Beware the Night, page 3
“I am…” I glance toward the darkness. “Well…” I begin walking. “See you around.” Bird bully. But maybe the name no longer suits him. I mean, I don’t jump in ponds wearing nothing but underclothes anymore.
“Do you mind if I walk with you?” Dorian shudders. “I hate that damn tunnel.” But he gazes my way, narrowing his eyes. “Unless you’d rather walk alone? I can’t imagine this tunnel worries you too much after the way you hooked that fish.” He raises an eyebrow. “Most grown men I know would have let the thing go, pole and all.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I can be a bit stubborn when it comes to fishing.” But the fish is impressive, I can’t deny it. “Normally, I’d brave the tunnel, but I walked most of it alone this morning. I think I’ve had my fill of adventure for the day.”
He laughs. “Right.” Lighting his lantern first, Dorian then glares toward the tunnel. “Shall we?” He glances over.
I nod and we enter.
The tunnel seems to go by faster on the way back, Nico and I always notice. We’ve decided it has something to do with heading closer to home instead of away from it. As if our feet move more quickly.
But it’s not the case this time.
The tunnel is a decent five-minute walk, and today I feel every second of it. I can’t remember the last time I walked it side by side with someone I didn’t know. Not to mention the kid who used to terrorize birds. And it’s too late to turn back.
It takes me the first fourth of the tunnel to come up with a topic of conversation (glassblowing) and the second fourth listening to Dorian’s response (he’s been learning the trade for years … He loves it when he can make his own creations … Hates it when he has to make fancy wares for the Dogio … Seems a waste…), so the next time there’s an awkward silence between us, we’re maybe halfway through.
Thankfully, some of the lights have been replaced so it’s not black as night like it was this morning. Still … I hadn’t thought this through fully. Being alone with Nico in the dark is as natural as fishing. But being with someone else … Some other boy …
I panic.
“Give and Take?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Oh, Give and Take … It’s a game. You know, for conversation?”
He slows. “Wow. Is it that awkward?”
“No, I just…”
He flashes a wide grin under the flickering light above us. “It’s one of my favorites. Fair warning: I’m good.”
We’ll see about that. “Challenge accepted.” A question flies out of my mouth. “Do you still throw rocks at poor defenseless birds?”
He stops dead, clutches at his heart, and stares right at me. “Brutal.”
“Oh … Too personal? Should I go easier on you?” I smirk. Just a little bit.
Quickly recovering, Dorian adjusts his knit cap so it’s tipped precariously to one side. “Pfft! You didn’t say you were good too.”
“I didn’t feel the need to.”
“Touché.” He fights a smile by glancing away.
We resume walking.
“Obviously, I’d hoped you’d forgotten my sordid past.” He side-eyes me. “Yes, yes … I used to throw rocks at birds. In my defense, I lacked parental guidance. My uncle meant well, but I was a handful.” Dorian pauses, staring ahead as if lost in some distant memory. “As for your question? No. I do not still torment the poor things. Not for years.”
“I’m so relieved to hear it … For the birds, of course.” I nod, satisfied, and begin to toss another question his way before he steals the turn, but he beats me to it.
“I remember you too, you know … Hair a ginger rat’s nest, a bit of dirt always smeared cross your cheek, sea salt stuck to your clothes.”
I shake my head and laugh, part embarrassed, part surprised he’d remember such detail. “I used to skip school lessons to fish at the beach. I’d wade in up to my waist, get soaked to the bone. Poppy was forever torn between scolding me and encouraging me.” I glance over, furrowing my brow. “That wasn’t a question. You’re stalling.”
Dorian throws his hands up in mock surrender. “It was my lead-in to the real question … Poppy … Your grandfather?”
“My grandfather, yes.” I raise an eyebrow at his sad attempt. “Didn’t you say you were good?”
Dorian laughs. “You’ve had a long day.” He glances at my fishing basket. “Figured I’d go easy on you.”
I nod, eyes narrowed. “Of course.” He either can’t think of a question or is afraid to ask what’s truly on his mind.
We finally exit the tunnel into the square. I adjust my hat to shade the Sun as he extinguishes the lantern, hooks it to his bag. While he’s distracted, I seize the opportunity. “What’s your favorite glassware to make?”
He swears under his breath, gazing over at me, feigning shock, his expression humored. “I thought the game was finished!” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Who’d have thought … the Protector of Birds is downright vicious at Give and Take.”
I shrug. He knows full well it’s not finished until the person who started it declares it, the cheat. But again, he’s stalling. I stare without a word.
“All right…” We start walking toward the south Basso village, bypassing the market. “I like making most things, but what do I love crafting? Tiny figurines. Usually animals.” He fishes something from his back pocket and presents a tiny black piece of glass from his open palm.
I pluck it from his hand and hold it up toward the light. The thing is so small yet so incredibly realistic—the tiniest of shimmering scales, gills, even small whiskers glisten under the Sun. “Pantera…,” I whisper.
“Thought you’d appreciate that. I always bring one fishing for good luck.”
I’m still staring, turning it over in my hand, studying the miniature version of the fish I caught this morning. “The detail is … unreal.”
“Thanks. That’s my favorite part. The challenge of the details. When I get it right, it’s really rewarding.”
I smile, handing it back.
“No. Keep it.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Please. As a thank-you for helping me out today.” He smiles so it reaches his eyes, and I can’t possibly refuse.
“It’ll go on my altar. A prayer for future pantera.” I tuck it safely into my pocket.
“Good. I actually went through a fish phase. Made so many that sometimes I pass them out to kids at the market.” I realize I’m staring over at him when, I swear, the slightest flush overtakes his cheeks. He clears his throat. “I mean, I pelt them at stray kittens.”
I laugh. “I knew it! The truth comes out.”
He laughs back, the flush traveling down his neck; something about the image of him giving small blessings in the form of glass trinkets to children is irrefutably endearing and instantly warms my own face.
“Ah! I’ve got one!” Dorian nearly shouts, pulling me back into the present and Give and Take. “What’s the story with you and Nico Denali?”
“Oh…” I don’t know why the question catches me like it does, but my pace slows.
“I’m sorry…” Dorian backpedals. “It’s none of my business. Got caught up in the game.”
“No. Not at all.” I quicken my steps, force myself to stand taller. “First rule of Give and Take: Nothing’s too personal.”
“Right.” He nods.
Our boots crunch over gravel as the stone path turns more rugged and I try to collect my thoughts. “Nico and me … It’s hard to explain. We’ve known each other since we were kids, when none of this”—I motion down at my clothing—“really mattered. Or, at least, we didn’t realize it did. He’s always there for me. Always the first to stand up for me. He’s my closest friend.”
“It’s nice you have someone you can trust. It’s important.” But I recognize the skepticism in his eyes as if he doesn’t buy it. As if he’s wondering what’s possibly in it for me … for Nico … that could be worth the scrutiny we must face. Questions of What do you expect to gain? And How the Sun does it even work? Don’t you know your days are numbered?
Or maybe those are my own questions.
“I’m very aware our friendship is risky,” I blurt out.
If he’s surprised by my change in tone, my sudden defensiveness, he doesn’t show it. “I’ve found sometimes risk is worth it.” The Sun sends rays through the trees, casting an iridescent sheen over his already ghostly eyes as he cocks one eyebrow up in a knowing way. Like he’s read my mind. Which he has. And like he knows it. Which he does. I glance over my shoulder and cut off our connection.
Now I’m the one clearing my throat. “I’m just a few houses down, there with the lamp still lit.”
“Ah, good.” He makes to turn and leave.
“Hey,” I say, and Dorian looks back. “Thanks for the walk.”
“Sure. Thanks for the game. Rematch sometime?”
“Definitely.”
He removes his knit hat, unleashing his hair. The longer side is light, the color of the Sun at midday. It’s a mess of waves, in complete contrast to the stubble of the shaved side. Raking his fingers through, mussing it even more, he smiles and shoves his cap into his back pocket.
I realize I’m staring and I catch myself. “See you around.” I give a half grin, then turn away and head toward home.
A fresh BEWARE THE NIGHT OF RECKONING poster nailed to a nearby tree steals my attention and it hits me: Somehow, beyond all reason, I’d managed to forget what day it is for a brief moment in time.
Without thinking, I glance back.
He’s still standing there, all tall and messy haired, and hands shoved into his pockets. “Be safe tonight, V,” he calls, his tone gentle, concerned.
V? No one’s ever really given me a nickname before. “You too…” I try to match his tone. I give a half wave and surprise even myself at how quickly I bolt through the front door, shutting and locking it behind me.
It’s not the abruptness of my actions but the butterflies fluttering in my gut that shock me. It’s a feeling only associated with Nico. Until just now.
I pause, my back to the door, and think on his nickname for me. V. I turn it over in my head a few times and decide I like the familiarity of it, the simplicity of it, when I look up to find Poppy marching straight toward me, arms piled high with wooden slats, his words a running tally of tasks to be completed.
As comforting as it was to lose myself in Give and Take and pantera fish and the flutter of butterflies, there’s no escaping reality.
At sundown, the Night will attack.
* * *
POPPY AND I SKIN, clean, and cook the pantera fish in record time. The beast provides enough to barely satiate us now and salt and store for later. But we don’t get to enjoy the small feast, not really, because we’re eating while boarding up the windows, covering what little furniture we have with old canvas. We jar the fish, store the firewood (last year the Night used it as kindling to stoke the fires), and wrap up breakables.
Everything is moving smoothly until, when I run to the shed for more lamp oil, I find the can’s bone dry.
“Already? It goes so quickly,” Poppy says when I tell him. “We have candles.”
“Not near enough,” I say, tipping the basket so he can see the three lonely candles at the bottom. “This won’t last us a quarter of the night. We have to get oil.”
“I’ll quickly run to the market,” he says. “I need to pick up more canvas anyway, for the kitchen table.” I decide not to tell him it probably won’t make a difference. If the Night get in our home, a bit of fabric isn’t going to protect anything.
“No, no, I’ll go. Plus, I need to pick something up.”
“Veda…” He knows what it is, but doesn’t chide me because, though he’d never admit it, he looks forward to it all year.
“Poppy … We both know I’ll be much faster. You should stay here and keep preparing.” I look toward the windows, the walls: Everything from curtains to the few framed photos we have hanging needs to come down. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
He grumbles under his breath, but finally says something that sounds like, “All right … Be quick…”
I fill my bag with jarred worms and fishhooks for trade. As I bound out the door, Poppy shouts, “Be careful and get back here fast, eh!”
“I will, I promise!” I call back.
* * *
FAST AS MY legs will carry me, I travel from our village into town. I make it to the market just in time to trade worms for one of the last cans of lamp oil and pick up the handful of candied lemon I’ve been saving months for. Sunrise bread. I bake it once a year, the morning after the Night of Reckoning. Traditionally, it’s supposed to have a lemon custard inside. Poppy could never figure out the custard—his was more a glue—and we’d end up throwing that part away. When I started baking it, I bypassed custard altogether and added the candied lemon slices. I place them into a perfect ring right along the middle of the round loaf, so when cut into, each slice should have a sunshine-lemony surprise. It’s cheaper and easier and it’s been tradition ever since.
Unfortunately, the sweetshop is packed with Dogio and by the time I buy the candies and head to the fabric store it’s already locked and boarded up for the night. I swear under my breath for Poppy’s sake, but we’ll have to make do without the canvas.
When I turn to head home, a strange sight breaks my stride.
Imperi soldiers are pasting more warning signs, but also something new. Fresh, white postings cover the sides of buildings, are strung along the fence around the market like garland. JOIN THE IMPERI ARMY! they say. I walk closer to one of the papers. DOGIO AND BASSO WELCOME. INQUIRE AT IMPERI HILL. I read it again just to be sure I’m truly seeing it correctly.
Dogio and Basso.
Unheard of. Basso have never been allowed to serve. Never.
Then it hits me: The Night must be stronger than ever, a huge threat, if the Imperi wants Basso to join their precious army, to break the rules of society as we know them. Faith in the Sun seeing us through this must be at an all-time low.
A hammer sounds in the distance, startling me, just as a woman’s laughter slices through the air. Who the hell could find anything enjoyable at a time like this?
I’d like to spit in her general direction, but, heeding Poppy’s warning, I start back toward our village.
Not five steps forward, I encounter the woman whose laughter set me on edge. Actually, several women, men, and children. All draped in their finest black, red, and gold. Carrying packages and food and gifts up to the Dogio side of the island.
Ever-Sol Feast.
I actually did forget about it. Oh, how Arlen would love to tease me over that.
The woman laughs again.
I glance around the side of a building at her, at the procession. I suppose there is joy to be had this evening. You just need live on the right side of the island to find it.
As if from the very pit of my soul, something clicks inside me. I’m not sure if it’s the woman’s jubilant cackling, the golden sheen of her dress, the fact that the Imperi is finally allowing Basso to join the army now that they really need us—like they’re doing us a favor—or the stress of an impending Night of Reckoning, but I follow the crowd.
I need to see for myself what’s so great. What is so funny that the woman in gold would laugh all the way up that hill?
I stick to the woods a good distance behind, not daring a step onto the path that leads to the Dogio village. Tree to tree, shadow to shadow, avoiding where the Sun shines through the branches, I sneak like the sneak I’m being, following people I shouldn’t follow to a place I know I’m not welcome.
But I’m not ashamed of my sneaking. I am worried I’ll get caught. I’m a bit concerned I might run into Nico, and there’s no excuse that would ever suffice for my being here now. Yet I keep following. For once, I’m not questioning my desire to know more about these other people I share this small island with. I always keep to my own Basso business.
Not this time.
But the woman has stopped laughing. In fact, I’ve lost her completely and I realize why. Two by two, the Dogio procession snakes right through Nico’s front door—into Denali Manor—with an endless round of Blessed be the lights.
I stop behind a nearby copse of trees, stealing glances when it’s safe. The inside of Nico’s home—which I’ve only ever seen through the windows from the pond out back—is ablaze with the golden brilliance of a hundred candles. Guest after guest leaves their gifts of offering, blessings for the Ever-Sol Feast, on a long table near the front door. Some gifts are immaculately wrapped, tied up in gilded ribbon; others are on display: sugared fruit and fresh breads and cheeses piled high in baskets. It’s then I realize my mouth is watering from the aromas alone.
And I hear it, the woman’s laughter. It’s so distinct, airy and light and jingly like cheery bells. Before I can spot her, the door slams shut.
Glancing to the Sun, then the hourglass round my neck, I realize that if I’m quick about it I’ve got just enough time to go around the back to steal one more peek.
And I get more than a glimpse.
The back of Nico’s home is all windows. The place spreads up and out like a table-topped hill. The roof is rich red clay tiles, and the grounds are protected by a black iron fence. Glass extends floor to ceiling, the Sun invited to shine directly in to greet the Denalis each morning. Many Dogio houses are built this way, with the Sun in mind.
Our cottage is surrounded by forest, the Sun only finding its way to our roof midday, nothing to warm but a thick slab of cracked stucco.
As I make my way closer to the fence, boots crunching over fallen leaves, hidden by the shadows of trees overhead, the chatter grows louder despite the windows being closed.
Then a chiming—metal fork against a glass—and all goes silent.
Tiptoeing closer, I’m only one short step away from the fence, barely concealed by the trunk of a tree, when the low murmur of a man’s voice cuts through the quiet of late afternoon. Inch by inch, I move out from behind the tree until, if I squint, I’ve got a perfect view of Nico’s family at the head table and the beginning of the feast.
