Riverkeep Read online

  “Which got bitten off by that ursa when I was savin’ you, wasn’t I?”

  “You only did that ’cause you like fightin’—an’ I’ve rowed you this whole way since! An’ I reckon we’d already be there if—”

  “Don’t,” said Tillinghast.

  “Don’t what? What’s that mean? ‘Don’t.’ That doesn’t mean anythin’.”

  “Don’t,” said Tillinghast quietly.

  “Don’t bloody well what?” shouted Wull.

  They stared at each other while Wull rowed a few strokes.

  “He means don’t ask him to take a turn rowin’,” said Mix. “Right, Till?”

  “Thank you, Mix,” said Remedie.

  “So, will nobody help me for a bit?” said Wull. “Mix?”

  “I’m a tiny little girl,” said Mix. “When it suits me, like.”

  “And I’m afraid I must tend to Bonn,” said Remedie, rocking the baby against her breast. “But in fact, Wulliam, would you hold on to him for just a minute, please?”

  “I . . . Well, I need to row now,” said Wull.

  “It’ll only take a moment—I’m afraid my garments have twisted in the night, and I must rearrange my underskirts. . . . I trust you’ll avert your eyes like a gentleman, Mr. Tillinghast?”

  “It’s that or lose ’em,” said Tillinghast. “Reckon I’d turn to stone if I clapped eyes on that.”

  “And wouldn’t we miss you terribly?” said Remedie. “I think I’d stand you in my garden to keep pests from the vegetables.” She placed Bonn in Wull’s arms, supporting the baby’s head until the last second, stepping back with her eyes on his delicate face.

  “Nothin’ spoils a romance quicker’n a woman with a sense of humor,” said Tillinghast, trailing his fingers over the side, flicking away a seula’s questing nose.

  “Then let me ensure I’m at my wittiest, Mr. Tillinghast, so I might spoil your pickle in its jar.”

  Mix and Wull laughed. Tillinghast grumbled wordlessly into the water.

  “Good one, miss,” said Mix.

  “Thank you,” said Remedie, rummaging with her voluminous skirts. “I rather thought so.”

  Wull, holding Bonn high on his chest, his face close to the baby’s, felt again the strength inside the inanimate shape, the energy that seemed to somehow press back against his hands. Bonn, weighted by some internal mass, was heavier than seemed possible. Wull watched the bank, looking for movement, and found his eyes pulled to the sky. “They faelkons are gettin’ right close,” he said. “Look at the size o’ them.”

  “Here, Wulliam,” said Remedie. “I’ll take him back now.”

  “Right,” said Wull. “Is he . . . Is he all right? In the bäta, I mean?”

  “He’s quite well, and thank you for asking,” said Remedie, smiling. “He knows it’ll not be long until we’re there.”

  “It’s not goin’ to be that soon, miss,” said Wull. “We’ve not even passed through the city, an’ from there there’s plenty miles left. We won’t be there till night comes.”

  “Then it’ll be a day of no walking and good company,” said Remedie.

  “Ha!” said Tillinghast.

  Wull touched Bonn’s nose. “I’m glad he’s all right,” he said, turning in his seat and holding Bonn up to be taken.

  As Remedie leaned down, arms outstretched, a shadow crossed her face and all color drained from her skin.

  “Gods, no!” she screamed, throwing herself forward.

  Wull turned, too late, into the talons of a gigantic faelkon: a fist of black glass, long grasping blades curved and terrible and bigger than his head. They spread out, the fist opening inches from his eyes—talons stuck with foulness, clinging blood, and tiny feathers, the ruts of the huge palm map-lined with flaky dirt.

  As Wull’s mouth filled with the decaying whoosh of its wings, he moved instinctively and saw the faelkon’s dreadful claws piercing Bonn’s white tummy, lifting the baby from Remedie’s scrambling reach, vanishing in a burst of shrill, grating noise as time caught up with his horror and left Wull on the bäta’s bottom boards, heart leaping at the walls of his chest.

  “BONN! BONN!” screamed Remedie, veins sticking from her neck, her eyes wide with fury. “YOU CURSED PIGEONS! I’LL RIP YOUR GODS-DAMNED HEARTS OUT!!”

  The faelkon beat quickly into the sky, Bonn slack in its grip, his swaddling cloth hanging loose beneath him.

  Tillinghast hadn’t moved. “It’s got my hat,” he said as the waters around them thrashed with diving birds snatching seulas whole and squealing from the river.

  “BONN!” screamed Remedie. “Get to shore, get to shore now! Row, row, Wulliam!”

  Wull gathered himself, climbed into the keep’s seat.

  “Pappa,” he said, turning the bäta for shore. “Are you all right? Pappa?”

  Pappa’s eyes swirled in his head. “Untie the arms?” he said.

  Wull almost laughed with relief, rowed harder.

  “Hurry!” said Remedie. “Hurry, Wulliam, we’re losing sight of them!”

  “Watch out!” said Mix.

  The bäta hammered into the bank, sending Remedie over the side and facefirst onto the frozen ground. She rose without pausing, blood streaming from her mouth as she ran at the faelkons’ fading shadows, skirts gathered in her fist.

  Wull jumped after her, grabbing a harpoon. “Mix, look after Pappa—Till, come on!”

  Tillinghast hadn’t moved.

  “It took my hat,” he said. “It nearly touched me.”

  “Are you joking?” said Wull. “It’s taken Bonn. Remedie’s gone after it on her own. Come with me, for gods’ sakes!”

  “I can’t,” said Tillinghast, shaking his head and crouching farther into his seat. “I can’t be dealin’ with birds. I can’t.”

  “We need you! I’m nowhere near as strong as you—we need you to help us!”

  “Not a chance! But listen, Wull?”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep an eye out for my hat, eh?”

  “You . . . gudgeon!” said Wull, blank faced. “What about Bonn?”

  “A wooden doll?” said Tillinghast. “You ’spect me to go after those things to save a doll? It’s not even a real baby!”

  “And you’re not a real man!” said Wull. He spat on the ground and sprinted after Remedie, leaving Tillinghast silent and furious in the swaying bäta.

  16

  Decatur House

  Bash the river! Pour hate on its wretchedness! Well may it be wretched, but so might be we, were we to be beneath the split pink faces of ten thousand privies, content to hold open our mouths for the patter of their brown tongues! We, the populace, stuff the river’s throat with the guts of hogs and the dung of cattle, the sweepings of tanneries and butchers and halls of slaughter—and complain its breath is foul! We, the populace, are content for it to carry, like the sailboats of grim children, an endless pageant of dead dogs and rhats and cats and fowl, and for this rancid chowder of drownèd beasts (season’d by scabs of lettuce and turnip tops) to heat under the sun till its gases burn the skin—and complain that it tastes sour! When considering the extent of its feculence, ladies and gentlemen, is it any wonder that my daily swims have, of late, been weekly done?

  —Transcript of Oceanus Crissenger’s “Great River! We Are Sorry!”

  Green Hollows Club lecture series

  He’d spent over an hour in the chicken coop, twice that patching a rust-eaten gutter, and a painful twenty minutes stretching into the sarcophagus to paint a bald conductor with silver, so by the time he had untangled the tapeworm, salinized the jars of organs, and tended the wicker Things, Clutterbuck was exhausted.

  The Things tired him the most: they were growing at different rates, and not evenly. The week before last the Thing on five legs had hobbled back from the frozen lake, swollen down one side and fluf
fy with damp growths. Even now it walked with a two-legged limp. Their voicelessness was becoming a problem too—without speech, he could never be sure they understood his cautions, and so off they went into the world, ruining themselves.

  But then, they were just Things, shapes. There was nowhere for the voice to go, but still character was emerging even in silence, each Thing interestingly influenced by its shape and, therefore, its interaction with its environment, the ability to climb stairs, trees, and so on. It was fascinating, no question. . . .

  He prepared a simple lunch—salt pork, black bread, tomatoes, and root tea—and sat in his clove-smelling, crackling workshop, listening to the snap of the flames and the thump of cane stem on stone as the Things ran about outside, the stump of his handless right arm resting on his knee.

  “Banqueting hall, this was,” he said to Mac, the mostly raven.

  “Hello,” garbled Mac, clawing the red beard that covered the little scientist almost to his eyes.

  “Before your time, of course,” said Clutterbuck, holding up a piece of pork for the bird. “Mam and Pap would have dances here, with all the village, candles and wine. . . .”

  “Hello,” garbled Mac again, gobbling the pork in his long black beak.

  “All worth it, of course. One cannot place a value on science. Look at you, the Things, all the others. . . .” He cut a tomato into pieces, scooped up the stray seeds, and laid them on the bread. “Science is without price. Gold tarnishes, but knowledge will enrich the whole world. The whole world, my Mac!”

  “Again,” said Mac, head bouncing. He flapped his párrát’s wings—long and tapered and blue—then settled again on his perch.

  Clutterbuck held up another piece of pork. Around him, glassware bubbled and steamed, looping cords of filtration dripped into vivid pots, and gears of all sizes clicked and whirred.

  “Yes, I know I’ve told you this before,” he said. “It’s just when I sit near the portrait of my old pap . . . I can feel him looking at me, wondering what’s become of his house.”

  Mac flapped his wings, throwing dust onto Clutterbuck’s lunch and upending a titration flask.

  “Mac!” said Clutterbuck, righting the glass and stemming the spill with his sleeve. “That took me a whole . . . oh, never mind. I don’t suppose . . . Yes, little one?” he said to a wicker Thing who’d appeared at his side. “You mustn’t run like that with the fire so high—running is for summer. Sum-mer.”

  The Thing pulled at the space where his right hand had been.

  “Ow! Oh, do be careful, my angel,” said Clutterbuck, rising and allowing himself to be led to the entrance hall.

  Another Thing lay still on the carpet, its three legs twisted beneath it.

  “What have you been doing?” he said, scooping it into his arms. “What have I told you about that balcony? Dear, oh dear, that’s quite a job you’ve made for me. I don’t know. . . .”

  The Thing raised an arm and touched his face.

  “I know,” said Clutterbuck. “I love you too.”

  As he was heading back to the workshop, there came a rapping at the door, the big brass lapphund’s head falling three times, nearly bending the wood.

  “Who on earth could this be?” he said, placing the Thing on a chair and holding out his arm for Mac, who flew to his wrist and climbed onto his head. “When was our last visitor, Mac?”

  “Hello,” said Mac, picking at a scab on Clutterbuck’s forehead with his beak.

  “You’re probably right, you know,” said Clutterbuck, turning the handle.

  A large man stood in the portico, the rest of the Things gathered around him, tugging his coat and scuttling nervously.

  “Hello?” said Clutterbuck. “Don’t touch our guest, be off with you!” He waved his empty sleeve at the doorframe. A bell sounded, and the Things scattered. “I’m sorry, sir; they’re inquisitive, is all. They wouldn’t hurt a fly. Now, yes, off you go. . . . How may I help you, sir?”

  The man held up a piece of paper.

  “‘I am a weary traveler,’” Clutterbuck read aloud. “Well, traveler has only one v, but still, I assume you’re not seeking linguistic advice. How may I help you?”

  The man turned the paper to himself, scribbled more words.

  “‘I am in need of rest and shelter from the cold,’” read Clutterbuck. “‘I can pay you for your . . . trouble,’ does that say?”

  The man nodded.

  “Well, there’s no payment required, good sir!” said Clutterbuck, spreading his arms and sending Mac onto the antlers of a wall-mounted elk. “You must have traveled through the night, and we’re only too happy to have guests. What a treat! Oh yes, a treat, absolutely. Come in, come in. You must be half frozen. Give me your coat, yes, and you can set your boots there. . . .”

  Clutterbuck, chatting happily, turned toward the kitchen and the range’s heat, the wet, freezing, tinkling coat clutched in his hand.

  Behind him, Mr. Pent swapped his paper and quill for a box of matches, dropped them into his trouser pocket, threw a ball of sticky rose tobacco at Mac, and followed the reedy little scientist, smiling.

  The wicker Things, dragging the broken, twisted one between them, fled, clacking into the darkness and the corners and the hidden spaces of the attic.

  The Thrick

  The sharp hands of the forest tore at Wull as he ran, his boots slipping on puddles of ice and snowbursts in the pools of spread roots. The woods were filled with a blindness of white fog that hung like a curtain between the trees, settling on the thornbushes like cobwebs, and through it he saw nothing. He heard only the frantic breath of Remedie ahead, and kept following her as fast as his feet would allow.

  The harpoon’s weight had almost toppled him more than once, and he carried it now in both hands, held against his body as he ran.

  “Remedie!” he shouted. “Remedie!”

  His voice seemed to die on his lips. There was no answer, only her glimpsed breathing and the movement of foliage.

  Wull ran on. His pounding heartbeat had spread from his breastbone to his seized back, throbbing wrist, and swollen cheek, until his whole body rang with it. Inside the sharp heat of his seula-gut shift and fur-lined clothes he felt himself boiling even as the exposed skin of his eyes froze solid.

  He leaped a stream, landing badly on bare rock and tearing his trousers. Fallen trees loomed around him, the craters beneath the roots’ raw fingers deep and white.

  “Remedie!” he shouted again, finding his feet and pushing on. “Wait for me! I can’t help if I can’t catch you!”

  “Hurry up!” came the reply, a muffled voice, tiny in the thick distance.

  “I’m trying. I’m . . . trying. . . .” he said, and ran on, fording another stream and scurrying over a mossy boulder.

  He ran farther, the harpoon slipping in his grip, and then found himself at the edge of a clearing that ran into the far edge of his vision. Remedie stood still at its edge, a heavy stick in her hand, listening.

  “Where . . . are—” he started.

  “Ssh!” she hissed without turning around. “They’re here—you can smell them. And look.”

  Wull peered into the fog, tumbling in currents from huge dark shapes. The air was rancid with flesh rot and the sourness of mold, a sick-making poison that entered his mouth and nose and filled his stomach with unsettled gas. Peering farther, he saw the seulas: sausages of dark blubber, dead and dying, their mournful bleating audible now in the stillness.

  Around him the trees were coated with pale, gray scrapings that were flecked with feathers and spots of dark blood. He looked down. The ground was uneven, lumps of grass and clods of earth under a layer of white frost and snow, between which ran a carpet of small bones—skulls tipped with rodent teeth; rib cages the size of his palm; little legs and plates and joints—all smothered in pellets of murky green fluff, so that the little
creatures seemed to have drowned in a thick, intestinal soup.

  “They know we’re here,” whispered Remedie.

  “So what do we do?” said Wull.

  “We find Bonn, and kill them if they try to stop us,” she said simply, and took a careful step onto the nesting grounds.

  The faelkons’ guttural, scratching shriek went up around them—a sound that started in their bellies and ended in their skulls. As they moved, twenty or more of them, Wull saw their ugly, skin-slack faces leering at him, the cracked plates of their horselike teeth pushed out on long pink gums, wet and glistening between loose lips. Wooden splints stuck out from their wings and backs, as though their skeletons had grown larger than their bodies.

  They spread out around Wull and Remedie, moving with burped sounds and clicking teeth. Even grounded and walking on two legs, wings at their sides, they were far bigger than Wull, and close enough that he could see the detail in their furious, yellow, black-lined eyes.

  “So what do we do?” he said as the faelkons, ranked in solid lines, spread their wings and began to scream in a terrible, pressing rhythm, the flexing of their muscles and skin rippling the hackles of their wooden spines in agitated twitches.

  “Hit them and run,” Remedie said, and vanished.

  The faelkons screamed again and half rose from the ground, their huge wings sending spiraling clouds of stinking fog around him and clearing a brief space through which he saw Remedie running—pursued by a dozen giant birds—turning and battering the closest one about the face with her stick, screaming Bonn’s name.

  As the fog settled, Wull saw the birds that had stayed for him: eight or nine, all fully grown, all focused on him, clacking their teeth as though conspiring. He hefted the harpoon in his hands.

  “All right,” he said. “You’re jus’ birds. Come on then!”

  A faelkon stepped beside him, corpse-rotten stench pouring from its body, half his height again, its face sharp and angry, a fat branch leaning from its neck. It howled at him, its long, pitted teeth buried in deep, bright gums, its black tongue whipping like a ribbon.