Robinson Crusoe 2244 (12 page)

Next, the man withdrew a reservoir of water fashioned from some kind of skin and drank from it. Once he was done, he leaned back and stared into the fire. In the quiet that followed, Robinson thought he might have heard a render’s cry, but it could have been the wind.

Time passed slowly. The morning was still far off. The heat in the stairwell turned stifling. Robinson’s eyelids grew heavy. When his head bobbed the first time, he looked up and found the man watching him. The Old Man had saved his life.

He suddenly remembered himself. “Thank you.”

The Old Man didn’t answer. He simply nodded to the stone floor on Robinson’s left and said, “
Kun sono
.”

He didn’t have to speak his language to understand. He stretched out on the hard stone and put his pack under his head. Despite the lack of blankets or cover, for the first time in a week, Robinson Crusoe slept like the dead.

The next time Robinson woke, it wasn’t from a dog licking his face, but the Old Man’s staff slapping against his blistered feet. He had risen early and was now wearing clothes that looked like leather, with several satchels wrapped around his neck and a hunter’s knife in his belt.

Robinson was still drowsy as he followed the Old Man up the steps. Twice the man stopped to hit him with his stick. Only after the second time did Robinson realize it was because his footfalls were making too much noise. He apologized but was met with a look of disgust.

When they reached the third floor, the Old Man put his ear to the door, then carefully removed the metal bar and pushed it open. The renders were gone but had left quite a wake. Stacks of books were overturned and torn pages were strewn everywhere. Walls were gouged and great arterial sprays of blood colored the walls; there were no carcasses to trace them back to.

Outside, the Old Man looked upward, presumably to gauge the time. Then he turned to Robinson, grunted, and walked off. He waited a few moments before following. Robinson’s limp had become more pronounced. The debris of the road ate at the scabs on his feet, but the pain was nothing compared to the Old Man’s spear as its dull end struck him in the gut. Robinson gasped for several seconds before he looked up. The Old Man pointed down the road.

“But I want to stay with you,” he said.

The Old Man shook his head and walked off. Robinson hobbled after him.

“Ser, please—” he began.

The Old Man stopped and raised the spear again, pointing back toward the river. “Zuo,” he said.

Robinson shook his head. The staff cut through the air and struck his thigh in the exact spot as the night before. It burned like fire, but he refused to go down.

“I’m coming with you,” Robinson said.

The Old Man spun with unbelievable speed and struck a crushing blow to his other leg. This time his knee buckled, but he bit back the pain and stood again.

“Zuo!” the Old Man barked.

Robinson shook his head again. The Old Man grit his teeth and stalked off at a quicker pace. His athleticism continued to surprise Robinson, as his stride became a jog. A man his age should have never been so fleet of foot. But even with the soles of his feet burning, Robinson was determined not to lose him.

“My father once told me,” he yelled, ten meters back, “that in certain cultures of the ancient world, when you save someone’s life, it becomes yours to care for. Isn’t that interesting?”

The Old Man ignored him.

“Look, I’m more than willing to carry my share of the load. Hunting. Foraging. Whatever you require. I’m not even above cleaning. And trust me, that hovel of yours? It needs cleaning!”

He picked up even more speed.

“You know this is ridiculous, right? I mean, I know where you live!”

Still he continued, down roads and through a tunnel. Every time he pulled away, Robinson pressed himself to catch up with him.

“Fine!” he yelled. “You want to run away? You want to leave me? Then go! But don’t act like it’s because I’m a kid! Don’t act like I’m too big a burden and I’d put you at risk! We both know the truth is that you’re too big a coward
not
to go at it alone!”

The Old Man stopped. Words were meaningless, but he understood tone. He understood respect and this insignificant boy whose life he had saved was showing him none. Robinson expected a quick attack when he walked back to him. Instead, he stopped a few short feet away and held his staff out.

“I don’t understand,” Robinson said. “You’re giving me your staff?”

He thrust it forward again.

“Ah. You want me to
take
it. So this is what? A test? I take the staff from a one-armed man, and I get to stay?”

The Old Man nodded.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

The Old Man circled away, his eyes never leaving his target. Robinson knew he was outmatched, but he’d made a habit out of getting lucky. He was counting the times in the last two days when the staff had exploded across the top of his left leg. The Old Man grinned, but there was no humor in it. He was set to teach the boy a lesson or kill him.

The staff spun and continued to bite, each strike more painful than the last. Remembering his fight with Brapo, Robinson decided to charge, only when he swung at him, the Old Man was gone. The staff was plowed into his stomach a second later, and then across the back of his legs. He tumbled to the ground.

Robinson watched his abuser walk a few feet away, turn, and nod again. This time, the boy circled toward the arm with his missing hand. He saw a subtle nod of appreciation before the Old Man attacked again.

The staff came from every angle and he could do nothing to avoid it. His placement was perfect. Soon, Robinson’s legs, arms, shoulders, and back were all numb. The staff seemed to spin in a complex rhythm, casting a spell on the boy. He never saw the crevasse until he was falling over its edge.

The Old Man watched him scramble for purchase. His supple fingers were all that was keeping him from plummeting into the deep hole in the street. The Old Man held his gaze and then brought the staff down inches from the boy’s hands.

“Zuo,” he barked.

Robinson crawled out from the hole. He felt an incredible rage. He looked around and saw a piece of metal rebar sticking out of the broken earth. He wrenched it out, kicked the dirt from one end, and held it in the air. The Old Man’s eyes narrowed. He turned, walked two steps, and waved the boy forward.

Robinson rounded the crevasse and swung the rebar with everything he had. He hit nothing but air. He swung it again and again and came up empty. Each attack, he put his whole body into the swing but never got close to hitting his target. The Old Man never appeared frightened or winded. Why should he? Robinson was defeating himself.

Only when the boy stood gasping in the street did the Old Man answer. He expected it on the shoulder or leg, but the first swing hit him flush across the mouth. Blood sprayed across his shirt and he fell to the ground just in time to put a hand up as the second blow followed. It struck him just above the elbow. He felt his arm crack on impact.

Robinson rolled to his right, groaning with pain, just as the next strike hit the ground inches from his face. He tried to rise but the flat end of the staff slammed into his stomach with so much force he thought his guts would explode. The next shot came down on his clavicle. The one after that pounded his calf.

He struggled to his feet, but a strike to his ear had his entire body off balance. He felt blood streaming down his cheek and chest, but the pain only followed in thuds, dull and blunt. Sound faded until there were only a slight ringing and the Old Man’s exhalations that accompanied each strike.

For his part, the Old Man went about his task with grim proficiency. When he’d started, his thrusts had moved faster than the eye could see. But with each strike that followed, Robinson began to see the art of it all. His body moved fluidly, using the inertia of his weapon to lead him. Each route spurred by the impact of its predecessor. His body mimicked the boy’s, as if caught in a dance—leader and follower, puppeteer and marionette—so that every direction his energy flowed, his staff would be waiting to meet it.

The final blow struck Robinson just above the temple. The ground rushed up to meet him.

“
Gousufi
,” the Old Man said.

When he was certain the message was delivered, he turned and walked away.

“Well, Rabbit,” he heard Jaras say. “You know how it’s done.”

Robinson strained to look up, but all he saw were stars and sun.

“Just give us a whimper, yea? A little snivel and it’ll all be over.”

He tried to smile, but all that came out was blood.

“Come on, Rabbit,” he said before drawing closer to whisper into his ear. “It’s who you are.”

Of course he was right.

He’d always been right.

The Old Man was halfway down the block when the scrape of metal halted him in his tracks. He was slow to turn, certain his eyes would confirm his ears’ mistake. But he did turn, just in time to see Robinson rise unshakably to his feet.

He remained motionless for what seemed like forever. But when he started walking back, Robinson knew it was to finish him off. The question wasn’t whether he would succeed, but how the final blow would come.

Then he stopped in front of the boy, his face unreadable. Robinson hadn’t realized he was crying until the Old Man wiped a single tear from his face. Then, with his handless arm, he maneuvered his staff to the rivulet of blood running down the boy’s leg. He raised both the staff with blood and his finger with tears.

He was asking the boy to choose.

There was no option.

Robinson chose blood.

He thought things would get easier. Or that by earning a modicum of the Old Man’s respect, he might also earn his favor. But neither were the case. The only courtesy Robinson received was a single nod before the Old Man turned and headed back in the direction of the library. Following was the longest, most painful trip of his life.

Once back in the safety of his haven, the Old Man pulled the blankets from his bed, revealing a cache of weapons, both scavenged and forged. Unlike the rest of his possessions, these were kept in perfect condition and were neatly arranged.

Beneath the weapons were several small satchels of herbs. He drew them out and used them to fashion poultices that he applied to the boy’s wounds. When he rubbed a particularly nasty balm deep into the cuts on Robinson’s feet, the boy cried out. A backhand split the bridge of his nose.

He never cried out again.

Four days passed before he was allowed to leave the stairwell and venture back into the light of day. By then, the Old Man had scavenged a pair of boots and some clothes for him to wear. They fit surprisingly well. His body was bruised and tender. His elbow was swollen and bloody. But it worked, so the boy didn’t complain.

Robinson’s biggest surprise was that the Old Man was not a great hunter. Or, at least, he wasn’t an
active
hunter. He preferred to trap and snare instead. He had made cages out of old wire and deposited them around town, usually in the areas where larger renders had trouble getting to. Each morning, they would set out in a circular route to check them. When one had an animal inside, the Old Man would kill it, strip it, and put it in his bag. If a trap had a rendered animal inside, he would kill the animal, then take the trap to the closest source of water to clean it thoroughly. Afterward, he would replace the trap and leave a dollop of paste made of nuts, mushrooms, and insects as bait.

The Old Man also carried netting. Whenever he heard birds chirping from a bush, he would approach carefully to toss the net over it. His hand would then dart in, grab hold of the bird, and snap its neck between his thumb and forefinger. The first few times he did it, Robinson jumped and won a stick across the legs for his squeamishness.

Atop the library, the Old Man kept several large drums to collect rainwater. When it was hot, he would cover them with a tarp to keep it from evaporating. He had other reservoirs along the food route too. Robinson once tried to explain the dangers of bacteria. Pain taught him silence was more important than cleanliness.