The Crimson Skew (13 page)

“He is Elodean. And it is telling that this token Maxine gave you pertains to him.”

“Why?”

Goldenrod sighed. “He is the fourth Weatherer. Of those four Eerie healers, he is the only one who did not disappear in Boston. It was his family I went in search of early this year.”

—18-Hour 30—

GOLDENROD FELL SILENT,
and Sophia knew that she was reflecting upon her failed attempt to save the Eerie in Boston. It visibly gnawed at her conscience, and no doubt she felt anxious, having finally returned to New Occident, to learn what she could about the fate of those missing friends. Sophia's own conscience gnawed at her—she was well aware of how her own search was delaying Goldenrod's own—as she prepared herself for sleep.

Sophia removed the remaining pieces of her raider costume so that she was wearing only her cotton shift. She undid her braids and put the leather ties inside her skirt pocket, then tucked her clothes into the compartment beside her bunk. Placing the wheel of tree trunk beside her pillow, she rested her fingers on its coarse surface. Gently, she tapped the pine face.
It's like a clock,
she thought to herself as her eyes closed.
A clock of the past that has stopped telling time.
The long day that had begun before dawn caught up with her quickly, and she was asleep in minutes.

The dream was unlike any she had ever had. It was late winter. A heavy snow was falling. She was aware of the other
trees around her; they were perfectly still as the snow fell, but their thoughts coursed through their cold limbs, into the soil and the damp air. And these were not the only thoughts she sensed: tranquil or urgent, lazy or quick, contented or hungry, the impulses of living things nearby filled her consciousness so that they transformed the stillness into a scene of humming activity.

This went on for hours. In some ways, nothing happened. The snow continued to fall. It accumulated on her branches, a comforting weight that covered her like a kind of blanket. The weak sunlight gave out slowly as the afternoon waned. Steadily, the temperature began to drop. There was no visible movement as far as she could tell. And yet, in other ways, the dream was full of busyness as the dense cluster of living things near her watched and felt and hungered and slept and woke.

The dream ended abruptly and shifted. Now it was midsummer. The landscape had altered entirely. Instead of standing surrounded by other trees, she stood at the edge of a field. She knew that the trees that had stood there before were gone, and she felt their absence without grief, but with a constant, unremitting awareness. Tall grass, heavy with flowers, grew now where those trees had grown, and a house made of those very trees stood not far away. Beyond it were more houses, and where they gathered in the greatest number rose a bell tower.

The air was thick with bees and other insects. She felt the same sense of busyness around her, hearing the bees and the flies and the trees and the grass and the nodding flowers
among them, but now another activity overlaid this, like a trumpet sounding in an orchestra. Two girls ran toward her through the tall grass, one chasing the other, and their laughter rang through the warm summer air. One of them reached her trunk, touched it, and then embraced her, still laughing, her soft arms warm and poignantly fragile. She felt a pang of tenderness for this breakable creature. “I won!” the girl cried.

In her sleep, Sophia pulled away from the wheel of tree trunk, drawing her fingers under the thin blanket. She sighed, and the dream ended.

I
N THE HUMID
summer evening, by the bright light of three flame lamps, Shadrack was committing treason. He was creating two maps that looked nearly identical. Both showed the projected route for New Occident troops marching through Kentucky. One showed the troops following a path that led through a low valley. The other showed the troops following the same route, but instead of taking them through the valley, it led them to camp on the banks of a river. Apart from this, there was one other important difference between the two
maps, a difference almost any eye would miss: the one with the valley bore a small insignia—three hills atop a slender ruler—while the other did not.

It was through such calculated inaccuracies and the deliberate “loss” of maps into enemy hands that Shadrack managed to foil Fen Carver, the leader of the Indian Territories' troops, arranging for there to be as little bloodshed as possible. Some days he drew and copied as few as ten; most days he drafted more than twenty. Shadrack's pen slipped, and he paused. He sat back in his chair and put the pen down. The exhaustion he felt had been building for weeks. Pressing his fingertips to his temples, he closed his eyes.

In the silence that followed, he heard a sound that he could not place. Then he realized what it was: the quiet flutter of snow.

Snow,
he thought, with an unfolding sense of ease.
If it's heavy, I might work from home in the morning.
Then something shifted, and he realized what his exhaustion had at first obscured.
But it is early August!

Shadrack hastened through the silent house and opened the front door. The night sky seemed bright and faintly yellow, as it would be during a snowfall. Downy white flakes were falling all along the street, coating the roofs and the leafy branches.
Snow,
Shadrack thought, astonished.
It really is snowing in August. And it isn't even cold.
The brick walkway to 34 East Ending Street was already hidden. Then he put his hand out, allowing the flakes to gather on his palm. He gasped.
Not snow,
he realized.

It was ash.
Ash.

Shadrack's first thought was a fire: a great fire, since only a conflagration of massive proportions would cause so much ash to fall on the city. And yet there was no smell of burning in the air. Looking up, perplexed, Shadrack watched the thick clouds overhead drift and part momentarily. The waxing moon shone through, and the falling ash paused. “Unbelievable,” he murmured. “It's actually coming from the clouds.” He stared as the clouds gathered, obscuring the moon once more, and the ash resumed falling.

In the silence, there was a shuffling sound. Shadrack saw a messenger with a cap coming down the street, kicking the ash aside as if it were a mere inconvenience instead of an ominous wonder. The messenger saw Shadrack at the door and raised his cap, turning into the walkway of 34 East Ending Street. “Good evening,” he said.

“I'd say a strange evening,” Shadrack replied.

“It's falling all over the city,” the boy said matter-of-factly, turning on the step to survey the street. “The Common is already under an inch of it.”

“Have you heard any speculation as to the cause?”

The messenger looked at Shadrack. “None at all,” he said, seemingly unworried. “Well, plenty of speculation, but none that makes an ounce of sense. I heard one man say it was a volcano.”

“But there are no volcanoes anywhere in this Age,” Shadrack protested.

The boy shrugged. “Like I said. None that make sense.
Message for Shadrack Elli,” he added, holding up a piece of paper.

“A message,” Shadrack said, recalled to the moment. “I am Shadrack Elli.”

The boy handed the paper over and settled his cap back on his head. “I'll wait for a reply.”

Shadrack opened the sheet of paper and read four lines of blue writing:

Safe with Calixta and Burr in New Orleans

Heading north to Salt Lick

Will be there between ninth and nineteenth

Love, Sophia

Shadrack stared at the letters on the page, the ashfall forgotten. “How did this arrive?” he demanded.

“By pigeon post, sir. Maxine's Iron Pigeon Post of New Orleans. Message came through Greensboro.”

“Iron pigeon post? What does that mean?”

“Mark of Iron, sir. Guides them to any destination.”

“Iron pigeons.” Shadrack shook his head. “Incredible.” He scanned the message again. “She is traveling through the Territories,” he said to himself, aghast. Then he addressed the messenger. “Can I send a reply to Salt Lick?”

“There's a depot there. So, yes—makes it easier. You can send a message to Salt Lick. It has lodgings and everything. Run by Prudence Seltz. It's one of the nicer depots. Not as nice as Boston's, of course.”

“Come in,” Shadrack said, opening his door. “I will write the note. How long will this take to reach Salt Lick?” he asked, hurrying along the corridor to his study.

“If the bird leaves within the hour, it can arrive in Salt Lick by midmorning,” the boy assured him. “It's seven hundred and thirty-four miles.”

“Even in this weather?” Shadrack hurriedly took pen and paper from his desk.

“They've flown through worse.”

Shadrack wondered what was worse than an inexplicable storm of falling ash. “Is there a limit to how much I can write?”

“Just don't write a novel, sir,” the boy replied with a smile.

Shadrack quickly wrote:

Relieved you are safe. Wait in Salt Lick depot for Miles. He will arrive in—

He looked up at the boy. “Can I send something to Pear Tree?”

“Charleston in Virginia would be the closest depot. I'd advise sending it direct. A little extra cost, but the pigeon will deliver straight to your recipient.”

“How long would it take to send a message there?”

“It will arrive around the same time, tomorrow morning, but it's a little unpredictable if your recipient isn't expecting the pigeon. Might be they figure it out right away or might be they don't. Tomorrow night, if you're lucky.”

“That's still much faster than I could manage,” Shadrack
observed. “Can I send a second message to Pear Tree?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Making a rapid calculation of how long it would take Miles to reach Salt Lick from Pear Tree, he continued:
three days.
He paused.

In case Miles does not arrive, the following are friends nearby: Casper Bearing and Adler Fox in Salt Lick, Sarah Smoke Longfellow in Oakring, Muir Purling in Echo Falls, and Tuppence Silver in East Boyden Township.

He paused again and looked up, wondering how he could possibly warn Sophia about the dangers of the crimson fog. With a sharp, worried exhalation he finished his message.

If you see any red fog, take cover
alone
at whatever cost.
The fog is lethal
!

All my love, Shadrack

On a separate sheet of paper, he wrote to Miles:

Sophia is heading to Salt Lick from New Orleans, due to arrive between 9th and 19th. Meet her there at the pigeon depot run by Prudence Seltz. I fear for her safety.

He read the notes over and then handed them to the boy. “How far does your network extend?”

“All over New Occident and the Territories,” he said proudly.

“I am astonished I did not know of it.”

“It's for smugglers, sir,” the boy answered matter-of-factly. “You wouldn't have.”

“In any case, I'm very grateful.”

“Very happy to be of service, sir.”

Shadrack thought to himself that for a smugglers' correspondence system, it was surprisingly professional and courteous. Having paid for the outgoing messages, he saw the boy to the door. The sky had cleared, and the ground was covered with almost an inch of gray-white ash. More people were emerging from their houses now, and there were even two boys down the street playing, catching it in fistfuls and throwing it at each other.

Though the ash was a surprising and inexplicable distraction, Shadrack forced himself to return to his study. Pacing the worn carpet, he reflected yet again how effectively and cruelly Broadgirdle had bound him to Boston. His place now was in the Indian Territories, where Theo and Miles and Sophia were all converging west of Pennsylvania. They were in danger, and he was here, all but manacled to his desk. There was nothing he could do.

But—yes, there is,
he thought, taking up the wooden ruler that held the memories of three Eerie, trapped belowground in a windowless chamber.
I can end this war if I can prove what Broadgirdle has done. I have to find the Weatherers.

He had examined the ruler countless times. In fact, he had read it so often that it had become predictable; when he
immersed himself in the recollections of the terrified Eerie, the terror no longer touched him. He anticipated the indifference of the Sandman, the dread of the bound girl, the sense of weariness and deflation and grief that the maker of the map had experienced. The challenge now was to see anything new in something that had become so familiar. But Shadrack knew better than anyone that memories were rich and changeable, and even stored memories took on a different aspect when revisited.

He let his mind drift in the memories of the Weatherer. First, he saw the girl and the old man slumped in their chairs. Then he saw the girl recoiling from the fire, her hands bursting with red blooms as her terror peaked. Then he saw the coffins and the tools and the fearful gaze of the old man. The one moment that never lost its power for Shadrack was this: the way the old man looked at him, sending grief and love and despair across the room like a current. He flinched every time. And because he flinched, he did not feel the memory fully.

This evening, tired and stunned as he was, he arrived at the moment unguarded and did not brace himself. The memory hit him with all its force, and he felt an agony of helplessness as the man's eyes met his own.
Father,
he thought, in the back of his mind. It was the first time this had occurred to him. He forced himself to stay in that terrible moment, as the man's fear and desperate love poured from his eyes.

Then Shadrack sensed it: a smell. It drifted by only for the briefest moment, sweet and heavy, like the scent of a flower. In its wake was another smell: sickly, like rotting meat. Then it was gone.