The Dead Man's Doll (2 page)

From Asson's left, he saw movement. Lost things slipping from holes in the ground?

A boy appeared. He may have seen five or six winters. He had a dirty face and soot-coated shirt that hung to his knees. His faded red leather leggings had worn thin in spots, as though they'd been handed down many times. He ran a grimy hand beneath his beaked nose.

“You'd better leave,” the boy said in a dire voice.

“Why?”

“Dead people make you sick. They come in the afternoon and at night. If you're drinking Spirit plant broths to get well, they spoil it by putting a finger in it. They want to make others sick, so they will die and join them. She'll get you.”

“She hasn't gotten you, has she?”

The boy cocked his head, then shook it. “You're not very smart for an elder.”

Asson's mouth quirked. An odd gleam lit the child's black eyes.

The boy pointed to the chestnut. “There's a ghost underneath that tree. Nobody loves her anymore. You'd better leave before she sees you.”

Asson stared at him. “How do you know there's a ghost there?”

“She told me she's dead.”

Asson paused to think about that. “Which means that when you first heard her voice you thought she was alive. So she talks to you?”

No answer. The boy just drew designs in the leaves with one foot. His shoulder-length black hair was knotted and filled with old leaves and twigs, as though he'd been lying in the forest looking up through the canopy at the drifting clouds.

“Are you afraid of her?”

“I'm not afraid of anything,” he announced, puffing out his chest. “But my friends would be. They'd never come here.”

Asson grunted as he carefully scooped aside the leaves so he could arrange his fire-hardened digging stick and chert scrapers on the damp ground. The brittle scent of old leaves filled his nose. “That means you are the braver than they are.”

“I'm the bravest boy in the village,” he said, but glanced a little fearfully at the tree.

“Well, that's fine. Then perhaps you will help me.”

“What are you…”

Madyrut smothered a sob, and the boy's eyes went wide and focused on the ground at the base of the tree. Sunlight falling through the branches created a wavering yellow mosaic.

Asson's eyes narrowed. Yes, indeed. This was no ordinary boy. “Do you know why she weeps?”

“No.”

“All of her beloved companions, lovers, and friends have abandoned her. She is alone. Condemned to wander the earth forever…unless we help her. Try to imagine what it would be like to live in an old tree, staring at the sky every night, and never able to see the Star Road that leads to freedom.”

The boy swallowed hard. He took two steps forward. Genuinely concerned, he said, “But I'm here. I talk to her. So do you. She's not alone.”

Asson gave him a small smile. “Well, she barely knows you and me. It's not the same. What's your name, boy?”

“Gausep.”

“Gausep the Brave. That's a good name.”

The boy licked his lips and gave the sky a scared glance. As the afternoon waned, shadows engulfed the depths of the forests, turning them obsidian black. The fragrance of moldering leaves, tinged with smoke, scented the cold air.

“Does your mother know you're here? It's getting late. Maybe you should start home.”

Gausep didn't seem to hear him. Emptiness filled his eyes, as though he was seeing something far away and not quite of this world. “Have you ever seen her chamber in the longhouse?”

Asson blinked. The statement made no sense. Madyrut had been dead for days. “Madyrut has a chamber in a longhouse?”

“Did,” the boy clarified. “Her mother went mad and said if the dead girl had to be a ghost that she needed a place to stay warm. She made a wooden figurine and hung the girl's dresses on it; then she stuffed the girl's moccasins with cornhusks and wore them around her neck. My mother told me she'd go mad, too, if I died.”

“Did you know Madyrut's mother? Are you of her People?”

The boy shivered and rubbed his arms, but Asson did not think the shiver came from being cold. “I don't ever want to know her mother or her People.”

Asson slowly exhaled while he contemplated the strange child. “Where are you from, Gausep? How close is your village?”

Gausep aimed an arm vaguely south, then turned away. Pale light streamed down through the chestnut's branches to dapple his dirty face as he danced through the dead leaves, kicking them high into the air, all thoughts of ghosts apparently gone. His laughter was sweet and high, as melodious as the call of a finch in spring.

“I suspect your mother is frightened and wondering where you are. You should go home. You shouldn't worry her this way.”

As though the words surprised him, the boy stopped playing and trotted forward to drop to his knees beside Asson. When Asson looked down into Gausep's eyes, they appeared to be bottomless wells, ethereal and shiny.

Gausep gestured. “Is that a hickory digging stick?”

“It is.”

“Hickory is a good hard wood. What are you going to dig up?”

“Well, lost souls tend to hover close to their bodies, so I'm looking for lost things. Things locked in darkness. Or maybe just the stepping stones that ghosts use to start the Star Road.”

Gausep's jaw dropped. “The stepping stones? You're looking for the flashes of light that lead to the Land of the Dead? Do you want to die?”

“Is that what your people believe? The soul follows flashes of light to the afterworld? My people believe we follow a Songtrail. But death isn't a bad thing, Gausep. It's just a link between worlds. At some point, we are each called, not to do something, but to be somewhere. Masks People believe that the soul runs through the sunset, called by animal friends, then trots on through the night. Finally, at dawn, the dead person runs straight onto the bridge. Memories come, come fast upon him, and he sees all things as if from above. He understands, at last—”

“But…” The boy paused to wet his lips. He looked troubled. “What's on the other side? Do you know?”

“Oh, there's a big camp. It's a beautiful sunny day. The children are playing, splashing and swimming in the river, running races with barking dogs. As soon as the People see the dead person walking toward them, they call to him, begging him to join them. ‘Come down, brother, aunt, father,' whatever relation he is. He knows everyone in the camp, and loves them all. He runs toward them in joy.”

Gausep wiped his hands on his red leather leggings, as though his palms had started to sweat in the winter cold. “He follows footprints to get there. Ghosts leave footprints.”

The old chestnut crackled. Asson glanced up at the skeletal limbs and saw them quake. Images of a young man and an older woman flitted through the forest. Asson had no idea who they were or what it meant. The unknown warrior, a tall man with quartz crystal eyes, came to Madyrut's tree every day and placed his hand gently upon the ground at the base of the tree.
I'm waiting for you, Madyrut.

“Where have you seen ghost footprints?”

“In the forest. I've tracked them. Usually they wear sandals, not moccasins, because it's warmer where they are.”

“Is it?”

Gausep gave him an askance look, probably surmising again that Asson wasn't very smart for an elder. The boy's Spirit sight went far beyond anything Asson was capable of. Gausep reached out to smooth his fingers over the largest, hafted stone scraper. “Can I use this white scraper to dig up ghost footprints?”

“You may.”

“Do you know what ghost footprints look like?” It was a test.

“No. Tell me.”

“Like sandal prints.”

“Ah, I see.” Asson smiled. “Well, let's get started. If we do our work well, perhaps Madyrut can start her journey by nightfall, and we—” His voice died when Gausep suddenly jerked his head up and stared out at the vast ocean as though he'd seen something in the distance. His breathing quickened.

“Grandfather Day Maker's children are coming. Their hair is sunshine. The ghost is standing guard, waiting for them.”

“Just as she would guard her village if the Masks People cut her down and made her part of a palisade?” Asson tipped his head back and took a long look at the towering chestnut. As clouds moved in, the branches looked dark. “Are you still protecting your people, Madyrut? I think you can turn that duty over to other warriors now. They—”

“See them?”

Asson's gaze returned to Gausep; then he followed the boy's extended arm out to the glittering ocean, where seabirds soared and dove, hunting the water. As the afternoon waned, the fog grew thicker and darker, turning the shade of a mourning dove's wings. After a few moments, Asson said, “No, I don't.”

“Are you blind? They're right there.”

Asson handed Gausep the hafted white scraper. “I'm sure they are. But I think we should forget about them, and start digging. It will be dark soon.”

Cover your eyes. Cover your eyes…

Madyrut listened. The Call slipped through the dark trees in the forest beyond the longhouse. It had been calling her for a hundred cycles, or maybe just a single day. Madyrut wasn't sure. She thought it had always been out there wailing, but maybe not. Maybe her ears had just woken up.

Evil girl. Bad girl. It's your own fault.

Madyrut shoved out of her deerhides, slipped on her sandals, and silently crept past the eight fires that burned down the length of the longhouse, making her way toward the bark-covered entry at the far end. High over her head smoke curled and danced before drifting out through the smokeholes in the roof and flying away to carry dream messages to the Blessed Ancestors living along the Star Road.

She tiptoed past the sleeping people. Bark walls separated each chamber, giving the families a small measure of privacy. But at night most people left their hide curtains open to the fires for warmth. She could see them holding their children close. Faint smiles turned their lips.

Madyrut wondered where their souls were wandering tonight. Happy places filled with sunshine and laughter, probably stories and bear hugs. For a split instant, she smiled.

Then she hurriedly turned to make sure her mother wasn't watching her. All day long, Mother had busied herself hanging hides to cover their chamber so no one could see inside, covering Madyrut's wooden bowls and horn spoons, her bow and quiver, and laying hides across the dirt floor. Hides could be rolled up, carried outside, and shaken clean. No one would know.

Madyrut smothered the cry that seeped up her throat. As fast as she could, she trotted for the exit and shoved aside the bark cover to get outside. Cold air. Deep into the lungs. Scrub them out. No more hickory-scented dust, no more curly shavings in her hair. The sky visible through the trees was an icy leaden wilderness.

Run. Just run.

But don't get lost. Don't get lost in holes in the ground.

Young William finished tying up the rolled sail, shoved blond hair out of his blue eyes, and rose to stretch his aching back muscles. He was rail thin and dressed in ragged furs, as befitted a slave. With the storm rolling in, the ocean had gone rough. He was responsible for making sure the sail was rolled and stowed properly, just in case they hit heavy rains. Sodden woolen sails weighed a ton and could capsize a knorr. Though the wide-bodied vessel was one of the biggest of the trading ships that sailed these dangerous seas, it was still vulnerable to storms and icebergs, especially this time of year. Already the sea ice had started to edge southward, and icebergs the size of gleaming mountains drifted the ocean. No one aboard, except maybe the master, could understand why they'd dared such a long voyage at this time of season—though crazy stories had been circulating, whispered where the master could not overhear.

William looked out across the frothing waves. On the horizon, the storm resembled a bruised wall filled with lightning. The other two ships were just barely visible in the distance. They were getting tossed around pretty good. The pagan Danes aboard must think that Thor, the sky god, was angry today. William, however, was a convert to the new Anchorite faith, and didn't believe in such ridiculous gods. His Lord had been a carpenter, as William longed to be someday, if he ever earned his freedom.

“William? Come over here.”

He turned to see his master, Wulfstan the Tall, waving him toward the bow. William hesitated, which made his master furious.

“Now!”

William swallowed hard and made his way forward. As he passed the muttering oarsmen, their stench filled the air. None had bathed in days. They cast sympathetic glances his way. They were just as afraid as William was of the woman being guarded by their master. She was a beauty, no doubt about that. She had long white hair and skin the color of ivory. When she turned her glacial blue eyes upon a man, he stopped dead in his tracks, as though his body knew danger even when his mind told him she was just a harmless female chained to the prow.

William bowed to Wulfstan. “Forgive my slowness, Master. I'm just a boy.”

“You're thirteen, a man by my standards. Act like one. I want you to take over watch for me. I'll return in fifteen minutes or so.”

“But, Master! Why me? Why not someone older and stronger? What if she casts a spell on me, or—”

“You're afraid of a skinny woman?” Wulfstan's black brows plunged down in displeasure. “There's a storm ahead. I need every strong man on the oars. You're a useless weakling when it comes to rowing. Besides, you've no reason to fear her. Has she done anything since we left England, except lie curled in the bow and weep?”

“No, Master, but I've heard…” William bit off his next words. He'd heard a good many strange tales of magical swords and staffs and men dying in droves, but all of them might be false. After all, someone had lived long enough to capture her and clamp her in chains.