart how things will end if he stays.

He is twelve years old when he crosses the mountains and enters Seat–tle for the first time.

BEAR CAUGHT SIGHT of movement out of the corner of his eye, a slight shifting in the shadows. It was almost directly behind him, all the way back by the shed in which Owl slept with River and Fixit. If he hadn't looked that way at just the right moment, he would have missed it entirely. He remained motionless, watching the darkness, waiting for the movement to reappear. When it did, it had spread from a single source to several, a clutch of shadows emerging from the darkness and taking on human form. But the movement was rough and jerky, slightly out of sync with that of humans.

Bear felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

Croaks.

He shifted the Tyson Flechette so that it was pointing toward the shadows, already thinking ahead to what he would have to do. The Croaks were weaving their way through the darkness, coming from the direction of the city, heading for the outbuildings and the sleeping Ghosts. He counted heads quickly, at the same time trying to make cer–tain of what he was seeing. But there was no mistake. There were more than a dozen of them, too many to be anything but a hunting party. He had no idea what had drawn them here or if they knew yet that his family was directly in their path. But the end result was inevitable. In seconds, they were going to stumble over the sleeping forms.

He released the safety on the flechette and brought up the short, blunt barrel, leveling it. But his family lay on the ground almost di–rectly between himself and the Croaks. He couldn't fire without risk–ing injury to them. The killing radius of the flechette was too wide and too uncertain. And, he added quickly, the distance was too far for the weapon to be accurate.

For the span of about five seconds, he froze, uncertain of what he should do.

Then he was on his feet and sprinting into the darkness, yelling back at the Croaks, intent on catching their attention and drawing them after him, away from his sleeping family. His ploy was successful. The

Croaks stiffened and swung about as they caught sight of him. In sec–onds, they were after him.

He could not tell if any of the Ghosts had been awakened or were aware of his dilemma. There wasn't time to stop and look; there wasn't time for anything but flight. Besides, it didn't matter. His first obligation was to act as their protector. His own safety was secondary and could not be considered.

For Bear, it had never been any other way.

He ran hard for a short distance, far enough so that he was safely away from his family. He was big and strong, but running for long dis–tances was out of the question. When he stopped and wheeled back, he was already breathing hard and his forehead was coated in sweat. He watched the Croaks lumber toward him, bigger and slower than he was, but a whole lot harder to kill. He blew the first two to pieces at fifty paces, turned and ran some more. A hundred yards farther on, he wheeled back and fired again. He brought down a third, but the second blast missed its intended mark. The sound of the weapon's discharge was earthshaking. One thing was for sure: everyone sleeping would be awake and warned by now.

He fired once more, catching another of the Croaks in the legs. He watched it tumble to the ground, disrupting the pursuit of the rest. There were more of them than he had thought at first, and they were not giving up the chase. He turned and began to run again, but he was tiring quickly now. He gained another fifty yards, coming up on the highway, a dark ribbon stretching away into the dark, its blacktopped surface glistening with a dust–covered slick.

Behind him, he could hear the growls of the Croaks. They were still coming.

He turned and fired again, killing another, and the flechette jammed. He hesitated, then braced himself as the remaining Croaks closed on him. It would end here. Not what he would have wished for, but for a good cause in any case. His blunt features tightened, and the muscles of his big shoulders bunched. Even though the barrel of the weapon was hot, he gripped it with both hands, holding it like a club. The Croaks growled and slobbered, spittle running from their ruined mouths, eyes mad and shifting in response to the disease eating them. They were cov–ered with lesions and jagged scars, and the sounds they made were the sounds of wild animals. Bear had never faced this many alone.

Claws reached for him, blackened and sharp. He swung the flechette as hard as he could, and the closest attackers collapsed like rag dolls into the others. But the claws ripped his clothing and flesh, leav–ing ragged wounds that burned.

Bear backed away, taking a fresh stance.

And then the night exploded in streaks of red fire, and Panther and Sparrow surged out of the darkness, screaming like banshees and firing their Parkhan Sprays in steady bursts. The Croaks broke and fled before this fresh assault, less than a handful left as they disappeared into the night.

THE MIX OF GROWLS and yells brought Owl awake inside the shed. She was dozing, staying close to River and Fixit so that she could use cold compresses to help keep their fevers down. She was lying on the floor, close beside them, her wheelchair several feet away. At first, she just stared in the direction of the door, waiting to see if something more would happen. Then she heard the booming discharge of Bear's weapon and was hauling herself upright and into her wheelchair when Chalk burst through the door, eyes wide and frightened in his pale round face.

"Croaks?" he shouted in what appeared to be a failed attempt at a whisper. "Bear drew them off, and Panther and Sparrow went after him. What should we do?"

She rolled herself over to the door and peered into the night. The sounds of the battle were evident in the continued discharge of the flechette and the growls and cries that followed. But she couldn't see anything.

"Where's Candle?" She looked over her shoulder at Chalk, who mouthed wordlessly and shook his head. "Take me outside?" she snapped.

The boy did so, pushing her clear of the entry and into the darkness beyond. She stared off in the direction of the battle, and then looked around for the little girl. No sign of her. She felt her stomach tighten with fear. "Go find her! Don't come back without her?"

Chalk disappeared at a run, and Owl wheeled herself over to the discarded blankets and pallets where the others had been sleeping, call–ing out as she went for Candle. There was no response. She picked up one of the prods that the others had dropped in the excitement, laying it across the arms of her wheelchair.

Then she remembered the boy with the ruined face.

She rolled her wheelchair around to the side of the shed where Logan had left him chained to an iron ring. The chains lay in a heap, still attached to the ring, but the boy was gone. Somehow during the night he had managed to free himself and had fled.

Had he forced Candle to go with him?

Chalk charged back into view, gasping for breath. "I looked every–where? I can't find her? I can't find any sign of her?"

There was no reason for the boy to take the little girl with him when he fled, nothing to be gained from taking her.

Yet Owl was convinced that he had.