The Bone Wall (11 page)

Behind us, the men’s residence begins to smoke, an oily stench drifting over us. As we watch, the blaze prowls through the rooms and leaps through smashed windows to curl over the roof, the night sky aglow. Somewhere below us, a woman is pleading and crying over the sounds of grunting and laughter.

Biter women carry shrieking children toward the torchlight winking in the field, Heaven’s women stumbling on their heels or prodded by men with spears. Others Biters drape themselves in our clothes, pull our bedding from our quarters and drag it across the stones. Men urinate on the bodies in the pathways and rape between the buildings. They drag dead sheep and pigs from our barn, lug baskets of food from our kitchen, and stuff their mouths, spitting what overflows to the stones.

On the back of Glory, Mag scans the chaos, shouting orders and pointing with her staff, the young biter, Rune, loping at her side, and I wonder if she searches for us. Two biters hold my mother by her wrists and ankles, hauling her away as she twists between them, her pale hair sweeping the dirt. Angel sobs and I press her head down so she won’t see, her forehead resting on the roof, body leaden and shivering in the cold wind blowing across Heaven, one with the broken world.

“Stay there.” I touch her shoulder before I slither away on my belly across the roof to stare at the roaring fire of the men’s residence, the heat intense on my face. I snatch our blankets in a fist and snake back, dragging them behind me. She cries as I tuck a blanket around her. “I’m sorry, Angel,” I whisper in her ear. “I’m sorry no one listened. I’m sorry it’s all so wrong.” I lie on my back and use my tongue to locate the splinters of glass in my palm, scraping them out with a fingernail. Drums thump their steady beat as smoke and the scent of roasting meat blows over us. I haven’t eaten since morning and the smell is as tantalizing as it is torturous. I listen to the howling and grunting, the shrill ululation of victory, the laughter and cheers of Biters around the fires as Heaven burns. Now and again, I hear someone scream or cry out in the darkness, a distant keening behind the strident celebration, the roar of Hell, and hope that means we aren’t the only ones to survive.

10

~Angel~

A hand over my mouth wakes me with a start.

“Shhh. Shhh. It’s me.” At my vigorous nod, Rimma slowly withdraws her fingers. “We have to get down from here.”

“No,” I whimper, drawing my blanket over me. My whole body shivers with unbearable cold. Stars still linger, quivering in the vast night sky, but behind the eastern mountains, dawn pearls, stretching over the horizon. “We should stay here, Rimma.”

“We have no food, no water, Angel.” Rimma rolls her blanket up, and secures her knives and sickles in her belt. She studies her spear and leaves it where it lies. “We leave now or we’re here another day. Roll up your blanket and tie it tight.” She tosses me a length of rope.

Reluctantly, I squirm from my wool covering, never so cold in my life. I roll it up, complaining to myself as I tie a knot. Rimma frowns at my sloppy job, but her mouth stays shut. She carries our blankets to the side opposite the ladder and drops them down one at a time. They land with soft thuds. She waits, crouching among the creepers and listening. A finger to her lips, she crosses the roof and swings a leg over the edge. “Stay close.”

As soon as her head dips below me, I follow, stepping down each rung as she withdraws her hand, shaking so hard I fear I’ll slip and fall on her head. The ladder lurches, breaking from the wall in a shower of fine dust and bits of mortar. The thick vines of the creepers keep it from collapsing, holding us teetering in place as I swallow the urge to vomit. Rimma jumps the last few rungs, landing lightly, and I scramble down after her. She grabs my hand and we dart around the corner into Mag’s staff.

The butt of the staff punches me in the stomach, my breath erupting from my lungs in a sudden whoosh. Gasping, I fold over, my legs turned to water and bringing me to my knees. Mag cackles and teeters as I wheeze, her stick drawn back in gnarled fists for another blow. Behind her, the giant, Glory, wears a friendly smile, while at her side Rune studies Rimma, our blankets at his feet, the corner of his lip quirked up in amusement.

Rimma backs up a step along the wall, wild-eyed, old blood on her face from the glass. I know she won’t leave me and haven’t the breath to tell her to run.

“Well, well, what’s this, eh? Thinking to cheat old Mag out of her claim?” She plants her staff with a wince, her lips pinched. “Should’ve done as you were told. Saved yourselves a whole lot of dying and us a waste of trouble.” She nods at Glory. “We found our doves. Let’s get them over with the others.”

“You broke your word,” Rimma accuses her.

“Pah!” she barks. “You think I’m a fucking magician?” Then she chuckles as if she’s told us a joke and flicks a testy hand at the air. “Fools running in the dark, waving hammers and shovels, hiding when you should be kneeling with the others.” She wriggles her shoulders. “Fucking back giving me pains, Glory boy. Time to go.”

“I don’t trust you,” Rimma hisses as she steps into the pathway, fury in her eyes, every muscle in her body taut.

“No, Rimma,” I squeak, my breath scarcely returned as I stagger to my feet, a hand pressed to my belly.

Gleaming sickles slide from her belt. She raises the right one behind her ear, the curved blade like polished platinum in dawn’s golden glow. In her left hand, the other reaper rests by her hip, her wrist turned out.

“By the gates of Hell,” Mag says, “Our little hawk sharpened her talons.” She waves Rune toward Rimma. “Just get her and don’t hurt nothing too serious. Don’t wreck the nose.”

“Rimma, please,” I beg as the lean Biter starts circling her, shaking his head, crooked smile unchanged.

“Stay back,” Rimma warns me, pivoting as the man shifts to her left, her eyes determined and scared to death. Her blades slash forward and whip back into the mirrored stance I’ve seen her practice a hundred times. Rune’s fist pops out and smacks her in the middle of her forehead. She goes down hard as a rock.

“Rimma!” I shriek and stumble toward her as Rune squats to roll her groaning body over and collect her knives. He slides them in his belt and picks up the sickles that flew to the stone path when he punched her. “Rimma?” I kneel beside her without any idea what to do. She blinks at me in a cloudy daze.

“Rune, carry that one until she starts fighting back.” Mag nudges Rimma’s thigh with her staff and then pokes me. “Don’t you run away and start more trouble. Hear me, Dove?”

“Yes, Mag.” I nod, afraid she’ll strike me again.

“Glory, my boy, give old broke Mag a lift now,” she beckons to the smiling Biter.

“Getho.” The big man bends down to accept Mag on his back. I step away from Rimma as Rune pulls her up by an arm and bends her over his shoulder as if she’s a sack of milled wheat, her pale hair spilling down the back of his thighs. As my shivers return, I quickly grab our rolled blankets and do as I’m told.

Just shy of the wheat field, the remnants of Heaven’s descendants sit in the dirt, some bloodied, all grimy. I see more of us than I’d hoped for, though I count few men among our numbers. Deacon Abrum kneels and blubbers, his swollen face darkening with bruises. I’ve no pity to spare and look away.

With a grunt, Rune drops Rimma to the ground where she curls her body, her palms to her forehead and eyes closed. Mag hands him a stiff little wire sporting a marked bead that he quickly stabs through her ear lobe. She yelps and twists as he grips her by the hair. “Lie still,” he whispers while I gape at the drop of blood oozing around the wire. When she obeys, he releases her hair and twists the wire closed.

“Why did you do that?” I ask, glancing from Rune to Mag. “What is that?”

“My claim,” Mag replies. “Now the others know you’re mine. Stand up, Dove. I’ll have to do yours myself until I figure out how to undo your magic.” I find my feet, head bubbling with questions as I stare at the little wire in her crooked fingers. “A little lower and don’t be putting your grubby fingers all over it when I’m done,” Mag instructs. My knees bend a few inches and she jabs the wire through my ear, drawing a wince, my eyes watering. She tugs on my lobe as she twists the wire. “Now sit down and stay put. Hear me?”

“Yes.” I sink to the dirt beside Rimma.

“Don’t be wandering off. Until this is all sorted out, it ain’t safe for a couple doves. Others been fed already, so Rune will bring a bit of food; see you eat before you skinny down to sticks.” She waves Rune off to run her errand. Glory waits patiently, hands at his side, smiling amiably at the frightened faces that happen to glance his way.

“Why do you call us doves?” I ask, my questions starting to tumble from my mouth.

Her eyes narrowed, Mag looks down at me. “Had a man between your legs?” The shock on my face answers her question. “Didn’t think so. Doves are worth a good trade in the north,
good
trade, especially ones from the bone walls, pretty faces and not about to drop flat dead with sickness or squeeze out children twisted like screws or dumb as Glory here.” She peers up at the big Biter. “That right, boy?”

“Getho,” Glory says with a smile.

“You’re going to…trade us? To who? What do you mean?”

“Could mean a lot of things,” Mag replies. “Different folk got their own ways all through the land. River Walkers is different than Black Dogs is different from Two Timber and the rest. Depends who wants you bad enough.”

“But I—”

“Dove,” Mag raps me on the knee with her staff, “you got a load of questions I’m in no mind to answer. Glory, over here, boy.” The Biter bends down and loads Mag on his broad back. She grumbles instructions and the two lumber off.

“She owns us and plans to sell us,” Rimma murmurs, rolling to her side and struggling to sit. A red knot swells in the middle of her forehead. “That’s what she means. Whoever buys us can do as they wish; sell us, work us, fuck and breed us, maybe kill us.”

“How do you know?” My hand rises to my mouth, my stomach queasy as I swallow down big gulps of fright.

“I need one of those blankets, Angel.”

My shaking fingers claw at the knots, yanking them apart. I shake out a blanket and drape it around Rimma’s shoulders before untying mine. The wire through my earlobe stings and I reach up to touch the small bead.

Rimma’s chin rests on her knees, her arms wrapping her shins, hair a tangled white fall. Her gray eyes watch me, hard as steel, drilling into me as a cold smile crosses her lips. “Trust me, Angel, it’ll never happen.” She sounds so sure.

An hour passes before the muscled Biter, Greeb, appears with a half loaf of hard bread and a slab of dry meat, no doubt left over from the night’s gorging.

A lanky man with wiry brown hair stands behind him, licking his lips and snickering, eyes darting from Greeb to Rimma. “That the one?”

“Shut your mouth, Sloot.” Greeb tosses the food to Rimma and hands her the flagon of water he wore slung on a strap over his shoulder. He squats in front of her, elbows on his thighs, black hair hiding his face from me. “Could be I’ll buy you,” he whispers to her, leaning in and fingering her hair.

“You can’t afford me, Biter,” Rimma snarls, slapping his hand away.

“Maybe not,” he laughs and swiftly grabs her hair, twisting her to the ground, her face just below his knee. I scramble backwards, searching for help, but everyone pretends not to see. Rimma holds his wrist, her eyes wide as he keeps her pinned below him with one hand and rips her blouse open with the other. “Mag better watch her dove, eh? Wouldn’t want your price to drop.” He thumps her head to the ground once, stretches as he straightens, and then strides away, Sloot giggling on his heels.

“Rimma?” I crawl to where she’s rolled to her side, holding her blouse closed. She makes no sound as she cries, her body tightening and releasing her despair and anger in long breathy sighs. I’m almost afraid to touch her but gently stroke her arm. I know she wants to be strong and fierce, to protect me from this broken world, but I think we both know she hasn’t the power. “Rimma?”

Her battered face stays buried in her hair, but I hear her well enough. “He’s a dead man.”

**

Biters circulate among us, wiring and beading ears, sorting us, herding us into groups. Their women wander among us too, wearing looted clothes, asking about the smallest children and carrying the tots of Paradise away in their arms. One woman, black hair thick as uncarded wool, her arms and legs dark as mahogany and streaked with soot, suckles a screaming infant, the child’s cries softening into mewling whimpers and ending as its belly fills. The woman smiles and hums as tears carve through the grime of her cheeks. In time, she rises and cradles the sleeping baby away.

The men of Heaven, those who survived, toil in our pine forest, cutting wood to burn our dead in the shorn wheat field. Bodies trundle by all morning in our vegetable carts, blanket-draped so we won’t recognize their faces. Biters supervise the grim march, dour-mouthed and dark-eyed, armed, should anyone opt for death. From where I sit, I can’t see the flames, but an acrid smoke blows heavily through the pines, blending with iron gray clouds. Women around me mourn and comfort. Shock, anger, and grief flood over us, drowning us and receding only to thunder in again. Our keening voices rise with the oily smoke, and then hungry and cold, our thoughts drift again to survival; we close our eyes and pretend we dream. Until the next cart rolls by.