Loss (24 page)

. . . and this is Billy Ballard, five years old, two weeks before he meets the White Rider for the first time; he’s in pre-K and he’s sitting next to a girl with black hair, and she’s crying because her crayon broke and so he gives her his crayon, and it’s not a big deal because he’s done coloring anyway and besides, he doesn’t want her to cry anymore and so he gives her a crayon and in return she gives him a radiant smile that he’ll treasure in his deepest heart for years to come—

. . . and this is Billy Ballard, six and lousy at baseball; he’s so bad, in fact, that his father stops coming to the games, and not even six months later his father will go away and never come back—

. . . and this is Billy Ballard, age seven, packing away his beloved Cookie Monster plush doll because he knows how the world works now, that it’s a place where dads are happier without their children and so Billy is too old for toys and never mind how he’s crying as he seals the box—

. . . and this is eight-year-old Billy Ballard, shrieking for joy as he pedals his new bicycle and his grandfather waves him on as he tears down the road—

. . . and this, too, is Billy Ballard, nine and on the ground, crying because the biggest kid in third grade, Eddie Glass, shoved him so hard that Billy banged his knee when he landed; in three minutes, Billy will discover that the Law of the Playground is much stronger than the promise of justice, that teachers don’t see everything and even if they do, they may not do anything about it—

. . . this is Billy Ballard, learning what it’s like to be the one who nobody wants on the team—

. . . and this is Billy Ballard, getting yelled at by his grandfather for no reason, no reason at all, and he’s afraid to tell his mom that Gramps has been acting weird and forgetful and violent, afraid to say that Gramps is scaring him—

. . . and this is Billy Ballard, bringing home another hundred on his test and getting a huge hug from his mother, who tells him that if he keeps working hard, he can do anything he puts his mind to; in four years, he’ll still be working hard so that there will be a chance at a full scholarship to a college far, far away from home, far enough for him to leave his life behind—

. . . and this is Billy Ballard in seventh grade, picking up his books and papers from the hallway floor and ignoring the way his face burns as Eddie laughs at him, and when he’s done gathering his things he Keeps His Head Down and shuffles off to class, pretending he doesn’t hear the mocking jeers of the other students—

. . . and this is Billy Ballard, pleading a stomachache so he can stay home from school, because Gramps has been acting almost normal and Eddie has teamed up with Kurt and Joe to make Billy’s school life unbearable— . . .

. . . and this is Billy Ballard, eating pizza with Marianne and noticing, for the first time, the way the sunlight hits her black hair and gives her the most amazing blue highlights, and she’s laughing at something and the sound of her laughter is like music—

. . . and this is Billy Ballard sitting on his bed as his mom explains that Gramps has Alzheimer’s, and Billy says the word to himself again and again as he feels the world slowly crash down around him; in six months’ time, his mom will have a second job to help pay for the medical bills and Billy will start playing babysitter because his grandfather can’t be left alone—

. . . and this is Billy Ballard getting the snot pounded out of him, again, and Billy is just taking it because he knows it will be over soon, real soon, and if he just protects his head and stays curled into a ball, Eddie will get bored and stomp away and then Billy can go on with his life—

. . . and now Billy Ballard is standing on an ice peak as the Conqueror bears down on him, and Billy clenches his fist and stands his ground, because this is Billy Ballard who has had enough of taking it, enough of getting hurt and Keeping His Head Down, enough of being a walking target.

This is Billy Ballard, fifteen and finally fighting back.

***

He saw the blast coming, but he didn’t move to avoid it. Empowered by the White, Billy positioned the Bow in front of him like a shield and planted his feet. The blow slammed into the polished wood, and Billy’s entire body vibrated from the impact, but he himself was unhurt. In his hands, the black unstrung bow gleamed.

Billy had a moment to think,
That worked!
But then another bolt of disease was already headed toward him. His arm shook as the Bow absorbed the second assault, and his teeth clicked together hard enough that his tongue would have been severed. The wood now glowed slightly, as if the White were illuminating it from within.

The Conqueror roared. Spittle flying as he swore blistering curses, he leveled another attack.

Billy grunted as the blast hit the Bow. Once again, it absorbed the impact; the weapon was warm in his hand now, and smoke wafted from either end. Probably not a good sign; it might not be able to withstand another onslaught.

His turn.

Chin high, Billy nocked an arrow of disease and drew back the bowstring. This time, he could actually see the arrow and the string outlined in white fire as he took aim—an aftereffect from absorbing all of the White, perhaps, or maybe Billy was finally looking at the Bow properly. It was a majestic weapon, worthy of fiery arrows and a string that rivaled an aurora borealis; the Bow belonged in the hands of a warrior or a hero. Or a king.

Thinking of Famine calling the Conqueror
King White
—Famine, who was now nothing more than a broken doll discarded on the ground—Billy Ballard let fly his poisoned arrow.

His aim was true. The shaft slammed into the Conqueror’s stomach and faded upon contact. Even as the White Rider snarled with fury, Billy shot a second arrow, and then a third, a fourth, one-two-three-four, all with the smooth precision of a master archer. The Bow’s power had awoken Billy’s confidence, and he welcomed it without reservation. They worked together, the White and Pestilence, as he unleashed disease.

Like Billy, the Conqueror didn’t try to get out of the way. Each arrow struck home, boring into his torso and chest, but instead of infecting the man, the attacks merely enraged him.

“Your fault,” he roared, throwing his arm back as if to pitch a fastball. “All your fault!”

The White rocketed at Billy, who barely got the Bow braced in time for impact. The bolt slammed into the black wood hard enough to knock him backwards.

“All of this, because of you!” the Conqueror screeched, hurling another blast, one that sent Billy to his knees. “You tricked me into leaving the Greenwood!”

Billy, off-balance and furious, shouted, “
You
don’t get to be mad at
me!
You’re the one who tricked me!” The words flew out of his mouth, desperate for freedom after simmering in venomous hatred for ten years, and he couldn’t control his tongue even if he tried. “You tricked me when I was a kid, got me to agree to something I didn’t understand! Grownups are supposed to protect kids,
but you betrayed me!
”

And the White Rider paused in his fury.

Billy clambered to his feet and nocked an arrow. “You betrayed me,” he said again, “and I didn’t even know you.” He let fly.

The Conqueror didn’t move as the arrow tore into him. He stared owlishly at Billy, peering at his face. “Yes,” he said slowly in his phlegm-filled voice. “I remember you, Billy Ballard.”

“You stole my future,” Billy spat, aiming another arrow.

“And you sealed my fate.” The Conqueror let out a bitter laugh. “You should have left me in the Greenwood.”

“And you should have left me alone to play in the sandbox.”

“Should, could, would.” Another laugh, this one tinged with madness. “Do you like the Bow, little boy Pestilence? Do you think you’ll grow into it?”

“I don’t want it,” Billy said tightly, still aiming at the Conqueror’s chest. “I never wanted any of this.”

“And I don’t want the world to end,” said the White Rider. “And yet here we are.”

“We’re here because of
you
,” shouted Billy. “Don’t you see that? What you’re doing now is going to kill everyone!”

And it was; Billy still felt the pressure of the White all around him, felt the bacteria and viruses and germs and carcinogens tainting the air, waiting impatiently to be released upon the world. The Conqueror might not have delivered his plague-o-gram yet, but he’d stuffed and sealed the envelope.

“Little boy Pestilence,” laughed the Conqueror. “You still don’t understand. I’ve seen the end of the world, and it arrives on a sheet of white. This sheet,” he said, stomping his foot on the snow-covered ground.

“Because of you,” Billy said. His fingers ached from keeping the tension in the bowstring, but he didn’t want to fire, not if he could keep the Conqueror talking, maybe get him to see that what he was trying to do couldn’t possibly work.

“Because of
him
,” said the Conqueror, his voice dropping to a hiss. “The world echoes his mood. When it warms, he is content with his lot. But when it grows colder, then despair, little boy Pestilence! Despair!”

So this is what it’s like to talk to a crazy person.
“You’re not making sense,” Billy said.

“The world is nothing more than a reflection of his soul. And his soul is black and twisted and cold, so very cold. A sheet of ice.” The White Rider stomped his foot once more. “He gives everything life, and life begets all evils in the world.”

Billy was completely lost. “What are you talking about?”

“All of this,” the Conqueror said, motioning to the land and beyond, “is because of Death.”

Billy stared at the White Rider, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. How did he convince an insane Horseman that he was, in fact, insane?

“Death is here, right now,” said the Conqueror.

If only,
Billy thought. His arms had begun to shake from the pressure of the bowstring, so he finally removed the arrow. It vanished as soon as it stopped touching the string. Maybe it popped into Pestilence’s quiver, wherever that was. Billy didn’t know, and he didn’t care; he was still working to keep the Bow itself raised in front of him. He didn’t dare lower it, in case the Conqueror decided to attack him again, but it was getting harder to keep his arms raised.

“Death is in all things,” the Conqueror continued, babbling now, his words like wasps in Billy’s ears. “He is the alpha and the omega, and we exist only on his whim. And he is done with whimsy! I’ve seen the end of the world,” shouted the White Rider, pointing to the icy ground, “and it begins with a sheet of white!”

“It begins with
you
,” Billy said through gritted teeth. “But you can stop it, Mita. Call back the White.”

A pause, and for a moment, Billy thought that his plea had actually worked. But then the Conqueror said, “No.”

“Call it back!”

“No.”

Brandishing the Bow, Billy demanded once more, “Mita! Call back the White!”

The Conqueror grinned hugely; on his brow, the Crown gleamed. “No!”

The word echoed over the frozen wasteland, slowly fading to the whine of arctic wind. The silence stretched taut; around them, disease pressed against the air, eager to fly free.

In Billy’s unsteady hands, the Bow waivered.
What do I do now?

He was at a loss. He couldn’t stop the Conqueror; Billy knew that now, as surely as he knew his own name. The arrows were useless—after all, how could sickness affect the one person who controlled all health? Horror clutched at his heart, squeezing it in panic, and dread filled his stomach like acid. He’d failed. He’d come all this way, had pushed himself further than he’d ever gone, and it was all for nothing.

A small, still voice whispered:
Focus
.

Alone and afraid, Billy focused. He gripped the Bow tightly, felt the weight in his hands, how evenly balanced it was, how solid . . . and in that moment, he had an idea, born of equal parts revelation and desperation.

He lowered his weapon and closed the distance between himself and the mad king. His voice pitched low, he said, “Your daughter would be so disappointed.”

Rage warped the Conqueror’s pox-riddled face, twisting it into a grotesque lump of wax. “This is
for
my daughter,” he shrieked to the white-tinged sky, “for
all
daughters and sons! This is so that no one need ever die again! Sickness will take them all, and then I’ll save them, each and every one of them!” He raised his arms high, urging the plague to go forth. “The world will be bathed in White!”

Billy brought the Bow over his shoulder and lunged forward, swinging the Bow, going for the home run that would win the game. It connected solidly against the Conqueror’s head, denting his skull and knocking the Crown askew. With a shout that would have done War proud, Billy swung the Bow back again, smashing it against the White Rider’s misshapen head. The Bow splintered and cracked—and the Crown flew free. The silver circlet landed in the snow with an unceremonious thump.

The Ice Cream Man blinked, then raised his shaking his hands to touch the doughy mass of his bare forehead.

“Oh,” he breathed, a radiant smile softening the features of his ravaged face. “Plums.”

And then Mita, king of Phrygia, crumbled to ash.

Chapter 22

The White Rider Is Dead . . .

. . . Billy thought wildly, staring at the pile of ashes that had been a man.
The Bow is broken and the White Rider is dead and I killed him, I killed him, oh God I killed him and I want to go home now. Please, can I go home now?

Around him, the White howled.

The shattered Bow slipped from his numb fingers and landed in the snow with a soft
pfft
. Billy barely noticed; he was still staring wide-eyed where Mita had died, staring at all that remained of him.

Ashes, ashes,
sang five-year-old Billy,
We all! Fall! Down!

Fifteen-year-old Billy sank to his knees. He’d stopped the Conqueror—
Not stopped, no, I killed him, killed him dead
—but it wasn’t enough. Or maybe it would have been enough, but he had run out of time. Even though the Conqueror was dead, Billy still felt the press of sickness upon the air, sensed each bacterium, each virus, felt the rising wave of disease swell higher and higher, a crescendo of pestilence that would drown the world.