The Finisher

QUINDECIM: The Start of the End

NEXT LIGHT, I walked John to Learning. He had stuffed as many of the books from Morrigone’s into his tuck as possible. I knew he would spend the time at Learning reading them. I had loved books at his age. I still loved books. But Morrigone had not extended her offer to me.

I struck out for my tree, where I planned to eat my first light meal, which would forever seem trivial in comparison to the one we had enjoyed at Morrigone’s. It was no wonder that she kept her living arrangements a secret. Jealousy was not a lost emotion in Wormwood.

As I walked, I touched the chain, which was wrapped around my waist and tucked under my shirt. A sliver later I ran into them.

I first saw Roman Picus in his greasy coat and dented hat. A long-barreled morta rode over his shoulder and a short-barreled morta was in a garm-skin holder on his belt. With him were two other Wugs, both carrying mortas and long swords. I knew both of them, although I wish I didn’t.

One was Ran Digby, who worked at Ted Racksport’s weapons shop. He was a mess of a Wug, one of the filthiest blokes about, actually. I would wager that he had never held cleaning suds in his hands in all his sessions. Racksport kept him in the back, building the mortas, principally because no one could stand the stench of him.

He looked at me from behind his great, bristly beard that was filled with remnants of meals eaten long ago. When he smiled, which wasn’t often, there were only three blackened teeth visible.

The other Wug was watching me in quiet triumph. Cletus Loon carried a long-barreled morta nearly as tall as he was. He was dressed in some of his father’s hand-me-downs. Whether this was done to make him feel like a full-grown male, I didn’t know. But the effect was comical. My face must have betrayed this because his triumphant look changed to a poisonous scowl.

Roman said, “And where might you be headed, Vega?”

I looked up at him blankly. “To Stacks. And where might you be headed, Roman?”

He made a show of checking his fat timekeeper and followed that by an equally impressive gazing up at the sky. “Early for Stacks o’course.”

“I’m going to eat my first meal at my tree, then Stacks. That’s my routine.”

“Naught ru’teen n’more,” said Ran Digby, who followed this nearly unintelligible pronouncement with a great wad of smoke weed spit that hit within an inch of my boots.

“Outliers,” added Cletus Loon, looking self-important.

“Rii-ight,” I said in a drawn-out syllable. “But I still have to eat and, at least until Domitar tells me differently, I still have to go to work at Stacks.”

Roman scratched his cheek and said, “Nae up to Domitar. Not anymore.”

“Okay, who, then? Tell me!” I demanded, staring at each of them in turn. Cletus wilted under my confrontational gaze. Digby didn’t seem to understand my question, so he merely spit again, and I watched in silent amusement as he misfired and the yuck slipped down his beard. My amusement turned to disgust when he made no move to wipe it off.

Roman said, “Council’s who.”

“Okay, has Council acted yet? Is Stacks closed?”

Now Roman looked like a Wug who had overplayed his hand. When he said nothing, I decided to go on the offensive.

“What are you doing out here with mortas?”

“Patrol. Like was said at Steeples last light,” replied Roman.

“I thought that would be for lesser Wugs than you, Roman.”

“If ya must know, female, I’m chief of the newly established Wormwood Constabulary. A powerful, high position worthy of a Wug like me. Thansius created it last night and appointed me to head it special.” He indicated the others. “And these are my duly appointed Carbineers.”

“Well, Thansius might have picked you because you have more mortas than anyone else.” Then I looked at Cletus. “Do you even know how to use one?”

Before Cletus could say anything, Roman replied, “If you’re going to Stacks, best get on. But after this light and night, every Wug must show proper parchment to the patrols.”

“What kind of parchment?”

“Allowing them to go where they’re going,” said Cletus viciously.

“Why?” I asked.

Roman said, “Council orders, female. Way i’tis.”

Digby spat to confirm this.

“And where do you get this proper parchment?” I asked.

“Aye, ain’t there a brainer?” said Digby with another dollop of smoke weed going splat on the ground.

I drew a deep breath, trying to will my mouth from saying something that might cause a morta to go off in the general vicinity of my head. “What difference will parchment make to a bunch of Outliers?” I asked.

“You ask too many questions,” snapped Cletus.

I kept my gaze on Roman. “That’s because I get too few answers.”

I turned and continued on my way. With all those mortas behind me, I really wanted to take off running before they could fire and later say it was a tragic mistake.

I could hear Roman’s excuse now: “She made a sudden move. Don’t know why. Morta went off. She might have grabbed at it, scared-like, being female and all.”

And the great git Digby would have probably added, “And what be fer me sup this night? Har.” Splat!

Later, as I finally headed to Stacks, someone was waiting for me on the path. Delph looked like he had not eaten or slept for many lights and nights. His huge body was slumped, his gaze on his brogans, his long hair hanging limp.

“Delph?” I said cautiously.

“Wo-wo-wotcha, Vega Jane.”

Somewhat relieved by him using his typical greeting, I asked, “Are you okay?”

He first nodded and then shook his head.

I drew closer to him. In many ways, Delph was my younger brother too, though he was older in sessions. But innocence and naïveté had a way of upsetting chronological order. He looked lost and afraid, and my heart went out to him.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Steeples.”

“The meeting?” He nodded. “There’s a plan, Delph. You heard Thansius.”

“Heard Th-Th-Tha-Thans — Oh, bollocks,” he mumbled, giving up on the name. “Him.”

I patted his thick shoulder. “You’ll be a great help with the Wall, Delph. You could probably build it all by yourself.”

His next words cast away my lightheartedness and riveted my attention. “Virgil’s Event.”

“What about it?”

“Like I s-s-said, se-seen it, Vega Jane.”

“What exactly did you see?” I demanded.

He tapped his head. “Hard to say, all jar-jar-jargoled,” he finally managed with enormous effort, and nearly choking in the process.

“Can you remember anything? Anything at all? Something he said?”

Delph pulled on his cheek, mulling over this query. “Re-red li-light,” he said.

“What light? Where did it come from? What did it mean?” My mouth wouldn’t stop asking questions. It was as if I were firing mortas loaded with words.

Under this verbal assault, Delph turned and walked fast away from me.

“Delph,” I cried out. “Please, wait.”

And then it happened. I didn’t intend it to, but it just did. I leapt twenty yards in the air, clear over Delph, and landed five yards in front of him, my hands on my hips and my gaze squarely on him. It was only when I saw the terrified look in his eyes that I realized what I had done. Before I could say anything, Delph turned and ran.

“Oi! Delph, wait!”

But I didn’t go after him. He was scared and he had good reason. Wugmorts, as a generally absolute rule, do not fly. I stood there among the shadow of the trees, my breath coming fast and my heart pumping right with my jangled breaths. Would Delph tell anyone what he had just witnessed? If he did, would anyone believe him? Of course not, this was Delph. No one took him seriously. I mentally chastised myself. I took Delph seriously and I didn’t want anyone to make fun of him for simply telling the truth.

Delph had come here to tell me about the Event. I couldn’t imagine the courage it had taken for him to do that. And I had chased him away with my incessant questions and my ill-timed leap.

“You git, Vega,” I said ruefully. “You’ve ruined everything.”

TWO NIGHTS LATER, John and I were eating our meal at the Loons. I glanced up and down the table, sizing up the mood. It wasn’t that hard to do. I would classify it as somewhere between terrified and quietly resigned to being doomed.

Selene Jones was one of the happier ones of us, actually. I had heard that this was due to the recent brisk sales at the Noc Shop. Apparently, Wugs of all ages were now interested in learning their future from Noc-gazing. I believed what they wanted was to be told that the Outliers would not come and eat them.

Ted Racksport also seemed pleased and for a very basic reason. Morta sales had gone quite through the ceiling. His workers were laboring all light and night to fill the avalanche of orders. I supposed that quite a few of the weapons would be going to arm the patrols.

And that brought me to Cletus Loon, who sat gazing at me with ill-concealed contempt. He had cleaned up somewhat and was wearing what looked like a rude uniform complete with a cap of blue. I knew he was trying to think of something to say to me that he thought might qualify as clever. And I was also fairly certain he would be unable to manage it.

“Scared you, didn’t we, that light? In the woods? Thought you might start crying like a very young.” Cletus snickered and gave his father a sideways glance to see his reaction. However, Cacus Loon was busily stuffing a whole quail into his mouth and apparently had not heard his son.

Racksport put down his mug, which I strongly suspected held flame water, wiped his mouth and said, “Used your morta yet, Clete?”

“Only on these quail for sup,” said Cletus.

I was surprised by this and also a little worried. Cletus was apparently a better shot than I had thought he would be.

Racksport snorted. “Don’t be wasting your morta on that. You can spit on them things and knock ’em out of the sky. Morta is overkill.” He held up his portion of quail. “See, your morta metal ripped out the heart. Here’s a wee bit of it here on me fork.”

I looked down at the tiny bit of quail meat on my plate, thought about the even smaller heart that had recently been soaring along free and happy in the sky, and I suddenly lost my appetite. I looked next to me to find John having the same reaction.

Racksport looked at us, realized our dilemma and started to laugh so hard he choked. I did not rush to help him start breathing again. He ended up going outside and gagging for a while. In the meantime, I led John up to our room.

I glanced at him as he sat on his cot and opened one of Morrigone’s books.

“Good reading, John?” I asked.

He nodded absently and bent lower to the page.

Rain had started coming down so hard I felt wet even though I was inside. I lay back on my cot, turned to the side and stared at John, who was wholly devouring the book he held. His eyes were flying across the page and then he would turn it and greedily search for more knowledge in the printed letters. That was the last image I had before I fell asleep on this wild and stormy night in Wormwood. I did not wake until John touched my shoulder at first light.

And the next lights would bring change I never could have anticipated.