The Stolen Child (41 page)

She stalked back to her room and threw herself down on the bed.  She heard a soft movement, somewhere down low, a scratching sound close to her feet.  She lifted her head from the pillow in
time to see the swirling smoke cloud reforming.  Then Justin was sitting there at the foot of her bed.  He reached out to take her hand.
 

“Where the hell did you get to?”
s
he muttered angrily, pulling her hand away.

“Hiding.  Watching,”
h
e said.

“See anything good?”
“Saw you fight.  It wasn't fair, what she said to you.  The things that you've been put through, because of them...”

“Yeah.  But it weren't fair what's happening to her, either.”

He just shrugged, and let his hand rest on the back of her ankle.  She rolled over, to look at him properly.

“Thanks,”
s
he said, softly.

His only reply was to give her leg a gentle squeeze.

The sky was an ugly grey.  The sun had not yet crested the horizon, but the first light was filtering through, giving shape to the patchy clouds.  Rachael and Justin
stood out on the deck, leaning against the railing
.  
She
had borrowed one of the heavy coats from inside, though she left the straps undone.  
He
had his own long black coat on.
  Around them the high stone walls of the
canyon
rose up to meet
a sky turning to first light.
 
C
raggy grey stone
was
split by long bundles of creepers that hung down into the emptiness below.  Far below, the
river was a dark streak through the canyon.
 

For a long time, they stood in silence, faces raised skyward, until a flicker of motion caught their eyes.  Rachael drew a sharp
breath as she caught first sight of the
broad-winged silhouette wheeling in the sky.

The Rake was a slender thing, much more so than she had imagined.  A kind of lizard with featherless, leathery wings and a long neck and tail, it seemed to twist and writhe, worming its way through the air.  It really did look an awful lot like some kind of dragon.

There were others that she began to make out.  A flock, she had been told.  She could see them now, their weaving flights bringing them close before darting away.  
S
he saw a smaller one try to nip at another, like puppies at play.  It was perhaps a trick of the perspective, but they seemed smaller than she had imagined.

Over a sullen and dismal dinner the night before, they had been warned about the flocks that had been sighted in the area.  Abasi had shared the news with a despairing shake of his head, as if the whole thing was some kind of sick joke.

Flying low through the canyon, and slower than usual, they were safe enough.  Abasi had wanted to halt until the flock passed, but
they were told that Reuben
's people had insisted they keep moving.  
And yet, despite all the downcast faces, some tiny spark of excitement had flared inside of her.
 

A movement above the flock made her gasp in surprise.  The rakes had seemed small, but now she saw why.  A vast black silhouette passed over the rest of the flock, its wings vast enough to cover all of them if they would fly close enough together.  One wing, she noticed, seemed to have a large hole in it.

She watched, enraptured as the
mother
played amongst its children for a while, seeming to gather them all in before turning on a wing to glide off into the
distant sky, rays of sunlight
momentarily glinting through the mother's injured wing.  
The little ones followed in her wake
, and soon
Rachael lost sight of the
m in
the light of the rising sun
.
 

“I can't stay,”
Justin
said.

Shocked, s
he turned to look him in the eyes, hoping for some sign that he was playing with her.

“Why?  After all this time you spent looking for me...”

“This is just a cage, Rachael.  What good
's it going to do
if I
'm just
join
ing
you inside the bars?”
he said.
 

“You
can't just
believe they might want to help us?”

“Maybe they do.  But I don't think they can.  This professor, he seems to think he can keep you hidden away, or play some game with their courts, make everything OK with a few pieces of paper.  
You
remember
what those men
did
back in London.  Rachael, these
people
don't listen to pieces of paper.  They have guns and bombs and absolutely no remorse.  They are not going to be
have because someone tells them to
.”

She turned away for a moment, letting her eyes wander across the canyon walls that penned them in on both sides.
 

“So what, we just keep running?”
she said.
 

“Eventually.  I can't take you with me,”
he said, heavily.
  “I'm too weak now.  But if I bide my time, if I wait for the right moment... It will be easier, if they can't watch me.  If I'm the
one moving in the shadows.  
This place, where they're taking us... There's power there.  I can feel it already, even this far away.  
So I'm leaving, but I'll be watching.  I promise you that.  I won't let any harm come to you.  And when the time is right...”
 

She
turned towards him, and saw the fire burning in him.  The intensity of his conviction, as his eyes locked on hers.
 

“Justin, I really don't think this is the right idea,”
she said, shaking her head.
 

“I'm sorry,”
he said, raising his shoulders in a helpless gesture.
  “I just don't have a better one.”

“Please, don't go.”

Her hands found his, fingers entangling as if she could pin him in place.
 

“This is the only way to get you out Rachael.  It's the only way to bring you home.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes studying her face.
 

“Stay strong, OK?”
he said.
 

“Sure.  Right.  I'm good at that.”  She said, biting off the words as if they had a foul taste.

He stepped in close and his lips were on hers, his fingers brushing her hair back.
 She wanted to s
ei
ze that moment and hold it forever.  But he let her go and stepped away.  Smiling, self-assured
once more
, he sat back on the railing, spread his arms and threw himself over the edge.
 

Unable to help herself,
she leaned over
, just catching sight of the outstretched wings of the hawk as he swooped downward into the depths of the c
anyon
.
 

A stack of crates collapsed with a satisfying crash, tumbling over one another and spilling across the floor of the hold.  For a moment she stood and watched them settle, tension still singing through her body.  Her foot hurt.  The first few kicks had barely shifted the stack.

“Feel any better?”
a
voice said.

She wheeled around and saw Ilona standing in the doorway to the hold.  
T
he woman
was wearing some kind of loose silk pyjamas.
 

“It's fine,”
s
he mumbled.  “I'll clear it up.”

Ilona shrugged as she stepped into the hold, letting the door swing closed behind her.  She walked across to the far corner, under the loft, where she pulled aside a cloth covering.  From a small pile of equipment the woman lifted up a heavy looking sack with a rope trailing from one end.  She threw the rope over a hook that protruded from the underside of the loft space and began to pull.  As the sack rose Rachael realised
what it was.  A punching bag
.  The sight of it brought back a strong memory of the smell of sweat and grime.  The sound and the energy of the gym where her father had taken her sometimes.

Still not saying a word, Ilona began wrapping her hands.  Then she produced a spare roll of cloth, which she tossed lightly in Rachael's direction.

“What's this?”

“For your hands,” Ilona said, flexing hers in demonstration.

Feeling somewhat unsure of what was happening, Rachael pulled off a couple of lengths of cloth and took a shot at trying to wrap her hands up as Ilona had done.  It was difficult, working with just one hand, and the cloth wouldn't seem to stay put no matter how she twisted and tied it.

“Here,” Ilona said, holding out an open palm.  Frustrated, Rachael threw the strips of cloth
at
her.

“Hand,” Ilona said,
almost as if she was commanding a dog
.  
Seething,
Rachael held hers out as instructed.  Ilona began to weave the bindings deftly until they were
fully
secure.

“How does it feel?”  The woman said.  Rachael flexed her hands carefully,
still not sure what they were doing
.

“Good.  Now, come here.”  

Ilona went to stand at one side of the punching bag, bracing it.  Rachael had seen how this was done.  She stood across and raised her fists.  She found herself wondering if there was a proper way to stand.  Ilona said nothing.  Not sure of what else to do, Rachael threw a punch.  Then another.  Soon they came thick and fast, the bag responding with a satisfying thunk as each of her blows connected.  She punched and kicked until she felt ready to collapse from exhaustion.  Finally, gasping for breath, she dropped to the floor of the hold.

Ilona crouched at her side.

“Better?”

Rachael shook her head.

“
Not really,” she gasped.
 

“Good,”
the woman said, with a fleeting smile.
  “
I'd be disappointed if all this fuss was over something that could be solved by punching a sack a few times.
”

Despite herself, Rachael felt a smile flicker across her own face.  
Ilona stood and held out a hand.  Rachael took it, and was lifted to her feet.

“OK, take a break.  You brace,”
s
he said, nodding at the bag.  Following the woman's instructions, Rachael stood with her hands properly placed against the sackcloth.  Standing across from her, Ilona
settled down on the balls of her feet, hands raised in clenched fists
.  For just an instant the woman glanced up, as if to make sure she was paying attention.  Then she fell into a series of strikes that
flowed
from one to the next with
no apparent
effort.  Even with the weight of the bag, Rachael felt herself recoiling with each blow.

“I guess I was doing it all wrong,”
s
he said, when the woman was done.

“Yes,” Ilona said, without elaboration.  Rachael felt herself bristle a little.  “Would you like to learn?”
the woman
continued
.

“I... Yeah.  I would,”
s
he said,
surprised
.

“OK.  
Try setting
your feet like this.”

Ilona demonstrated, and Rachael did her best to follow the woman's movements.  
Slowly, Ilona began to draw deep breaths.
 

“
Breath from the diaphram.  That's good.  Shoulders back a little.  Rest your weight forward, on the balls of your feet.  Now bring your hands up.  Fists lightly clenched, thumb on the outside.  Like that.”
 

“
Are you going to show me how to throw a punch or something?” Rachael said.
 

“
No, I'm going to show you how to take one,” Ilona replied,
with a flicker of a smile.
 

“
Oh come on.”
 

“
I'm serious,” Ilona said.  “You're small, so avoiding a blow is always going to be better than taking one, but you still need to know how.  Being able to get away from a fight is much more important than winning one.”
 

“So, you wanna teach me how to fight by hitting me a bunch?”

“Don't worry, you get to start.  Hit me as hard as you can.  In the face.”

For a moment, Rachael hesitated.  Again, there was a flicker of a smile.
 

“
Scared?” Ilona said.
 

Without even thinking about it, Rachael swung.  Her fist connected with the woman's jaw, but as Ilona rolled with the blow, there seemed to be little effect.
 

“
Try it again,” Ilona said.  Rachael did, with just as little effect.
 

“
Where'd you learn all this stuff,” she said.
 

“
Various teachers,” Ilona replied.  “Anyone I could find.”
 

The woman stepped forward and began to adjust Rachael's stance, light touches helping to shift her weight and position.

“
Why?” Rachael said, as Ilona shifted her foot forward very slightly.  As the woman straightened up, there was a coldness in her expression, even more so than usual.
 

“
Because I was weak.  And I didn't want to be,” she said.  
“
Now, watch what I do.”
 

The instructions continued in the same clear, clipped tones.  Two hours later, muscles burning, hands aching, and her head swimming, Racahel collapsed against a heavy barrel.  
She could feel tiny bruises swelling up in a dozen places.  Ilona had pulled her punches, but only a little.
 

“I think that's enough for now,” Ilona said.  The woman held out a flask and Rachael took it, greedily gulping the water down.

“That was brutal she gasped,” she gasped.  “How do you even
manage
that?”