Forsada: Volume II in the New Eden series Read online

We’re only a few hundred yards from the first of the houses in this narrow, steep valley. The path winds among them until it hits an ancient road which runs up to the haunted hulks near the Sikwaa Lift Poles. Where is this guy going? He already knows he’s not faster than we are, and Garrett’s ready to spring on him. Both Shack and I push harder through the trees.

  Without warning, Micktuk stops. Garrett pulls up just beyond and turns back to face him. What is this guy doing? Maybe he’s going to double back. I slow up, getting ready to tackle him if he does.

  But he just stands there, breathing hard as I arrive puffing like my chest’s about to pop. Shack doesn’t seem tired at all.

  Micktuk looks up. “Night soon. Couple hours.” He nods to our left. “Here. Up here.” He trudges into the woods. There’s no trail, no marker, nothing. Just forest that thickens until we’re pushing through. Micktuk seems to walk with great care, moving branches out of his way, then putting them back just the way they were after passing through.

  “Micktuk,” I say when I have my voice back and we’ve gone a few hundred yards off the path, “where are we going?”

  “My place,” he says.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Did it all myself,” says Micktuk, dropping the six satchels onto the dusty floor. “Sept the cronkeet, course. That were there since before the war. Crumblin’ spots but still strong! Kinda like me, hee hee.”

  I don’t correct him on the pronunciation. Some of Tawtrukk’s oldest buildings, including my dad’s forge, still have patches of concrete. Micktuk’s house sits on top of a big, flat slab which buckles here and there. He’s covered most of it with a patchwork of rugs, old cloth, and hides.

  His one room is simple but large. He’s rebuilt the walls over the years, and not all at once. Posts and poles angle up in odd ways, and the roof is just bark and skins and pine branches layered on long, hand-hewn planks. They would sag in the middle if not held up by four thick timbers that look like they could fall over in the slightest breeze. There must be some magic holding it all up. But it’s cozy, and I feel safe here.

  No windows. Just one door, and that looks like it was built by impatient children. Tucked between the four thick support timbers is a basic, stone fire pit with no chimney, but open eaves let through a fresh cross breeze. Thank god for that because this weird, little man has lived alone a long time, and it smells like he doesn’t wash much. Over the years, he’s had a few dogs, too. Judging from the odors.

  One stubby, little bed squats on four stumps, piled high with furs near the fire pit. A single lantern dangles from the roof above the bed, flickering an uncertain but friendly warmth.

  As the twins come in behind me, I look for somewhere to sit. Micktuk bustles around the fire pit with kindling and pine needles. Shack wrinkles his nose. I’m not sure why—the hovel he and his brother live in is no better. And they’ve never had any dogs.

  Micktuk hums a tune I’ve heard but don’t know. He puffs hard on his sparks, but the reluctant pine doesn’t want to burn.

  Piles of junk lurk unevenly along the walls. A long fishing pole and a short hunting bow rest against the wall by the door. It’s a long walk to the river and even longer to the lake from up here on top of this hill, but the fishing pole looks old and well used. The far wall supports shelves of long planks held up by rocks, ten feet wide from floor to ceiling. No way Micktuk can reach those top shelves. The only thing in here he could stand on is the low bed.

  The shelves are stacked full of ancient books of all shapes, colors, and sizes. I’ve seen a few antique books before. Turner owned three, which he carried almost everywhere.

  I can’t believe this crazy, little hermit has ever read any of these. They’re probably not even readable. It’s amazing they’re not already dust.

  “Heh! Atta way.” Micktuk pops up and admires a tidy, little blaze crackling in the fire pit. I go stand next to him. We stare at the flames for a moment, then he pokes me in the side with his elbow. “Heh, eat something now, yeh? Watchoo bring?”

  Garrett crouches and gropes through the satchels, pulling out bread and a few hunks of dried meat.

  Micktuk nods in approval. “Good, yeh? OK, I go look out for them guys comin’ back from the ridge, yeh? I’ll bring ‘em here. Good if you got enough for all ‘em, yeh?”

  Before we can protest or ask any questions, he disappears out the door.

  Shack gapes at me. “Does he mean the two Lodgeholm guys who were with us, or the others from this morning?”

  How could Micktuk know about the ones we sent over the ridge from Lodgeholm? “I don’t know.” Shack and I share a look of wariness. We should watch our backs.

  “Hey, Shack, make yourself useful,” says Garrett, his hands full of food. “Go get some water. And find a pot.”

  Shack nods and bolts out the door.

  “Need some help?” I have to ask.

  “Like you can cook,” Garrett says without looking up. He’s gotten out a knife and has started cutting up an onion he fished from the satchel.

  “I can cook.”

  “Yeah. Maybe boiled water. Which, if I recall, you actually burned once.”

  “I did not burn water.”

  “Okay, right, you burned the pot.”

  “Can I help it if you didn’t wake me up in time?”

  “Um, yes.” He slices a slab off the onion, and it falls into rings on the clean cloth he’s laid out across the floor.

  “Okay, chef, you just tell me if you want me to help.” If he wants to mock me, he can do it alone. If he asks for help, I’ll tell him to go stick his head in a bucket of water.

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  The rat. I sneer at him and turn away, but only because he’s right. I can’t cook at all. When I’m on my own, my rabbits always end up black and crunchy outside and slimy inside. Still, not as nasty as that awful goop Fobrasse gave me in Subterra.

  The soft slish-click of Garrett’s knife and the warm flicker of the fire comfort me in this dim room. Even the dank odors seem homey, like a stable. It feels safe.

  I wander to Micktuk’s wall of shelves. There must be a thousand books. All sizes and colors, some lying down and others standing up, but all faded and fraying at the edges. Most look in unbelievably good shape for three hundred years old.

  My father had four ancient books he kept hidden away. Every one of them had been handed down from his father, and from my grandfather before. No one knows where my great-great grandfather got them. Found them in some ruins, probably.

  “Hey, Garrett. Do you know why your name is Shiver?”

  “Um,” he says, the rhythm of his slicing cut short. “Because that’s my dad’s name?”

  “No. I mean like me. I’m Smith because my dad is a Smith.”

  “Yeah. Like I said.” The slish-click starts up again.

  “No!” What a rat. “Not like that. I mean a smith. Someone who works a forge, who makes metal things.”

  “Oh. No. What’s a shiver?”

  “I don’t know. My dad has a few books from before the war. My great-great grandfather learned smithing from one of them.”

  “Oh. Didn’t know that.”

  “I wonder if Henry’s uncle learned printing from an old book,” I say.

  “Dunno. Never thought much about it. Or why he’d bother with the whole printing thing anyway.”

  As smart as he is, Garrett has no imagination.

  I let my gaze wander along the rows, not really reading the titles or names that are still legible. I just lose myself in the shapes and colors and the wonder of what the world must have been like, three centuries ago, filled with so much knowledge and art and ideas. How is it possible that people with so much knowledge could destroy the world?

  I walk the length of the books and back again, letting my fingers brush their fragile lumpiness. I close my eyes and let the feeling of the books flow into me until one insists I pick it. I slide it from the shelf, careful in case it disintegrates, but it doesn’t. Its tir
ed cover is faded red with a few letters that haven’t been scratched off. I lay it in one hand and lift the cover with the other.

  The pages are brittle and stiff. With the crackle of dry leaves, they warn me to be gentle. Corners are clipped, and brown stains blot the yellowing paper. I turn pages until a word confronts me I’ve not seen before: PROLOGUE. Immediately below, the black ink announces clear and strong: How Robin Hood Came to Be an Outlaw.

  Shack would like this one, I bet. Maybe I’ll read it to him later, after we get rid of Darius and his army.

  The door creaks open, and Shack shambles in with a pot swaying in each hand, water sloshing onto the floor. With a jerk of his head back at the door he says, “They’re back.” He thumps the pots on the floor between his brother and the fire, then stands over Garrett’s makeshift kitchen. He nods thoughtfully, then says, “You’re gonna need more onions.”

  Garrett looks up, tears on his face. “You want more onions? You got your own knife.” He bends back to slicing.

  “Not for me. For the—”

  The door creaks open again, and Micktuk waddles in with a small, pale-skinned, red-haired child asleep in each arm. They hug his thick neck, their heads resting on his shoulders. It’s a little like watching a black bear carrying two bobcats. He waddles to his bed and lays them down with even more care than I used when I cradled his ancient book. They stir but don’t wake. They’re the two that escaped Lodgeholm this morning.

  Micktuk straightens as much as his little, round body can and says to no one in particular, “T’others be back in a few minutes. Slow goin’ totin’ these two, but them ladies, they be tired after walkin’ all day. But they okay. Tough. Come a long way.” I can hear a deep respect in his hushed words, and I think back to this morning when they set off for the ridge trail with only torn cloth for shoes. I try to remember how many there were, but I can’t quite imagine it. Six, seven maybe?

  I look at the twins, who are both staring at Micktuk as if they expect him to say more. I think I’m starting to understand him. I know he’s done talking for now, so I fill the growing silence. “Shack’s right, Garrett. I can’t remember how many are coming, but we’re going to need more onions.”

  Garrett looks at me for a long second, then stares a moment at our satchels. He shakes his head, sighs, then nods and returns to his slicing. He doesn’t have to say it. We brought as much as we could carry, but it’s enough only for maybe two days for all these people.

  “What’d ya find there, Loop?” Shack rouses himself and shambles over. He looks so worn out. He’s still covered in soot and dried blood and dirt, and his long hair is snarled and matted. His eyes squint, fighting off exhaustion. It makes me sad, but I smile. I like that he smiles back, and I lift the book so he can see.

  “It’s a book. You’ve seen books before, Chuchi. No need to be afraid.”

  He’s still smiling even though he hates when I call him Chuchi.

  I turn a page, cherishing the dry crackle as it moves for the first time in maybe centuries. I take my time, and when I’m done, I look at him again. “I’m going to keep it away from you. This is not kindling, mihito.”

  “Ha ha,” he says. He really is exhausted. Not even the energy for a comeback.

  He leans his head over the book, and I can smell the whole horrible day on him. But it’s not unpleasant. Wood smoke mixed with his sweat and the old cloth of his pants, the dust of the trail and a little sunburn. Other boys would need a bath, but Shack… it’s okay.

  “Really, what is it?”

  He seems genuinely interested. He can’t read much, only the simplest things in the right places—then notices the wall of books behind me. “Wow,” he whispers. “What could they possibly have needed to write so much about?”

  I can’t help smiling. He’s awed, but not in the way I’m awed by Micktuk’s collection. Shack has never understood the need for writing and reading. My father taught him little bits—putting labels on things around the forge—but Shack always complained to me after. “What’s the point? Just tell me what it is. If something’s worth remembering, I’ll remember it. Why bother with all that paper and ink and stuff?”

  I never argued with him. We always just ran off to play or swim in the river.

  “Well,” I begin. “I don’t really know what this one is. It’s a story, I guess. I think it might be called pro low gooey,” I say, sounding out PROLOGUE. “I don’t know what it’s about.”

  “Huh.” He’s staring at the book but not seeing anything. He might fall asleep standing up.

  “Hee hee.” Micktuk giggles right behind Shack.

  He pokes the open page. “Girlie’s a clever one, like your ma and pa. They done right with you.” He winks at me. “Ridin’ Hood. Little John. S’a good one, yep.”

  “What?” Garrett calls from the floor. “You’ve read all these, Micktuk?”

  “Oh, sure. Some of em lotsa times. Why rescue ‘em if I ain’t gonna read ‘em? Not all ‘em worth reading, though. Some just stupid. Don’t make no sense, some em.”

  It’s hard to believe, but what else would he do with his time? He has no livestock or farm, no family or trade. He clearly doesn’t spend much time working on his house.

  With a sudden shock I realize that Micktuk, this fat, little ball of strangeness, might be the most well-informed historian in the entire world.

  Shack’s voice is so thick it almost falls to the floor. “Rescue? What do you mean?”

  “Find ‘em in the ruins. I go lookin’ for books. I built this house so’s it’s dry, total dry. Wet books is rotted books.”

  “But why?”

  “Eh? Because water rots de pages. What’re you, slow?”

  “No,” Shack says, half amused and half insulted, “I mean why rescue them?”

  “Oh. Hee hee, sorry there. Yeh, I rescue em so they don’t get lost. Lost to history.” He finishes with a dark frown.

  Before Shack can challenge him, I butt in. “This is incredible. What will you do with them?”

  “Hmm,” he mumbles, “don’t know. Some folks in Upper be good to take care of em. Or your mamma and daddy. He’d a liked em.”

  The mention of my father and my mother makes me think of home, and I feel suddenly sick. What am I doing here playing with books and chatting away? All of Lower is dead or captured. Upper could be gone already, too. Stupid, Lupay. You moron.

  I want to throw the book across the room, but I close it gently. As I go to slip it back into its place on the shelf, Micktuk’s thick fingers clench my arm. He stares hard at me, and his small eyes and thick, twitching lips hint of a smile. “Slow down, girlie,” he says in a voice deep with the wisdom of a thousand books. “We all wanna go, yeh? But first we eat. Then mebby we read a little.”

  Shack says, “Yeah, Loop, I’m starving.” He turns to his brother. “How’s that coming, chef?”

  “Might go faster with some help,” Garret sneers.

  Shack heads over to help with the cutting up of vegetables, putting of pots on the fire, gathering of bread and dried meat. Micktuk holds tight to my arm.

  The door creaks open, and from the twilight outside people trickle in, wilted with exhaustion and agony. Under the lantern’s light, each face melts into a mixture of relief and sorrow. All but one: the young mother shines with momentary joy when she sees her two sleeping children on Micktuk’s bed. She kneels next to them and touches their hair, stares at their faces, kisses their foreheads.

  The two men who came with us from Lodgeholm enter last, entirely drained. All of them fall to the floor wherever there is room. I wonder whether they know about Lower, what they think of Micktuk.

  Micktuk releases my arm. “You want to know how we’re gonna help from Sikwaa?” He pulls the book from the shelf and slips it back into my hands. “We eat. Then you read to everyone. Then we go. Midnight. Yeh?”

  He pats my hand, smiles as broadly as his thick, little lips will let him, and hustles over to the boys. “Da, da, da. Watchoo doing here? Du
mb boys. Didn’t girlie teach you anything bout cookin’?” Garrett shoots me a glare and I stop myself from bursting out laughing. If only Micktuk knew about my cooking.

  As they go about getting everyone a meal and a wash-up, I settle down in the corner where there’s reasonable light and begin reading.

  How Robin Hood Came to Be an Outlaw.

  CHAPTER 9

  We left Micktuk’s cabin well after nightfall, and he took us along a shortcut down a dried streambed to get here, a half hour quicker than any route I knew of. We were off the road the whole time. He said we were going to do something, not just hide out in Sikwaa. Well, here we are.

  “It’s creepy out here,” Shack says.

  “Shh.” Shack never could keep his mouth shut.

  “Just, you’d think there would be some sound, or something.”

  “Shut up,” I hiss. We’re pretty well above Lower, on Bessing’s hill, looking down at the square. I know the Southshawans can’t hear his whispering from this far away. Still, it’s better to be quiet.

  But Shack’s right. The sight is eerie. If not for lights flickering from a few windows, and a dozen wagons scattered around the square, I’d think the whole place was deserted.

  “Where is everyone?”

  I glare at Shack’s lumpy silhouette in the darkness.

  Micktuk’s whisper is even less quiet than Shack’s. “See, they all locked up in de meetin house. See de shutters all closed up?”

  He doesn’t bother pointing, but I see what he means. The meeting house. That means they only let a hundred or so live, or they’ve packed them in on top of each other.

  Garrett sneaks around to my side. “Loop, I think that—what’s his name?”

  “Darius.”

  “Darius. I think that Darius has taken over Turner’s house. See how it’s all lit up? And it’s close to the square.”

  And the nicest house in town with the warmest quilts and softest beds and brightest lanterns. But Marshall Turner won’t be missing his own bed tonight. Seems appropriate for that bastard Darius to sleep in Turner’s bed.

  Garrett pauses, then asks, “So what’s the plan?”