Chapter 86
Merrywhip
Skindles
Frithow
Beesbump
Mallow
—Horse names catalogued amid the refugees of the broken mountain
The ribbon around the boy’s wrist is filthy, the fabric gritty and stained, soaked through.
White once, coloured now with sweat at the edges.
He fiddles with it nervously. Above, the air is thick with insects, broad-winged bugs, carapaces thick and black.
They’ve been kicked up in clouds above the waving grass and now float heavy ahead of the hooves and trailing feet of a great grey train which stretches back towards the horizon.
Hundreds of people, bruised and bandaged, their skin writhing with strange, angular shapes.
Wagons, occasional horses, their ears flicking in irritation, heads lowered from exhaustion.
The bugs die in droves, their fat shells bursting with audible pops, followed by the snap and clack of beaks; seabirds, lured inland on swift white wings, by an unexpected feast. The small dun birds of the Midlands are no match for these raucous, bullying invaders, contenting themselves with discarded legs and wings, the haze of grass seed that hangs in the air.
The riders cough. Rough, ill-favoured waggoneers hunched over haphazard loads of unfamiliar weapons, long boxes twice padlocked, tied with straps smeared white and red.
The crowd behind them coughs too, a long shuddering hack that runs the length of the column like a fly on a horse.
Between the coughs, their voices are upraised and unsteady, full of strange songs, snatches of laughter, crying.
All of them leaning and listing on each other like drunkards, their feet dragging and their torn soles casting blood on the new-turned earth.
The boy watches them wide-eyed, fiddles with the ribbon at his wrist, and chews his lip uncertainly.
The column draws closer. At its head, is a woman so big he steps back in fear.
One of her hands swats at the insects, the other is light on the reins of a roan cart-horse which moves stolidly under her.
Her hair is thick, yellow as corn. She watches the pale man riding beside her and her face moves in strange shapes.
He is thinner, like a picture of a ghost, with black hair clinging wetly to his scalp.
One hand trails ragged red threads, the other rubs wearily at a leg stroked with the silvered marks of old scars.
Their horses come closer. The boy steps back again, stumbles.
He feels a hand catch him, heavy on his shoulder.
A familiar voice, knotted like old wool.
‘Steady chicken.’ The hand on his shoulder nothing but a bag of knuckles, veins blue as laces under leather.
He looks up. ‘Who are they, Cog?’
Coglifter sucks her gums, spits. Tightens her grip slightly. ‘Trouble.’
The column passes them, foot by stumbling foot. The people of his village watch silently, eyes wide. The blonde woman rides closer, hauls the horse to a stop. Hooves like plates thud into the soil. She looks down at the old woman and the boy. ‘How goes it in Hesper, mother?’
Coglifter sucks her lips, chews some dirt from under a nail. ‘Better than it’s gone for you.’
Shipwright narrows her eyes. ‘What do you mean by that, mother?’
Coglifter’s hands trace the horse’s heaving flanks, the burrs and scratches. ‘Just saying as I see. You hie on, you’ll see the gates soon enough. They might even open for you.’
Shipwright smiles. ‘Fallon’s an old friend of ours.’
Coglifter tips her head, rolls dirt between her fingers. ‘Is he now?’ She pauses, smiling slowly. ‘That’s good. Best of luck to you. Come on, sprat.’
She turns her back, as behind her the column moves on, the heavy beat of the great horse taking the lead again. ‘Who were they, Cog?’ the boy says.
‘No one that matters, boy,’ She pauses, narrows her eyes on the wandering column, the tattoos black and red and black again. ‘No one that matters anymore.’
She takes his hand in hers, his nails soft in her callused palm.
‘Will you be staying for dinner, Cog? There’ll be fire-bakes. It’s nearly time.’
She squeezes his hand. ‘It’s not time for me, little man.’
He frowns, fidgets with the ribbon. ‘What time is it then, Cog?’
She just smiles, taps his rear and sends him home.
Only when she sees the door lock does she turn back to the column, watching its ragged tail fade toward the towers of Hesper.
‘What time indeed?’ she mutters. A half-cut laugh, as the muscles in her back twitch and sting. Wearily, she takes a pipe, fills, it, fumbles for light and strikes, watching the sparks drift off into the bug-swarmed sky.
‘What other time, little man? Time for a burning of ships.’