The Knight and the Butcherbird

3

I’d hoped whatever knight answered Laurel Boss’s call would be stupid, or at least arrogant, but Sir John was neither. For days, I couldn’t catch him alone.

In the early mornings, before the heat hit, he went out with the iron crews, watching the woods while they hammered rebar from the ruins. In the afternoons he retired with the rest of us to the old mines, where the air was cool and foul. After sundown he ate in the common house, talking in that gentle voice to Shepherds and Bakers, Hunters and Trashpickers. He was respectful to the elders, who were younger than him, and patient with the kids. How many demons have you killed? More than thee. Are you a giant? No. Can I pet your bird? No!

Then eventually he would retire, vanishing into the kudzu as quickly and as silently as any outlander. He’d refused a guest bed—stupid!—and wouldn’t accept a guard to keep watch—arrogant!!—but he made camp in a different place every night, and never lit a fire.

Eventually, though, he would go demon-hunting, on foot and alone, save for his hawk. And me.

On the third evening I heard Laurel Boss ask when he would begin the search, and he answered “Anon.” Laurel didn’t know what the word meant, but I did.

Finch Secretary, the woman who raised and named me, had visited the Knoxville enclave as a child. She said they lived like kings of old—in great walled compounds that glittered blackly, covered in solar panels, defended by minefields and moats—but that we needn’t fear them, because they were too obsessed with the past to think much of the future. They spoke a dead language and worshipped a dead god, a man suspended gruesomely on two sticks. They gave themselves antiquated names (Ashley, Charlemagne, John ) and obscure titles (president, chief operating officer, knight). Finch had tsked her tongue: Nothing grows on a grave while you’re standing on it .

Still, she taught me their thees and thous and strange turns of phrase, just in case. Anon meant very soon .