The White City (7 page)

Sally ran across the ice bridge for the far bank as booms erupted behind her. She reached the far shore and kept running to the game trail leading from the cove. Only then did she look back.

The lake was gone.

Jolie was gone.

As the last of the avalanche settled into thin tendrils of snow, Sally dropped to her knees. An enormous mound of snow now filled the cove. Just as she was thinking Quorl was buried as well, the rougarou lurched up over the mound and stared down at her.

Sally scrambled to back away. She stifled a scream as he leaped from the mound of snow. But as he landed, Quorl simply collapsed. She trembled as she watched him, waiting to see what he would do. He lifted his head slowly and said, “I … did not mean … to bring down the snow. I thought she … What have I done?” The dark receded from his eyes, and clarity returned as the irises became blue once again.

“I don’t know,” Sally said. “Is—is Jolie dead?”

Quorl listened a moment longer. “I hear … nothing. Why … why was she following us?”

She did not know whether to tell him the truth, that he had
attacked Jolie and possibly brought about her death when she was simply trying to help them. “I can’t say,” she whispered.

Quorl turned his gaze back to her. “I am forgetting who I am.”

“I know.” Sally could fight back the tears no longer. Shaking with sobs, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his fur. “Turn back, Quorl. Return to the Great Tree before it is too late.”

“My little Coyote. I will not leave you,” Quorl said. Sally could see how hard he was trying to speak, to keep from descending completely into a wolf. “I promise you … I will not harm you. Trust me. I may lose myself but I … never-r harm you. And no matter-r-r how much wor-r-rse … I will lead you. I am-m-m bound-d-d … to you.”

She stood and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Let’s go. Let’s get away from here.”

Sally cast one last look out at the avalanche, knowing there was nothing she could do for Jolie. She and Quorl set off, traveling side by side until they passed the summit—the elusive summit she had watched with such hope—and continued on, following the rabbit’s foot deeper into the mountains.

C
ONKER STRUCK A MATCH ON THE SIDE OF HIS BOOT AND LIT
the lantern. As the wick lit, orange light illuminated the barn’s interior. “It’ll do,” he grunted, brushing aside some cobwebs dangling from the rafters.

Si plopped onto a bale of straw, whipping her long braid of slick black hair over her shoulder. “Well? When are you going to check it?”

Conker hung the lantern back on the worn beam overhead and sat down across from her. “Whenever you’re ready, I expect.”

Si tucked her bandaged hand closer to her stomach. “Wait for Redfeather and Marisol to get back.”

“Okay.” The giant nodded. He took out the package of crackers and unwrapped the waxed paper before handing them
to Si. The door to the barn opened, and Conker’s hand reflexively grabbed Jolie’s shell knife from his belt.

“… but we can’t build a fire in here,” Redfeather was saying. “We should stay somewhere safe.”

Marisol scowled at him as she closed the barn door behind her. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve built a protective Five Spot every night since we left the rougarou and haven’t had anyone even come near us. We’ll be fine. Quit worrying.”

Conker placed the knife on the straw bale beside him. He looked up at Si, who rolled her eyes at the arguing pair. Conker smirked.

“But what if Stacker Lee—” Redfeather began.

“I don’t think Stacker’s going to turn around to come back for us,” Marisol said. “He’s already in the city.”

“Conker?” Redfeather waved an accusing hand at Marisol.

“I’m sure we’ll be all right without a Five Spot tonight,” Conker said in his low voice.

Redfeather opened his mouth and looked back at Marisol but then dropped his hand and sat down on the bale beside Conker, tucking his long hair behind his ears.

“What’d the farmer say?” Conker asked.

“We can stay here,” Redfeather said. “There’s a well behind the barn. Didn’t offer us any supper, but he said he’s going into the city in the morning to make a delivery. He’ll give us a ride.”

“You figured on how we’ll find that boy?” Conker asked.

“Gigi.” Marisol sat down next to Si and let her copperhead, Javidos, slither out from her shirtsleeve onto her lap. “No, but we’ll ask around. Someone will know something about the
workers from Omphalosa. If we can find where the machinery was brought, then we’ll know where the Gog is.”

“And once we find his building,” Redfeather said, “we’ll rescue Buck. We’ll get back the Nine Pound Hammer.”

“Good,” Si said, a venomous snarl on her lips.

But Conker did not feel so hopeful.

Rubbing Javidos’s chin, Marisol turned to Si. “Are you … going to take the bandage off?”

Si winced. Conker watched her impassively. He didn’t want to rush her. After Stacker’s man had shot her hand, Si had been unconscious. She had not seen the damage. Fortunately, Jolie had left the water from Élodie’s Spring. Conker had poured the water over Si’s hand before wrapping it. And as they had journeyed eastward across the prairie, he had given Si a sip from the waterskin each night. No blood had soaked into the bandages, nor had a fever taken her. And after only a few days, Si said that her hand no longer hurt.

Conker still worried what they would see when the bandage was taken off. But not nearly so much as Si, he imagined.

“All right, then,” Si whispered, her eyes cast down to the dirt floor of the barn.

Redfeather and Marisol exchanged nervous glances. As Conker stood, Marisol got up and they switched seats.

When Conker settled beside her, Si didn’t look at him but simply placed her hand in his lap.

Conker untied the knot of fabric at her wrist and slowly began unwinding the strips from her hand. “Reckon we could see things a little better?” he said.

Redfeather took down the lantern. He wiped at the sooty
glass, but it still gave off only a dim light. Opening the lantern, he dipped his hand inside and gathered a small flame to his fingertips. He kneeled before them. “How’s that?”

Conker grunted and continued slowly pulling away the bandage. Redfeather’s horse, Atsila, whinnied outside the barn. Conker stopped when he finally exposed the inky black skin of Si’s palm. He looked up once at Redfeather and Marisol and then over at Si.

“Get on with it,” she growled. Her chin twitched, and she turned her face away from Conker.

Gently Conker pulled the last of the bandage from her hand and let it fall to the dirt. As Redfeather held his flaming fingers closer, Marisol sucked in a sharp breath, causing Si to draw as tense as a knot.

Conker ran his fingers over Si’s hand. The inky black skin. The black nails at the tips of her black fingers. He brought his hand over each knuckle, one, two, three, then stopped. The pinkie finger was gone, as was the knuckle and part of the side of her palm. But the skin was smooth, without even a scar, as if she had been born with only four fingers.

Conker folded his hands around Si’s and gave it a gentle squeeze. “That hurt?”

Si shook her head.

“I suspect it’s all healed,” Conker said. “Do you want to look at it?”

Si turned her head slowly and stared down at her small hand lying in Conker’s enormous one, gazing at it as if it were a thing not belonging to her but some awkward gift Conker was presenting.

“Move your fingers,” Conker said.

The three fingers closed stiffly, her thumb covering them. She wiggled them a few times and then touched the missing part of her palm.

“Si,” Redfeather said softly as he closed his fist to extinguish the flames. She stared at her hand, and Redfeather cleared his throat before continuing. “Do you … does … it still work?”

Si held up the hand toward the dark cobwebbed rafters at the top of the barn. She kept it outstretched for a long time, but no stars formed on the skin’s surface, no celestial map, no firefly bits of illumination. Only the dark skin against the dark shadows.

Si lowered her hand. She stood up, walked over to the far side of the barn, and curled up on a bed of hay.

Conker looked back at Redfeather and Marisol, their faces awash in concern. “Let’s all get some sleep,” he murmured. “Got a big day ahead of us.”

“Where’d you say you come from?” the farmer asked. He drove a pair of trudging mules along the road. Marisol and Si sat next to him on the wagon’s bench, with Conker wedged in the back between the crates of corn and sacks of meal.

Riding Atsila beside the wagon, Redfeather said, “Started out in the Dakotas a few days ago.”

“That’s a fair distance, eh?” the farmer replied.

The sun was only just rising as the wagon rode through the western townships bordering the city. A shopkeeper paused from sweeping the sidewalk to watch curiously as the wagon passed.

“You all got jobs lined up on the Midway or something?” the farmer asked.

“The Midway?” Marisol asked uncertainly.

The farmer adjusted his cap as he glanced sideways at the girls. “Sure, the Midway. I haven’t been, on account of all the work. The wife wants us to go once the harvest is all in. I hear the Midway is a sight more interesting than the rest of the fair. Aren’t you folk performers?”

“We’re just visiting the Expo,” Redfeather said.

The farmer snapped his stick at the mules’ hides. “You’re Indian, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hear there’s a bunch on the Midway,” the farmer explained. “Some Eskimos from way up in the Arctic. And Buffalo Bill’s Indians at the Wild West show. Chinese folk too. Acrobats and the like. Tribes from who knows where, and a big volcano carried all the way from Hawaii. Bears that walk tightropes. You can kiss the Blarney Stone. Hear it’s all quite a sight to see. Thought you all might be taking jobs there, is all.”

“Nope,” Conker said.

The farmer glanced back at Conker and laughed. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen one as big as you.” He laughed once more. “You could be John Henry’s son.”

“We just came to see the Expo,” Redfeather said a little irritably.

The farmer’s eyes traced over each of them, and he gave a sniff. “Well, lots of folks do.” He snapped the stick again and drove the wagon until they reached the smoke and stench of Chicago.

Conker had never been to a city any bigger than Atlanta, and Chicago was nothing like Atlanta. The vastness surprised him, as well as the constant noise and overwhelming smell.

Finally, the farmer reached a distribution building, where other farmers had brought their wares to be sold to the city’s groceries and restaurants. After helping the farmer unload the wagon, the four huddled together around Atsila, hardly knowing what to say amid all the chaos and confusion. The sidewalks were crowded with people and peddler carts, and the streets so busy with traffic that policemen in long blue ulster coats had to direct the intersections with shrieking whistles. The air was stale and filled with the noxiousness of black fumes and animal blood.

The farmer came back out from the warehouse, tucking the bills into his front pocket. “You all know where you’re going?” he asked.

Redfeather shook his head.

The farmer pointed. “Head down until you come to State Street. Turn right. When you get to Fifty-Ninth Street, turn left. It’ll take you all the way to the fair. You got money for lodging? Food? Entrance fee? Fair sure isn’t cheap.”

“I’ve got some coins,” Marisol said.

The farmer reached into his pocket and took out a dollar. “That’ll help, I hope,” he said, handing it to Redfeather.

“Thank you, sir,” Redfeather said. He slid the bill in his pocket.

“Nothing to it,” the farmer said, climbing back into the wagon’s bench and driving the mules out into the busy thoroughfare.

A cable car rattled noisily past them. Conker looked around at the others. “Well, let’s go.”

After about an hour of walking, they joined the crowd headed east on Fifty-Ninth Street. Signs everywhere announced rooms for rent and twenty-five-cent meals. Redfeather bartered with a stableman to get Atsila housed, and after casting a worrisome glance back at the stables, he came back to the others. Soon, with the noon sun beating down, they found themselves at the Midway’s entrance.