The Savage Boy (19 page)

47

T
HE VILLAGE LAY
on the far side of a muddy estuary. They passed long-gone fields that had lingered through a hard winter. A cemetery of wrecked boats wallowed near the entrance to the estuary.

They crossed a small road leading to a wide bridge.

The village was little more than a line of warehouses from Before, arranged along a narrow road running the length of the islet. An ancient and rusting large commercial fishing boat, now rigged with a mast and furled sail, had come into port to unload the night’s catch. Villagers flocked to its side as the fish were unloaded in great netted bundles.

“Where do we go?” asked the Boy. He was leading Horse while Jin rode.

“Take us to that long hall there. We should be able to . . . purchase there. Remember . . . say nothing. Otherwise they will think you are more than just . . . my servant.”

The Boy led them onto the street and they pass down its length until they reach the parking lot of an old warehouse. Fish were being trundled within by handcart.

The Boy helped Jin down from Horse. She adjusted her robe, insuring the bag of silver coins was tucked within her sleeve.

Then they wandered the stalls.

There was little they needed to purchase beyond a large, wide wok made by a local blacksmith. At another stall she purchased oil and spices. Later they find a few more blankets of good quality and some rice. Finally they decide upon two large bags to carry their purchases.

The sun was high overhead when they exited the warehouse. They smelled frying oil and saw the villagers gathered around a large fire where a bubbling cauldron seethed and hissed. Strips of fish were being fried and quickly eaten.

A villager, jolly and smiling, waved them over.

The villagers talked with Jin in animated Chinese. The Boy held Horse and shortly Jin returned with a woven grass plate of fried fish and a small shell full of dark sauce.

The jolly villager smiled at them as they stood in the warm sunshine eating the fish, dipping it in the pungent, salty sauce.

“I do not . . . think . . . they care . . .”

“Care for what?”

“Care that we . . . we are together.”

“We could stay and join their village?”

“No . . . that will never be possible. In time the leaders will send someone to look for me . . . they will find us here. And then it does not matter what the villagers care for. Still . . . all the same it is nice that they do not care. Maybe one day things will change.”

The Boy said nothing.

If he had to mark this place on Sergeant Presley’s map he would write, the Village of Happy People.

They mounted Horse and turned toward the south.

It was bright and hazy with mist.

“What lies that way is unknown,” she said. “We are at . . . the edge.”

Then, my whole life has been at the edge.

He turned to her.

She looked up at him. Her eyes shone darkly in the bright sunlight.

“I hope things change for . . . all people . . . one day. I hope they will have then the happiness we have now,” he said.

“Me too.”

They rode south onto a long beach where the surf thundered against the shore and white sandy cliffs rose above them.

In the afternoon, the sky turned gray and the wind was whipped with salt and water.

“A storm is coming on shore,” she said.

In time, while there was still light in the sky, they came upon old wooden buildings surrounded by drifting dunes. The wood was gray with salt and sun and age. Bone-white fingers of driftwood poked through the sand.

“We’ll camp here tonight.”

48

I
N THE NIGHT,
surrounded by the warm silence of the dunes, the Boy heard the breaking waves beyond their camp rolling hard onto the beach.

We will continue straight into the south, he thought. According to the map there was an old highway that ran along the coast there.

He thought of the map in his mind. He saw Monterey south of where they were now, a place called Carmel and the old highway south to Los Angeles.

Everyone knew Los Angeles was destroyed. Sergeant Presley always said so.

On the map there was a large red X across Los Angeles.

They will not follow us there.

You would say,
You think so, Boy.

And

Or do you hope so?

I am doing the best I can, Sergeant.

And

I know. I just got to ride ya, Boy. Make ya check yourself.

I know. You would say that to me. You would tell me to be both cautious and sure at once.

The breaking waves pounded the shore beyond the silence of the dunes.

If we could live here . . .

When he returned to their fire, Jin had reorganized their packs.

Sergeant Presley’s lay open.

There was the knife.

The flannel shirt.

And the gray feather with the broken spine.

“I have . . . never seen a feather like this . . . before,” she said, holding it up, inspecting it. “Where did it come from?”

The Boy knelt down beside her.

“I don’t know.”

“Boy” is what they called you. It’s the only thing you responded to. So “Boy” it is.

But why then did you keep the feather, Sergeant? Why is its touch almost familiar? As though it meant something once . . . about me.

I remember being carried as we ran. There was yellow grass and a blue sky. Someone, a woman, was screaming.

And the feather.

And . . .

“I think, it was once my name.”

She stared at the feather.

Then she looked at the Boy.

She said nothing.

I
N THE MORNING,
the Boy smelled other horses coming out of the north.

They could have been anyone’s horses. Even wild ones, roaming. He’d seen them before.

But he knew it was a lie even if the voice of Sergeant Presley didn’t tell him so.

They’d be coming.

“Let’s go.”

Soon they were dressed and away from the bones of the old lodge sinking into the dunes. Horse threw up a great spray of sand as they kicked away from its ruin.

Farther down the beach there was no smell of horses. The Boy listened to the wind.

He heard no
jink
of harness and tack.

No cries of men calling to one another as they searched.

Behind him, the Boy saw the trail of Horse through the sand and grass and knew they were not hard to follow.

There was little left of the place once called Monterey, the skeletal remains of a few tall buildings, the foundations of many smaller buildings consumed by fire and forest. Massive green pines grew in wicked clumps up through the old roads and foundations.

They rode up a long hill of once-neighborhoods that are now little more than ancient charred wood overgrown by sea grass and pine. Just before starting down the other side, the Boy turns to scan their backtrail.

He saw the men on horses coming for them.

A line of riders picked their way along an old road. Ahead of them he saw individuals running back and forth across the fields and ruins, searching for their trail.

The Boy urged Horse and they rode hard over the small saddle of the mountain and down into a forest the map would name Carmel. Huge foundations of houses that once must have been little palaces dotted the sides of their track. The forest floor was littered with pine nettles and thick brush.

They will follow us easily, thought the Boy.

Off to his right and down toward the rocky coast, he could see the remains of other ancient stone palaces crumbling into the sea.

Don’t just run, think.

They’re following you like dogs.

You would say that, Sergeant, wouldn’t you?

We can’t run. Horse might fall and then that would be then end of us.

I could start a fire to cover our trail.

Too damp from the storm.

Stay ahead of them for now and look for a place to lead them into a trap.

It’s all I can do.

“Is everything . . . good?” asked Jin.

“Yes. We are good.”

But he heard her worry. He thought of what traps he might make.

What do I have?

The tomahawk.

The rifle.

What remains of the parachute cord.

Two knives.

It’s not much.

It is all I have.

T
HEY KNOW WE
are on their trail, thought Shao Fan.

He rolled a cigarette and wished it was the weed he smoked at night, alone, in the dark.

I have been too many days at this.

You are an assassin.

There is no rest for the assassin.

No rest for the wicked.

He looked at the marks on the ground.

The horse had turned several times. They must have watched them come up the valley.

We will have to watch their trail for traps now. It is their only chance to escape us.

‘Savages! he thought, and spit bits of tobacco out onto the forest floor.

The afternoon was ending. Shadows long and blue surrounded his company.

How much longer can I push them? They are cold and hungry and if they miss a sign or the makings of a trap . . . then disaster.

He told them to make camp. They would sleep until morning and be fresh for the trail.

Besides, the savage and the girl are running into the poison lands where no one may go and live long. They are up against a wall. They will have to turn or stand and fight.

He thought of his lacquered box of weed. Since they are camping, he reasoned to himself.

“Be careful who you love,” he mumbled and set to loading his pipe.

49

T
H
E NEXT DAY,
Shao Fan watched the old house as his men entered it. The day was hot and the air smelled of pine and mustard.

Spring is upon us.

Think about this business, he chastised himself.

They’d risen early and the sleep had done them good. They’d picked up the trail of the fugitives in the first light of the cold and misty morning and followed them down into the hot valley.

They are heading for the coast road, Shao Fan told himself all along. Which seemed a good thing, at least as far as he, Shao Fan, was concerned. He could increase speed, now that their prey’s options were narrowing between the sea and the mountains.

But in the dry and dusty ruins south of Carmel, the trail drew them to an old “mansion.”

Perhaps they were not aware of our pursuit after all and have stopped to enjoy rest and forbidden pleasure, thought Shao Fan.

The two scouts, long knives in hand, crossed the open yard and entered the rotting house through two separate broken windows. The scouts thread the remaining shards of glass nicely and are in with barely a noise.

Well-trained men make work easy.

After a moment there was a creaking groan, too quickly followed by a thunderous crash. Plumes of ancient dust expelled themselves through the broken windows like smoke from the mouth of a corpse.

When the dust settled, the hunters and Shao Fan moved forward to find that the second floor had collapsed onto the two scouts within, crushing them.

A trap, thought Shao Fan.

A
HEAD,
THE MOUNTAINS
fell down to the sea, and in glimpses the Boy and Jin caught the silver remains of the coast highway winding away to the south in the afternoon sun.

Jin smiled at him when he turned to show her the road, and in his heart her doubts and fears disappeared.

They won’t follow us much farther.

You would tell me,
You hope, Boy. You hope for that.

I do.

The parachute cord is gone and my traps will be crude now. They will be wary, knowing I have skill with traps.

They don’t know I am out of the parachute cord.

The Boy stopped occasionally to create bent limb traps spiked with sharpened stakes. He felt rushed as he worked and they were not his best. But each one would slow them down, and in time they would crawl, the more they were taught not to run.

T
HE FIRST TRAP
took two scouts. Shao Fan was now down to just three scouts and the hunters.

An hour later, a limb snapped forward and blinded one of the three remaining scouts as stakes raked his eyes and face.

The man will lose an eye, thought Shao Fan.

I should let the hunters go and ride this savage down.

But how many will you lose?

And Shao Fan found that he did not care. He wanted to be finished with this, as he was finished every time they hauled the violator aloft while the noose tightened about the neck.

No screams.

Just the dance.

Finished.

I want every time to be the last time.

But they never learn . . .

. . . so there will be no end to it.

To think that my days will always be such . . .

And Shao Fan was too exhausted and too depressed, if he were to admit the truth, to finish the thought. He assigned the blinded scout to a hunter. The man will be tied to his horse to follow along after the hunting party.

T
HEY AVOIDED THE
next two traps now that the scouts knew what to look for.

They moved much slower than Shao Fan would like, but they had to.

T
H
E
B
OY CONSIDERED
the old ruins that hung over the cliff near the sea. The coast road ran like a moving snake past them and on to the south.

The Boy wanted to take the coast road now. He wanted to ride hard to the south, and in time their pursuers would turn back, or so he thought.

And what if they didn’t?

Then there would be just the road between the mountains and the sea. There would be no place to hide. Once they chose the coast road, their pursuers would ride them down and they would be left with very few options.

Ruined walls crumbled along a wide plateau that ended over the ocean in a rocky black cliff above waves that slopped in great troughs and wallops against the continent.

What traps do I have left?

How many have I taken in the traps and how many of our pursuers are left?

How many traps will I need to make until they lose the will to follow?

How many traps until they are too angry to stop?

If we ride the coast road, they’ll follow and follow quickly. They’ll know we can only go one direction and if they get close enough I won’t be able to stop and make traps. So it is in their best interest to get close, to show me they are close.

They heard the surf boom distantly below the cliff as it smashed itself into the jagged rocks. It was late afternoon and the sun was falling toward the ocean.

The Boy and Jin walked the ruins, crossing through a crumbling lobby where a large and tattered canvas hung on the wall. In the sooty picture, windswept eucalyptus trees twisted in the nook of a hill as tall grass bent toward a horizon of blue skies and soft white clouds. And though the sea was not represented in the picture, the Boy knew it must be nearby.

Chairs and couches had long since been smashed for firewood. Beyond this there was a large swimming pool, cracked and empty. Dirty rainwater had collected in its depths. Wild palms had erupted through the crumbling pavement. Beyond all this was the main building, every window empty, every door missing. There were long, dark halls along which rotting hotel rooms, forever waiting to be occupied, stretched off into the darkness.

We could make a stand here, the Boy thought.

We will make our stand here.

Two knives.

One tomahawk.

One rifle.

Cartridges.

You take everything with you.

They wandered to the back of the ancient ruin, crossing long, dark hallways of disintegrating carpet and mildewing rooms. At the end of it all they came to a great room that overlooked the ocean. Out to sea, the water and waves raced off to the south.

“Wait here,” he said to Jin.

“No. I want to come with you.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need to see what’s above us.”

“Then . . . so will I.”

Above they found two more floors, the same as the first, clotted with rotting furniture along their long halls, and at the top a door led out onto the roof. The roof was littered with palm fronds by countless storms.

“We will fight them from here.” Then, “Once they are all dead we will be free to go where we will.”

Jin nodded. The wind pulled at her long hair.

“I . . . believe you.”

In the hours that followed, they stripped electrical wire and cables from inside the walls. They found ancient metal fixtures, rusting and jagged.

There were no weapons.

No propane tanks that had not long since been gouged.

No firearms to find.

No knives to loot.

But still they made traps.

Traps where a floor might fall from above if a certain pillar was loosed by a taut cable disturbed in the debris.

Traps where boards fitted with jagged rusting metal might snap forward as a careless foot dragged electrical wiring along its path.

They blocked the entrances to the second floor so that the entire first floor would have to be traversed before ascending to the next floor. They did the same for the second and finally the third.

They were sweating hard and the Boy felt his strength fading as they hauled out ancient rotting furniture and stuffed it into the stairways, blocking off all avenues of approach other than the one the Boy has decided the pursuers must choose. After this, he turned to making barricades where he could shoot with his rifle down the long dark hallways as the enemy threaded the gauntlet of traps.

I wish I had both arms, he thought, the dark outside telling him night had fallen. Jin’s face, shining in the light of their torch from the sweat of her exertions, came close to his.

“Now, I . . . am your . . . left.” She touched the withered arm he had hidden and protected and cursed his whole life.

I must have said that out loud. I am very tired.

Together they built the last barriers.

It was late when they settled in the farthest room beneath the roof. A once grand suite. They had a small fire and Jin made rice in her wok. There were eggs also. And tea.

They made love. He held her close and she whispered over and over in his ear that she loved him.

That she loved Broken Feather.

L
A
TER, AS SHE
slept he thought of the feather in Sergeant Presley’s pack.

She is my left arm now.

My left side.

Me.

Broken Feather.

He slept for a while and when he awoke it was still deep night.

There was a little more to do.

Jin did not wake as he took his charcoal and a small torch. For the rest of the night he worked at the faces he sketched near the traps. Or sometimes along a mildewing wall where he would get a good shot from the barricades.

Something to distract them from his traps and hiding places.

It was just before dawn when he left to feed Horse. He gave Horse water and walked him down onto the beach. He whispered the things he always whispered to Horse. Things that made Horse feel good about himself.

Vainglorious things.

He staked Horse in the tree line beyond the beach to the south. There was a little water and grass. If they didn’t make it, in time Horse would pull free. Be free.

He patted Horse one last time and looked deep into the eyes of his friend.

Trying to read his mind as he’d always tried to do.

Failing as he’d always failed.

He returned to their bed and lay down, taking everything in. Listening to the morning. The offshore wind, smelling of salt and fruit. The gray light turning to gold. The old place.

They were coming now.

In sleep Jin drew closer to him and murmured something in her dream.

“Now I am your left.”