The Southwind Saga (Book 2): Slack Water Page 14

  Blong had crossed the road to follow the children, and she had followed Blong. This meant she was on the south side of the road; if she kept heading downhill, she would inevitably find the mangrove swamps and then the bay. But if she went uphill, she should find the road, or at least one of the village tracks.

  She didn't change her path; the child's cry had come from downhill, and downhill she ran. The ground began to slope more steeply. The leaves slipped beneath her feet, and she slowed, moving carefully now. She had lived on Madau, a very flat island, all her life, and she realised with a twinge of detached amusement that this was the first time she had ever walked down a hill.

  She stopped; the slope was channelling her into a steep-sided valley above a dry, boulder-strewn stream bed. She could either turn back and head uphill towards the road or follow the valley down. She hesitated, unsure. She was intensely aware of herself as a physical entity: the sweat on her skin, her heart hammering against her ribs, the moist heat of her own breath, the pain in her calves as they adapted to the unfamiliar slope. She wiped her palms on her cargo pants and unslung her Marlin rifle. Its plastic stock was cool, the ridges of the knurled grip comforting.

  Piper knew she had blundered by taking off after Blong without informing the others. But she'd had only a moment to decide. If she had gone to find Matty, she would have lost Blong. She had made a mistake but refused to dwell on it. Instead, she pondered which way to turn. The child's cry had not been repeated; there was only the maddening drone of insects, the sigh of the trees swaying in the unfelt wind —

  — and then a sudden, sharp crack behind her.

  She whirled, her rifle flying to her shoulder. A local girl, aged about ten, stood on a rocky rise just up the hill. She wore a woven-grass skirt, and her wiry hair was black at the roots and sun-bleached almost white at the tips. Her dark skin was offset with stripes of white mud painted across her narrow chest, lines on every rib and on her cheeks, and a thick band of white crossed her eyes like a mask. She held a stick that she had broken to get Piper's attention. Now she dropped the pieces and beckoned that Piper should follow her.

  Piper lowed the rifle, just a few inches so the barrel was not pointing directly at the painted child. "Where'd you come from?"

  The child frowned with annoyance, her eyebrows drawing together angrily, and repeated her motion. Her white paint made her look like a tiny skeleton.

  "I can't. I'm looking for a little boy. He came this way — did you… did you see him?"

  The child frowned again and then gave a little cry, like a wounded bird. It was the noise Piper had followed.

  "Oh. So that was you, huh?"

  A roll of her eyes and then the impatient beckoning again.

  Piper hesitated. She had been following the girl. She had lost Blong. What choice did she have?

  She began to climb towards the girl.

  ***

  Blong froze, blinking compulsively as his eyes strained to see in ambient twilight of the forest, his heart fluttering in his chest like that of a tiny mouse cornered by a viper. A long, narrow face pushed through the bushes, deep in the shadows, low to the ground. It had been a man, once. Its skin was white — no, it was not white. It was mottled grey; the white was where the skin had torn from his skull, the bone showing through. Its nose was an empty hole, its ears stubs, the ears themelves eaten out by the maggots that dribbled onto the ground. Its eyes gleamed with dark fire, the colour of blood lit from within. It pushed forward, crawling on the ground, its arms and legs splayed out as if it were trying to pass under a low fence. It slid across the ground towards Blong, coming straight at him, moving as quickly as a charging crocodile, a comparison all the more apt when the creature's mouth split in a wide, toothy grin that stretched right back to its ears, its cheeks split open from the mad growth of sharklike teeth that filled its mouth in jagged rows.

  Blong screamed and sprinted away in a wild, headlong rush. The creature rose to its feet and came after him, thin stringy muscles fired by the virus that filled its nerves. Blong's mind was a blank wall of terror as he ran as fast as he could, feeling grasping claws snatch at him from behind.

  Blong's mind fled back, into the past, into safer times. The long weeks while the Lady and her friends prepared the new boat, when Blong ran about on shore, surrounded for the first time in his life by children, who had taught him a strange new thing called playing.

  Then, before that, the canoe trip he had taken with the Lady, when she rescued him from the big bad ship and carried him to the lost paradise that was Madau. If he could not have stayed on Madau, then he would liked to have stayed at sea, when it was just the Lady and him, surrounded by an endless ocean, safe from any monster that walked on land.

  He wanted now to stay in this memory. But his mind had gained momentum, and it plunged onwards, deeper into the past, into dark places he wished it would never go. His first clear memory: a pain in his face as the Lady hit him, the strange feeling of knowing her and then seeing her reach for him as he fell backwards into a dark void.

  Before then, before that moment of rebirth, he had nothing but fragments of nightmares. Waking to find a rotten face peering into his, a creature consumed with hunger but bound by the Pale King to leave his pet unharmed. Over and over, history repeating, a ship finding Black Harvest and him coming to the rail to wave them on board. Indonesian marines, fishermen, expatriate yachties — he welcomed them all, the words tumbling from him like a script. You save me, you rescue me, come with me, I show you treasure, winning the wanderers over. Who could resist a poor orphaned child, leading down into the belly of the ship where monsters waited…

  The screams as they were consumed, the praise of the Pale King as Blong, his little Judas, added more souls to his undead retinue. The broken nights of sleep, the tumbling of his conscience rebelling against the dark lord's domination, the confusion he felt when he saw his father, a fisherman, once a loving parent, now a hungry abomination who would have eaten Blong if he had not been bound by the chains of his master's will. And the words that came when the Pale King, the one who compels, visited him at night and shaped his thoughts by channelling the strange chant that he still heard in his deepest dreams.

  NAW EM SHAB NAH CAW NAW EM SHAB COL NA DAN CAH.

  All of this passed through Blong's mind, memories as fleet as fleeing deer, as the creature caught him in its long, clawed hands and bore him down.

  ***

  Roman paused when he heard a keening wail floating through the trees. It was as remote and alien as the cry of a hunting hawk, but he knew it came from a human throat. He held his machete loosely in his hand, a long, thin blade shaped for cutting cane, its edge honed razor sharp. He froze, waiting for the cry to be repeated or for any other sound that might guide him. A fat fly landed between his shoulder blades. Idly, without conscious thought, he flicked the machete over his shoulder, slapping the fly neatly with the flat of his blade. The insect fell to the ground, its legs curled beneath it, its death as unremarkable as its life.

  There was no further scream, but he heard something better: someone running, crashing through the jungle in a mad rush of breaking branches and crunching leaves. He took off in the sound's direction. His wide, bare feet were as tough as leather — he felt none of the sharp sticks or rocks that lined his way. He did not follow a path. With the elegance of one born to the jungle, he found his own way beneath the grasping creepers and strangler vines.

  He broke out onto the dirt road, crossing it with barely a glance along its hazy length before plunging into the bushes on the other side. The leaves beneath his feet were strangely mute, the vines and thorns that would have caught him up in their sharp grip seemed to part and let him slip through. He ducked and wove around the low branches and then suddenly the forest opened up into a sheltered clearing.

  Two masalai crouched over the boy. They did not hear Roman's approach, for he made no sound, yet still they whirled to face him. They were the spirits he hunted, the ancient demons of
the forest that had returned, that filled the void humanity had left. The monsters that had stolen his father from him, that had swallowed the world and would consume all that Roman loved if they had the opportunity.

  The larger of the two swept the limp boy up in its arms and fled. The other turned to him. It was once a woman. Its hips were fringed with the tattered remains of jeans, and the stained fabric hung in strips like a grass skirt. Its dark skin was mottled with white-and-grey blotches of corruption, and its breasts had rotted away to leave deep lesions on its chest. Its mouth split open, long rows of teeth grinning as it came at him like a frenzied shark.

  He stepped back and to the side as its came, bringing his machete up to sever its reaching arm. The limb spun away to crash into the bush, but the demon whirled without a pause, lunging with its remaining arm.

  He ducked its sweeping claws and slashed at its thighs. Pain meant nothing to the masalai, but they still needed muscles to move, tendons to tighten, and nerves to carry the commands of their corrupted brains. He whipped the blade around as its mouth snapped at the place he had been a moment before, the demon's teeth snapping together with the clack of striking rocks. His machete found the back of its calf, and he sliced deep, severing the tendon.

  Roman was careful to avoid any sprays of corrupt matter rising from the wounds. The masalai's heart no longer beat, and its blood was coagulated paste, but strange mists filled the air; he knew, from the painful experience of seeing his loved ones turn, that the masalai carried their curse in their blood.

  It fell as its leg gave way. But even with only one working arm and leg, it was still deadly; it slithered at him through the deadfall. Pain shrieked up his leg as it grabbed his ankle. He whipped his blade down, severed the creature's hand at the wrist, and danced away from its thrashing attack. The grey hand gripped painfully at his ankle, and he slid the blade between its grip and his skin, cutting fingers and sending the hand into the undergrowth, where it spasmed like a dying spider. He was grateful to see it had not broken his skin.

  The masalai drove itself at him with its one working leg, leaves rising in a flurry around its head like the bow wave of a boat. He dodged away, dropped his machete and seized up a large rock, which he raised over his head. The demon, somehow retaining some facet of self-awareness, saw how its end would come and shrieked its defiance at him as he brought the rock down with all his strength and crushed its skull.

  Roman's chest heaved, but he snatched up his machete without a pause and plunged on, after the spirit that had stolen Blong away. All the time, one thought ran through his mind, as powerful and reverent as the prayers of a priest: The boy moved, the boy moved, the boy moved.

  ***

  "We have only just arrived. I have only met the Lord in my dreams."

  "Oh!" She laughs again, and the men relax, stepping back, their weapons lowered. "How I envy you; I remember when I came to these shores and beheld his majesty for the first time. You have such a journey before you."

  "When will I see him?"

  "When he wills it. He is far from these shores." She looks at me carefully, her head tilted. "Don't you know that? Didn't he tell you he was away?"

  "Please. I am but a wanderer, seeking the light. I have supped on fragments and rumours."

  "Where do you find these words?" She is angry now, a hot flush settling over her like a dark, humid cloud. Her voice rises in an indignant harangue. Flecks of white spit gather in the corners of her mouth and migrate to leap from her lips like seabirds launching themselves off a cliff. "The Green Lord offers no light. The sun is the hell in which we all burn. I will stake you out on the road, and we shall see how long you will love the sun. It is only in the cool darkness that we will find relief. He is the antidote to the foul and uncaring Demiurge, who stood by while humanity died and then died of his own hand, selfishly revoking his dominion, vanishing into the solitude of the abyss for he feared the coming of the true god, the Dark Star, the Lord of the Void, who has sent his prophets among us: the Pale King, the Green Lord, the God of Rocks and Creeping Things, the Pneuma of the Great and Empty Desert. These are the prophets who have revealed themselves to us, who have spoken to us in words and thought, the rightly guided who have shown us the time of man is past and that it is time for their children to inherit the earth."

  She comes to her feet in a sudden leap. Her robe falls open, exposing her nakedness underneath. Her skin is fire-scarred like mine, but a white furrow, a finger-thick worm of knurled flesh, scores her left side. She sloughs off her robe and spreads her arms as she rants, her words never ceasing to tumble from her lips. Her arms are shiny, like melted plastic, apart from a white spot, as large as a coin, on both her forearms. She turns her wrists so these spots are thrust forward to me. The skin is puckered, like lips pushed into a reluctant kiss.

  Her people fall to their knees, murmuring quietly to themselves, a slowly rising chant of short words I don't understand, as I watch the fire of madness catch before me. "My church hung me from the cross, and they were right to do so," she screams. "For three days, I contemplated my woe and, like the false god's spawn, I questioned the will of the divine. But my base and forlorn questions were answered! He came to me in the darkness, his black crimson fire etching a new dawn, and he said, 'COME AND SEE!'"

  Her followers leap to their feet at these words, and their chant tumbles free with all the force and conviction of a mountain torrent as they scream together: NAW EM SHAB NAH CAW NAW EM SHAB COL NA DAN CAH.

  The tattooed man swings his fist at me. Darkness comes down, and I know no more.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: MATAI

  My first instinct when I realise I'm alone is to storm the camp. I'm cursing myself for not recognising the signs earlier. The loss of perspective, the strange intoxication where we carried on our tasks without the slightest hint of common sense — all symptoms of an alpha's domination. I don't blame the others for falling under the spell; only myself and Blong have felt the seductive touch of an alpha's mind. We should have recognised it for what it was.

  But now the shock of the reveal, of my crew's disappearances, jolts me into action. This is not the true touch of an alpha's mind but a weak echo. Instinctively I know it is Deborah, somehow reflecting the alpha's power. The aura with which she entrances her followers is a borrowed gift. I want to kick in that racist zealot's door and hold her accountable. It only takes me a second to realise that would be a huge mistake. She's counting on me acting rashly.

  Dad always told me: never interrupt an enemy when they are making a mistake. She would be expecting me to do one thing; to confound her would be an opportunity. I duck out of the road, into the cover of the jungle and think. She has my people. What could she do next?

  The jungle where I hide is saplings and smaller trees, relentless regrowth reclaiming some land cleared fifteen years before. As I look through the trees, forcing myself to think like Deborah and imagine what she would do next, I see Excelsior floating peacefully in the middle of the bay, serene yet utterly defenceless.

  As slow realisation sinks in, I feel her presence. She steps out from behind a tree and looks at me expectantly. She looks just like she did last time I saw her, on the deck of Black Harvest, moments before I rescued Blong from the Pale King.

  Where the hell have you been? I say.

  Katie raises her eyebrows in mock offence. That's nice. You've had no time for your big sister ever since you became little miss popularity. Now you've stuffed it up and lost your crew, and you want to know where I have been?

  I'll write you a sorry note later. What do we do now?

  She looks out at Excelsior. You know what to do. You can't escape this island if they take your boat away.

  So I run…

  I run through the jungle. Leaves slip under my feet as I let the slope guide me down to the shoreline. I'm not tired, and the heat and humidity do not affect me. I feel as if I'm flying, my body weightless, the rifle in my arms weighing nothing at all. I hurdle fallen logs and leap over
boulders as I race back to the wharf.

  Now I've got plenty of time to think. I can't remember the last time I ran more than a hundred metres in a stretch, and I'm amazed that I don't collapse after a kilometre. Despite the heat, despite the jungle, the humidity, and the insects swarming around my head, I feel fleet and strong. Which is good, as I'm sure a party of Deborah's people are heading to Excelsior right now.

  That is, if they aren't there already. It depends on whether this ambush was planned or if she turned on us in a fit of mad pique. That's one problem with trying to get inside her head. I'm only a little crazy. Whereas Deborah is the whole nine yards.

  It may be wishful thinking, but I don't think her people wouldn't shortcut it through the jungle. They'd follow the road. I should be able to get there faster if I can find a way down the hill. Provided I don't break my ankle in this stream bed.

  That's assuming I'm right. But what else can I do? Run around the mine site in circles, looking for Enzo or any of the others? I'd just be waiting for my turn to get picked off. And I'm sure the three buildings we saw were only the front of the camp; Roman and Zac's map showed at least twenty buildings at Kulumadau, stretching back from the road in four streets. I'd seen a dozen of her people; who knows how many are in hiding?

  My other option is to go to ground, hide, and watch her camp, keeping it under surveillance. But that leaves Excelsior dangling in the wind. All it would take is one person to get on board and open a seacock to sink her. I can't imagine they executed an ambush this sophisticated just to leave open our only avenue of escape.

  I try to keep the feeling that I am abandoning my crew from my mind. I don't head straight down the hill towards the bay — that would lead me into the mangrove swamp, a mire impassable on foot. Instead, I run in an arc roughly parallel to the road but cutting the corner so I can head them off at the wharf.