(29) A Good Dead

The cart thudded over the unpaved road, the jolts bruising her hips. She worked constantly to keep the jostles from disturbing her easily disturbed newborn. She alternated between holding him at arm’s length to absorb the bumps and resting him carefully across her thighs.

The sounds of grunts and sniffles outside reminded her to be grateful that she had a place in a cart. Her husband walked beside it, along with anyone deemed able. It was thanks to her son, so temperamental, that she was not walking herself. He could cry the entire trip, and it would still be far preferable.

A ruckus arose, confused voices and exclamations reaching her and the others in her enclosed cart. Possessing the good fortune to be next to the window, she looked out, immediately observing the source of the commotion.

A pillar of light shot into the sky, so far away that it was no thicker than a strand of hair, yet so bright that it could be seen clearly, even through the slight overcast. It shone straight into the sky, piercing it like a divine spear. It had to be hundreds of miles from the south coast. Maybe it was from the Crater?

What did it mean?

A woman crouched in shadows stared from the mouth of an alley, still as a ghost. The evening sun cast red rays across the wide street as people hurried home. Wealthy citizens in lavish robes of myriad colors walked at a leisurely pace, chatting and laughing with their fellows. They paid no mind to others who hurried to and fro, dressed in mute colors and scratchy linens, carrying burdens of cloth or buckets.

The shadows grew longer, and the rays of light vanished as the sun sank beneath the horizon, yet the woman did not move. Her silver braid hung limply against her back, her body completely still. She did not sweat, nor did she shake from the exertion of maintaining her crouch. She appeared a statue rendered in incredible likeness, but inanimate.

As the final glow of twilight faded, and the gentle chill of a summer night settled upon the city, the woman withdrew a flask from inside her shirt, only her arms moving. She raised it to her sharp blue eyes, which nearly glowed in the darkness. Removing the cap, she splashed water into them, unblinking, before placing the flask back into her shirt.

She wore a dark blouse of coarse linen beneath a brown robe of the same fabric, neither fine nor poor quality. She wore a pair of sturdy boots, though, if inspected closely, one would find worn leather pads covering the soles.

A door opened in the side of the fence ringing the perimeter of the mansion before her, and she moved. She quickly drew the flask from her shirt, inhaled its contents sharply, flicked it back into her shirt, and exhaled, ejecting water from her windpipe without a flinch or a sound.

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A mousish woman emerged from the fence door, closing it quietly behind her. She looked around quickly, scanning every direction before starting forward, across the street toward the alley, wringing her hands before her as she walked.

The silver-haired woman’s face, previously neutral, carved from stone, shifted to a warm smile, the transition abrupt. She gave a small wave toward the woman crossing the street, stepping back further into the shadows and leaning casually against the wall.

“Beth,” the woman hissed, stepping into the alleyway, twitching her head as she obviously resisted the urge to glance behind.