The Gypsy Morph

TWENTY-FOUR

A NOTHER SWELTERING DAY, air thick with heat and steamy dampness, sky brilliant blue beneath a sun that burned white hot and implacable.

Angel Perez plodded ahead, her boots kicking up puffs of dust as she walked flats that stretched away for miles in all directions. Grasses were few and burned crisp and sapped of color, and what trees survived were withered scarecrows, their leaves in tatters. The Cascades were behind them and fading fast into the distant haze. If there were mountains ahead, they were not yet visible to the naked eye. Bluffs crested the horizon north, long stretches so distant they lacked clear definition.

No water was visible anywhere, and in the heat of the midday it felt as if there never would be.

The caravan stretched away for the better part of a mile, a collection of trucks and AVs, wagons and haulers, and people afoot. Supplies and equipment were loaded on the wagons and haulers along with the smaller children and the injured and sick. The AVs carried others, a select few who needed special attention or to whom had been assigned special tasks that required extra mobility: scouts, medics, machinists, and the like. One of the AVs just behind her, Logan Tom’s Lightning S-150, carried Owl, River, Tessa, Candle, and a couple of smaller children from the camps. The older children and most of the caregivers walked, strung out through the line of vehicles in ragged clumps. Ahead, in the vanguard, Hawk led with Cheney, Panther, Bear, Sparrow, and several handfuls of armed men and women.

Trailing everyone was a conglomeration of Lizards, Spiders, and other creatures, a couple of which she could not identify, even though she had thought she had seen everything there was to see by now.

It was the whole of the refugee camp save for those who had been left behind to defend the bridge. The caravan had been on the move since sunrise, traveling north and east away from the Columbia River and up into country that had once been farmland and was now dried–out hardpan. The caravan had started out as a cohesive whole, but over the course of the morning had begun to drift apart, to break into pieces that sprawled all over the flats and had taken on a segmented look.

Angel would have liked to keep everyone much closer together. Spread out as they were, they were impossible to protect. But she had realized early on that this was the best she could hope for. Any organization beyond what she was seeing was all but impossible. Too many children, too few adults, too little discipline. They were doing the best they could, and that would have to suffice. By nightfall, they would be back together, and by morning they would regroup to begin the march anew. In the meantime, she would just have to hope that an enemy force didn’t catch them out in the open.

She glanced over at Kirisin, walking next to her, and felt her throat constrict. His face was so sad it made her heart break. She wished there were something she could do for him, something she could say. But she knew there wasn’t. He would have to get through this on his own.

He caught her looking at him and gave her a quick smile. “I’m all right,” he assured her. “Really, I am.”

She nodded, said nothing. She glanced ahead to where Hawk was leading, moving at a steady pace, looking fit and ready. Cheney slouched at his side, shaggy and insolent, big head swaying as he walked, a mass of bristling hair and muscle. She didn’t like the dog. She didn’t trust him. But he seemed to belong with the Ghosts, as independent–minded and cocksure as they were. They seemed of a piece, and she was not the one who could pass judgment on that arrangement.

Kirisin, who up until now had barely spoken two words, suddenly said, “Do you think she might have gotten away if she hadn’t been protecting the Loden?”

She shook her head. “No, Kirisin. Even without the Elfstone she wouldn’t have escaped. Responsibility for the Elfstone wouldn’t have slowed her down or changed her approach. Praxia was tough and smart, and she did the best she could. It just wasn’t enough.”

“But having responsibility for the Loden might have altered the way she was doing things.” He glanced quickly at her. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t think like this.”

Angel sighed. Then stop doing so. But she didn’t say it, even though a part of her wanted to. She understood why he would be so insecure about Praxia. The boy had seen a lot of people die who had tried to help him, and the accumulation alone would breed substantial guilt. He was still very young, she reminded herself, and he wasn’t all that well equipped to deal with any of this.

“She told you she envied you for what you were doing, didn’t she?” she asked gently. “She said she wished it could have been her. Well, in a way, she got her wish. She died knowing that she had done something that mattered. You have to let her have that, Kirisin, and not diminish her sacrifice by questioning whether you could have done something to avoid it.”

She looked off into the distance, measuring the stretch that lay immediately ahead, wondering if they could cross it before sunset. “None of us could have changed what happened without knowing of it ahead of time. And even then …”

She trailed off, glanced over at him, waited. He mulled it over for a minute, then nodded. “I know it’s so. But I can’t help wondering anyway.” He was silent a moment. “I guess I think about Praxia because I’m worried about Simralin.”

This is what’s really troubling him, she thought. His sister. She imagined that the boy had been thinking of little else ever since they had separated in the Cintra. That was almost a week ago now, and there had been no word of her. No word of any of the Elves who had remained behind with their King to slow the demon advance. It was hard not to think the worst.

“Simralin is experienced in staying alive,” she said to him. “You said yourself that she is the best at what she does. I think she’ll be all right. Maybe it’s just taken longer to break off the fight than expected. Maybe they’ve just come a different way. A longer way, one that keeps them safer. There could be a lot of reasons why she isn’t here yet, Kirisin.”

“I just don’t like it that we left her,” he persisted. “I should have stayed with her.”

“I know that’s how you feel, but that would have been foolish. She stayed behind so that you could escape safely. Besides, you gave her the blue Elfstones. If she was in real danger, she could have used them.”

“Maybe.” He wasn’t convinced. He scuffed at the dusty earth with the toe of his boot. “If she could figure out how to use them.”

“She watched you, didn’t she? I did, too. We both saw how it was done, what was required. We talked about it. I think she would find a way if it was needed.”

She watched him lift a hand to his chest and finger the bulk of the Loden through the fabric of his tunic. “I wish this was over. I wish we were there, wherever there is.” He looked at her. “Does Hawk have any idea how far we are going?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If he does, he isn’t saying. He just seems to be following his nose. His instincts are telling him where he is supposed to take us. The girl, Tessa, says that’s how it works.

She insists that’s enough.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if anyone much believes that, but it’s all we’ve got to work with.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, concentrating on walking, on the movement of their feet, placing one in front of the other, the repetition providing a strange sort of comfort. Angel glanced at the sky, at the white–hot ball of the sun, at the blue sweep surrounding it. She wished it would rain, but she knew it wouldn’t.

“I guess we have to have faith in him,” Kirisin said suddenly. “The same way we had faith in what we were doing when we went searching for the Loden and didn’t know where it was or how we would find it. Sometimes faith in something is all you have.”

“Sometimes,” she agreed, giving him a smile.

She thought suddenly of Ailie, something she hadn’t done for a while. Losing the tatterdemalion had tested her own faith, but she had gotten past it. In an odd way, it had even acted to focus her on what she must do for those she was trying to help. Ailie had told her she was there to be her conscience, to whisper in her ear when she needed to rethink something. But without Ailie to prod her, she had no one but herself to rely on, and it had made her more careful than ever about thinking things through before she acted. It wasn’t that she was afraid of making a mistake so much as it was not wanting to disappoint Ailie. She owed her that much.

She glanced ahead again where Hawk walked side by side with Panther. How much pressure must he be feeling, she wondered, after what had happened last night?

“I’M TELLING YOU, Bird‑Man, they’ll be back!”

Panther was so insistent about it that Hawk almost felt sorry for him. The other was trying hard to make Hawk feel better when doing so was impossible, and it was painful to witness. Say anything, Panther apparently had decided, to make it seem as though somehow it would all work out.

But Hawk knew better.

“Look, it’s just like I said,” Panther went on. “Fixit wanders off and Chalk goes looking for his dim–brained friend ’cause Fixit never knows what’s going on anyway. Chalk thinks he’ll find him, like he’s done before back in the city, but he gets himself lost because he isn’t in the city anymore and can’t find his way out of a closet. He wanders around all night, maybe sleeps, too, wakes up or whatever and starts back. He gets back, finds out Fixit didn’t go anywhere and the only one missing is him. But by then, it’s too late to let us know what’s happened. We’ve left, so now the two of them are stuck at the bridge until the rest of the force can join us.”

He paused, as if considering the reasonableness of his own argument, and then abruptly threw up his hands. “You know, it’s not like there’s any way they can tell us what’s happened! It’s not like there’s cells or radios or anything to call us up on!”

“I know,” Hawk said quietly. He glanced over at the other. “I hope you’re right.”

“But you don’t think I am, is that it?”

Hawk shrugged, shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“That’s right, you don’t know!” Panther was scowling, his frustration getting the better of him. don’t know a lot of stuff. Just because you’re some sort of fairy creature all full up with magic powers doesn’t mean you see things the right way all the time!”

“Okay, Panther.”

“Doesn’t mean that you got to be responsible for everyone, either. They’re big boys and girls, maybe Candle. You can’t be standing around keeping an eye on them every minute. You can’t expect—”

“You and special all but

Sparrow pushed up beside him, her face intense. “Give it a rest, Panther. This isn’t helping.”

Panther glanced over dismissively. “You got something to say, say it to him. He’s the one needs it.”

She shifted the weight of the Parkhan Spray from one shoulder to the other, a gesture that caused Hawk to glance over warily. “Just stop talking about it,” she snapped, her eyes dark with anger and frustration. She was on the verge of tears. “We hate what’s happened, and we all wish we’d kept better watch over those two. How many times have we warned them, all of us? But talking about it just makes everyone feel even worse. It doesn’t do any good to shove it in Hawk’s face and say, I told you so. We know all that, so let’s give him a break, okay?”

“I’m saying he’s not to blame, Sparrow, case you weren’t listening to me.” Panther was unwilling to back down. “I’m saying the same thing you are. But he’s the one won’t let it go, not me. He’s the one thinks everything’s his fault since he’s leader and high mucky–muck and what have you. He’s the one wants to take on everything that happens and make it personal.”

He went silent, momentarily talked out. They plodded on for a few moments without saying anything more, flushed with the heat of the argument and its genesis. Hawk watched Cheney as he stalked ahead of them, his shaggy presence no longer as comforting as it had once been. In the city, Cheney would have warned them of unseen dangers. He would have guarded and protected them; he would have kept the bad things out. But out here, with no doors or windows or walls, what could he do? There was too much open space, too many ways the bad things could get at you.

He felt a sudden pang of regret, thinking of Cheney this way. He had saved them so many times, and still it wasn’t enough. It was unfair to expect more. He expected it of himself, though. Even knowing it was taking on more than he could manage. Especially here. Panther was right; sometimes there was nothing you could do to save people; sometimes you just had to let go of them.

He broke away from Panther and Sparrow and sprinted up beside his dog. Cheney didn’t so much as glance at him. He just kept walking, one paw in front of the other, big head swaying from side to side, heavy muscles rolling beneath his shaggy coat. Hawk walked next to him, keeping pace, his mind awash with unrealized expectations of how he had envisioned things would be and stark memories of other tragedies that had claimed the lives of other Ghosts. Mouse and Heron. Squirrel. Each time, he had felt like this–bereft, helpless, furious with himself, frustrated with his inability to act.

Behind him, he heard Sparrow and Panther whispering. They were all wondering the same thing: if he was as magical as he was supposed to be, then why couldn’t he do more? Could he even do the one thing he had promised? Could he take them to a place where they would all be safe? He didn’t know. He couldn’t be sure of anything. All he could do was try to follow through and hope that somehow he would find a way.

But telling this to himself didn’t make him feel any better. So much depended on him. Even when he could stop thinking about Tessa and their unborn child, even when he could reduce the numbers of those he led to only those who were his immediate family, he was confounded by the enormity of his task.

His instincts guided him, just as the King of the Silver River had said they would, just as they had from the moment of his return. But his instincts were all he had. It didn’t seem like enough.

Cheney veered suddenly and brushed against him with his big head. Hawk sidestepped, thinking he was the one who had veered out of his path, caught up in his musings. Then the big dog did it again, a deliberate act that conveyed an unmistakable meaning.

Tears filled Hawk’s eyes, and he wiped them away quickly. He reached down and rubbed the grizzled head, smiling faintly. “Me, too,” he whispered.

He IS NEVER a good fit for his family, he tells his best friend not long after they meet. He is an outsider almost from the beginning, for as far back as he can remember, seemingly forever. It isn’t that anyone wants it that way. It's just how things work out. He isn’t like them. He isn’t a worker, a toiler, a committed survivor. He barely cares about the world around him. His mind is always somewhere else, never on the task at hand. He is unreliable, they say. He is a dreamer.

He knows this is so and that it isn’t a good thing in the eyes of the others, but there is nothing he can do to change it.

His family is a large one, so the care and protection of the whole take precedence over worrying about the one. His mother spends time with him when he is little, fussing over him the way mothers do over small children. These are his fondest memories. She encourages his artistic pursuits, indulges his talent, his creativity. No harm in letting him be a child for just a little while. She thinks it will all drift away as he gets older, that he will move on to other things as he matures.

But he doesn’t. He isn’t like that. He isn’t the sort of kid whose passions ebb and flow with the years. He is formed early on, shaped by his devotion to his artistic discoveries, by his need to explore things that no one but he can see. It is a useless talent in a world where everything is about being pragmatic, about staying alive and staying safe. He doesn’t worry about such things; he worries about how he will make his drawings turn out the way he sees them in his mind. He does his work, and he fulfills his family obligations. Most of the time, at least. But he doesn’t do anything more than that. He doesn’t go the extra mile, as his older brothers keep telling him he must. He doesn’t prepare himself against the unexpected. He doesn’t live in preparation for what might happen. He lives in the moment.

When his mother and next oldest brother die after becoming afflicted by one of the endless plagues that scour their already ravaged community, their tinderbox fortress, a fresh siege mentality takes hold. The family must work harder, be more vigilant, and keep closer watch. He does not think this will help; in truth, he thinks nothing will help. They are victims of times and events that are overwhelming. They are trapped in their lives like rats in cages. They are dead men walking.

He doesn’t let this thinking dominate him the way he thinks it probably dominates his brothers. He refuses. He is caught up in the magic of his art, and in art there is escape from the realities of life. There is peace and beauty and a sense of satisfaction. He cannot change the world around him, but he can make a stab at changing it in his drawings.

He becomes more and more of an oddity to his family. They are angry with and disappointed in him, and they no longer bother to hide it. They have come to view his behavior as a burden on the family–one that they increasingly see as unnecessary. If he is to be a part of the family, he must change. He must become like them–hardened to the future, focused on survival, willing to put aside childish pursuits in favor of mature commitments.

He is eleven years old.

He tries to live up to their expectations, but it is impossible for him. He can carry out the tasks they give him, can fulfill the obligations he is assigned, but he cannot become what they are.

Father, brothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins, they are all of a piece, and he does not fit.

A few of the younger cousins show interest in his drawings and his vision of things they cannot see. But their elders quickly discourage them and direct their attention elsewhere. They are told not to spend time with him, and are given work that will make certain that they can’t. It is all done subtly and surreptitiously, but he sees what is happening. His isolation grows. His sense of disconnection increases.

One day, he is asked to accompany his father and two of his brothers on a foraging expedition that will take them down out of the foothills in which they reside to a nearby ghost town. It is an expedition that requires several nights away from home. He senses there is something odd in the way his father makes the request, but accepts that he must do as he is told.

When he returns, all of his drawings and art supplies are gone. He searches for them everywhere, but they are nowhere to be found. No one claims to know what has become of them. Several of his brothers suggest he has misplaced them. His father tells him to forget about them and think about more important things.

He is devastated. His art is all he has that he cares about, and now it has been taken away from him.

A week later, he leaves home in the middle of the night. He walks south and west toward the city of Seattle, a place where he knows he can find the supplies he needs. He has never been to Seattle. He has barely been anywhere and does not have experience or skill at finding his way. But he is lucky. Nothing bad happens to him in the five days it takes him to reach his goal. He is hungry and thirsty much of the time, having not thought to take much of anything with him to eat or drink. He reaches the city in one piece and begins his search.

Fortunately, his search puts him in a place where he encounters the Ghosts. He becomes a member of their family and finds a place where he is accepted for who and what he is. His passion for drawing is indulged. His eccentricities are tolerated and even admired. He is given a chance to become the person he knows he is meant to be. He is loved.

But finding you, he tells his best friend over and over again, is even more important than all of this. Finding you is the best thing that ever happened to me.

Fixit STARED OUT across the abandoned campsite, the ground empty of tents, equipment, supplies, and vehicles, cleared of people. The wind was blowing dust in sharp gusts, sweeping across the hills and scooping out the gullies. Overhead, the midday sky was cloudless, and the sun was a blazing white ball in an endless blue sweep.

Chalk would have admired a day like this one, if he had been there.

Fixit kept searching the landscape, thinking that he had overlooked something and might still find it or that he would miss something if he looked away. He already knew it was hopeless, that Chalk wasn’t coming back. But he couldn’t help himself; he still looked. A part of him refused to accept what the rest of him already had. A part of him still hoped.

How had it happened? How had he allowed it to happen?

He blamed himself, of course. He was Chalk’s only real friend, and he knew that the thing hunting them was out there, stealing kids from the camp. He knew that they were supposed to look after each other, and he had resolved to do his part. But somehow he hadn’t. Somehow, Chalk had slipped away when he wasn’t looking, had stepped just out of view when he wasn’t paying attention, and that was all it took. The other Ghosts had told him that Chalk would be back, that he had wandered off before–seemingly forgetting that Fixit was always the one who had wandered off, not Chalk. Or maybe hoping that he would forget the truth of things, and be encouraged.

Didn’t matter. They were gone, following Hawk to their new refuge, wherever that was. All of them save those who had remained behind to defend the bridge against the army coming up from the south. And himself, because he refused to leave his best friend. The others had wanted him to come, but he couldn’t. He had to stay. As long as there was hope for Chalk, he had to wait. Maybe they were right. Maybe Chalk had wandered off and would be back. Maybe he needed Fixit.

Maybe.

He hugged himself against a chill that ran through him at the thought of what he knew was true and couldn’t accept. He felt tears welling up, and he tightened his lips and eyes against them.

Then he heard footsteps behind him. Composing himself quickly, he turned. Logan Tom was there.

“We could use your help at the bridge, Fixit. They’re finishing the wiring, and you know as much about it as any of the adults. More, even, than me. Will you help?”

Fixit shook his head. “I have to …”

“You have to keep an eye out for Chalk,” Logan finished. “I know. But you can do it from there. It will help pass the time if you do something other than just stand around. And it will help us, as well.”

Fixit stared at the other, at his hard face, at the grip he kept on the black staff. Nothing ever bothered him. He was as steady as the rising and setting of the sun. He wished he could be like that.

“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll help.”

“Fixit,” Logan Tom called after him as he started to walk away. “Don’t give up hope. We still don’t know.”

Fixit nodded, his thoughts dark and angry. Maybe you don’t, he told the other silently, but I do.

He kept walking.