Twilight of the Wolves (8 page)

The suns’ dying dusklight cast long shadows through the town. Sao walked along the river and stopped at the bridge, watching the leaves sway and fall, an autumnal rainbow. Pushing himself up, he sat on the bridge’s ledge watching the forest then closed his eyes and began to sway, as if a song played within, only for him.

The train ripped past expelling smoke into the sky, a dark cloud trailing it. He leapt away and took cover in the trees while the metal beast broke across the landscape, screaming percussively, grabbing hold of his spine and twisting. As it disappeared into the distance, the smoke lingering above but dissipating, he stepped towards the tracks, still hot with friction, and listened to the clanging monster disappear.

What is the capital like?

She rolled her dark eyes dabbed with yellow paint, Everyone wants the capital until they arrive. Like everywhere, I suppose. She itched her nose with a long fingernail and tapped the silver ring through her nostril and snorted. Redhair cropped close to her head and large breasts packed into a tight yellow tunic making her brown skin browner. She said, Let’s have another drink, aye? Auntie, auntie!

A young boy came with two porters and took away the empty mugs.

You are not from the capital?

She laughed, low and harsh, No. No, not me.

No one I meet is from the capital.

Say, can I ask you a question?

Ng.

And you’ll tell the truth.

Ng, if I do not say the truth I do not say at all.

A snorted laugh, Why do you want to go to the capital?

Want to see what civilisation is.

She choked on the porter, pounded on the table, and laughed when she caught her breath. Where are you from, aye?

No, now I will ask you a question.

She leaned back smiling, You’re a funny fellow. Okay.

What does this mean? He pointed to his own nose.

The ring? Means nothing. Or, nothing to me, anyway. It depends on where you are, who you’re with. There’s, eh, well, I could ramble on, but the short of it is that it means many things. It’s just a symbol. For me, that symbol signifies that I like the way it looks.

Please, ramble on.

A smile, a snort, Okay. Well, see, in certain circles this means a sort of possession. I’ve heard of men of the west, the far far west, across the ocean west—Ocean? he said—um, like, you know, a big expansive body of water that stretches on and on for maybe a year. But, okay, so these men, the Roca we call them. They chain people up and brand them or mark them in ways, whether it be a tattoo or a symbol scorched into them or simply sticking these rings through them. Through their noses, through their ears, through their penises or vaginas. So for some this is a symbol of subservience. You’ve seen the bought boys, aye? Many of them will wear it for that reason. Mostly only in trading towns where it means a certain thing to those who know—What thing?—Means they like to get rough, to be possessed. Since they’re bought boys, they’ll do either role, and you’d be surprised how many will pay to simply be demeaned, to be
possessed. But there are others where this is a symbol of freedom, of dispossession. You see them sometimes, escaped slaves—?—In the west, the Roca, they own people like you own a piece of cloth or your boots or a horse or a dog. And so some have escaped their slavers and wear the marks of bondage as a symbol, a source of pride, displaying for all to see that they have broken their chains and can now freely choose for themselves. But you see, that’s the thing about civilisation: it goes on in all directions. What means one thing to some means the opposite to others and different things to more others until a symbol between nations is both a declaration of war and a promise of peace, simultaneously, alternately, depending on the one who gives the sign, depending upon the receiver. You say you want to see civilisation, well, it’s all around you. You’re in it, and from your accent, I’d say you’re still new to it. Or at least to the Federated States of Vulpe. But Valencia, it’s no different from any of the other big nations or Volix further west or even Vera at the eastern border or Volant in the northeast.

Was last in Vera.

Well see then, you’ve seen the Federated States, all of them, only on a different scale and with a few aberrations, as Vera’s primarily a trading city ruled by the merchants, but, nonetheless, not so different from the capital or the real cities.

Where are you from?

Ah ah ah, it’s my turn, dear. Remember, you set the rules.

Ng.

What do those moons on your cheeks mean?

Sao touched them, drinking the porter, rich and cool in his mouth, while the marks burnt his fingers. These marks, they came from a wolf.

Shut up, aye?

I found her bleeding after exiled from my village—Exiled?—For not belonging. For never belonging. The village is deep in the forest several months south of here, perhaps, by foot. It took
about a year and a half to reach Vera from there, but was not looking for Vera or civilisation when in the forest. The people of the village look like you. Their skin is brown and their hair is red. I am not. They named me star and it became the word of ridicule. Small and pale and not the same. In that place there is no room for otherness. There is no word for individual or even personal pronouns. There is no I or you or me or she. There is only the collective we and us and they and them. Was not we and so was them, but, while the man and woman you would call my parents yet lived, they protected. The wolf. The wolf was dying and I followed the forest’s music and her howl to her. Comforted her and treated her wounds and freed her from iron jaws. For two days, fed her and brought her water. Then the wolf spoke. She thanked me but told she would die. Wept for her even though one like her, maybe even her, ate the man and woman you would call my parents. Before she left she licked me here and here. Then she disappeared into the forest. Did not notice them for many months for did not often see me. My reflection, who I was, became inconsequential because there was only me. Noticed finally but they were only faint outlines. I do not know what they mean. I was touched by a wolf. She thanked me but perhaps it was curse. I am cursed. I do not eat meat because it consumes me. The flesh. While living in Vera, a man fed meat every day. I was ravenous. Eating meat made the marks deepen and fill and appetites grew. And so now no meat. I do not know. I fear.

She finished her beer and belched, Wolves and the forest, she blinked and set the mug down, You’re really not from around here. You’re not from anywhere.

Many have said so.

You’re a demon, aye?

Do not know. Not yet but perhaps I will be. That is the fear.

What was the wolf like?

It is my turn.

She leaned back, You’re a shrewd fellow. Shrewd.

I do not know shrewd. What do you know of weapons?

Like rifles and swords and shit like that?

Ng, rifles, the ones that shoot metal balls.

I, um, I’ve seen them. I don’t know. I don’t understand. What do you want to know about them?

The wolf was killed by rifles. She could not recover from their wounds. The metal balls poisoned her. They burrowed deep inside her and killed her.

Mostly the army uses rifles. All the armies do and have for a long time. You really are from nowhere, you know that.

I am not a beast.

She laughed flatly, I didn’t say that. No.

What is the army?

People who fight. Soldiers. You’ve probably seen them around. They carry swords and rifles and wear metal helmets and armor. They fight other nations. There are a lot of them now and more are coming every day. The war’s heading north. No longer a distant Death toll, but something present, happening through the forest.

The world is a forest.

Not anymore. Or it won’t be for long.

There was a man who hunted wolves. He called them gods and he wanted us to see him kill a god. He did.

Aye, many call the wolves the old gods, like dragons and Angels.

Who are the new gods?

Power is the only god. Who were your gods?

We have no gods.

What did you believe in?

We believed in unity. In each other. There was only us. I think that is why we did not have I and you or he and she. There was only us and if one was not us that one was them. Them was a rude word. A curse, you would say. That is what they called me when I was exiled. They drove me out and I ran into the woods.
I am small but I am fast. I am faster now.

You’re a demon.

Please, do not say that.

Auntie! Let’s have another drink and see where the night takes us, aye?

Ng. Aye.

The boy brought two mugs and took the empties away.

Here’s to the future, she said and raised her glass.

Sao did the same and they drank.

He walked west following the road to the capital. A cart of wares rolled past him and he hitched a ride for an iron coin. Jostled with the cargo, he did not speak to the driver but watched the trees drift by, in and out of sleep. The reds and oranges and yellows and indigos of autumn painted his way to Valencia during the days. He shared food and fire with the driver at night and watched the moons shift in the sky, their colors fierce, their sizes enlarged.

He woke beneath the gate to the sound of many voices, of many hooves and stared at the arc so far above his head, his brow furrowed, blinking the vision away to clear it, then sitting up and looking back at the enormous gate, twenty meters high and five wide. Thick and pale and stone, Valencia surrounded by a great wall. Hopping off the cart, he tossed the driver another iron coin and wandered after the crowd of newly arrived.

A deep bass sounded then horns and then more drums beating in a solid rhythm. Sao turned towards the sound, far away, near the center of the city a gate opened and men emptied. The people all round cheered and shouted. The men marched in straight lines with rifles on their backs, swords on their hips, the faces of demons on their helmets, long fangs, heavy brows, thick flat noses. All in red and black, all the same, all in line, followed by men on horses. The cheers followed the long line of men
through the city gate and erupted with new fervor when the dirigible took to the air, all red and black, a beautiful war-machine.

What is that, Sao nudged a man beside him.

An airship. The pride of Vulpe!

What does it do?

It flies!

Sao turned from the march and pushed his way through the crowd, deeper into the city, away from the drumbeat, away from the demonic machinations, away away away.

The market was alive and he spent day after day walking through. Troupes performed on makeshift stages and he returned day after day to watch. They spoke too fast in strange wordplay but he watched over and over. The troupes were all women, some performing as men, others as women, and still others as Angels or dragons or demons. Sometimes they performed in new languages he did not know, had never heard, but he watched and listened. When the show ended and they removed their masks, he cheered as loud as he could, his voice swelling inside him, often with tears in his eyes.

The dirt formed a haze through the market from the thousands of bodies trampling through hour after hour, kicking up dust, particled into the air. The market was full of wares from across the world, from Soare to Roca to the Kingdom of Glass and farther east to the Cretians, artefacts from Ariel, from Caliban and everything in between. Boys of all ages, sizes, and colors sold themselves to whoever had the coin, and Sao studied the signs, the aberrations of their dress, of their ornamentation, from chains to rings to scars to brands to thick hirsute torsos and limbs. Sao watched intently all that happened at the market and returned day after day, night after night. The poor and depraved, the starving, the affecting aristocrats, the petulant and envious merchants, those who scammed the gullible, those who made
profit off games or toys or workmanship of any kind.

Mostly, it was the stage, the masks and the illusions, the shroud of dust that blotted out all else, the rest of the market, the rest of the world fell away, and he felt his skin cool as if kissed by an eternal autumn. The words entered him like oxygen, like water, and he filled himself day after day on their intoxicating power.

He wandered Valencia’s vast geography which was impossibly flat, its structure based on the square, starting with the great wall and working inward, smaller and smaller with each subsequent square. The size of one’s square related directly to one’s economic position, with the smallest square being the home of the Ministru and the other governing persons, the Council of Twelve, one representative for each State within the Federation, with the Ministru making the thirteenth member, separate but presiding over its decisions.

Sao was not allowed past the eighth of the thirteen squares where he came to a high and thick brick wall with small gates and armed sentries. From close, nothing could be seen over the ten-meter wall. The homes in the eighth square were large but smaller than Yuske’s and Sao felt cold in their shade. The roads were clean and wide, lined with many militaristic banners and thick trees surrounded by grass parks. Working out from within, he walked past the seventh gate—the military district—and on back to square one, where the great market of Valencia was. With every step away from the center square, the lanes grew more numerous, the homes smaller, the road turned from cobblestones to dirt, the grass and trees and lamps disappeared, the roads wet and mucked, the walking more congested, the haze thicker until it became a labyrinth of artificial alleys, stalls, carts, beasts, performers, whores, and commoners. The beggars sat or stood or bowed or cowered along the edges, many of them children, many of them disfigured, blind, limbless. Many living near the
trainstation behind the market, taking shelter beneath bridges, makeshift hovels, and unused traincars. The whistle screamed several times a day and the soldiers beat the squatters away over and over to no avail. Every night they returned to seek refuge in an empty place.

The Ariel stood beside him at the tavern and smelt the air. It turned to him with an emotionless face, What are you? Its voice was soft, high, liquid, melodious.