Two of the other soldiers kick at the body of the dead man a little. They scuff dirt up over it, which might be some sign of piety or shame, but leave it there soiled and bleeding and bruised and swollen and marked with the raised scars of pain, not dug into the earth at all. And they go looking for their own prizes.
There is no sense in what is done here this day. There is no territory to be gained, or a particular wrong to be avenged, or even soldiers to be taken. They kill the older men in front of the younger with palms to the faces and the throat, and one shows off her special skill of drawing crude effects upon the flesh with the tips of her fingers. Many of them take some of the men, and use them, or simply play with them. They offer one man a choice between keeping his arms or his legs. He chooses legs, but they break their bargain. They know that no one cares what happens here. No one is here to protect these people, and no one is concerned for them. The bodies might lie in this wood for a dozen years and no one would come this way. They do it because they can.
In the hour before dawn, they are tired, but the power coursing through them, and the powder, and the things they’ve done turn their eyes red and they cannot sleep. Roxy has not moved for hours. Her limbs are sore and her ribs grind and her scar is yet jagged across her collarbone. She feels exhausted by what she has seen, as if the very witnessing of it had been physical labour.
She hears her name called softly, and she jumps, almost unseats herself from the tree, her nerves are so jangled and her mind so confused. Since the thing that happened, she forgets sometimes, now, who she is. She needs someone to remind her. She looks to her left and right, and then sees him. Two trees over, Tunde is still alive. He’s lashed himself to a branch with three coils of rope, but, spotting her in the pre-dawn light, he starts to untie himself. After this night he looks like home to her and she can tell she looks the same to him. Something familiar and secure in all of this.
He climbs a little higher, where the branches meet and mingle, and hauls himself hand over hand towards her, finally dropping down softly in the little perch she’s found. She’s well hidden in a place where two great limbs of the tree meet, making a little nest of a thick branch that one person can rest their back on while the other leans on them. He drops down on to her – he’s taken some injury, she can tell, in the night; he’s broken something at his shoulder – and they lie heavily together. He reaches for her hand. Interlaces his fingers with hers to keep them steady. They are both afraid. He smells fresh, like something green and budding.
He says, ‘I thought you were dead, when you didn’t follow me.’
She says, ‘Don’t speak too soon. Could still be dead tonight.’
He makes a little rough breath, a sign in place of a laugh. He mutters, ‘This also has been one of the dark places of the earth.’
They both fall, dazed, for a few minutes into a staring trance a little like sleep. They should move, but the presence of a familiar body is too comforting to give up, for a moment.
When they blink, there is someone in this tree just beneath them. A woman in green fatigues, one hand in an army gauntlet, three fingers sparking as she climbs. She’s shouting back down to someone on the ground. She’s using her flashes to peer up through the trees, to burn the leaves. It’s still dark enough that she can’t see.
Roxy remembers a time she and a couple of the girls heard there was a woman beating up her boyfriend in the street. It had to be stopped; you can’t let that kind of thing keep on if you own a place. By the time they got there it was just her, drunk, railing around the street, shouting and swearing. They found him in the end, hiding in the cupboard under the stairs and although they tried to be good and kind Roxy thought in her heart, Why didn’t you fight back? Why didn’t you try? You could have found a frying pan to hit her with. You could have found a spade. What good did you think hiding was going to do? And here she is. Hiding. Like a man. She’s not sure what she is any more.
Tunde is resting on her, his eyes open, his body tense. He’s seen the soldier, too. He stays still. Roxy stays still. They’re concealed here, even as the dawn brings on more danger. If the soldier gives up, they could be safe.
The woman climbs a little higher in the tree. She’s setting fire to the lower branches, though for now they flare and then smoulder out. There’s been rain recently. That’s lucky. One of her mates throws her up a long metal baton. They’ve had fun with this. Inserting it and setting it crackling. She starts to sweep the upper boughs of the next tree over with this rod. No hiding place is perfect.
The woman makes a swift jab, too close to Roxy and Tunde, too close. The tip of it ends no more than two arm’s reaches away from his face. When the woman raises her hand, Roxy can smell her. The yellow scent of sweat, the acid smell of the Glitter metabolizing through the skin, the peppery-radish of the power itself, in use. The combination as familiar as Roxy’s own skin. A woman with her strength up and no ability to contain it.
Tunde whispers to her, ‘Just shock her, once. It conducts both ways. When the pole comes towards us next time, grab it and shock her very hard. She’ll fall to the floor. The others will have to look after her. We can get away.’
Roxy shakes her head, and there are tears in her eyes, and Tunde has a sudden feeling as if his heart has opened, as if the wires around his chest have all at once unfurled.
He has an idea of something. He thinks of the scar he’s caught sight of at the edge of her collarbone, how protective of it she is. And how she’s bargained and threatened and charmed and yet … has he seen her … has she ever hurt anyone yet in his presence since she found him in the cage? Why was she hiding in the jungle, she a Monke, she the strongest there ever was? He had never thought of this before. He hasn’t imagined for years what a woman could be without this thing or how she could have it taken from her.
The woman reaches with her rod again. The tip catches the back of Roxy’s shoulder, sending an iron nail of pain into her, but she remains silent.