Guy Kay - Ysabel

“Hey, you!” he yelled.

The boar, blocking the road, didn’t move.

It didn’t even look at him. It was gazing past Ned, past the van, off into the woods beside the road, as if oblivious to his presence.

It really was massive. The size of a small bear, practically, with short, matted bristly hair, more grey than white. The tusks were curved and heavy. There was mud on them, and on the body, caked and plastered to the hair. The boar was dead centre in the road, and there was no way around it.

“Get out of here!” Ned shouted. “Damn it, you’re the one who showed me where to go. What are you doing?”

The animal didn’t move. It didn’t even seem to have heard him. It was as if Ned didn’t exist for it. As if…

Ned was about to shout again, but he didn’t. Instead he took a deep breath. Then he released his screening.

When he did that, the boar turned its head. It looked straight at him, the small, bright eyes fixed on his. Ned swallowed.

“I’m here,” he said, not really knowing what he was saying. “I listened. Figured it out. I’m going up. Let me go.”

For a long moment it was very still on that country lane. No sound from the cars behind Ned, no movement from the creature in front.

No movement. They were stuck here, blocked. And Ysabel might be up on the mountain, and time mattered. They needed to move. Feeling a hard white surge of anger, Ned brought his two hands up, palms together, extended. He levelled them at the dirt road beside the animal. He shivered. A flash of light exploded from him and struck sparks from the ground, spraying dust and gravel forward.

The boar looked at him another moment, then it turned, unhurried, undisturbed, and trotted through the ditch and the underbrush and into the trees.

“Sweet Lord,” Ned heard Greg say, behind him. “What is going on?”

Ned hustled back into the van. He pushed his door shut. “Drive!” he said. “Fast, Greg. I have a feeling it just let them know where I am. Maybe more than that.”

He checked within for the presence of the two men; found nothing. He put his screening back on.

“Why would it do that?” his father said. “Jesus, Ned. And how did you…?”

“I don’t know.” Questions, no answers. “But I have to beat them there. Let’s go.”

“Does it serve them?” Edward Marriner asked. There were deep, parallel lines creasing his forehead.

“Not that creature,” Aunt Kim said.

“Then what…?”

“Don’t know,” she replied. “Go, Greg.”

Greg shifted into gear, hit the gas. He ran the stop sign at the bottom, taking the corner hard to the left. At the main crossroad he turned left again. Looking back, Ned saw Uncle Dave signal and turn the other way, going just as fast.

Ned pushed off his track shoes and undid his belt, wriggling out of his jeans. Aunt Kim handed him the sweats and he worked his way into them. He put his shoes on again and laced them. Took a swig of water from his bottle. He should stretch, he knew, but it wasn’t going to happen. He took off the McGill sweatshirt and Kate’s white shirt. He pulled on his Grateful Dead T-shirt. Maybe not the very best logo for today, he thought. He stuffed the hoodie into his pack. Vera had said it would be cold on the mountaintop.

Where he was headed, with the sun going down.

GREG SPOTTED the brown sign. He slowed at a slight curve, and then they saw cars in a lot beside the highway.

“Do it fast,” Ned said tersely. “Just slow down, I’m going to jump out, you keep going.”

He was having trouble talking.

He was pretty sure he was about to be sick again. Wanted to get out of the van before that happened—and his father or his aunt stopped him from going.

Advil, rowan leaves, a supernatural screening, his aunt’s bracelet. Not a lot of good, any of them, or all of them together. The world was tinged towards red again here by Mont Sainte-Victoire, where two hundred thousand people had been slaughtered once upon a known time.

He took a breath, and told himself it was not as bad as before. That there probably was some benefit from the combination of things he was using. Enough to let him function. He hoped. He put his sunglasses on.

“Ned, you okay?” Aunt Kim asked.

“Yeah,” he lied.

His father looked back at him. Edward Marriner’s face was drawn and fearful. Ned’s heart hurt to see it. “I’m fine,” he lied again. “I can do this. I have my phone.”

Cellphones, solution to the problems of the world.

“Go!” Greg said, angling the van onto the shoulder, just behind a parked Citroën. He pushed the door-lock button.

Ned shoved his door back and jumped out with his pack. Shoved the door shut and scooted among the parked cars, keeping low.

He had no idea why he was doing this, as if someone might actually be spying on him here. It felt ridiculous, but on the other hand, after that encounter with the boar, he realized—more than ever—that he hadn’t a clue how to deal with any of this.

He took a fast look at the big signboard showing the various mountain trails, noted the symbol that marked the way to the cross at the summit, and then he started running.

One thing he could do. A thing he was good at. He was on the cross-country team, he was keeping a training log here, he could go fast for a long time.

Assuming he didn’t throw up from the pain behind his eyes.

It’s manageable, he told himself. Run through it. She’s up there. And there’s no one else who can do this.

Not that this meant that he could do it.

The trail began at a smooth slant upwards, gravelled, wide. People were coming down, some dressed for a picnic with packs and baskets, others wearing serious hiking gear, carrying sticks. He saw some kids; they looked pretty tired.

He glanced up, a long way, to the summit with its cross. The chapel would be just below that, and left. He couldn’t see it yet. He settled in, as best he could, to his pace. It was hard, because he hadn’t warmed up at all and because he felt dreadful. The smell was the worst; it was everywhere, more than the pain or the sickly red hue the world had taken on. David Letterman should do this one, he thought: Top ten reasons not to climb Mont Sainte-Victoire…

Through everything there was fear, a sense of urgency that kept pushing him to go faster. He checked his watch. It was supposed to be a two-hour walk-and-climb. He was going to cut that in half, or better, or break himself trying.

Unlucky thought. Pain lanced like a knitting needle behind his right eye. Ned cried out, couldn’t help it. He staggered, almost fell. He twisted to the right off the wide path, out of sight, and was violently sick in the bushes behind a boulder.

And then again. It felt as if his stomach were trying to force itself inside out. He was on his knees, leaning against the roughness of the big rock. He forced himself to breathe slowly. His forehead was clammy; he’d broken out in a sweat. He was shivering.

Another slow breath. And with it, through pain and nausea, Ned felt anger again, hard as a weapon. It was weird, a little frightening, how much rage he was feeling. He shook his head in grim denial, though there was no one to see, no one to be denying.

“Uh-uh,” he said aloud, to the mountain and the sky. “No way. Not going to happen.” He wasn’t leaving this time, he wasn’t going to call and have Greg drive him back to take a shower and lie down and have everyone in the villa tell him at least he’d tried, he’d done all he could.

It wasn’t all he could. He wouldn’t let it be. You could do more. When it mattered enough, you did more. There were stories of mothers lifting cars off kids trapped under them.

“Not going to happen,” he said again.