Look, I says, all I can remember is, I was huntin an there was this windspringer, runnin in front of a storm – ohmigawd, Lugh, you never seen nuthin like this storm before. There was this . . . long line of twisters, little ones not more’n forty foot high, an they come rollin outta the east, jest sweepin right along there. It was amazin!
I wave my arm at the plain in front of us. Lugh an me look out over the bleak face of the Waste. The mid-mornin sky’s so clear you can see all the way to the horizon an into next week. No bushes ripped out. No churned up ground. Not a single sign that a storm might of passed.
There was a storm, I says, it happened, truly it did. Nero seen it!
I look to him, like he might suddenly start talkin an back me up. But he’s busy with crow concerns, tearin at the ripped flesh of one of the wolfies, gorgin hisself on fresh kill.
Well, anyways, I nearly had him, I says, this springer, but then this pack of wolfies come outta nowhere an two of ’em – these two here – they come at me an then Tracker shows up an they start to fight an . . . then I . . . I fell an hit my head an when I come to, you was here an . . . that’s it.
We stare at each other.
Lugh. Golden as the sun itself. His skin, his long hair that hangs in a plait to his waist. Eyes the blue of a summer sky. So different from me, with my dark hair an eyes. Ma used to say I was the night-time an Lugh was the day. Th’only thing the same is our birthmoon tattoo on our right cheekbones. Pa put ’em there hisself, to mark us out as special. Twins born at the midwinter moon. A rare thing.
Lugh huffs out his breath. Goes to where my bow an quiver lies on the ground, my knife too. While he picks ’em up, he whistles fer the horses an they start pickin their way down the ridge towards us. Hermes an Rip, Tommo’s horse that Lugh rode here on. He comes back. Hands my weapons over.
A full quiver, he says. That means you didn’t shoot even one arrow. Not at the windspringer, not at the wolfies. How come?
I go to speak. Stop myself. I nearly said. It nearly came out. About the shakes an the breathin an . . . the rest. But I cain’t say. I mustn’t. I cain’t burden Lugh with my troubles. His soul’s heavy enough. Whatever it is that ails me, it’ll pass.
Saba! Lugh says. How come you didn’t shoot?
I . . . I dunno, I says.
You know what I think? he says. There warn’t no storm. There warn’t no windspringer an there warn’t no blue-eyed wolfdog that come outta nowhere to save yer life. You dreamed the whole thing. You was sleepwalkin.
No, I says. No.
You rode here in yer sleep, he says, an somehow you fell an knocked yerself out. While you was dreamin of blue-eyed wolfdogs an twister storms, these two wolfies an that one I chased off, they sniffed you out an got in a fight over the meat.
What meat? I says.
You, you idiot, he says. I came jest in time to save yer hide. If I hadn’t of, they’d of ripped you to shreds an vultures ’ud be pickin at yer bones right this second.
I glance at the sky. Sure enough, the big dead eaters is startin to circle above the wolfies. No, I says, no, it warn’t like that, Lugh, I swear it was Tracker who—
Shut up! Jest shut up! he explodes. Gawdammit, Saba, give it a rest an stop lyin to me!
His face is hot. Flushed dark red. The little muscle in his jaw – the one Emmi calls his mad muscle – is bunched tight an jumpin. It happens a lot these days. This quick snap of rage.
I ain’t lyin, I says.
Well, you ain’t tellin me the truth, he says.
What, like you tell me the truth? I says.
We stare at each other a long moment. There’s tired lines carved deep in his face. Dark smudges unner his eyes. Suddenly, his shoulders slump. His anger drains away. As quick as it comes, it’s gone.
What’m I gonna do with you? he says. He hooks a arm around my neck an pulls me to him. We lean our foreheads aginst each other. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I . . . I jest want things to be the way they was. I jest want you an me to be us agin.
Me too, I whisper.
You smell bad, he says.
I know, I says.
No, he says, I mean, you smell real bad. I cain’t stand it. He shoves me away. Go cut some big muscle meat offa one of them wolfies, he says. We’ll stew some tonight an wind dry the rest.
Hermes an Rip stand waitin, well away from the dead wolfdogs. While I stone off the vultures an git on with slicin one of the wolfies into chunks, Lugh goes an starts checkin the horses over, bridles, bits an reins, the cattail mats on their backs.
We jest need to git outta this place, I says. It’s doin all our heads in. Is Buck’s leg healed enough fer us to move on?
I ain’t riskin a good horse jest because you cain’t wait to see Jack, says Lugh.
I didn’t say that, I says.
You don’t hafta, he says. I know what you mean.
You do not, I says. Heat starts to crawl up my neck.
Oh really? Then how come yer turnin red? I swear, this . . . obsession you got with him . . . all of yuz. Lugh puts on a silly little voice. D’you remember the time Jack said this? Did I tell you about the time Jack did that? I’m sick of hearin his name.
Anybody’d think you was jealous, I says.
I jest don’t want you to git hurt, says Lugh. I keep tellin you, Saba, he ain’t gonna be there. He ain’t gonna show at the Big Water. Jack’s long gone. A guy like him . . . he gits a whiff of somethin new an he’s off. He’s only in it fer hisself, you can see it in his eyes. Once he’s got what he wants, he moves on.
Jack ain’t like that, I says. My cheeks feel flamin hot now.
What’s the matter? he says. Too close to the mark? What did Jack want from you? Did you give it to him?
Shut yer mouth, I says.
Lugh stops what he’s doin. Gives me a hard stare. Did you lie with him? he says. Is that how you paid him to help find me?
I gasp. Jump to my feet an face him square. You take that back!
I seen the way he looked at you, he says. The way you looked at him.
The way I look at people’s my own business, I says. You took aginst Jack the moment you met him, when all you should be is thankful.
An there it is! he says. The hourly reminder of my debt to Jack.
Well, maybe that’s because you don’t seem to appreciate that you wouldn’t be alive if it warn’t fer him, I says. None of us would. I don’t unnerstand you, Lugh. Why you ain’t grateful that—
Do NOT tell me I oughta be grateful! he yells. He storms over, grabbin my arms, shakin me hard. I am not grateful, d’you hear me? I do not! Wanna! Hafta be . . . grateful.
He ends on a whisper. He stares down at his hands holdin my arms. At his fingers diggin into me. Hangin on to me. Then, Why did you let ’em take me? Why didn’t you an Pa stop ’em?
His voice is so low I hafta lean close in to hear.
We tried to, I says. You know we did. They killed Pa.
He lifts his head. His eyes so bleak. So . . . old. My heart pinches.
You should of found me sooner, he says.
His voice sends a white slash of fear through me. It’s flat. Empty.
Please, Lugh, I whisper, why won’t you tell me what happened to you at Freedom Fields?
Nuthin happened, he says. He turns his eyes away. He lets go my arm. We better git back, he says. They’ll be wonderin where we are.
We ride back to camp without talkin. Apart.