Run, Boy, Run
“Last call to board the Crosswind!” The deep-voiced call rose up over the noise of the crowds and brought tears to Mrs. Cook’s eyes.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider, Maggie?” she asked.
“I need to do this,” Maggie said. She smiled as she looked into Mrs. Cook’s eyes. “It will be all right,” she said. “You’ll see. I’ll come back soon, and I’ll write you the minute I get to Pravik.”
“Why did you ever make a promise to that Dan Seaton?” Mrs. Cook asked, shaking her head.
“It’s not just the promise,” Maggie said. “There are questions in my head that need answering, and somehow I think I’ll find the answers in Pravik. I’ll be all right, Mrs. Cook, truly. There; now I’ve made you a promise.”
She set her ragged little trunk down on the dock and reached for the old woman who had given her so much. They clung tightly to each other, and Maggie felt Mrs. Cook’s body stiffen in a gallant effort to keep from sobbing. Maggie pulled away from the embrace and looked up at the sails of the Crosswind that would soon catch the sea breeze and head away from the island she had always called home: away to the continent—land of history, home of the empire, great dark place of adventure. She picked up her trunk and squared her shoulders, willing herself to look her dearest friend in the face one more time. More than anything she feared the sight of Mrs. Cook’s tears. They were the only thing with the power to drain her of all resolve and return her to Londren, even now.
Their eyes met, and Maggie’s vision of Mrs. Cook’s stout form standing tall and brave misted over, as tears sprang to her own eyes.
“Good-bye,” Maggie croaked. She forced herself to turn away and walk to the ship that creaked impatiently as it bobbed on the water of the harbour.
The sailors had begun to haul the gangplank up into the ship as Maggie ran up, calling out for them to wait. They frowned at her, and one of the men spit over the side and muttered something under his breath. Maggie called up her thanks as they lowered the plank once more.
When she and her battered trunk were safely aboard the ship, Maggie found a spot at the rail and looked into the crowd for one more glimpse of Mrs. Cook. All she could see was a mass of coats and hats and moving bodies, and though she tried to make sense of the bewildering view, she could not find her old friend. Perhaps it was best.
It was a clear, sunny day, and the sails filled with wind as the boat moved swiftly over the water of the Salt Channel, away from the island of Bryllan. The cries of the gulls in the harbour changed to the sounds of water and wind, the feel of salt spray and the warmth of the sun. The chill of the last few days had given way to warmth, belying the coming winter, although the spray made Maggie glad of her old brown coat.
After a while Maggie grew tired of standing. She propped her trunk up under the rail and leaned against it, sliding down to the deck. Drowsiness, the effect of far too many conflicting emotions, settled over her. She pulled her cap down to shade her eyes and fell asleep.
* * *
Maggie woke up to the bustle and noise of the crew as the Crosswind moved into port in the Galcic town of Calai. The sun had gone into the regression of early evening, and the air had grown colder. Maggie got to her feet unsteadily and reached for her trunk.
Calai was bewildering. The port was full of fishing boats, and the smell of salt and fish mingled in the air, making Maggie’s stomach queasy. Fishermen, housemaids, vendors hawking their wares, and children playing tag formed a crushing mass of people. Maggie held tightly to her trunk as she descended the plank.
Suddenly very aware that she wasn’t sure what to do next, Maggie allowed herself to be carried by the flow of the crowd. She soon found herself on the outskirts of the harbour, looking into the town. Darkness was settling fast, and street lanterns came on like fireflies as the lamplighters went about their business.
Laughter spilled out from a nearby pub where men from the docks were gathered after a hard day’s work. Maggie stopped a big man on his way to the rough-looking place.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, trying not to notice what a grim face he had, “but I—I need to find an inn, and I’m not sure…”
She looked up at him for a moment, and the gentleness in his eyes caught her by surprise.
“There’s a good one not far from here,” the man said. He pointed her down the street and gave her directions which twisted through the town in labyrinthine fashion. Maggie tried hard not to let the string of lefts, rights, and “on the corner of’s” blur together.
The man tipped his hat. “Good evening to you,” he said, and Maggie set off in the direction he had indicated.
It didn’t take long for Maggie to realize that something was wrong, either with the directions or with her recollection of them. She kept going, uneasily, as the town grew darker and less friendly.
She stopped abruptly, and whirled around at the sound of footsteps behind her. She could see nothing in the shadows, but her fingers tightened their grip on her trunk all the same. She knew better than to trust the darkness.
When the street remained still and no more menacing noises found their way to her ears, Maggie turned slowly and began to search out her way once more. A moment later they were there again—footsteps. She picked up her pace.
She had not walked more than a block when she came to a dead end: a high brick wall crumbling with age. She reached out her hand to touch it, willing it to disappear and become the well-lit window of an inn.
Behind her, she heard the sound of a match flaring to life.
“Out a little late, ain’t you?” a voice asked. Maggie turned to see two men, the burning light of a small oil lamp illuminating unshaven faces. One of them played with a knife, twirling it in his fingers.
The other man grinned at his fellow, then looked at Maggie again.
“Didn’t nobody tell you this ain’t a good neighbourhood?” he asked. “It’s crawling with rabble.”
The man with the knife laughed.
“So, what you got in there?” the speaker asked. He gestured toward the trunk.
“Nothing,” Maggie said, finding her voice. “Only some clothes.” She thought of what would happen if they got to the money hidden in the bottom of the trunk. She would be stranded here in Galce without a way to get back home, much less reach Pravik.
“Oh, come now,” the speaker said again. He moved forward menacingly. “It don’t take much to make us happy.”
Maggie started to move in front of the trunk, when she gasped in fear. A huge black shadow was moving up behind the men. Glowing eyes announced that the shadow was alive.
A lilting voice, from somewhere behind the shadow, drew the men’s attention to the threat behind them.
“Picking fights with women, boys? What would your mothers say?”
The men whirled around, falling back before the black shadow. The first man dropped the lamp as his partner looked for an opening to run. The glass of the lamp cracked in pieces, but a faint light kept burning.
“Don’t tell me you give up already?” the voice said. The wiry figure of a young man stepped out from behind the big shadow. “We haven’t even come to blows yet.”
“We didn’t mean nothing,” the man with the knife said. “We was just having some fun.”
“So am I,” the young man said. “Isn’t this fun?”
The shadow growled and opened a mouth full of gleaming teeth. The man with the knife dropped to his knees on the pavement. “Let us go,” he begged.
The young man sighed, then stepped aside and slapped the shadow on the rump. “All right, Bear,” he said. “Move aside.”
The shadow moved obligingly, opening the way down the street. The men scrambled to their feet and raced for the safety of the alleys.
Maggie had sunk down to the ground, her back against the crumbling brick wall. The young man watched the ruffians go with his arms crossed over his chest, then turned back to Maggie with a grin. The grin faded fast at the look on her face. He stepped closer to her and offered his hand, pulling her to her feet.
For the first time Maggie got a good look at her rescuer. He was young, as his voice indicated—probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. He was lanky and none too tall. He wore a brown vest over a billowy white shirt, and his trousers were checkered brown, green, and white. His curly black hair seemed a little overdue for a cut, and a bright gold earring glimmered in one ear. His feet were bare.
“I—” Maggie stammered, unsure of what to say. “Thank you.”
The young man smiled, a wide grin that showed off straight white teeth and made his eyes dance. “My pleasure,” he said, and dropped into a sweeping bow. “Nicolas Fisher, at your service.”
He stepped back and placed a hand on the furry black shadow beside him. “And this is Bear.”
“Nice to meet you. Both of you.” Maggie couldn’t help but laugh. “Bear? Doesn’t he have a name?”
Nicolas shrugged. “I suppose he does. But he’s never told it to me, so I won’t insult him by making one up. I call him Bear, and he calls me Boy, and that works quite well since that’s what we are.”
“Do you do this often?” Maggie asked. “Rescue people, I mean.”
“Is that what we did?” Nicolas asked. He seemed amused. “Can’t say we’ve done much of it before, but after this we might have to make a habit of it. More fun than I’ve had in a while. But I suppose you’re not wandering around at night for the lark of it. What did you come here for?”
“I was looking for an inn,” Maggie said weakly. “I’m afraid I got lost.”
“I’m afraid you did,” Nicolas said with a frown. “There’s an inn not far from here I can take you to. It’s not exactly a high class establishment, but it’s a place to sleep—and eat, if you’re hungry.”
“That sounds good,” Maggie said. She reached for her trunk but Nicolas beat her to it. He picked it up and offered Maggie his arm, and she took it with a tentative smile. For all she knew this strange young man could be after the same thing as the alley-dwelling ruffians. Still, she couldn’t help liking him—and trusting him.
Nicolas and Bear took Maggie to a dilapidated, two-story establishment with a sign that proclaimed it “The House of Dreams.” Light poured into the street from the wide windows. Inside, the dining room was filled with happy chaos. Bear waited outside while Nicolas led Maggie in.
The brightness of the room hurt her eyes. The walls were painted with brightly coloured murals, showing fantastic, dream-like scenes. Shouting, singing, laughing people packed the room. Galcic men with small pots of ale and Gypsies in brilliantly stitched and coloured clothing sat at round tables, eyeing one another suspiciously while they drank and ate a rich smelling stew. Pipe smoke and noise mingled together and rose to the bright red ceiling.
Lost in observation, Maggie hardly noticed that Nicolas was talking to a gaudy woman wearing huge earrings and a green dress. The din of the room was overwhelming, and it took a moment for her to recognize Nicolas’s voice shouting over the cacophony.
“There’s a room upstairs for you!” Nicolas said. “Follow me!”
Nicolas and the woman weaved through the crowd. Maggie followed after them, feeling out of place with her drab brown coat and cap and battered trunk, shyly moving through a world filled with colour and laughter and reeking with the pungent smell of ale and cheap wine.
They entered a stairwell on the other side of the room. Inside, the noise instantly died down, as though someone had thrown a blanket over it. The stairs creaked underfoot and their white paint was peeling badly, but Maggie welcomed the quiet.
At the top of the stairs, the woman led Maggie and Nicolas down a long thin hall to the third door on the right. She pulled out a heavy key ring and unlocked the door, opening a small room with a tiny bed in one corner and a large window without curtains that looked out onto the street.
“It’s a nice little room,” the woman said. “You will like it. And if there is a problem, you just ask for Madame.”
Maggie nodded, and Madame turned to leave. She stopped to pat Nicolas on the cheek and exclaim remorsefully, “And Nicolas! You will not be staying with us? We have missed you.”
Nicolas shook his head. “You’re too kind,” he said with a grin. “But Bear would never forgive me if I left him on the street all night. I promised him we’d be out of Calai before sunrise.”
“You’re not in trouble?” Madame asked. Nicolas shook his head.
“No, of course no,” Madame said. “Just always the wanderer. Someday you come and settle down here. In Calai. It would not be so bad!”
Nicolas only smiled, and Madame heaved a sigh. “Ah well,” she said, wiping away a supposed tear. “Someday you will listen.”
She turned and swept out of the room, leaving Maggie and Nicolas alone for the moment.
“You’re leaving, then?” Maggie asked.
He nodded. “The forest is calling me. Bear’s antsy to get away. You’ll be all right?”
Maggie nodded. “Thank you. For everything.”
Nicolas shrugged, seeming almost embarrassed. Somewhere in the three sentences that had passed between them, he had lost his cocksure attitude.
“Glad I could help,” he said, and abruptly left the room. Maggie watched him go with a puzzled frown and wondered why she was so reluctant to let him leave. With a sigh she stretched out on the bed, blew out the oil lamp beside it, and stared out at the chimneys of Calai until her eyes closed of their own accord and she fell asleep.
* * *
Nicolas Fisher could not shut her face out of his mind. He walked along the edge of the gutter and whistled as he tried to conjure up images of the forest he longed for. But each time he tried, another image rose up unbidden: a timid face that didn’t know it was soot-streaked, green eyes and auburn hair that was half-hidden under an old cap.
It was a nameless face, and he could kick himself for forgetting to ask her name. Bear grunted as he rambled alongside his master, and Nicolas reached out to bury his hand in Bear’s stiff black fur.
“We’ll be out soon, old friend,” Nicolas said. “Can you smell the trees?” Even as the words left his mouth, the urge to turn back nearly overwhelmed him.
It was not unfamiliar, this feeling, this pull that threatened to carry him all the way back to the House of Dreams. He had felt this way when he first saw Bear, cowering in a cage underneath a circus tent. He hadn’t been able to leave then either; not until he had freed the cub and gone dashing off into the night with him. The circus had hunted for them for nearly a week, but had given up at last.
A wind kicked up, swirling the leaves in the street, and the skin on the back of Nicolas’s neck prickled. The wind carried voices with it, faraway voices…
The scroll leaves a heavy scent. The hound will have no trouble.
Ugly beast.
Be careful!
He heard sniffing, the deep, dangerous sniffing of a bloodhound catching a scent.
Go!
A long howl filled the air with mournful dread.
It was going for her. For the girl at the House of Dreams. Nicolas was sure of it, as sure as he was that there was not a minute to spare.
He turned and ran for the inn.
* * *
Maggie awoke to the feeling that something was horribly wrong. She tried to sit up and found that dread was pressing her down like a weight. She could hardly move. She thought she would suffocate, and panic began to well up inside of her.
The door to her room banged open and Nicolas rushed in, slamming the door behind him. He turned, grabbed Maggie’s trunk, and began frantically shaking her.
“Get up!” he rasped in a hoarse whisper. “Get up! You’ve got to get out of here, now!”
The pressure broke, and Maggie sat up, light-headed and breathing hard. She slipped down to the floor and began hunting for her shoes.
Nicolas joined her on the floor, snatching one of the shoes from under the bed.
“Hurry!” he said.
“What’s going on?” Maggie asked.
“There’s something after you.” He stopped abruptly as a strange sound welled up from somewhere below, out in the street. It started low and rose till it drowned out the pounding of his heart in his ears.
Howling.
Maggie felt as though her heart had stopped. For a moment both she and Nicolas sat in frozen silence on the floor, and then the panic returned. Maggie pulled her shoes on. Nicolas had moved to the window.
She moved questioningly to his side. He put a finger to his lips in warning. His eyes were fixed on something in the street. She leaned closer to the window, and saw it too. Something huge and black was moving below. It seemed to melt into the night shadows, rendering it nearly invisible. Maggie heard it sniffing, drawing deep breaths and then letting them out again. Tendrils of greenish smoke became visible in the shadows.
It leaped suddenly toward the inn, and Nicolas and Maggie heard a crashing noise underneath their feet. It had broken through the door.
They looked at each other. For a long moment they stood frozen in each other’s eyes.
Another howl rose, filling the empty spaces of the inn like water in the swamped hold of a ship. Someone in the inn screamed, even as heavy footfalls tore at the stairs.
It was coming.
Nicolas dropped Maggie’s trunk and threw it open, searching through it until he had found the bag of money at the bottom. He thrust it at her and propped the trunk against the door. He moved to the bed and started to push it, but abandoned the effort as the sound of heavy breathing drew near. He ran for the window and yanked it open. Before Maggie realized what he was doing, he had thrown himself out.
She leaned over the sill. Behind her the door shuddered. She threw a desperate glance over her shoulder. Green smoke was curling its way under the door. Her lungs started to constrict again.
She turned back to see Nicolas picking himself up off the street, apparently unharmed.
“Jump!” he called. “I’ll catch you!”
Maggie held tightly to the windowsill and lowered herself out as a splintering sound announced the creature’s presence in the room. Her fingers clutched the windowsill with a will of their own, frozen by fear.
“Let go!” Nicolas shouted. His voice sounded far away. Maggie’s eyes were drawn to the shadow falling slowly across the window. Green smoke twined around her face, playing with her senses. Dimly she knew she should let go, but her fingers wouldn’t loosen their grip. The shadow seemed to be moving so slowly it would never arrive. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she smelled flowers. Then wine. Then death.
Far away, she heard Nicolas screaming at her. What was he saying? Let go…
The creature was at the window. She saw teeth, and claws, and a humped back bristling with black spikes. The beast howled, and in her ears the cry of the hound sounded like a thousand screams.
Her eyes widened in terror as claws swept toward her.
She let go.
Nicolas staggered back with her weight, but he caught her. He lowered her to the ground and she clung to him for an instant, terrified. He pulled away from her, pulled at her.
They ran.
Through the streets, as the city blurred past them, they ran. Behind them came howling, smoke, glowing eyes and the smell of death.
They ran toward the sea, Nicolas in the lead, pulling at Maggie’s hand and yelling at her to run faster. She clung to his hand as if it was life itself. To let go meant death. At least if she held on she would not die alone.
Their feet barely touched the cobblestones that glared red with lamplight before them. They seemed to fly like the gulls overhead. The smell of salt filled the damp air as they ran to the nets and docks and black water of the harbour.
Nicolas dashed over the docks. He heard the gulls overhead, crying, calling to him. It is close. Run. Run, Boy. Run. Seek safety in the sails.
Nicolas ran to the end of a wooden dock and jumped into the icy water, pulling Maggie after him. She clutched the edge of the dock and watched him with eyes wide with terror, waiting for him. Cold water soaked her skirts and pulled at her. What next?
“Can you swim?” he asked. She nodded and began to pull her skirts up to free her legs. “Then come,” he said.
They let go of the dock and struck out for a small ship that floated silently in the ocean a short way out. The water grew colder as it deepened, and Nicolas heard Maggie gasp for air behind him.
He heard howling. And the gulls.
Swim, Boy. Swim.
He reached the anchor rope and began to pull himself up. He stopped and reached back for Maggie. She took his hand and he pulled her up onto the rope. It was slippery in his hands, but he climbed with all of the strength he could muster. The rope shook with the effort.
In minutes the two spilled over the rail onto the deck of the ship. For a moment they simply lay there, letting the wood absorb some of the water from their clothes and hair, panting for breath. Nicolas rolled over on his hands and knees as a low, mournful howl made his hair stand on end. He heard water churning.
It was coming.
There was a skittering noise, a scratching and chirping and squeaking. Mice and rats exploded out of the doors and hatches on the deck and ran down the sides of the ship to the water. A large mouse stopped and stared at Nicolas, whiskers twitching.
In the hold. Burning in the hold. Burn it, Boy. Burn the Hound-thing. Burn the Death-thing.
Nicolas grabbed Maggie’s hand and hauled her to her feet. They stumbled toward the door of the hold. It was dark as pitch below, and Nicolas ran his hands over crates and netting, searching desperately. The ship began to rock as something pulled at the anchor rope.
He found a box of matches and muttered a blessing on the mice. He lit one, his hands trembling. It illuminated a hold full of dry wooden crates. The floor was littered with rope and straw. In the match light he could see Maggie’s face, drawn and lined with fear. Her eyes burned big and green, and her hair hung in wet strands. Her cap had been lost in the ocean, though the coat still clung to her.
The boat tipped wildly to starboard as something came up the anchor rope.
“Girl,” Nicolas whispered hoarsely.
“My name is Maggie,” she interrupted.
“Maggie. Go find the lifeboat. Get it into the water and row as fast and as far as you can. If the hound is too close, just jump. Get in the water, understand?”
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’ll follow you,” he said. “Just do as I say. Go! Now!”
She gave him one last, torn glance and disappeared up the ladder onto the deck. He watched her go, imagery of the hound on deck filling him with dread. Tendrils of green smoke were working their way through the floor into the hold.
Nicolas made a bag with his shirt and stuffed the matchbox into it. Inside an open crate he found six or seven more boxes of matches, all of them full and dry. He added them to the collection and climbed the ladder just as heavy footfalls began to thud across the deck.
He emerged from the door to see the hound staring at him, moving slowly forward. It seemed unsteady on the rolling deck. Nicolas resisted the urge to look back and make sure Maggie was safe. He was sure that if he took his eyes from the beast, it would be on him in a second.
It was less a thing of the shadows here and more solid, more real. Green smoke still played around its face, and the stench of death still desecrated the air around it. Its eyes narrowed as Nicolas stood tall before it. A low growl emerged from the thing, and the deck shuddered underfoot.
Nicolas backed away slowly. The growl rose into the howl of a beast about to finish its hunt. Nicolas turned and ran for the rigging. The beast’s crashing footsteps followed.
He threw himself up into the ropes, climbing like a madman. Clawed feet tore at the rigging below him. He swayed wildly in the air, still moving upward. Teeth tore at the rigging on deck, and the ropes Nicolas clung to were severed. He swung through the air, releasing the ropes and flying toward the mast.
He caught hold of the mast and clung to it tightly. Wrapping his legs around the swaying wood, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a box of matches. He struck one furiously, again and again, willing it to ignite. Frustrated, he threw the match away and reached for another. Below, the hound threw its weight against the mast. The whole ship rolled in the waves.
Another two boxes of matches slipped from Nicolas’s shirt and spun wildly down toward the beast. He held on desperately with his legs, striking a match again and again.
It lit.
He threw the match back into the box from whence it had come and watched the whole thing blaze to life. The heat in his hand threatened to burn him, and he threw it at the nearby sail.
The white cloth burst into flames.
Still he struck at the matches. The sickening sound of wood splintering filled his ears. In slow motion the mast began to fall, hindered by the rigging all around it.
He threw another blazing missile as the mast gave way. The matchbox landed on a pile of nets near the hound, and they too flared up. Nicolas reached for a rope as the mast fell, catching it with not a second to spare. He hung by the rope, looking down at the glowing-eyed hound and the blazing nets. The fire was spreading along the deck.
The flames from the sail ate away at the ropes. A heavy piece of cloth suddenly came down, straight at the hound. In an instant the ship underneath the creature’s black feet was ablaze, its whole world a sudden flaming hell.
It screamed.
Out on the water, Maggie heard the scream. She clutched the oars of the lifeboat and watched as the blazing ship collapsed on itself. Gulls swirled overhead like vultures around a dying beast. Their calls sounded the word of victory.
The ship exploded.
She buried her face in her sleeve as the waves rocked and tumbled around her. Burning brands landed everywhere around the little boat.
I’ll follow you, he had said. Just go.
The gulls were calling again, strange cries. Eight or nine of the birds glided in the air over Maggie’s head, and she lifted a tear stained face in wonder. What were they…?
“Maggie…”
The voice was weak, but definitely there. Maggie jumped to her feet, ignoring the precarious swaying of the boat, and rushed to the side. Nicolas was there, reaching out a shaking hand. His face was streaked with soot and sweat, and a burn glowed on his cheek. Maggie grasped his hand and pulled him toward the boat.
Just before he climbed in, he grinned.
“We did it,” he said hoarsely as he slid to the bottom of the boat. Maggie threw her coat around him, and he laid his head back and listened to the gulls.
Won, Boy. You won.
* * *