weird hours of the night before dawn, Flick woke up. Seel was snoring gently beside him, looking vulnerable and achingly beautiful in sleep, all the lines of anxiety smoothed away from his brow. Something had roused Flick. He had been dreaming, and the dream had made his head throb, it was so chaotic and intense. He couldn’t remember it now. He got out of bed and pulled on his trousers. Outside the bedroom door, the house was bathed in a strange blue twilight. He could hear it breathing. Cal’s door was open and Flick knew, deep in his gut, that Cal wasn’t in the room. Had he gone to Orien’s house? Surely not.
Flick padded down the stairs. The eerie light blurred his vision. He couldn’t see properly and sometimes the steps beneath his feet felt wet. The house seemed odd, as if the atmosphere had been stirred by an invisible yet burning presence. Flick went into the kitchen and walked around it, touching the worn implements he used every day. There was a finality to everything. It was like saying goodbye. The wooden block that held his knives lay on its side on the counter next to the range. Flick righted it and noticed the biggest knife was missing. His flesh froze, slowly, from his heart to the surface of his skin. He ran out into the night.
The streets of Saltrock seemed to have become wider, the buildings along them taller. Everything appeared skewed and out of proportion. Flick didn’t know this place. It scared him. He ran round in tight circles, afraid of whatever might lurk behind him. He needed to put his back against something solid and crouch there until dawn.
The Nayati loomed black and sinister against the stars, a haunted place. A ghost was coming out of it, a ghost haloed in light. Flick stumbled to a halt on the dusty road. He felt dizzy and the buildings swayed around him. ‘Cal!’ he said. He wanted to shout, but it came out as a whisper. He couldn’t shout, mustn’t. Had Cal been to the Nayati to pray? Like Flick, he was naked from the waist up. But for his bright hair, he looked like he’d been tarred.
Flick walked towards him slowly. Cal had come to a halt and was staring ahead of him, his gaze unfocussed. His face was a warrior’s face, smeared with fierce gouts of darkness. Light was starting to fill the sky, an unhealthy light. Perhaps it wasn’t the dawn at all, but the end of the world.
Flick reached out and touched Cal’s chest. The skin was icy cold, and stickily wet.
‘What have you done?’ Flick said.
Cal did not look at him. ‘Go home,’ he said. ‘You’re dreaming. Go home.’
‘Cal…’
‘I’m not here. I never was.’
Cal brushed past him and began to walk towards Seel’s house. Flick went after him, grabbed his shoulder. ‘You’re drenched in blood,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Cal glanced at him then. ‘He came back, that’s all. You want to see? Go look. I’ve left an offering in the temple.’
He took Flick’s hand and pressed something into it. ‘Here. This is yours.’ It was the kitchen knife. Flick dropped it at once. It lay shining in the dirt, brilliantly silver and brilliantly red. Impossible in this light, yet there it was. When Flick managed to tear his gaze away from it, he was alone.
His mind was in turmoil. Part of him was already running back to Seel, waking him, dragging him from his bed to discover whatever terrible thing awaited them in the Nayati. But his body wouldn’t comply with this image. It just stood there, paralysed. Even when Flick heard the galloping hooves leave the town, he could not move.
When the roosters began to crow, he picked up the knife and went back to the house. He washed the blade in the gushing water at the sink, retching, swallowing bile. He dried the knife carefully and replaced it in the block. With a wet cloth, he wiped away a bloody hand-print from the back door. He ignored the rest. Then he went up the stairs, not looking down at what he might be treading in. He crawled into Seel’s bed.
Flick padded down the stairs. The eerie light blurred his vision. He couldn’t see properly and sometimes the steps beneath his feet felt wet. The house seemed odd, as if the atmosphere had been stirred by an invisible yet burning presence. Flick went into the kitchen and walked around it, touching the worn implements he used every day. There was a finality to everything. It was like saying goodbye. The wooden block that held his knives lay on its side on the counter next to the range. Flick righted it and noticed the biggest knife was missing. His flesh froze, slowly, from his heart to the surface of his skin. He ran out into the night.
The streets of Saltrock seemed to have become wider, the buildings along them taller. Everything appeared skewed and out of proportion. Flick didn’t know this place. It scared him. He ran round in tight circles, afraid of whatever might lurk behind him. He needed to put his back against something solid and crouch there until dawn.
The Nayati loomed black and sinister against the stars, a haunted place. A ghost was coming out of it, a ghost haloed in light. Flick stumbled to a halt on the dusty road. He felt dizzy and the buildings swayed around him. ‘Cal!’ he said. He wanted to shout, but it came out as a whisper. He couldn’t shout, mustn’t. Had Cal been to the Nayati to pray? Like Flick, he was naked from the waist up. But for his bright hair, he looked like he’d been tarred.
Flick walked towards him slowly. Cal had come to a halt and was staring ahead of him, his gaze unfocussed. His face was a warrior’s face, smeared with fierce gouts of darkness. Light was starting to fill the sky, an unhealthy light. Perhaps it wasn’t the dawn at all, but the end of the world.
Flick reached out and touched Cal’s chest. The skin was icy cold, and stickily wet.
‘What have you done?’ Flick said.
Cal did not look at him. ‘Go home,’ he said. ‘You’re dreaming. Go home.’
‘Cal…’
‘I’m not here. I never was.’
Cal brushed past him and began to walk towards Seel’s house. Flick went after him, grabbed his shoulder. ‘You’re drenched in blood,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Cal glanced at him then. ‘He came back, that’s all. You want to see? Go look. I’ve left an offering in the temple.’
He took Flick’s hand and pressed something into it. ‘Here. This is yours.’ It was the kitchen knife. Flick dropped it at once. It lay shining in the dirt, brilliantly silver and brilliantly red. Impossible in this light, yet there it was. When Flick managed to tear his gaze away from it, he was alone.
His mind was in turmoil. Part of him was already running back to Seel, waking him, dragging him from his bed to discover whatever terrible thing awaited them in the Nayati. But his body wouldn’t comply with this image. It just stood there, paralysed. Even when Flick heard the galloping hooves leave the town, he could not move.
When the roosters began to crow, he picked up the knife and went back to the house. He washed the blade in the gushing water at the sink, retching, swallowing bile. He dried the knife carefully and replaced it in the block. With a wet cloth, he wiped away a bloody hand-print from the back door. He ignored the rest. Then he went up the stairs, not looking down at what he might be treading in. He crawled into Seel’s bed.
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