notebook he tucked the ten-franc note and the crumpled prayer he had picked up from the floor of the church. Evidence.
At noon—by which time Pepper was six miles away and still walking—he was overtaken by a calèche carrying chicken feed and asked for a ride.
“What happened to your hands?” asked the driver.
Pepper looked down at the puncture holes in his palms, his jacket, the thighs of his trousers, and wondered himself. Perhaps the wooden eagle had done it while he slept. Or perhaps birds of ill omen were invisible and could peck a boy to the bone without his ever even seeing them do it.
Where to hide? He had thought simply to stay out of sight of the sky and its flocks of hawkish angels. But now it seemed the police might be after him too.
“You wanna watch yourself out here,” said the calèche driver. “The mosquitoes like an open wound.” His gesture took in the countryside through which they were riding: marshland sudsy white with salt deposits, and the sky a great blue bowl upturned over it all. Pepper’s mother (who hated having toads in her garden but was scared to pick them up) had trapped the creatures this way, on the lawn, slamming slipware cooking bowls over them and leaving them there for the gardener to deal with; china molehills that gave the occasional bump and shudder as the toads underneath panicked and jumped and concussed themselves, les pauvres .
“There’s worse than mosquitoes, though,” said the driver glumly. “They all come here to lose theirselves. The vermin.”
“What, like rabbits, you mean?”
“The hyoo-man vermin,” said the driver lugubriously. “Runaways. Convicts. Gypsies. Deserters. Riffraff.” He must have felt he was not getting his point across, because he had a think, then added, “Ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” Pepper wanted to ask whether “ghosts” included the Blessed Dead. He did not especially mind ghosts, but the Blessed Dead plucked on his nerves like harp strings.
“Freaks of nature.” The driver was warming to his subject. “Goblins. All sorts. Jyoo-veniles gone to bad. There’s one out there now, so the nyooz-papers say. On the run.” And peering around him exaggeratedly, he brought his eyes back to rest on Pepper and to look him up and down.
“Oh, me? I’m not—Me, I’ve got work,” said Pepper hastily. “Quite near here. In fact, if you just let me off here…Job on a farm. Harvesting the wheat. All that.”
Again the driver looked around him at a landscapewhere rice and salt were the only crops. “Best get them hands looked at, then,” he said, reining in his horse.
Pepper stood in the roadway, waiting for the cart to roll out of sight. In whichever direction he looked, he could see no sign of a building, let alone a farm. Mentally he added the latest lie to his list of sins. He felt like a mountaineer adding rocks one by one to his backpack. When the cart was gone, he would go on walking: Sooner or later he must surely come to a farm. Or else, according to the signposts, he would reach Saint-Bonnard-de-la-Mer and find something, someone.
Pepper eyed the sky nervously. He felt vulnerable out there in the open, as conspicuous on the vast landscape of white salt flats and bleached grass as a beetle on a white damask tablecloth. He told himself that Pepper Roux was dead, might as well be dead, was as good as dead. Happily, there was not a rook in sight….
But there were angels.
Just as anxiety and hunger took hold, Pepper was confronted by a hundred angels paddling in a lake. There was no mistaking them, lifting their flame-colored robes high to reveal spindle-thin legs. They were sobeautiful, so otherworldly—sunsets made flesh, wading through their own peach-pink reflections. The cuts in his hands were infected, and he was alone and lost and afraid. What was the point in running? He did not even want to run from this cloud of evanescent color. He wanted to be swallowed up by it.
Unstrung by weariness, he
At noon—by which time Pepper was six miles away and still walking—he was overtaken by a calèche carrying chicken feed and asked for a ride.
“What happened to your hands?” asked the driver.
Pepper looked down at the puncture holes in his palms, his jacket, the thighs of his trousers, and wondered himself. Perhaps the wooden eagle had done it while he slept. Or perhaps birds of ill omen were invisible and could peck a boy to the bone without his ever even seeing them do it.
Where to hide? He had thought simply to stay out of sight of the sky and its flocks of hawkish angels. But now it seemed the police might be after him too.
“You wanna watch yourself out here,” said the calèche driver. “The mosquitoes like an open wound.” His gesture took in the countryside through which they were riding: marshland sudsy white with salt deposits, and the sky a great blue bowl upturned over it all. Pepper’s mother (who hated having toads in her garden but was scared to pick them up) had trapped the creatures this way, on the lawn, slamming slipware cooking bowls over them and leaving them there for the gardener to deal with; china molehills that gave the occasional bump and shudder as the toads underneath panicked and jumped and concussed themselves, les pauvres .
“There’s worse than mosquitoes, though,” said the driver glumly. “They all come here to lose theirselves. The vermin.”
“What, like rabbits, you mean?”
“The hyoo-man vermin,” said the driver lugubriously. “Runaways. Convicts. Gypsies. Deserters. Riffraff.” He must have felt he was not getting his point across, because he had a think, then added, “Ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” Pepper wanted to ask whether “ghosts” included the Blessed Dead. He did not especially mind ghosts, but the Blessed Dead plucked on his nerves like harp strings.
“Freaks of nature.” The driver was warming to his subject. “Goblins. All sorts. Jyoo-veniles gone to bad. There’s one out there now, so the nyooz-papers say. On the run.” And peering around him exaggeratedly, he brought his eyes back to rest on Pepper and to look him up and down.
“Oh, me? I’m not—Me, I’ve got work,” said Pepper hastily. “Quite near here. In fact, if you just let me off here…Job on a farm. Harvesting the wheat. All that.”
Again the driver looked around him at a landscapewhere rice and salt were the only crops. “Best get them hands looked at, then,” he said, reining in his horse.
Pepper stood in the roadway, waiting for the cart to roll out of sight. In whichever direction he looked, he could see no sign of a building, let alone a farm. Mentally he added the latest lie to his list of sins. He felt like a mountaineer adding rocks one by one to his backpack. When the cart was gone, he would go on walking: Sooner or later he must surely come to a farm. Or else, according to the signposts, he would reach Saint-Bonnard-de-la-Mer and find something, someone.
Pepper eyed the sky nervously. He felt vulnerable out there in the open, as conspicuous on the vast landscape of white salt flats and bleached grass as a beetle on a white damask tablecloth. He told himself that Pepper Roux was dead, might as well be dead, was as good as dead. Happily, there was not a rook in sight….
But there were angels.
Just as anxiety and hunger took hold, Pepper was confronted by a hundred angels paddling in a lake. There was no mistaking them, lifting their flame-colored robes high to reveal spindle-thin legs. They were sobeautiful, so otherworldly—sunsets made flesh, wading through their own peach-pink reflections. The cuts in his hands were infected, and he was alone and lost and afraid. What was the point in running? He did not even want to run from this cloud of evanescent color. He wanted to be swallowed up by it.
Unstrung by weariness, he
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