Riverkeep Read online

“Are you all right, Pappa?” he said.

  “It that speaks,” said Pappa, “no more eating.”

  “There’s more if you want it,” said Wull. It was true—the cook at the inn had been happy to get rid of fish heads and tails, and a bucket of them was stinking at his feet.

  “Why’s your old man call you ‘it that speaks’?” said Tillinghast. “I thought you said your name was Wulliam?”

  “It is. He’s . . . not himself. He gets confused easily.”

  “’S that why he eats fish heads like they’s toffees?”

  Wull said nothing. He waggled the oars and searched for the current as his stomach boiled.

  “I’s not meanin’ to give offense, like, jus’ wond’rin’. Never much fancied ’em myself.”

  “It’s jus’ what the . . . what he likes to eat,” said Wull.

  “No more eating,” said Pappa.

  “That’s fine,” said Wull. He rowed a few silent strokes. “’In’t you pair hungry? Why didn’t you eat anythin’ from the inn?”

  Tillinghast lifted his hand from the water and slumped back into his seat.

  “I’m not hungry at all,” said Mix.

  “An’ it’s fair to say I’s rarely hungry,” said Tillinghast.

  “Jus’ thirsty?”

  “Is that you judgin’ me, little master? I drinks, true. An’ what of it?”

  Wull shrugged. “Why are you wantin’ to go downriver?”

  “Oh, I’s not, really. Jus’ you happened to be there with your boat an’ found yoursel’ indebted to me. I’s jus’ movin’ away from the city, doin’ my business. It doesn’t really matter where I ends up, so long as it’s not there.”

  “What is your business?” said Mix.

  “It’s mine,” said Tillinghast.

  “You know we’re headin’ back to Oracco now?” said Wull.

  “Dun’t matter if we’s jus’ passin’ through. Might even be a good idea, come to think of it.”

  Tillinghast folded his hands on his stomach.

  “What’re those things round your neck?” said Mix.

  “Trinkets of which I’s fond. Very useful in the right situation.”

  “An’ what’s in the bag?” said Mix.

  Tillinghast tucked the sack farther under his legs without opening his eyes. “Nothin’ that should bother you, little miss—jus’ my pers’nal effects.”

  Wull said nothing. A few minutes passed in silence. Oracco’s still-distant furnaces glowed against the sky, their orange clouds moving steadily above him as the city bled its energy into the surrounding countryside. The perfect soundlessness was broken only by his own gentle movements and the light chuckle of the river moving over rock and sand.

  “’S nice not walkin’ an’ all, but hell’s bells, this is right borin’,” said Tillinghast.

  “Feel free to get off. I’ll even drop you on the bank.”

  “Then I’ll get my seat back,” said Mix.

  “No, I’s not meanin’ that. Jus’ the silence is killin’ me. What is it you does with yourself, Mr. Pappa?”

  “Not Mr. Pappa,” said Pappa, glaring at Tillinghast through his curtain of hair.

  “Don’t talk to him! I told you, he doesn’t understand.”

  “No shame in not workin’,” said Tillinghast cheerfully, still addressing Pappa. “Are you an’ your boy crooks?”

  “No!” said Wull hotly. “Why would you say that?”

  “You was stealin’ food when I saw you. . . .”

  “He’s got a point there,” said Mix.

  “Right. What is your business then?”

  Wull sighed. He felt the current swell on his right oar, and turned the nose of the bäta into it. The boat surged forward, and he started to row with deeper, longer strokes.

  “We’re the Riverkeep, farther upstream,” he said.

  “An’ what’s that?”

  “We . . . keep the river. Tend it: cuttin’ weeds an’ so on in summer, clearin’ up mudslides—breakin’ up the ice when it’s frozen like this.”

  “I heard you talkin’ about bein’ Riverkeep—wondered what you meant,” said Mix.

  “How d’you break up ice then?” said Tillinghast.

  “Keepin’ the lanterns lit,” said Wull, looking down. “The fire heats the iron rods to stop the ice gatherin’. . . . Without it, we can rescue people who’ve fallen in an’ recover them when they’re past rescuin’.”

  “Past rescuin’?” said Tillinghast. “You mean pullin’ folks what’s dead out the river?”

  Wull nodded. “Somebody has to.”

  “That’s an occupation, is it? Is the pay fair?”

  “There’s no pay, as such,” said Wull. “We get donations from the city. It’s a noble calling.”

  “I’s heard a noble callin’ a few times,” said Tillinghast, “but I never listen. So you both does this?” Tillinghast looked at Pappa, withdrawn and jumbled in the bäta’s corner.

  Wull cleared his throat. “Pappa’s the keep for another few days, then I take over when I’m sixteen.”

  “An’ what does you do with bodies once you pull ’em out?”

  “We take them to the boathouse. We’ve got a mortuary, an’ they stay there until the undertaker comes from the city to take them away.”

  Tillinghast nodded, dipped his fingertips in the river again.

  “You ever find anythin’ gruesome?” said Mix.

  “You mean when I’ve been pullin’ on corpses that’ve rotted in water? What d’you think?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never seen a body what’s been left to rot. What’s it like?”

  “It’s not pleasant,” said Wull reluctantly. “But it needs to be done. Who else is goin’ to look for these poor souls?”

  “Nobody, I s’pose,” said Mix. She thought for a moment. “That’s a fine thing to do.”

  “Sure, real fine,” said Wull.

  And wasn’t it fine waiting upstairs for the corpses to be taken away before I could eat my supper? he thought.

  “You ever hear of a thing called normative determined?” said Tillinghast.

  Wull sighed. “Can’t say I have.”

  “You don’t know what it is?”

  “Not if I’ve not heard of it,” said Wull, in the stoic voice he used on Mrs. Wurth.

  “What about you, little miss?”

  “Nope,” said Mix.

  “’S about your name an’ what it means—tells you ’bout what kind o’ person you’s goin’ to be. What’s Wulliam mean?”

  “‘Protector,’ somethin’ like that,” said Wull. “Guardian.”

  “Oh,” said Tillinghast, making circles with his fingers in the water. “Makes sense. What ’bout Mix?”

  “It’s not complicated,” said Mix. “It means ‘mix,’ as in to mix things together.”

  “What’s Tillinghast mean?” said Wull.

  “I’s got no idea,” said Tillinghast.

  “Why’ve you got blue skin?” said Mix.

  “I don’t know. ’S jus’ the color it is.”

  “Never seen a person with blue skin before,” said Mix, “an’ I used to live in the city. You get all sorts there. Once, we saw one o’ the pierced folk with all spines in their face. ’Nother time we saw a woman with a feurhund on a leash. A feurhund, mossy as you like, all dribblin’. So how come your skin’s blue?”

  “It’s jus’ my skin,” said Tillinghast, puffing his cheeks. “I din’t choose it ’cause it matched my eyes or anythin’.”

  “What color eyes you got?”

  “Brown. No, green. Why you askin’ me so many questions?”

  Mix shrugged. “I like askin’ questions,” she said. “It passes the time and hell’s bells, this is right borin’.”

  “Is
you bein’ funny? ’Cause I doesn’t think . . . Ow! You little bugger!”

  Tillinghast swiped at the wet, vanishing head of a gray seula, rocking the bäta as he lunged.

  “I told you,” said Wull. “Take your fingers off, they will. They’ve got some teeth.”

  “He’s got nothin’ from me. Gave my knuckle a right tug, though,” muttered Tillinghast, rubbing his fist. “Why they followin’ the boat?”

  “It’s called a bäta, an’ it’s ’cause we give them scraps an’ fish heads an’ such in winter.”

  “But your pap’s eatin’ those. You can’t be givin’ away your old man’s dinner to swimmin’ vermin.”

  The clouds parted above them, bathing the spindly bankside thickets in moonlight. In its bright glow the Danék’s blackness became a strip of rippling silver.

  “Moon’s still high enough,” said Wull. “There’s a few hours till the ursas wake up, but we’d best find someplace we c’n settle for the night.”

  Tillinghast wrinkled his nose. “Why?” he said. “If we keep rowin’, we’ll be through the city by mornin’. I thought you was in a hurry?”

  Wull glanced at Pappa, sleeping again.

  “I am,” he said, “but that’s not enough to give me cause for suicide. Once the ursas are out, I want to be somewhere with stone at my back an’ fire at my front.”

  “I had fire at my front once,” said Tillinghast. “Flared up after I lay with a farm girl in Nantwick—doctor told me to dip my lad in yogurt for a week—cleared it right up.”

  Mix laughed.

  Wull stared blankly at him. “What?” he said.

  “Never mind,” said Tillinghast, grinning and shifting his hessian sack with his heels. “Nothin’ for you to worry about. But why’s we got to stop?”

  “Because otherwise ursas will find us an’ rip us apart, that’s why,” said Wull.

  “Ursas ’in’t so tough,” said Tillinghast.

  “That’s not even a little bit true,” said Mix.

  “Ursas aren’t tough?” said Wull. “Then why are there bars an’ cages on every buildin’ an’ jetty the whole length o’ this river? Explain that to me.” He quickened his stroke and began to scan the banks with subconscious darting glances.

  “People are scared of ’em. I dun’t know why—I ran into a few of ’em when I went after the Mad Monk o’ Boddin. That Holy island’s teemin’ wi’ them.”

  “Well, let me tell you why people’re scared o’ them,” said Wull. “Pappa an’ me have found plenty folks what’ve come to grief on an ursa’s claws, an’ there ’in’t much left of ’em to find. One man we found was broken in half across his middle with little pulls on his skin, like torn parchment. His guts’d been taken from inside him, the way you an’ I would eat a whelk.”

  “You might eat a whelk. . . .” said Tillinghast.

  Wull ignored him.

  “Other time we foun’ bits o’ six people scattered like seeds across a fair distance beside a fallen tree. There were fingernails studded into the bark: seems the ursa wanted to get at them so badly, it jus’ ripped the tree down. This wasn’t a sapling neither; it was a big thick oak. Sometimes we find ursa footprints when we’re out in the mornin’, an’ there’s been the odd time you c’n see they were runnin’ after somethin’—that means paw prints four times the size o’ your head with a stride five times the length o’ you—”

  “Oh, I’s plenty long, be assured about—”

  “They c’n swim faster than ten men can row, so it does us no good to stay out here an’ watch ’em. If we want to get through tonight, we need to find a cave, light a bloody big fire, an’ pray to all the gods we know there’s somethin’ else for ’em to hunt, because if they’re hungry enough they’ll come right through the fire an’ even your smart mouth won’t stop them tearin’ you apart.”

  The bäta carried on in silence. Pappa began snoring, his mouth glistening with scales.

  “You enjoyed that, din’t you?” said Tillinghast eventually, yawning.

  “I made my point,” said Wull.

  “It was good,” said Mix, grinning at him. “I liked the bit about the smart mouth.”

  Tillinghast narrowed his eyes at her. “An’ well made your point was, but I doesn’t fancy stoppin’ jus’ yet. Let’s stay on as long as we can.”

  “So you mean you’re wanting a turn at the oars. . . .” Wull started.

  Tillinghast held up a hand. “I’s a payin’ customer. You doesn’t see coach passengers gettin’ out an’ givin’ the horses a break now, does you?”

  Wull gritted his teeth. “I am not a horse, an’ you shouldn’t—”

  “Oh, untwist your kecks, I was kiddin’. But I ain’t rowin’. The whole point o’ me bein’ here is to get a rest, so I’s not goin’ to find restfulness by heavin’ away at a dirty big corpse boat for hours on end. I’ve been watchin’ you doin’ it an’ it looks exhaustin’.”

  “I was supposed to be on my own—not burdened by strangers,” said Wull. “An’ if I was, I could set my own schedule an’ stop when I pleased—now my boat’s gettin’ pulled down by the weight of a stowaway and an unwelcome lump who’s forced his way on here by flashin’ some money!”

  “Bought his way on here, if you please,” said Tillinghast. “Fine, fine, fine. Let’s jus’ bank it now an’ see what we can get.”

  Wull turned the bäta on a planted blade and guided it to the southern shore.

  “I still think stowaway’s harsh,” muttered Mix. “I was invited, eventually.”

  Pappa roused, his eyes rolling as he took stock of his surroundings. “Where?” he said.

  “We’re goin’ to find somewhere to spend the night, an’ the Drebin Woods is as good as anywhere now that we’re past the village,” said Wull.

  “It that speaks,” said Pappa. “What’s ursas?”

  Tillinghast shot a glance at Wull, who felt his face flush.

  “Ursas are dangerous animals. They’re very strong. You told me all about them, remember?” said Wull. “You said they would always win, so I wasn’t to be out past the dippin’ moon.”

  “Never did,” said Pappa.

  “Set it down there, Master Keep,” said Tillinghast.

  “Never did,” said Pappa again.

  “All right,” said Wull, “all right.”

  He followed Tillinghast’s hand and drove the bäta’s nose into the pebbled bank under a low-slung branch. Panes of ice split apart under the hull, and Tillinghast hopped overboard, pulling the boat farther onto the ground with a force that rocked Wull’s balance and sent Mix tumbling from the prow.

  “Hey!” she said, crashing onto the bottom boards.

  Wull helped her up and looked at Tillinghast.

  “That’s some strength you’ve got to pull a weight like that,” he said warily.

  “You’ve no idea,” said Tillinghast, grinning. He produced a small lantern, lit the wick with a match struck on the bäta’s edge, and set off into the forest.

  From a frost-crusted bank shrub ten yards away, mud-splattered eyes watched. Quick words were whispered and a dry, bite-scarred tongue ran over lips pitted by the sores of winter. The shrub trembled with excitement.

  “Stand up, Pappa,” said Wull. He looked at the woods around them, new and fierce with their hidden spaces, the skeletal spikes of broken trunks poking through the ground like shattered bone. “I don’t know about this spot,” he called to Tillinghast. “It seems too hemmed in. Maybe we should row farther downriver.”

  Tillinghast, already too distant to hear, carried on walking, his lantern casting stark light onto the trunks that shot up around him.

  “Come on, Paps,” said Mix, reaching for Pappa’s other elbow.

  “No! Leave in boat!” said Pappa.

  “We can’t,” said Wull. “We said we’d camp here for the—”
>
  He stood still, balanced Pappa’s weight on the gunwale, and looked at the water, still moving, ever flowing toward the wider sea.

  “Wull?” said Mix.

  Wull stood still.

  We could leave now, he thought, row off and leave the big lump to walk the woods and force himself on someone else.

  But the idea was impossible. Leaving Tillinghast behind would just mean banking with only Mix for company elsewhere, and Wull had the feeling that the blue-skinned giant would find them anyway. Besides, he realized as his cut cheek flashed again with pain, he needed Tillinghast’s money.

  “There we go,” he said, helping Pappa land ungainly on the frozen bank.

  “Untie the arms!” said Pappa.

  “I can’t,” said Wull.

  “Even for a bit?” said Mix. “I’ll help you keep an eye on him.”

  “No, he can’t be trusted. He doesn’t even know what he might do.”

  “Do know,” said Pappa darkly.

  “Well, that’s something, at least,” said Wull. Checking that the moon was still above the tree line, he reached into the bäta, lifted the blankets and the bucket of fish heads, and, with Mix on Pappa’s other side, held the frail body by the crook of the arm. Slowly, they followed the light of Tillinghast’s lantern, finding space for their feet and for Pappa’s in the root-tangled mesh of the forest floor.

  As they disappeared, the muddied eyes vanished in a whispering scuttle of leaves, the tramping feet obscured by Wull’s gentle words of encouragement.

  11

  Canna Bay

  Flow on, sweet Danék, through glens green an’ deep,

  Disturb not the slumbering dead in thy keep;

  Thy waters flow fast, quick, and strong evermore,

  An’ gold-crested boat swell break white on thy shore.

  Flow on, sweet Danék, ’neath threat’ning black cloud,

  Disturb not the soft-padding ursas aloud;

  Thy silent crew’s secrets be e’er unclaimed,

  An’ pray let thy treach’rous current be tamed.

  Flow on, sweet Danék, away to the west,

  Disturb not the pure, precious life in thy chest;

  We pray that thy larder be e’er overfilled,