Stands a Shadow

Chapter FORTY-TWO

Dining with the Natives



When the family of Contrarè saw him walking along the riverbank towards their hut, caked from scalp to foot in hardened mud and with his fierce eyes staring, his sword in his hand, they stopped what they were doing and opened their mouths agape as though he was some bog monster come to pillage them. In an instant they had taken flight into the trees.

Ash could hardly blame them, for he knew what a sight he must be. As he picked his way along the bank of the Chilos, he whistled an old tune so they would know at least that he was human. When he came to the small clearing before their hut of sticks and leaves, he stopped before the smoking fire, with the pot of boiling fish stew hanging above it, and sat down with weary groan and helped himself to it.

The forest folk failed to reappear, though he knew they watched him from the undergrowth. He heard one of them knocking rapidly on wood. Moments later, the signal was returned from deeper within the forest.

To placate them before they started any trouble, he rummaged around in his filthy trousers where he fumbled with the drawstrings of his purse. At last he produced a coin from it, a whole golden eagle, and held the small fortune over his head so they could see. ‘It is yours,’ he called out, and carefully laid it down on a wooden chopping block that stood in the dirt nearby. ‘I will not be long here. Just passing through.’

He felt that was enough to buy him a little time. He went to the water’s edge and stripped off his stiff clothes and scrubbed himself down with handfuls of leather-leaves, using their rough undersides as he hummed a tune from Honshu. He washed his clothes next, almost rags by now, and let them dry in the breeze as he sat on the bank and watched the waterfowl cluck and preen themselves in the water.

There were two canoes tied to the shore. When he was dressed and ready to leave, he stepped into one carefully and lay down his sword and picked up the paddle. He sat and nudged the boat out into the flow.

‘My thanks!’ he called out to the people as he held up a hand.

The breeze played noisily through the bushes. The trees creaked overhead.

They both woke at the same time, and lay there beneath the blanket, blinking at each other bleary-eyed and dirty, the sounds of the camp all around them.

‘Good morning,’ Ché said with a smile, and Curl smiled back at him.

He watched her roll onto her back and stretch, then sit up and look about her. She took a sniff of her leathers, wrinkled her nose. ‘I need a wash,’ she announced.

He limped down to the river with Curl helping to support him. His wound had been cleaned and stitched the night before, though it still hurt enough to make him pant. Together they washed naked in the river, Curl drawing the eyes of the men there, soldiers and civilians alike, until Ché scowled at them, and they made their interest less obvious.

He’d heard of the spiritual properties of the Chilos. And even though he hardly believed in such things, he dunked himself anyway, and tried to make himself believe there was truth in it. All the while, he wondered what he would do with himself now, what he was even doing here with this girl he’d grown fond of so quickly.

Afterwards, they helped themselves to breakfast in one of the military mess tents that had been set up amongst the encampment. He saw Curl look about her for faces she knew. She talked to a couple of them, asking after a few people by name, pleased when she heard they still lived.

Together, they took their wooden platters outside and sat on a mound of grass to eat their plain meals of hash and beans.

‘What is that thing?’ he asked Curl as she absently fingered the wooden charm about her neck.

‘This?’ she said, noticing herself playing with it. ‘My ally.’

‘Yes?’

‘It looks after me,’ she explained.

Ché gave a tilt of his head. Lagosians had some strange notions, he reflected. But then that was a little rich, being a Mannian himself. ‘Do you miss it?’ he asked her.

‘What?’

‘Your home.’

She looked at him over her plate of food, her brow furrowed.

‘I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.’

He was surprised to hear the word come so easily from his lips. He could not recall when he had last apologized for anything.

Ché did not feel entirely like himself today. An odd contented-ness had come upon him, as though for the first time in his life he was precisely where he was supposed to be, and all was fine with the world. He had dreamed of his mother in the night. She had spoken about many things he couldn’t now remember, yet he recalled how she had smiled, and how the warmth shone off her like sunshine. His heart had swelled with it, and he had thought, How ugly the world is without these connections between us.

And then he had awakened, to find Curl blinking at him next to his side.

‘What about you? Do you miss it?’ Her tone said she was still annoyed with him.

‘Home?’

‘Yes.’

He shook his head and realized it was true. He didn’t care if he never saw Q’os again.

‘And where is home, Ché?’

He hesitated, and then the lie that formed got tangled in his lips somehow, so that he said nothing. He was weary of secrets and the burdens they had become to him. This was a day for new beginnings.

‘Ché?’

He placed his platter on the ground, wiped his hands on his knees.

‘What is it? Why can’t you tell me?’

‘It’s just . . .’ He met her eye then.

Curl seemed to see into him, for her expression hardened. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not you.’

Still he couldn’t find the words. Her face twisted in anguish. When Curl spoke, it was as though some invisible creature was trying to throttle her. ‘You’re one of them? A Mannian?’

Ché glanced about to see if anyone had overheard her. When he looked back, he felt the gulf that suddenly existed between them, the sudden loss of their connection, like a candle flame snuffed out.

What have I done?

Her platter fell to the ground. She walked off quickly towards the mess tent.

‘Wait,’ he suddenly called after her. ‘Let me explain!’

She went inside. He watched with dread in his stomach as a group of Specials rushed from the tent, Curl walking behind them.

‘On your feet,’ one of them ordered.

Ché had eyes only for Curl. He knew he could still make her understand, if only she would look at him.

‘On your feet, Mannian,’ growled another, catching the attention of others nearby.

The man kicked Ché hard in the ribs, and he spilled over onto the grass. He caught a sight of Curl, her back turned to him, walking away with a hand covering her face.

And then they laid into him with all their fury.