The navigator (6 page)

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"That's the problem," said Owen. "I've been listening to everyone about time turning back and people sleeping for years and great engines and people disappearing. But I have to see. I have to see that my house is gone. I have to see that ... that ..." He gulped and turned his head away, hoping that she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. Stumbling to his feet, he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

"I have to see," he repeated.

Cati gave him a long, level look, then seemed to come to a decision. "All right, but I better come with you."

"You can't," he said. "I'm going on my own."

"Don't be silly. You made enough noise going through the trees to wake the whole Starry, and you left a trail a blind man could see. If I come with you, at least we have a chance of getting back. Not much of a chance, mind you." Cati seemed almost cheerful about the prospect. "Come on then," she said. "Might as well get it over with." And she set off at a crouch, moving fast and silent. Owen had no choice but to follow her along the riverbank.

A few minutes later he thought he had lost her, then almost tripped over her. Cati was squatting on the ground.

"Careful," she hissed. "Get down here." She had a twig in her hand. "Look."

Owen squinted in the darkness. He could just about see the two parallel lines she had drawn in the earth.

"This line is the river," she said, "and this one is the Harsh. We're in between, here. And the place where your

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house used to be is here, just in front of their lines. We can get to it if we're really quiet and really lucky. But you have to do what I tell you, all right?"

Owen nodded dumbly. He hadn't really thought through what he had set out to do, and now he was feeling foolish and headstrong. Cati had called him a stupid boy and he was starting to feel like one.

"Let's go!" Cati said. He followed her, moving slowly now. They turned left and started to climb the hill toward the Harsh lines. There was more cover than he had expected. Where once there had been open fields there were now deep thickets of spruce and copses of oak and ash trees. Progress was slow. Cati whispered that there might be patrols about, and more than once she glared at him as he stood on a dry twig or tripped over a low branch. He did not recognize anything in the place where he had once known every tree and ditch, although sometimes he stumbled over something that might have been the crumbling foundation of an old field wall.

After what seemed like hours, Cati turned to him and held her finger to her lips. They stepped into a clearing-- a patch of low scrub. With a start, Owen looked around him. There was no real way of telling, but his heart said there could be no doubt; he was standing in the place where his house had been.

Was that flat piece of ground with saplings growing in it the place where the road had been? And was that young sycamore the same gnarled tree that had stood

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outside his bedroom window? Owen moved forward carefully until his foot struck something. Pushing back the vegetation, he found the remains of a wall. He moved along the wall until he reached a corner and then another corner. It was the right size and shape as his own house. In fact, he was standing underneath the window to his own room, if it had been there. The room with the model hanging from the ceiling, and the guitar, and the battered trunk he had stood on to climb out of the window.

"I don't understand," he whispered. "If time is going backward, how come the sycamore tree is getting younger but the house is getting older? Surely the house would turn back into bricks and stuff."

"Living things get younger as time goes backward," Cati said, "but things built by man just decay. It has always been like that."

Owen began to notice that the grass and weeds were crisscrossed with scorch marks and that the leaves of low-hanging trees were blackened and dead. Cati reached up and broke off a leaf, which crumbled in her hand.

"The Harsh have been here," she whispered fearfully. "Searching for something, by the look of it. We have to go."

But Owen wasn't ready. He moved his foot and something clanked against it. He put his hand down into the undergrowth and groped around until his hand closed on an object. He held it up. It was the hand mirror that his mother used when she brushed her hair. The brass

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back was tarnished and the glass was spotted and milky in places, but it was the same mirror, and as he looked at it, he could picture his mother brushing her hair, her lips pursed, whistling tunelessly to herself. The glass seemed to become yet more faded as his eyes misted over.

Cati said something, but he didn't hear her. And he was only barely aware of the cold that started to steal over him. It wasn't until he heard a faint crackling that Owen glanced up at a small twig that hung in front of him. As he looked, it seemed that hoarfrost crept up the leaf from the tip, then to another leaf and then another, until the stem itself froze and cracked with a gentle snapping sound as the sap expanded.

Owen looked around. The crackling sound was caused by dozens of leaves and twigs snapping in the same way. He turned to Cati, but she was staring off into the trees and her face was a mask of fear. He followed her terrified gaze. Far off, but moving inexorably closer, were two figures, both white, both faceless, and seeming to glide without effort between the trees. Cati's voice, when it came, was no more than a whimper.

"The Harsh," she said. "They're here."

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The cold seared Owen's lungs. Somehow he knew that the Harsh were talking to each other in mournful voices full of desolate words that were just out of earshot. The pitch of the voices rose to make a noise like the howling of wolves being carried away on an icy wind and Owen wondered if they had been spotted.

"Come on," he said to Cati in an urgent whisper. "Run!" But it was no good. She seemed to be paralyzed with terror. "Please, Cati," he said. "I think they've seen us."

"No," she moaned, "they don't see well. They can smell us, though. They can smell the warmth."

Owen grabbed Cati by the arm and hauled her to her feet. She stumbled after him. The Harsh were moving

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sideways, slipping through the trees. They were going to cut Owen and Cati off from the river. Cati wasn't resisting him, but she wasn't helping either. Owen thought he could hear the voices again and he felt a chilly dread steal over him, a sense that things were lost and that there was no point in running. He knew that this must come from the Harsh and was why Cati was paralyzed with terror.

"Come on, Cati," he urged. "You've got to fight it." Owen started to run, dragging her behind him. He could no longer see the two Harsh, but when he stopped for a moment he could hear the gentle crackle of frost attacking twigs and leaves to his right. It was only minutes to the river, but the trees and undergrowth made progress slow. Several times Cati fell and would have lain there if Owen hadn't forced her to her feet again, and all the time he felt the cold dread stealing over him, weighing down his limbs so that it was an effort to lift his feet.

Suddenly, Owen and Cati broke free into a clearing that seemed to lead down to the river. Owen turned. Less than fifty meters away he saw the two Harsh and stopped. The force of their presence dragged at him. Cati sank to her knees as Owen turned toward them. The Harsh made no effort to move nearer. Icy vapor from the frozen ground at their feet curled round them, so they seemed to float in the air. Owen's gaze was drawn to the places where their faces should have been: the blank white spaces. But there seemed to be a mouth to whisper cruel and seductive words, and eyes that bored into him and demanded surrender.

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In the distance, Owen heard a shout and knew that the defenders on the other side of the river had seen them. There was a crash and a burst of blue flame close to the river and then another one, but the Harsh did not stir. With one last desperate effort, Owen tore his gaze away. He reached down and caught Cati under the arms. Half dragging and half carrying her, he stumbled down the slope toward the river. Though he dared not look around, he knew that the Harsh had not moved. There was another burst of blue flame and Owen heard men's voices shouting encouragement to them. Even Cati seemed to hear and forced herself to run toward the river. They were just short of the water now and Owen realized they had to cover more ground upstream to reach the log crossing. He risked a glance backward--the Harsh had still not moved. They were almost clear.

Suddenly he felt Cati slow and stop and sink to the ground once again with a moan. Two more Harsh stood less than a hundred meters ahead, blocking off all access to the log and approaching slowly.

Owen looked round wildly. They couldn't go back, they couldn't go forward, and they couldn't stay where they were. There was only one way out. He went toward the low, ruined river wall and peered over it. The water below was black and deep, but at least it would carry them away from the Harsh. He dragged Cati toward the wall.

The Harsh seemed to realize what he was doing and started to move faster. Owen lifted Cati onto the wall and looked down again. He felt sick. He knew that if he

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dropped Cari into the water, she would not be able to look after herself. She was too lost in fear. He heard a shout from the trees across the way. The bearded man from the Convoke was sitting astride the branch of a tree, shouting, and Owen knew he was telling them to jump into the water. But even summoning up all his strength, even feeling the frost stealing through his jacket and into his flesh, even with his new friend whimpering in his arms, Owen could not do it. And somehow from the knowledge that he could not do it, he drew some strength. He reached to the ground and found a large branch. Turning his back on the river, and pushing Cati behind him, he stood to face the Harsh.

Owen could feel the cold attention of the Harsh on him. And he heard a cold voice inside his head say a single word. Mortmain. Then, as he turned, one of the creatures opened the white maw where its mouth should have been and Owen was hit by a frozen blast of what felt like the coldest sleet he had ever experienced--sleet like frozen knives, cutting through his clothes with a noise like the howling of a terrible wind. Cati cried out. He flung the branch toward the Harsh and saw it turn in the air, freeze, and splinter into a thousand pieces, and then he was driven away from the river.

Somehow Owen managed to turn his back to the blast and wrap his arms around Cati's cold shoulders as the blast grew fiercer. He gasped for air, but it seemed too cold to breathe. He knew then that all was lost. He felt deep calm settle over him. Then the blast stopped.

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Owen lay on the ground panting for breath. It was seconds before he could turn his head to see what had happened. The Harsh were still in the same place, but standing in front of them was Pieta. She was about fifteen meters away and she carried the whip of light casually at her side. The Harsh towered over her, so that she looked small and frail, but Owen could see that she was smiling a bleak, dangerous smile. The hand at her side moved quickly. Faster than the eye could follow, the whip of light swung back behind her. Owen gasped as it uncoiled, loop after loop, making a sizzling, whistling noise as it opened out, a living thing of deadly power.

He saw Pieta adjust her stance and with unbelievable power and speed the whip flew forward. She laughed as fifty meters of writhing energy whistled toward the Harsh, hissing as it cleaved the frozen air. The end of the whip stopped just short of the two creatures and, as the whip cracked, Owen had to cover his ears to protect them from the deafening sound, which was followed by a flash of brilliant blue light that illuminated the whole riverbank. There was a smell like iron filings, which stung his tongue and the back of his throat.

When Owen looked again he saw that the Harsh were floating slowly backward, their intense white forms somehow dimmed. He scrambled to his feet. Cati's eyes were closed. She was breathing, but there was a coat of hoarfrost in her hair and round her mouth. The whip cracked again. This time the Harsh dimmed and retreated. Owen

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saw that the way to the tree trunk across the river was clear. He lifted Cati and half ran, half staggered toward the riverbank. He had to run between Pieta and the Harsh, and for a moment he thought he heard their cold whispering. Then the whip cracked once more, going over his head this time, the force of its uncoiling making him stagger.

He reached the bank. The bearded man was now astride the log and he reached out for Cati. Owen dropped the unconscious girl into the outstretched arms, and with an agility that belied his size the man scrambled back across the tree trunk. Owen looked down at the water, shivering uncontrollably. He knew that he could not balance on the log.

Suddenly he was hit hard in the back. It was Pieta.

"Get across now," she hissed angrily. Looking back, he saw that the two groups of Harsh now stood together. This was too much even for Pieta. Owen felt the cold begin to stream toward them again and he scrambled onto the trunk, Pieta pushing him from behind. Owen threw himself forward and fell. He got up again but this time he slipped. First his foot and then his hand and then his whole body was plunging toward the dark water. He screamed as his foot hit the water, then felt Pieta grab one outflung hand. Effortlessly she swung him back onto the log and pushed him forward. Gasping and half blind from cold and terror, he fell off the end of the tree trunk and landed heavily on the ground.