Two Renegade Realms (Realm Walkers Book 2) (19 page)

Bixby slipped behind Cantor and spoke to Neekoh. “Will you trade places? With the three of you tramping ahead of me, you’ll break down the weeds. It’ll be easier for me to walk.”

“I could carry you.”

Bixby smiled at his enthusiasm. And his smile grew when Bixby refused the offer.

“No, that’s all right. It’s important on a quest for everyone to pull their own weight.” She didn’t tell him that with his back to her, she’d be able to float, skimming across the tops of the trodden plants.

She sighed, the solemnity of the situation rocking her usual lightheartedness and natural optimism. She needed time to reflect on life and death, on the path Primen had set before her. Death made one reevaluate one’s priorities. She was determined to serve and be a positive influence in a negative world. Her goals were lofty.

Neekoh thwarted her plan by walking backward in order to carry on a one-sided conversation.

She hid a scowl. Her goal for this moment was to shake off this yappy young man without it sounding like a reprimand.

Was that sufficiently lofty?

She laughed at herself and gave him an order. “Turn around and march on, Neekoh. You’re making me dizzy.”

He laughed too and faced forward.

In the silence that followed, her mind returned to meditation on noble endeavors. Did she fall short of being an honorable realm walker? Unfortunately, she could recall many areas where she needed improvement.

They came upon a clearing, and Bixby caught her breath at the serene beauty of the glade. Sunshine spread a golden hue over grassy swells in the small hollow. Tiny yellow flowers and bigger white blooms swayed with the breeze. She could watch as a zephyr flowed from east to west with a gentle ruffle of every plant. Orange and black butterflies flitted back and forth.

Bixby glimpsed deer and rabbits, then counted three different species of colorful birds before the wildlife took note of the humans’ presence and darted to the safety of the woods.

Old Trout tramped back and forth, with his head bent to examine the turf beneath him. He seemed to waver between two spots, then made his decision, jamming his shovel into the ground. He cut a rough rectangle with the blade and then scooped up the grass and flowers as if they were a blanket. After clearing sod in the rough outline of a grave, he began to dig in earnest.

Cantor took over, the shovel looking comically small in his grasp. He could have lifted larger amounts if he’d had a
bigger shovel, but he worked rapidly and soon the hole was deep. Bixby thought he was shaping it now, not so much a rectangle, but an oblong that fit within the boundaries Trout had first hewn out of the sod.

Neekoh sat on one side of Bixby, and Trout sat on the other. Neekoh had drawn his knees up and circled them with his arms. He didn’t watch the digging. His head swiveled as he considered many birds, butterflies, and small furry creatures. He, in turn, was scrutinized by those who peeked out between trees at the edge of the glade, including a fox who sat beside a bush, watching them with no apparent fear.

Old Trout had been rummaging through his knapsack. He now had thin thread, feathers, fur, and hooks laid out on a rock.

Still carefully avoiding the sight of dirt being thrown out of the hole, Neekoh looked at the old man’s collection. “What are you going to do?”

“Tie flies. Lately, I’ve left some of my best lures in trees and tangled in water plants. Time to make some more.”

Neekoh got up and moved closer. “Show me.”

“Don’t need to show you.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause you’re sitting right there. Don’t need to show you because you can’t help but see.”

“I see.” Neekoh looked pleased.

“Well, of course you see. That’s what I’m saying. You don’t have your eyes closed.”

Trout’s faced puckered in a sorry scowl for a moment, then the wrinkles smoothed out, revealing his usual calm, friendly demeanor. He slapped Neekoh on his arm and went back to his flies.

As in many cases, Trout was accomplished in what he was doing. His old, gnarled fingers twisted, wrapped, and arranged a slither of feather and a tiny fluff of fur together onto a hook. In a half hour, fourteen flies sat in a row. He told Neekoh the name of each one as he finished.

“This one is a yellow-bellied twisty worm.” Trout held up the decorated hook.

“It doesn’t have a yellow belly, sir.”

Trout scowled and looked closely at his fly. He turned it every which way.

“No yellow anywhere, sir.” Neekoh repeated in a respectful tone.

“Not important.” Trout’s gruff voice disturbed several birds that had come quite close to peck at seeds. They fled with a flurry of wings. The old man’s tone lightened. “Quite right. But fish don’t see in color, only black and white.”

Neekoh tilted his head. “How do you know?”

“Nothing mysterious about that, son. I just go inside the fish’s brain and see what it sees.”

“Does that help you when you fish?”

Trout stiffened and picked his lures up one by one to store them in a special heavy cloth folder. “That would not be sporting, now would it?”

A shadow fell across Bixby’s lap. She saw Cantor’s dirty boots first and followed his muscular frame up past trousers, tunic, and a day’s growth of beard to look into his solemn eyes.

Trout lifted his head and tilted an ear toward the trail they had blazed. “Bridger and Jesha are coming with Keast Manbro’s body.”

Crackling of bushes on the path brought them to their feet. They turned to see Jesha marching into the glade. Behind her,
Bridger bore the guard’s body, cradled in his arms. Dukmee, who had changed into more formal attire, brought up the rear. Bixby looked down at her layers and skittered into the woods to put something frillier on top.

Returning, she saw Cantor join Bridger beside the grave and leap into the hole. He reached up, and between them, they placed the body with dignity in the earth.

Old Trout paced over to stand at the head as Bridger gave Cantor a hand climbing out. Jesha solemnly took a place beside the old man’s feet. Trout nodded to Cantor and Bridger on one side of the grave. He briefly glanced at Bixby, Dukmee, and Neekoh on the other. Bixby’s eyes opened wide when she saw the twinkle in the old man’s eye.

“A few words,” said Trout, “as befits the occasion.”

The others nodded. Bixby had been to state funerals and village funerals, one type prim and proper and the other not. She couldn’t imagine what Old Trout would say.

He cleared his throat. “We stand beside a hole in the ground. At the bottom is a broken jar. We will bury the remains of one we barely knew.

“Keast Manbro has escaped. He’s cast off the encumbering frame that served him while he needed it. Now he does not need that frame. Now he is free, not only of a merely passable imitation of what he really is, but also free from the wounds inflicted upon that vessel. Wounds that hurt in the flesh, wounds that ravage the emotions, wounds that scar the mind, and wounds that would convince us to wither and hide and be no more.

“Keast Manbro, in this new freedom, knows what it feels like to be a seed responding to the warmth of the sun, the nourishment of the soil, and the nurturing of gently flowing
water. He knows the joy of soaring like an eagle. He knows the delight of a minnow in a meadow brook. He knows the satisfaction of a rabbit burrowing to make an underground home.

“We cannot mourn for Keast Manbro. It would be more fitting for Keast Manbro to mourn for us.

“But with patience, we walk. With hope, we continue. With confidence, we face trials. With joy, we anticipate the end that is no end but the beginning.”

Old Trout dropped to his knees and scooped up two handfuls of the newly turned dirt. He dropped it into the grave. Cantor used the shovel. After a moment of uncertainty, Bixby also knelt and joined in burying the guard’s body. Bridger turned his back to the grave, but he used his tail to carefully push the hill of dirt next to him into the hole. Dukmee took Neekoh by the arm and returned to the hillock they’d used earlier for a seat.

Jesha sat in her stoic pose, watching the burial with an excess of decorum. Bixby looked up from time to time and smiled at her. The cat didn’t respond.

The last of the dirt was shifted. Cantor, Old Trout, and Bridger laid the pieces of cut sod over the little mound. Bixby took a seat between Neekoh and Dukmee.

“Look.” Neekoh pointed to Jesha.

Beside her, two rabbits sat with their ears alert and their noses constantly twitching.

Bixby blinked twice. “I never —”

“Neither have I,” said Dukmee. “I can coax a wild thing to accept me as you can, Bixby. But I’ve never seen one come out and join a foreign group on its own.”

When the three working on the grave had made final adjustments, Old Trout picked up his shovel and headed back
on the trail without another word. The rabbits departed, and Jesha came to rub against Bridger’s side. Bixby stood as Cantor came to join her.

She looked over the meadow with its subtle crests and valleys almost obscured by the thick, flowering grasses. Serenity hovered in the warm, sunny air. With a sharp intake of breath, she looked at the grave and again at the glade.

She put her hand on Cantor’s arm. “This is a graveyard.”

He looked puzzled. She pointed to the small swells in the land and then pointed to the new grave. “They’re the same size.”

Neekoh came to his feet and offered a hand to Dukmee. Bixby wondered what her healer friend thought of being treated as an ancient. She shook the thought away as Dukmee’s face took on his own particular expression of discovery. She’d been with him for two years, and she knew him well enough to recognize his glee at the sudden solving of an intellectual puzzle.

He turned on his heel and started down the path. Bixby sighed. She also recognized Dukmee’s behavior. He wouldn’t share his finding until he’d worked out all the details and given himself enough time to regain his majestic composure.

CHOMOUNTAIN

B
ridger had widened the path as he came. Now, on the way back, he trundled along ahead of the others to further beat down the trail overtaken by abundant plants. Neekoh carried Jesha as he followed the dragon. Their new friend had a tendency to get too close and then had to leap over Bridger’s tail as it swished from side to side, something that seemed to annoy the cat exceedingly.

Bixby tugged on Cantor’s sleeve, a gesture which he had come to like. “Who do you think is buried back there? Trout’s family?”

“I think it’s entirely possible. When we get back to Trout’s cabin, why don’t you ask him?”

“He might not want to say anything about it.”

“Even if he gives you no answer, you won’t be worse off than you are now.”

She scowled at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’re all tied up in knots, trying to make sense of Old
Trout, the valley, the ruins, the meadow, everything. You need to start finding answers so you can relax or just let it all go.”

“What about you? Don’t you want to know as well?”

“I’m more interested in finding concrete answers to what we can do to thwart the Lymen invasion. We have to leave this place and get on with our mission.” He knew the frustration he felt had sharpened his words. He tried to think of some way to tell Bixby he hadn’t meant to be curt.

Bixby walked silently for a few steps, then tugged on his arm again. “Dukmee saw something or figured out one of the riddles of this place at the end of the funeral. Do you suppose he thinks Chomountain is buried in Old Trout’s ‘place’?”

Cantor’s face screwed up in reaction, and he quickly returned it to a mask of neutrality. If those were graves, then Old Trout hadn’t owned up to having visitors previously. He had said that he didn’t get many visitors. So some had wandered into this valley. But he hadn’t been forthcoming. Did he not remember, or did he lie? He didn’t seem to take anything seriously enough to bother with prevarication.

Cantor felt Bixby’s thoughts poking at his own. He looked at her with mock chastisement. “Bixby.” He had made it a habit lately to keep his mind shielded. Too many people in his present company could read his mind.

Bixby squeezed his arm. “Sorry. What are you thinking?”

“I was considering what you said. I don’t think Chomountain is buried in the meadow. The previous mountains didn’t die, did they?”

“No. One was scooped up by the hand of Primen. One was standing in a field, and a chariot pulled by flaming horses stopped and took him aboard. And when another one climbed a ladder past the clouds, the ladder fell when another man
tried to go up. The second man and the ladder turned to dust, and the wind carried them away.”

“It would seem that those who hold the office of the mountain, the right hand of Primen, skip physical death and are taken to be with Him in a more comfortable way.”

“I’m not sure climbing a ladder that tall would be exactly comfortable. And I would think hard before getting in a chariot pulled by horses on fire.”

He laughed. “Well, we aren’t as close to Primen. I imagine the mountains have a good idea of what’s going on.”

Bixby tilted her head, popped a hand up to straighten her slipping tiara, and hummed. She stopped abruptly and asked, “If Chomountain is not buried in the graveyard, was he ever in this valley?”