October 26th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Mak dreamed that he wandered through an endless cloud of red steam. A dim sun pushed frail light through the overlapping folds of crimson like a man rushing through a packed crowd. The steam restricted his sight, but he was certain he wasn’t on his farm. There was a real northern stench to the place.

He took careful steps forward, with no destination in mind. The air around him churned and whistled, as if he was walking much faster than he was. Breathing was difficult, and his throat stung. He coughed and was taken aback by the lack of sound.

The ground moved. He could not see anything below his waist through the steam. He fell to his knees and waved his hands to part the clouds. It worked. Fear clutched him. He was riding atop a train. For a brief moment, he saw the ground, the true ground, whizzing by in a blur of unfathomable speed. He dropped to his stomach and grabbed at the edges of the roof, hot to the touch from a sun he thought frail. His grip was weak. He slammed his eyes shut, and a wave of helplessness came over him. His life was in the hands of the train.

Red steam thinned. What had been a blur of passing yellow dryness was replaced by rich green grass, long and flowing. He was definitely in the North. A sour taste filled his mouth. The steam closed in around him again, taking his sight. It was hot and thick, and it dampened his skin, much like a fever.

A horn blew somewhere in the distance. A low, rumbling horn that lasted longer than most could hold their breath. A heavy wind followed, but the steam stopped moving. He felt a stronger resistance against his skin now traveling at high speeds through the warm cloud, like galloping in a drizzle.

The train exited the steam cloud like a fish jumping from a lake. Mak could see colour again and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. There were thorns on everything in the South. Bushes, trees, flowers, some animals, and even the natives. In the North, the large evergreens hoarded them all for themselves. The train thundered through a forest of needle-branched pines and firs and other leafy trees he’d never seen before. He could smell it. It was a sweet, tart smell. One he’d only ever encountered as a boy.

The forest was quickly left behind, and the rail led him along the edge of a sheer cliff. His bowels quaked at the dizzying field below, spinning like the world after too much whiskey. He squeezed the edges of the train for a better grip, but his dream-strength would not allow it. He could not even moan or complain due to the speed of the train.

He clenched his eyes. A soft, childish whine whistled deep in his chest, like a dog. Something felt wrong… different. He opened his eyes despite himself. The emptiness of the dark, dead field was gone. Thousands of men, women, and children, all naked, save for a lucky few who wore ragged loin cloths, knelt before a cloud of steam in the center of the field. They were sick with hunger, and most were sick with something else, too. Black nodules took root on their meatless backs, usually in shallow crags between prominent bones.

They bowed to the steam, their spines protruding further as they did. A low, ominous hum escaped from the confines of their closed lips. It was a song, or so Mak thought, as it was impossible to hear clearly over the chugging of the train. It may have simply been the moaning of a thousand hungry souls.

The same horn sounded and summoned another wind. It rushed down the cliff over the pitiful beings and dissolved the cloud of steam. A massive throne was revealed from within the red. Upon it sat a woman.

Blonde hair shone as it caught the light of a sun that seemed powerless to brighten anything or anyone else in the field. Even from so far, he knew she had blue eyes. She wore a long, grey robe of wool, spattered with the fluids of Milli’s unsuccessful birth. Jerri! She dropped her face into her palms and wept even as the sullied mass bowed to her in what could only be worship.

Mak wanted the train to stop. He needed to console his daughter, to help her escape from the sickly creatures before her. He raised his head and looked forward. Wind whipped and pulled at his hair and the skin of his face. He was approaching a tunnel. His heart started. The tunnel was just large enough for the train to slide through. He would be grinded and turned to paste.

Faced with such a hopeless situation, Mak decided he had a better chance diving from the train and rolling down the side of the cliff. He waited for the current curve to be past and threw his weight to the side during the long straight before the tunnel. Nothing happened. His hands were stuck to the train, as if the sun had melted the steel just enough to take hold of him forever. His feet too. He hadn’t noticed until then that his toes had been digging into soft metal that was soft no more.

Hooves thundered from beyond Mak’s tear-blurred vision. A man rode, seemingly from nowhere. He sat majestically atop an armoured horse. He wore thick iron plates that reflected the crown of red steam that surrounded the field, and a heavy helm with a visor that hid his face. The rider held an impossible lance, nearly four times the length of the horse effortlessly straight, its tip ready to plunge into any enemy foolish enough to ride against it. The sight was like a classic painting from across the sea come to life.

The horse reared as it came to a stop, and the man lifted his visor. Sherik! He was a man now. There was age in his face. He was too far to notice any wrinkles but something about the expression, even from such a distance, told Mak that this was a man of at least thirty.

Steam whistled from far behind Jerri’s throne. A wailing hiss that filled the air. The sickly souls bowing before Jerri stirred in fright at the sound. The whistle came again, and the crowd scattered, many bumped into each other, which caused nodules to burst and bleed. Sherik rode before them, trying to herd them like cattle, but hysteria prevailed, and the crowd ran off in every direction save for that of the whistle.

Jerri climbed to her knees and peaked over the back of her throne. She looked like a child again, frightened. Mak wanted to go to her and embrace her to quell her fears, but he could not move.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled at a faint touch. He turned to see Konni, Skylde, and Net standing hand in hand, only a few inches behind him, their balance unbothered by the speeding train. The two children used their free hands to beckon him. They had no expression, no colour in their flesh. Tears streamed down Mak’s face, and a deep longing took him.

The steam whistle cried again, tugging his attention back to the dark field. Another rider, clad in northern clothes and erect atop his saddle with a condescending smirk, emerged from the ring of steam. It was Guvson. He rode a somehow motionless horse that approached at great speeds. Mak’s breath caught in his throat when they rode closer. It was no horse. Guvson sat upon an iron likeness of a centaur. It must have rolled on wheels somewhere beneath the iron blanket that hung to the ground. Black steam exited the tip of a colony flagpole, like a storm cloud.

The last of the starving crowd was swallowed by walls of red steam. Guvson charged down the field with his steam-powered centaur. Like Sherik, Guvson appeared older than Mak remembered. It was the same man but wrinkled with greying hair.

Jerri collapsed into her throne. She pulled a small knife from her dress and clutched it tight to her chest. It was Parren’s ruby-hilted dagger—which was only a simple hunting knife outside the realm of dreams. The aged Guvson chugged toward her at an eerie, slow pace. Sherik urged his mount forward, charging to his sister’s rescue.

Guvson pulled a short chain which summoned another screech from the whistle, the loudest one yet. Black smoke, thick like liquid, poured from the whistle and rushed to the ground, covering the grass in puddles of darkness.

Sherik’s armoured horse reared at the sound, throwing him from the saddle. His armour clanked as he hit the ground. He dropped the lance and drew a sword. The horse fled at another screech of the whistle. The mount was pure white like northern winter, not Butterhoof.

The coal-powered centaur reached Jerri’s throne. She curled into a ball and held the knife with an extended arm. Her hand shook, and the grip was weak.

Sherik dashed for her. He bent and swept his arm, claiming a large stone from the ground. He threw it. The stone struck the mechanical centaur on the side of the head, denting it. A column of steam hissed from the wound.

Guvson turned his lifeless mount to face the threat, leaving Jerri untouched on her throne. He pulled one of the few levers on the creature’s back, and the centaur started at a frantic pace. Steam enveloped the vehicle and its rider as they thundered toward the unmounted Sherik. Droplets of blackened liquid trickled down Guvson’s face as the steam blew against him.

Sherik stood, his sword ready. A glint caught Mak’s eye. Guvson held a short gun behind his back. It had a matchlock system of firing and the sparks were nearing the powder.

“Sherik, run!” Mak tried to shout but his breath had not returned.

They met in the field. Sherik jumped at the oncoming foe valiantly, his sword behind him poised for a fatal blow. Guvson revealed the gun and the spark caught the powder, propelling a ball of lead from the barrel. It crashed through the iron breast plate and into Sherik’s heart.

Mak’s son fell to the ground. Dark blood puddled around him, and he squirmed like a worm cut in half. Guvson turned his mount and started for Jerri on her throne.

“Pa!” Sherik wailed for his father.

Mak was frozen in place. He could not go to his dying son nor his endangered daughter. He looked ahead, the tunnel approached at a terrible speed. Teeth grew from the brick rim, awaiting him, hungry.

“Pa!” Sherik shouted again.

He wanted to answer, but he could make no sound. He looked ahead one last time. His innards rushed to his throat as the tunnel came upon him. He closed his eyes and listened helplessly to his son’s desperate scream.

“Pa!”

* * *

“Pa! Wake up!”

The voice ripped Mak from slumber and he sat up abruptly. Konni sat up beside him, her chest heaving. Skylde and Net sat in their beds as well. Both held blankets to their chin. Jerri stood near the front door in her long grey sleeping gown. It was difficult to breathe.

Sherik stood by the window wearing only his white cotton night pants and wielded the hunting knife. Red light seeped in from the window, casting a crimson glow in the house. The red steam seemed to have followed him from sleep.

His youngest children wept. Mak gripped the side of his bed as if it were the roof of the train. The floor seemed to move beneath him.

Net coughed. The sharp, sudden sound pulled him from sleep like a strong arm pulling a drowning man to the surface. The floor stilled.

He blinked and rubbed sleep from his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Fire!” Sherik shouted.

“Mak, do something,” Konni’s voice trembled.

He studied his surroundings. Dark smoke blanketed the ceiling. An orange glow seeped in through the windows on every side of the house.

“The barn’s on fire, too.” Sherik had an arm over his nose to lessen the choking from the smoke.

“Get out!” Mak commanded. “Why are you all still in here? Get out!”

“We can’t,” Jerri said. “The door’s on fire. The handle’s too hot.” She massaged her right palm and winced at the touch.

Mak shot out of bed, garbed identically to his son. He rushed to the door with the safety of his children in mind. Jerri moved aside. He kicked the door, prompting a yelp from both daughters. The door cracked but did not budge. He kicked again. Nothing.

“I can open it from the outside,” Sherik suggested. “Let me climb out of the window and—”

Mak roared and kicked the door from its hinges. A blast of heat rushed in like the ghosts of Hellrim. He lifted his arms to ward it off until the initial rush faded. Fingers of flame reached in from outside, all around the door frame. They groped for flesh.

“Get out!” Mak shouted.

Jerri went first. She lowered her head, lifted her skirt and charged through the threshold into the night. Mak beckoned Skylde and Net, but they were afraid to leave their beds. Mak looked to Konni. “Get out, I’ll take care of them.”

She nodded and hurried outside, her strategy identical to Jerri’s save for a quick glance over her shoulder.

“You next, boy.” Mak inspected the ceiling. It was difficult to see through the smoke, but there was no obvious damage. Sherik hadn’t moved. Mak glared at him, still standing by his window. “Boy, now is not the time to disobey me!”

Sherik swallowed hard and made his way to the door. He stopped before exiting. “What about the kids?”

“You’re one of them.” Mak moved to Skylde’s bed. “I’ve got them. Go!”

The boy stepped forward but stopped directly beneath the burning door frame. He looked up and studied the fire.

Mak stared in disbelief. “Go!”

Sherik jumped from his daze and ran safely to his mother and sister’s side.

Mak coughed. He wrapped an arm around Skylde and hoisted her with ease. She let out a drawn-out, panicked moan. “I know, darlin’. There’s nothing to worry about.” Net was on his feet before Mak got to him. His hand extended, and he tried to wear a brave face. Mak took his son’s hand and brought them both to the flaming door.

“I don’t want to.” Net’s voice was barely a squeak.

“We’ve got no choice,” Mak kept his voice calm. “We’ll die in here.”

He set Skylde on her feet and stood with one child on either side of him, the same configuration they’d stood with Konni in the dream. It was an eerie thought, one he pushed away instantly. “Ready?”

Skylde shook her head and Net said “no.”

Mak crouched, bent both of them over his shoulders, and rose slightly. He kept his head low, ensuring the children were not touched by flames, and dashed forward. He pushed through a wall of heat and was immediately chilled by the peaceful air on the other side.

Konni rushed to them, and Jerri smiled in relief and sat on the grass. Sherik craned his neck to view the barn behind the house. His fingers curled into a fist and straightened continuously.

“I need you all to get the buckets in the tool shed.” Mak stood hands on hip as he caught his breath. The flames ate the doorway of the house and slowly worked their way along the western wall, helped by a soft breeze. He sped from the house and hoped his orders would be obeyed with haste.

He stopped at the small fire pit behind the house. The barn was ablaze, far worse than the house. Its doorway, most of the front wall, good portions of both side walls, and even the roof were alight with flames. Sparks must have wandered off and landed in the dry grass as small fires dotted the field.

The doors of Mak’s bird coop were wide open. His heart sank. He nearly fell to his knees. How many of their animals were dead? Worse, how many of them were still alive but suffering. He could not see the chicken coop behind the barn, but he assumed the worst.

His family arrived, each with a bucket in hand, Sherik with two. Mak took one. “Follow me. Hurry.”

He dashed for the river. It was maybe twenty paces of a run at its nearest point. The water was shallow, and the sandy banks were broader than usual. He bent over and scooped a bucketful before running back, careful to spill as little as possible. He stopped before the barn and hurled his mass of water at the inferno. It did nothing but summon a hiss from somewhere amongst the flames.

Konni, Sherik, and Jerri arrived soon after. They blindly launched their water at the flames just as he had, and even three buckets had the same effect as his one. Nothing but a hiss.

They stood still and stared at the fire, defeated.

“It’ll work if we keep doing it,” Mak said, but nobody moved.

Skylde and Net arrived. They struggled to move at all with their respective buckets, but they persevered for the farm. Mak took Net’s bucket, Sherik took Skylde’s. They launched in unison, and Mak was pleased to see that they’d both aimed for the same spot, at the top of the doorway. There was the usual hiss, but the flames did disappear for a fleeting moment.

Mak turned to his two youngest. “You two focus on the grass fires. Don’t let them spread and make sure you aren’t downwind of them.”

They nodded, reclaimed their buckets, and ran off to the river.

“Kon, Jerri, you put out the house fire,” Mak said. “Sherik and I can throw high enough to deal with the barn.”

They were off immediately. Mak studied the barn before joining them. The fire had spread during their efforts to quell it. The lack of cries from the animals concerned him. The large door was wide open, but smoke forbade any visibility inside. He grimaced and retrieved another bucketful from the river.

Sherik was about to throw a load at the barn. “Wait!” Mak shouted just before the water left the bucket. Sherik nearly fell over but avoided spillage. “We should throw together. Start at the bottom.” Mak pointed to the base of the doorway. “There.”

They threw. Wood hissed. The doorframe was soaked and charred, but the flames did not bother it any longer. Mak assessed the entirety of the barn and fought off hopelessness. “Keep it up. It’s working.” They ran back to the river.

Skylde and Net were highly successful in their mission. The grass fires were small to begin with, but they could’ve spread easily in the parched field. Mak clicked his tongue at the sight of the place. His land around the barn was riddled with patches of dark, wet grass, dotted with brilliant sparks like red stars.

“I’m going to tell Pa!” Net shouted from between two such patches.

“What’s going on?” Mak called on his way to refill his bucket.

Skylde stood tall and assertive beside her younger brother, ready to speak the moment he voiced his accusation. Mak had seen the dance far too many times and frankly, it wasn’t the time.

“She’s not pouring her water where I tell her to.” Net said.

Sherik chuckled and continued to the river, leaving Mak to deal with his children.

“It’s because I’m bigger and smarter.” Skylde raised the bucket over her head as if to prove her statement. “He should pour where I say.”

“The only person any of you have to listen to is me,” Mak said. “Now cooperate. Unless you want the whole farm to burn down. Is that what you want?”

They shook their heads silently. Net’s entire torso swayed as he did.

“Good.” Mak continued to the river. “Now get along and extinguish the rest of those sparks.”

“Yes, Pa,” they said in unison.

Mak and Sherik performed another synchronized water launch, again at the base of the barn, but a bit higher this time. Same effect. They continued back and forth for what must have been an hour. The others joined them at the barn once finished with their previous tasks. They launched water in unison, one trip to the river after another.

They threw again, high up at the peak of the roof. Only Mak, Sherik, and Jerri’s water reached. The last of the flames was put out. The sky was bluer than he’d thought. The brightness of the flames must have darkened everything around them. Sherik started for the barn.

“Stop.” Mak dropped his bucket and massaged his shoulder. “Too much smoke in there. We have to wait for it to clear up a bit.”

“Butterhoof needs to get out of there.” Sherik continued forward.

Mak raised his voice. “Boy, stop or I will stop you myself.”

Sherik halted and looked back with tear-filled eyes.

Mak softened. “No animal could have survived in thick smoke that long.”

Sherik’s eyes fell to the ground and shifted around. He rubbed a hand through his hair. It was the look of someone trying to make sense of something.

“We should get a bit more water on it.” Jerri brushed black dust from her grey sleeping gown. “Especially the grass fires. I see coals. One nasty breeze and our problem starts all over again.”

Mak nodded and reclaimed his bucket, and they started for the river. The rest of it was easy. They poured slowly and precisely on any visible coal and wetted the land around the barn and house.

“Someone did this.” Konni poured the rest of her bucket into a puddle of ashy mud before their front door.

“I know,” Mak said.

“You know why, too.”

Mak ignored the remark and joined his children who rested at the firepit. Konni followed.

“Split up and search for any damage we might have missed,” Mak said to the group. They obeyed. “Be careful. The fires are out, but who knows what else there could be.”

Mak started for his bird coop as the family dispersed to inspect the farm according to their own priorities. He stepped through the two-door system. Both had been ripped from their hinges and one of the frames was warped as if it had received a single blow from a great hammer. He fell to his knees once inside.

The swallows, blue jays, red jays, and canaries were gone, their nests empty. One of the Dames lay before him. Her head was twisted almost completely, and her neck seemed bent. The other Dame was at the far end of the coop in a similar condition. “Why?” Mak sobbed lightly. He did not want his family to see or hear him in such a state, so he held the tears back and stared down at the bird who had had so much personality.

He thought Plucker might have escaped, until he saw him dead on his rickety old chair. His long, broad neck in the same state as the Dames, but his seemed grimmer somehow. It was snapped in the middle, and his little head lay to the side, limp. His eyes were clenched in an expression that showed pain. Mak’s bones shook with rage, and his tears disregarded his efforts to hold them back. He wanted to scream. To roar like a beast and ravage whoever was responsible.

Jerri barged into the coop. Mak wiped his tears and sniffled. He moved quickly as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. Jerri regarded him with a warm look of concern that made it more difficult not to weep. He said nothing and waited for her to speak.

“The animals are gone.” Her voice trembled.

“Smoke?” The words barely made it through his throat.

She shook her head. Tears streamed down her face and the whites of her eyes turned pink. “I mean they’re gone. The barn is empty, and there’s blood in Milli’s stall.”

Mak’s eyes widened. The news brought him to his feet. He put a caring hand on Jerri’s shoulder, which prompted her to weep. She sobbed and sniffled as he led her out of the coop.

Sherik headed toward the back of the barn.

“Where are you going, boy?”

He halted at his father’s voice and stood still. His chest heaved.

“Boy?”

Sherik shot glistening eyes Mak’s way and wiped a tear. “Butterhoof is missing,” he said in a silent, vengeful voice. “They stole her, Pa.” He clenched two fists so hard his arms shook. “If they hurt her…”

“The animals are dead.” Jerri wept. “You saw the blood.”

“There’s no blood in Butterhoof’s stall,” Sherik said. “I know her. She wouldn’t let the fuckers touch her.”

“Watch your mouth, boy,” Mak’s voice rose. He couldn’t blame him, however. Mak wanted to use similar language.

Sherik shrugged and continued onward.

It was too much. The terrible things that had befallen animals he’d grown to love was enough to floor him. He felt sick to even think of the practicalities of the tragedy, but they already had a low harvest and barely enough grain saved up for the winter, and now this.

Konni wept loudly in the barn. It snapped Mak from his thoughts and reminded him of the need to be strong as the man of the house. He rushed to the barn, with Jerri in tow. Konni wept on her knees in Milli’s empty stall. Skylde and Net stood on either side of her, their eyes red with tears. Mak took deep breaths and forced himself to stand tall and strong.

Jerri put an arm on her mother’s shoulder then stepped back to embrace both children. Mak proceeded deeper into the barn. The smoke was thin enough to see through, but still thick enough to cause painful breaths. The usual smells of the barn were mixed with the thick, poisonous scent of smoke and the faint aroma of blood. The ground squished beneath his feet from the countless buckets of water. There was an eerie silence in the large building. He was used to constant sounds from the horses, cows, and the chickens from the coop just on the other side of the wall. He always told himself that the sounds were the animal’s way of saying “hello.” Now there was nothing but his weeping family and water dripping from the charred threshold.

Each stall was empty. Hay was strewn about each, but only Milli’s had blood.

Butterhoof’s stall at the end of the barn was empty like the others, but the door was closed and locked, unlike the rest. There was no blood, no clumps of hair, and even the piles of hay were stacked just where he’d left them. Maybe the boy’s right. He shook his head. It was useless to hope.

He returned to his family. Konni was the only one who wept. The rest circled her with wet faces and tried to calm her. He put a hand on Skylde and Net’s shoulders. “Go back in the house with your mother.” He met her glance with a bit of fire. “She’ll take care of you.” He did not want to seem so heartless, but the children needed them to be strong. The truth was, Mak wanted to lay and weep as Konni did, but there were things to do.

Konni nodded, and the children followed her to the house.

“I’ll check on the chickens,” Jerri said. “At least we’re all okay.”

Mak squeezed her shoulder with love and left the barn. He was half way to the tool shed when he noticed Sherik marching away toward the north beyond the crops. “Where are you going? There’s nothing they could have damaged in that direction.”

“I want to find Butterhoof, Pa,” Sherik called back. “She’s not dead, I know it. I don’t know where she is, but I can’t just leave her out there.”

Mak was going to protest, but he knew it was futile. “Don’t go too far. The bastards who did this might still be out there.”

He wasn’t sure if he saw the boy nod or not, but Sherik continued north.

Mak entered the tool shed and sighed. “Of course…”

The steam plough had been toppled over. It lay on its side, and each of the four wooden wheels were snapped and cut up into dozens of pieces. How did I sleep through this? The thought of the pulsating nodules on the withered citizens of his dream made a shiver run through him.

He exited the shed through the back door into the fenced-in crop field. “What was I expecting?” The hundreds of young winter root sprouts were either trampled or unearthed. He ran a tired hand through his thick, dirty-blonde hair and sighed again. The moonless sky faded slowly to blue as dawn approached. He took in a deep, cool breath. It might not be too late to replant. Hope came and went like lightning. Not with the steam plough all busted up. A cool breeze crept up on him. He had no shirt and rubbed his arms for warmth.

A light breath released beside him. He nearly jumped but quickly realized it was Jerri. Her face showed signs of prior weeping, but she stood strong. You’re too much like me in a lot of ways, Little Lady.

“Too late to replant?”

“I don’t think so,” Mak said, “but I’m sure you saw the—”

“Steam plough, yes.”

They stood together in silence for a long moment, overlooking the ruined field.

“The chickens?” Mak asked.

She shook her head and the silence resumed.

He looked up and smiled. A brightening sky was enough to lift anyone’s mood, no matter what their situation. Tiny, warm arms wrapped around him. “I’m sorry about your birds, Pa.” Jerri nearly wept again.

Mak’s eyes welled up with tears, and his bottom lip quivered. He cleared his throat and tried to push the thoughts away. He escaped her embrace and moved into the tool shed before she could see his tears. He wiped them away and started for the granary. Jerri followed.

Konni was already there, hand in hand with Skylde and Net. Mak and Jerri settled beside them.

He placed a reassuring hand on Skylde’s back. She smiled at him, her face blackened from smoke, with slender white snakes where tears had slid.

Mak peered into the open door. The sacks of grain seemed untouched. Their granary was not like Daun’s or the other farms in the area. Where most were built on stilts and kept off the ground, Mak’s was a converted house, his pa’s uncle’s. He’d been meaning to upgrade the structure, but never got around to doing it. There was always one job that took priority. To compensate for the building being built directly on the ground, Mak kept his grain on the layers of shelves that ran alone the insides of each wall.

“Was the door open before you got here?” He asked his wife.

“No.” Konni’s voice was hoarse. “I opened it.”

Skylde wandered away, back toward the house, her head down.

Mak smiled. “We should consider ourselves lucky that they didn’t touch our grain.”

“Oh yes,” Konni said. The words were drenched in sarcasm. “So grateful for our grain supply, that won’t even last the winter, remains unscathed.”

Mak shot her another fiery glance. It wasn’t the time for bickering.

“What do we do now?” Jerri no doubt sensed the tension between her parents.

“We rebuild,” Mak said. “Every problem can be solved. It will be difficult, but I, for one, thank God we still have each other. In the end, that’s what matters most.”

“Who did this?” Jerri asked.

Mak rolled his eyes. Not at his daughter’s question, but at the answer he knew she was about to get from Konni.

“Bad men,” Konni said. “Bad men whose deal we should have taken.”

Mak wasn’t in the mood. He’d yet to weep a satisfying amount for his birds and animals. “Blame me all you’d like. But start working while you do it.” He looked around the property and cursed under breath. Where’s Sherik? The boy was supposed to stay in view.

Konni shrieked. “Skylde, move!”

Mak spun to find Skylde frozen near the barn’s threshold.

The peaked overhang above the door shifted. Konni’s face turned deathly pale.

Mak dashed toward his youngest daughter.

A loud crack ripped through the still air. A sprinkle of ash snowed from the charred eaves of the barn. Skylde stood before the door. “Move, move, move!” Mak shouted as he ran but Skylde’s nerves anchored her.

Another crack. The overhang slumped, showering Mak’s daughter with coals and ashes. He’d never make it in time. Why couldn’t she just move?

The overhang fell, leaving a tail of blazing sparks in its wake. After the first two cracks, the actual separation only made a sound like ripping a handful of weed roots from the ground. It plummeted through the pre-dawn air, on a direct path to his daughter.

Mak fell to his knees and shouted one last desperate call. “Move, Skylde! Move, please!”

The overhang crashed and threw up a cloud of ashy dust obscuring the ghastly scene. A tiny leather shoe lay before the wreckage, overturned. Mak put his hands over his face and Konni wailed from behind.

He shot to his feet and caught his wife before she could run past him.

“Let go of me!” She screeched.

“I’ll go,” Mak said. “The barn’s unstable.”

The ash settled as Mak approached. Skylde ran toward him, coughing, her face and golden hair covered in black dust. Mak nearly recoiled at what might have been a ghost. Instead he fell to his knees again and caught her in a tight embrace. “You moved?” Tears fell, and he laughed.

She shook her head.

Mak pursed his lips.

Sherik stood before them, little shoe in hand.

“You saved her?”

Sherik nodded. His face was grim, pale, and slick with tears and sweat. Ash and dust were clumped on his skin and his hair was dishevelled from sleep and matted.

“You’re a hero, boy.” Mak hugged Skylde against his chest, maybe a little too hard. The rest of the family gathered, each touched or embraced Skylde to express their relief.

Sherik shrugged and started for the river.

“Where you going?” Mak stood, still holding Skylde. She rested her head on his aching shoulder.

“I need to wash.”

“You alright?”

He never looked back. “I couldn’t find Butterhoof.”