August Ansel - The Attic

“Bone in your throat?” she said. “Say the rest.”

“We don’t know what it was you saw. Could have been a person, but—”

“But you think not?” She searched his face. “My gut has been a fine guide since the Pink.”

“I think we don’t know,” he said again. “Maybe it was a person but not a threat. A woman alone, or a man working to stay hid. On my way here I saw plenty. Even youngsters abroad at times, fourteen, fifteen years old—could have been like that.”

Arie looked at her mandala, traced it with her eyes. It was quiet inside, quiet outside. “Yes,” she said. “I know what I saw. It was human, and it was full-grown. But I don’t know what it meant. It hasn’t moved on us in all these days, and that sort of hesitation doesn’t seem likely for a desperate person.” She paused again, thinking. “My notion is that it saw the dead dogs, maybe saw us kill the dogs, and has judged us not worth the effort.” She put her hands on her hips and looked up at him. “Yes,” she said again. “I think it weighs to the good for you to go out. We’re of one mind on it?”

He dipped his chin in agreement. “We need the fresh meat for the road home, too. For all of us.”

“Repeating a thing doesn’t make it so, William. Once you and she depart, I’ll be fine. But yes, you’ll want some extra meat to dry for jerky—I reckon a week or so and we’ll be able to accouter you and she’ll be fit to walk by herself.” She said this last in a near whisper. “You know where the snares are. Set them, and set the fish snares, too, before you come back. Take this.” She tucked a worn burlap sack into his belt, then took his hand and traced on his palm the directions from the main path to her fishing spot. “Anything you can’t bring back in one piece, leave down there, back in the trees. Bringing a carcass into the streets up here is a dinner bell to everything with legs.” She rolled his hand into a fist and squeezed it between hers. “Try not to leave sign,” she said. When he took a breath to speak, she shook her head. “I know you know it. I know you’re careful. But I have to say the words.”

He put his free hand to her face and stroked a hard, warm thumb over one cheekbone, light as a passing thought, and dropped the hand before she could react. “It’s all right, Ariela,” he told her. “I hear you. I’ll be back before dark, no matter what.”

She opened the sky panel and stood at the bottom of the ladder. “You should take the slingshot.”

He stopped at the top, as usual, for a quick scan. The air coming in was quite cool and damp, though the sun was out and it was getting on toward mid-morning. Arie was certain that, before many more days passed, wet weather would set in for the duration. It was one more reason to get these two quickly out and on their way. Otherwise she might end up stuck with them for weeks to come while the coastal climate served up its usual late-autumn slops.

“Better we keep the sling here with you,” Handy said. “I have my knives, and I’ll hack a quick spear from that dead rhododendron.” He pointed down into the yard. Arie knew it was a good choice. Old rhodies produced a great many long branches that were reasonably straight. The wood was hard enough to be effective but not so hard that Handy couldn’t carve a rough point in a hurry.

Arie went onto the roof with him. He let down the rope ladder and went over the side. Once on the ground, he wove the ladder into the bushes. While he chose a four-foot-long branch and whittled the narrower end into a wicked point, Arie checked the street with the binoculars. There was virtually nothing left of the dead dogs, so thoroughly picked over were the carcasses—even their bones had been largely carried away, leaving only dark stains and flattened patches of stiff hide here and there to mark the place where they died.

Spear over one shoulder, Handy paused at the gap in the overgrown fence, taking plenty of time to gauge the street, and set off toward the river path in an easy, loping trot. Arie watched until he disappeared into the trees. An unexpected hollow space tried to open itself behind her breastbone when she lost sight of him, and she yanked her consciousness back. There’s the trap, she thought. Damnable species blindness—I see and respond to my own. She stood. Tonight was the full moon, and she was determined to get out for the ritual. Having Renna awake would be a fine distraction for Handy. She would make it work, even if it meant going on the sly.

Back in the attic, she decided to leave the sky panel open for a while. Renna had maneuvered herself back into a semi-sitting position, and she hummed a little tune, pulling her fingers through her hair, working out knots. The tincture was still in her system.

“You ought to use a comb for that,” Arie said. She fetched one.

“Thank you,” Renna said. “I forget your name.”

“It’s Arie. You remember his?” She inclined her head toward the open sky panel.

“Handy,” Renna said. “Your brother.”

“Who saved your life.”

“You look too old to be his sister.” More humming.

Arie gathered what she needed to tend Renna’s wound. The comment made her smile. “I am too old,” she said. “But it’s true anyway. Give me that.” She took the comb from Renna and worked it through the hair on the back of Renna’s head. “What you really need is a bath in the river, but that’s a few days off. A bucketful will have to do.”

“I used to have a bathtub. A long time ago.”

“Of course you did,” she said. “We all had tubs. How old are you?”

Renna was quiet. “I forget.”

“That doesn’t sound likely.”

“What year is it?”

Arie kept combing. “What year do you think?”

Renna looked into her lap. “How long since everyone died?”

“Twenty months. Almost twenty-one.”

Renna counted silently on her fingers. “Then I’m still nineteen. My birthday is in December. I’m a Christmas baby.”

“Christmas,” Arie said. The word hung in the air between them, a wistful oddity. “Well, you’re nobody’s baby now, I suppose.”

“Arie,” Renna said, “do you know why this happened?”

“Why? Oh girl, that’s a confounding little word. You’d do well give up on why. The good world manages itself fine without why. When we’re gone, we’ll take why with us, along with all the black answers it drags behind it.”

Renna stared, her face bleak and exhausted. Arie rested a hand on her knobby shoulder. “Never mind now,” she said. “I’m going to warm some water, a bucketful, and we’ll get you washed.”

Arie had her undress a little at a time, exposing only as much skin as necessary to the cool air in the attic. She began with Renna’s bad leg and hip, so that the two bandaged areas were washed while the water was clean. At first, Renna did nothing to help, just sat still while Arie tended her, limbs limp and pliable as a rag doll. “Look down here,” she told Renna, “where you were bit.”

“I don’t want to see it.”

“Too damned bad,” said Arie. She put two fingers under Renna’s chin so that the girl had to look her in the eye. “This is your body,” she said. “Not mine, nor anyone else’s. It’s time you started doing for yourself. Your body,” she said again. “Your life is your own.”

Renna chewed her top lip, but she twisted around to look at her hip and thigh. “Oh,” she said, and gingerly touched the deep, pink spots that were already mostly healed. “I thought it would be more awful.”

“It was plenty awful when you got here. You’re a quick healer. That’s your age. Here now.” She handed Renna the rag and chunk of soap.

She scrubbed her face, neck, and upper body. Arie helped with her hair, pouring the wash water through while Renna bent over a second basin, and she gave her a stiff brush to work on her deeply grimed hands and feet. Finally, while Arie turned her back, Renna squatted over the bucket and washed between her legs.