Raging Star (24 page)

The shutters muffle their voices. The night-time flicker of the rushlight lanterns softens, blurs their distress.

Let’s take a look the other side, I says.

We scuttle across the front door to the window of the baby room. Slowly, cautiously, we take a look. A room jest like the other. Only here, instead of beds, there’s hopeful rows of small cots. They stand testament to DeMalo’s belief in the future of New Eden. From here, we cain’t see how many’s full. But a Steward woman moves between maybe half of ’em, checkin on the infants inside.

The midwife, whispers Mercy.

The pitiful noise comes from a swaddled baby that another Steward holds to her breast. She’s sittin in a chair, tryin to make it take a drink. But it won’t grab hold. Its head flops away an it cries out its life in thread-thin complaint. Rae’s baby, born a month too early.

Wet nurse, says Mercy. They only use women whose own baby died or was too weak an got exposed.

Mothers of the dead held captive. No chance fer them to mourn. Does it ease their sorrow some to see a child grow healthy from their milk? Fer them whose baby died natural, maybe. I could see it might help. But the women with feeble babies like this one? Who know the fate of their child? It must cut deep to their souls.

The Steward holdin Rae’s baby buttons her shirt an holds it to her shoulder. She rubs its back, tries to calm it with her hands an her voice. She’s got curly copper hair, a bit like Maev’s. I’d say she’s ages with me. If she had a baby that died,
it might well of bin her first. Even to my eyes, she don’t seem practised. Her gaze flicks anxiously to the two Tonton who jest come into the room.

The older man, dark-skinned, wearily handsome, is in charge. The other is a red-cheeked boy of about twenny. He looks too fresh faced to have the blood tattoo, but he must do. He stands post near the door while his commander speaks with the Steward wet nurse an the midwife. We cain’t hear what they say, their voices are too quiet, but it’s clear they’re talkin about Rae’s child. He makes them unwrap the baby from the swaddlin so’s he can see it proper, take a good look at it.

It’s a girl. A pathetic red scrap. Tiny sparrow arms. Legs you could snap between yer fingers. She’s stopped cryin now. I can hear DeMalo’s voice in my head.

Whose children will best serve the earth? Those born to the scum of Hopetown? Weak children born to the weak? Or the children of these people?

Sometimes the strong give birth to the weak. An sometimes the weak grow to be strong.

That’s jest how Emmi was, says Mercy.

Emmi. Born early, denied a mother’s love to anchor her to the world, she barely hung on fer the first few weeks. Then, with Mercy’s care, somethin inside of her kicked an she started to fight to live. The commander checks the child over. He speaks to the women some more. He turns to the young
Tonton an flicks his fingers. The boy slips from the room.

The copper-haired wet nurse starts to swaddle the baby agin. The commander stops her. With urgent distress, they talk at him, her an the midwife. They’ve raised their voices, so I can make out, Another few days, an Please, sir. He cuts ’em off short with a raised hand.

He’s decided, says Mercy. No hope fer this one.

After a few more words, the commander leaves the room. The young Tonton’s jest comin back in an they exchange nods at the doorway. He comes over to the women. The wet nurse hesitates, clutchin Rae’s baby to her. Then she gently kisses her head an hands her over, naked as she is.

I notice how carefully the Tonton takes her. How he supports her head with his hand. How he cradles her in his arms so easy, so natural.

An I think to myself, He’s done that before. Maybe had a little sister of his own. Was happy to help with her, loved her. Not like me. To my shame, I never touched Em once. I blamed her fer Ma bein dead. Lugh was the one who helped Pa with her.

Suddenly, the pound of runnin feet. We all hit the ground. A second later, two Tonton appear from the back of the babyhouse. They head fer the stables. The moment they’re outta sight, we scramble around the far corner of the buildin. We hold our breath. We wait.

The red hot quivers in me, strains to break free. My hand
rests on my gunbelt—flew there at the sound of runnin feet. Essept I ain’t wearin it. Fer the very first time since I left Silverlake, I ain’t packin no weapons. None of us are. No bows, no guns, no knife in my boot sheath. It don’t feel right. I don’t feel right. I notice Jack’s hand rests where his gun ain’t.

The Tonton haul a double bench buggy from the stables. One runs back inside to fetch a horse an they ease him into the traces an hitch him up. It’s all done in double-quick time.

They’re gonna take Rae home, whispers Mercy.

You know where she lives? I says to Cassie.

She nods. She’s perfectly calm. I recall her steady nerve the night I first met her. When Jack snatched Emmi an it was only thanks to her an Bram’s cool heads that I didn’t git us all killed there an then.

While the Tonton bring the horse an cart to the front door, locks rattle, bars creak an it swings wide open. The commander walks Rae out, holdin her by the elbow. She hugs her little bundle to her chest. No sign of tears now. She wouldn’t dare make a fuss in front of him. She holds her head high. Doin her best to act the way a Steward should.

The commander helps her onto the buggy’s rear bench. He smiles an bows his head. She almost manages a smile back. She’s made of stern stuff, this girl Rae. Whether that’ll work in our favour remains to be seen. The two Tonton climb in an settle on the front bench. The grunt
ridin shotgun lays his firestick on his knees. With a slap of the reins an a sudden jolt, the buggy rumbles from the yard an into the moonpath that lights the road north Silver.

As the front door shuts, locks rattle, bars creak, we can see Rae’s dark figger on the buggy’s back bench. She twists around to take a long, last look. Then she turns to face the road ahead.

Don’t worry, girl, I says. You’ll see yer baby soon. Then I says to Cassie, We ain’t gonna need yer play actin after all. We picked the right night to come. You an Mercy git the horses. Wait fer us by the first bend along that north road. There’s some rock cover there. Jack, yer with me. Let’s go git that scrawny little baby.

The young Tonton’s easy to spot. Easy to keep in our sights. The night’s clear lit an the land lies flat an he’s the only thing movin besides us. An the light breeze carries snatches of the baby’s thin wail. So we hang back an keep low in case he glances behind him. Nero coasts along above us, but nobody’d give a second thought to a crow flyin by night. That’s if they even noticed it.

With the Tonton’s head start, he must be well on the way
to wherever he’s bin told to leave the child. I’m guessin it’ll be some fair distance from the babyhouse. Far outta hearin range. Nobody could take the sound of a baby cryin outdoors all night long. Not even the Tonton. The speed this guy’s goin, a sort of runnin walk, says he’s in a hurry to git the job over with. From his gait, you can tell that he’s hunched around the baby, huggin her close to his chest. He’s probly got her unnerneath his cloak.

What a grim task. He must be bottom of the peckin order. We follow him fer half a league or so, along a path through the low scrub. It ain’t worn ground, but it’s bin trampled down enough to make easy goin. Then he’s gone. Jest like that. Disappeared from view completely.

Jack snatches up the looker that’s hangin around his neck. Where’d he go? he mutters as he sweeps the night. Dammit. C’mon!

We belt across the plain. We nearly tumble down on top of him. He’s sat cross-legged at the bottom of a dry little gully with the baby laid across his lap. We duck behind a boulder an peek out. The baby’s whimperin now, but the steep rocky sides will blanket any sound she makes. The Tonton’s took off his own sheema to wrap her. That’s somethin he ain’t meant to do. He’s makin a tidy, careful job of it as well. His firestick’s on the ground next to him.

He’s sayin, Don’t look at me like that. This ain’t my fault. Yer too small an whose fault is that? Yers, that’s who.
You should of stayed inside yer ma till you was growed big enough. But oh no, you was in too much of a hurry. An fer what? Look at the pickle you got yerself into.

He talks to her like you would anybody. Jest normal conversation. It’s the only way he can do this. Me an Jack look at each other. An, fer the briefest of moments, in the starfallen night, I see the father he was fer the briefest of times. Gracie’s father. A girl child like this one. I always ferget Jack had a child. Only now does it occur to me that this might be hard fer him.

Okay, yer done, says the Tonton. He takes the baby in his arms an gits to his feet. I gotta put you somewheres outta the wind. You don’t wanna catch cold. An we don’t want them coyotes catchin wind of you. Over there? Good idea. He settles her in a nook between the rocks. There you go, look at that. Yer snug as a bug. Now listen to me, an this is real important, okay? You cain’t cry, not a peep an I mean it. If a coyote was to find you— His throat works as he fights not to cry. Suddenly, he turns an scrambles up the other side of the gully. He rushes off into the night.

Jack an me do a silent finger count to ten. He stands slowly an checks with the looker. He’s goin, he whispers.

You stay here, I says.

I pick my way down the rocks, takin good care every time I move a foot or a hand. I mustn’t make no sound. But my last step sets off a slide of pebbles. I freeze. Stare up at Jack. He checks through the looker.

He’s outta sight, he says. Go on.

The baby’s started to mew agin. I hurry to her along the gully. She gringes a feeble protest as I try to winkle her out from where she’s tucked between the rocks. I ain’t quite sure how to go about it. I don’t wanna hurt her by mistake. Shhh, I tell her. My hands feel clumsy. About as useful as feet fer the task. The Tonton’s sheema seems to be caught on somethin.

Nero circles overhead, caw caw cawin. He probly don’t like the baby’s shrill laments. He ain’t the only one. Does the little thing sound weaker or is it jest my imagination? Whatever, we need to git her to Rae as quick as we can.

I tug at the sheema an, bit by bit, I manage to wriggle her free. I reach in an take her. She don’t hardly weigh nuthin. She’s mainly bulky cloth. I turn to retrace my steps.

An he’s here. The Tonton. Standin in the gully. Twenny foot away. A bolt shooter aimed at my heart. He gasps as he spots my birthmoon tattoo. The Angel of Death. Fear shards his face. He scuttles back. But his gun stays on me.

How did he creep up on me without Jack seein? Without me hearin him? He knows this place an we don’t, that’s how.

I raise my voice. I’m alone, I says. I ain’t armed.
D’you hear me, Jack? Stay outta sight. Don’t try nuthin
.

The Tonton’s eyes widen. His breath’s shallow an high. He’s heard the stories, the rumours. The ghost of the Angel of Death. On the prowl in New Eden. Set on revenge.

I know what you think but I ain’t no ghost. I’m real enough,
I says. Here. I reach out my hand to him. Go on, I says. Feel. I’m warm.

After a moment, he sidles forwards. His fingertips touch mine. A tiny nod. Show me yer clean, he says.

I keep my eyes on him as I move slowly an smoothly. I don’t want him gittin jumpy on me. I lay the baby on the ground. I slide off my coat an throw it on the rocks. I open my arms wide an turn in a circle.

He moves in an does a quick pat down, holdin his shooter on me all the while. Lookin at me all the while. Like he still ain’t sure this ain’t some ghost trick. His face is a soft boy’s face. His razor shaves peach fuzz, not bristles. He steps back. I seen the crow, he says. I thought he might hurt her.

The crow’s mine, she’s safe, I says. We look at each other, the Tonton an me. I seen you, I says. I heard you talkin to her. I’m gonna pick her up agin, okay? Don’t want her gittin cold there on the ground. I crouch an scoop the baby to my arms.

Yer holdin her wrong, says the Tonton. You gotta support her head, doncha know nuthin?

Not much, I says. He’s already holstered his gun an goes about settlin the baby proper in my arms.

Yer easy with her, I says. You got a little sister yerself?

His jaw tightens. His mouth too. That tells me all. Yes. But alive or dead, I dunno. Maybe he don’t neether. That must hurt.

I got a sister, I says. She was born weak, jest like this one. But she grew an thrived an … she’s somethin special.

Where you gonna take her? he says. When I don’t answer, he rushes on. I won’t clype on you, I swear, he says. Apology—no, more than that—shame shades his face. This boy who shed tears over a baby that ain’t nuthin to him.

I’m gonna give her back to her mother, I says.

You better hurry, he says. She ain’t doin too good. She’s awful small. He strokes the baby’s cheek with one finger.

It don’t hafta be this way, I says. Every blood tie cut. Mother from child. Brother from sister. Did they take her to Edenhome, yer sister?

I dunno, he says. Maybe.

What’s her name? I says.

Then, it’s like he suddenly realizes that he’s standin with the Angel of Death, enemy of the people, talkin to her like anybody else. His face slams shut. He steps away. Head high, stood tall, he holds his clenched right fist to his heart. Long life to the Pathfinder, he says.