The Crash of Hennington (38 page)

—I don’t know. The Crash have never hurt anyone, and they’ve been around longer than anyone’s been alive. I just can’t believe they did it without being pushed to it, and I think most people think that, too. I think most people want to know more. I hope they do. There are still questions here that need answering.

—Theo, stop it!

—Don’t shout at him, Talon. He’s just a puppy. He doesn’t know any better.

—Who’s going to answer the questions?

—Which ones?

—The ones that need answering.

—My office is investigating. That was the whole point of setting up the Crash Advocate post. Nobody expected something like this to happen. Which I guess only proves that this is when they need us most.

—Kids at school are saying The Crash should be shot.

—That’s why kids aren’t in charge of decisions like this.

—They’re saying what they’d do if The Crash started attacking them. They’re saying they’d fight back with guns and bazookas and tanks.

—And where would they get those?

—It’s just kid-talk, Daddy.

—So it is.

—Daddy?

—Yes, pumpkin?

—Are you going to win?

—No one knows for sure. But I think I will. I believe it.

—Even with what Thomas Banyon is doing?

—Even with what Thomas Banyon is doing.

—But it’s going to be harder.

—To win? Yes. It’s going to be harder. You’ve got that one right, darling.

—I don’t want it to be hard for you.

—Don’t you worry about anything. Sometimes things are hard, but if they’re worth it, you don’t mind working for them. Now. It’s time for bed. Look, Theo’s already asleep. Good night, sweetie.

—But what’s going to happen next?

—If we knew that, life would be boring, wouldn’t it, pumpkin?

81. The Smell of Blood.

They wandered for days, and still she couldn’t shake the smell from her horn. It was illusory, it had to be. She had shoved her nose into the musty peat in the southern bogs, rubbed it along bitter-smelling tree bark, coated it in piquant rotted fruit, even dunked it in the festering briny marsh to the north. Yet the smell remained, drifting lightly as smoke from her horn to her nostrils, delicate but persistent. There were times when the lingering scent drove her to a frenzied run, as if she
could outpace it, pushing against her lungs harder and harder. She only slowed when she heard the thundering hoofbeats of an exhausted herd behind her, trying to keep up, her duties as leader never leaving her, never seeming heavier.

She had led them blindly at first, following no set path, heading towards no destination. Equally frightened themselves, the members of the herd made no complaint of hunger or thirst as they tromped a random path through streets and woodlands, fields and farms. Food had been scarce before, but now they didn’t even seem to be looking for it. They stuck close together, walking in tight groups, sleeping when they could, piled almost on top of one another. Nothing like this had ever happened before. There had been deaths in the herd, of course. Death was part of life. But not ever a thin creature, and never by action of a member of the herd. They were used to certainties, used to routine, yet somehow they had gotten lost beyond some border of their normal pattern. When she was among them, she could hear small calls of fear and anxiety.

And they looked to her to set it right. She could see their eyes on her as she walked past, as she paced around them while they slept – sleep having eluded her since, since, since – as she tried to figure out what to do. But the blood, the smell, the horrible presence that wouldn’t stop hovering around her nose, made it hard for her to listen to instinct, to sort out panic from the necessities of life and leadership. They looked to her. She had to lead them. That was the way things were. Those were the only facts that were important. But the smell …

They had to hide. They had to get somewhere away from the thin creatures and their shouts and jagged odors. Somewhere she could gather herself and put the herd back together again. Breathing heavily, putting all her energy into movement,
she pushed them hard into the woods behind the hill of fields, deep into the thicket. Grass was sparse, but they could eat fallen leaves. There were brooks hidden, too, under the shadows of the dense trees. It wasn’t comfortable and there were no easy places to sleep, but it was quiet, away from the hardened stink of the city. The herd settled in, uneasy, exhausted.

What now?

She paced. If large, future decisions weren’t to be had, then the smaller, at-hand ones would have to suffice. She made a circle around the herd again and again, keeping them to a small area of woodland between two arms of a small stream. It wasn’t difficult. None of the herdmembers wanted to go anywhere anyway and seemed more than happy to at last have a place to stay still, cramped though it was. The air of tension slowly deflated among the members of the herd as she began to act like a leader again, keeping them here, communicating to them where they should stay and what they should do. She could feel their relief, palpably so as some of the wearier members dropped quickly to the ground and went right to sleep.

As she flowed again into the duties of leadership here in the glade, she found herself more than once looking around for the thin creature that followed them. It was then the smell of blood,
his
blood, was the strongest. She shook it off, quickened her step, and was grateful for the opportunity to direct some of the younger ones over a tricky pile of rock. She led them slowly down the embankment to the rest of the herd, carefully guiding them on flat, inflexible feet that were the worst in nature for climbing.

And so what
now?
Never had she felt so exhausted and lost. After a rest here, she would move the herd on. But to where? And why? Why couldn’t they stay here? Because a hiding place was never permanent. And why the need to hide?
Because instinct told her so, and instinct had gotten her this far, had gotten the herd through hard times before. But here now was where they were, safe for the moment. (Safe from what?) At last, three days without sleep caught up with her, and she barely had the strength to kneel rather than fall to the ground. Darkness was setting in. As she lay in the peat, the unwelcome smell persisted in her nose, as if the sky, so stingy with rain, was instead shedding sheets of blood down onto her and her alone.

82. The Hard Bit.

—Well, I’ve looked, and it’s not encouraging.

—I know. I’ve looked, too.

—There’s no written doctrine, surprise surprise, so all we’ve really got to go on is what others have done before, and the books aren’t exactly busting at the seams with those stories either.

—I know.

Jarvis took another look around the room. Apparently, foreclosure meant you couldn’t take your furniture with you either, and the presence of sofas, appliances, pictures, even books and magazines made the house seem less under auction than abandoned in a hurry and forgotten. The air was tense, but Jarvis assumed it was him. As if the whole business with Theophilus wasn’t enough, how did he also manage to find himself sitting illegally in an abandoned, or rather, foreclosed house with a possibly crazy young man and a body that was both dead and not? He sighed.

—Are you sure you’re safe here, Peter?

—No, but—

—Right, right. We’ve talked about that.

—I appreciate your help, Father, but I don’t have much time.

Jarvis looked over the face of Peter Wickham once more. Weary wrinkles had appeared around his still-young eyes, eyes filled to the brim with a heartbreaking mixture of hope, belief, utter exhaustion, barely handled grief, impatience, and back around again to hope. Jarvis doubted Peter was over thirty yet his eyes were those of a soul containing lifetimes, lifetimes which had probably only been lived in the past few weeks. Almost reflexively, Jarvis offered up a silent prayer for this young man which was almost a warning. Save this one, Lord. Somehow, however this works out in the end, save this one. Save
this
one and his pure faith.

—So what do I do?

—From what I can tell, there’s not a whole lot of
doing
involved. You pray.

—I have been.

—You keep Luther safe.

—I’ve been doing that, too.

—And you keep your faith that what you’re doing is right.

—That’s all?

—My dear boy, isn’t that hard enough?

—But I feel I ought to be doing something. Go on some quest. Avenge his grief. Something grand, something big.

—The Bondulay teaches that we’re all responsible for ourselves. Your part in this is to keep your faith, which, though you’re doing admirably well, is and will become more difficult than you can imagine. Whatever Luther’s grief is, the resolution to it will have to take care of itself with no input from you.

—I don’t understand.

—Faith is rarely ever a journey, Peter. It’s more like keeping a fire stoked in a rainstorm. The benefits and warmth are
obvious, but it’s so much easier just to not do the work, let the fire go out, and use reason to bundle yourself up against the rain.

—With the rain being what? Doubt?

—Well, yes, I guess. The analogy doesn’t quite hold that far, but I think you see my point.

—All I want to know is what I have to do, and when Luther will come back.

—I don’t know. No one knows, and
that’s
your challenge.

—But the Sacraments—

—The Sacraments say more or less nothing. You said you’ve looked so you should know that. Book of Aramea, Chapter 4, Verses 3–5,
‘But the death of Sarah was not a death but a resting place away from her grief where she stayed until Antony came to fetch her'.
Sarah and Antony aren’t mentioned again in the entire Sacraments. Book of Songs, Chapter 41, Verses 12–14,
‘Rest from your grief in the place twixt life and death, until your former beloved calls you back, and life returns anew'.
That’s it, Peter. That’s everything. In a 900,000-word text, those are the only two mentions of your situation, and neither of them are much to go on for hard instructions.

—What about the Apocrypha? Meredith and her son.

—My, you
have
done your homework. Yes, Meredith dies, or seems to, when she learns incorrectly that her son has died in battle. He returns, declares that he will bring her back from a fruitless death, fasts for a month, builds a new church, drives out the quote-unquote ‘forces of avarice’ in his town, until finally, when he’s on the verge of actually dying for real, Meredith returns to life.

—Well?

—Well what? Are you going to build a church and drive out the forces of avarice?

—It sounded allegorical to me.

—Ah, see, there you’re right. It
is
allegorical. The whole story is. It’s about how Meredith failed to deal with her earthly grief and was lucky enough to have a son to bring her back. However, the story also implies that death can be circumvented through good works, which is why it’s in the Apocrypha and not in the Sacraments. The dogma is all wrong for a faith that believes in the divine cleansing of the soul. You do good works in service of your Lord because he’s washed you of your sins, not vice versa.

Peter exhaled in frustration.

—So you have nothing at all?

—I’m telling you, everything there is still amounts to next to nothing. There are old tales, but they vary so much they’re worthless for practical steps to take. Myth, speculation, half-heard whispers that contradict each other. There’ve been breakaway factions from Bondulay who have concentrated more on this type of mysticism, but even their literature contains not one clear example of resurrection.

Peter was quiet for a moment. He looked at the floor.

—You don’t believe me either.

—I believe that
something’s
happened,
is
happening. I don’t have the certainty of your faith in the exact nature of it, no, I’ll admit that. But we’re in unknown territory here, Peter, and there’s nothing to guide you. I think
that
may be the point, which is what I was trying to say before. Your mission, so to speak, the steps that you can take are praying, keeping Luther safe, and not losing your faith in the face of no evidence, in the face of no supporting material, in the face of only contrary opinion and doubt, including mine.

Peter cocked his head to the back room where Luther, Luther’s body, still lay on a bed. The hum that emanated from somewhere around him could still be heard, even from
the next room. No-man’s-land. Jarvis was right about that. Peter had skipped some boundary somewhere, had jumped some line into who knew where, and Jarvis was saying that he was alone there. No, not alone. He had Luther. If this was love or if it was obsession, it no longer mattered. The only way to go was onward.

—I can do it.

—You’ll be faced with doubts of a magnitude unimaginable.

—I can do it.

—I’ll help you when I can, but I can’t do anything illegal. I can’t save you if you’re caught, and I can’t stop the police from looking.

—I can do it.

—I believe you, Peter. That’s why I’m helping. Because despite everything, and there’s a lot going on that you don’t even know about, somehow I believe I’m in the presence of a miracle. It scares the everloving shit out of me, but I believe you.

83. Re-linking.

A phone was easier requested than provided. It took the shorter one three full days to find a mobile he could sneak to Jacki, and that was only after she had explained in long, convincing detail why she needed it.

—I still don’t think it’s a good idea.

—I know the risks. I’ll make sure you’re not involved.

—You can’t make sure of that.

—But you still brought me the phone.

—Your reasons are good.

—I certainly hope they are. Is the phone safe?

—There’s no problem with the phone. The problem is in letting someone else know your location.

—I won’t tell them, I promise. No one will be able to trace me, right? Would someone have done that? Tapped my kids’ phone or watched them or something?