Nightfall Page 2

  Line grabbed at a clump of dead wheat stalks and started shredding them. He glanced at Marin. “With the tide turning, I have a lot to do. I haven’t really packed up the house yet.”

  Marin’s eyes widened. Her family had been doing this for weeks. Line’s house was much smaller, but still. “I’ll help,” she said quickly.

  It was Line’s turn to look surprised. “Really? What if your parents find out?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she retorted. “I’ll help a bit—that’s all.” Marin was suddenly embarrassed, and she wondered if Line could tell. Luckily, they’d crested a hill and were heading down the other side, into shadow. Of course, Line was right. It would be risky going to his house. Marin’s mother, Tarae, didn’t like the idea of her spending time alone with a boy—especially Line, who lived without parents.

  They continued along the footpath, crested a small bluff, and took in the view, surveying their town’s collection of evergreen gardens, neatly manicured walls, timber-framed houses, and slate rooftops. It was a bucolic place. Theirs was a town of five hundred people, but from this vantage point it looked small. And compared to the massive forest that covered the island’s interior, it was small—just over a hundred buildings, nestled together.

  Delicate trilling noises suddenly filled the air. Moments later, a mule appeared pulling a cart. It was decorated with dozens of silver bells, which jingled rhythmically as the cart rolled down the dirt road that led toward Bliss.

  In the driver’s seat was a figure clad in a black robe; he was the town’s vicar, a stony-faced man whose eyes stared purposefully ahead. In the backseat sat a fragile-looking elderly woman who held an infant in her arms. The woman was the matriarch of a band of widows who scaled fish to earn their keep, and she claimed to be 107 years old. No one had the temerity to dispute this. She looked so frail, it was surprising that she was able to sit up straight and hold the baby.

  Marin and Line came to an abrupt halt. This custom—the so-called Pageant of Life and Death—occurred as soon as the tide turned; because this was their first Sunset, it was also the first time they’d witnessed the ritual. They stood in place, watching the cart pass, until the sound of its bells grew faint. The noise, however, was soon replaced by a number of distant, high-pitched screams. The sounds were not human, but they were bloodcurdling all the same.

  “What is that?” asked Marin. She put her hands to her ears. “It makes my skin crawl.”

  “They’ve started slaughtering pigs for the journey,” said Line. “Things are moving faster than I thought. We’d better hurry.”

  CHAPTER 3

  They took a winding goat path that led through the abandoned fields surrounding Bliss. With the sun so low and the weather turning cold, their previously fertile farmlands had gone barren. Only a few fields still produced food, but it was nutritionally poor fall wheat and stunted potatoes. In recent weeks, even these were hard to find—the fields suddenly teemed with bugs, mites, and strange biting worms. And so the people of Bliss lived mainly off their supplies while waiting for the ships that would take them south.

  Line’s home was a small farmhouse at the edge of Bliss, notable for its round stained glass windows. Just beyond his farmhouse, the houses were built closer together, and the cobblestone roads of the town appeared.

  As they neared Line’s home, they could see that foot traffic in town had picked up dramatically, and the usually quiet streets were filled with people chattering and pushing past one another. Bells began tinkling, and people stopped what they were doing to stare at the main street, which cut Bliss neatly in two. The Pageant of Life and Death had arrived in town. Parents drew their children close, while others muttered devotions and averted their eyes.

  Line slowed down and frowned. “Why is Kana in that tree?”

  At the mention of her brother’s name, Marin looked around eagerly. “Where?”

  Line pointed to a bare apple tree that stood near his house, overlooking Bliss’s main street. Like most apple trees, this one had stopped bearing fruit almost a year ago. Now a slender, fine-boned boy watched the pageant from its topmost fork.

  “Kana!” Marin yelled.

  The boy flinched but did not acknowledge her, not even with the slightest turn of his head.

  “Kana!”

  Again he ignored her.

  Kana was Marin’s twin. He was about Marin’s size, but where Marin was dark-skinned, with black wavy hair, Kana’s hair and skin were pale—“snow-kissed,” as they called it. The only physical feature they shared was their long pitch-black eyelashes. They made Marin’s eyes unusually expressive; for Kana they served as a spotlight, drawing attention to his pale blue eyes.

  Until recently, though, his eyes hadn’t seemed to work. Kana had been born blind. Or at least that’s what the family had believed. At around ten years old, as the sun started dipping lower in the sky, Kana began perceiving shapes and shadows. When he squinted he could see better, so the town’s glass blower made him a bizarre pair of spectacles, which were essentially wire frames with eye patches on them. Each patch had a tiny hole in the center, allowing in only a pinprick of light. Within the last year, however, as it grew darker, Kana no longer needed the spectacles at all.

  “Kana!” shouted Marin again, betraying more than a touch of irritation. Nearby townspeople turned toward her voice. Kana looked at her, revealing the other side of his face, which was marked by a jagged scar that began at the top of his right cheekbone and continued down to his jaw. Kana eyed Line and his sister coldly for a moment, then turned away.

  Line put a hand on Marin’s arm. “Don’t force it,” he said. “He’ll come around.”

  Marin just furrowed her brow.

  “Come on,” said Line.

  A short while later, they found Francis waiting at the farmhouse where he and Line lived. He was wearing green overalls, a buckskin vest, and a gray flannel hunting cap. This was his favorite outfit, and Line let him wear it every day—until the smell became too ripe. As soon as he saw Line, Francis jumped to his feet and raced toward them. Line ruffled Francis’s thick brown hair, which probably should have been cut months ago.

  “Were you waiting long?” asked Line.

  Francis shrugged. “Some okrana came for you a few minutes ago.”

  “Now what?” said Line. The okrana were the town’s volunteer police. They patrolled the coastline, looking out for the raiders and thieves who occasionally preyed on towns. Most were farmers with a desire for something more exciting, but Bliss—up to now—had provided little opportunity for action. Lately, they had been checking in on Line often—urging him to pack up and get his house in order. This drove Line crazy. Marin wasn’t so sure he didn’t need the reminders, but she never admitted as much.

  “They gave me something,” said Francis. He dug into his pants and extracted a crumpled envelope. “They said it’s for the master of the house. What does that mean? Are you the master?”

  Line ignored his brother and eyed the envelope. “I guess the letters are here,” he said to Marin. “I wanted to get to the bakery before this. We need bread.”

  “Don’t worry—there’s plenty at our house,” said Marin. “My mother’s been hoarding it. Let’s open the envelope. May I?”

  “Might as well,” said Line.

  Francis began fidgeting, unable to contain his excitement. “I’ll do it!” he exclaimed. He tore awkwardly at the seal, ripping the paper in several places. Impatient now, Francis thrust it at Line, who promptly gave it to Marin.

  She felt the envelope’s weight in her palm. It was heavier than she expected. Carefully, she pulled out two sheets of thin paper. The first page contained a detailed floor plan of the house. The second was filled with notes describing where each carpet, piece of furniture, and picture was to be stored.

  “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to a diagram of a wall in the front room. It was marked
with an arrow and the words RAT, SNOUT, AND TEETH.

  Line peered at the pages. Marin looked inside the envelope again, and saw a skeleton key encrusted with verdigris.

  Francis’s eyes grew wide. He snatched the key but fumbled it, and it fell to the ground with a metallic clang. In an instant, he’d crouched down and picked it up.

  “Can I keep it?” he said, face beaming with excitement.

  Line took the key from Francis and turned it over several times. “Later,” he said as he pocketed it. “I don’t want to lose this before I know what it opens.”

  Francis frowned and gave his brother a shove. “I’m old enough! I won’t lose it.”

  Line glanced at Marin and smiled. At least several times a day, and in a variety of situations, Francis claimed to be old enough. It was his favorite thing to say.

  Line grabbed Francis and lifted him up. “Let’s get inside,” said Line. “I’m starving.”

  He opened the door, walked inside, and unloaded Francis, who rushed away. Marin paused on the doorstep to look behind her. The Pageant of Life and Death was still occupying everyone’s attention, and Kana was no longer in the tree.

  Line reappeared at the doorway. He held the door open for her and smiled. “Coming inside?”

  Marin nodded and quickly followed him, shutting the door behind her.

  CHAPTER 4

  The first floor of Line’s house was a large open space with whitewashed walls, which appeared a murky green in the glow of the many stained glass windows. The walls were bare except for a number of crudely fashioned pegs where the family hung its cloaks and hats. Line lit a few candles so they could all see properly. During the brighter years of Late Morning and Noon, the stained glass helped mute the ever-present glare of the sun. Nowadays, it was so gloomy that Francis refused to enter the place alone, which is why he’d been waiting outside.

  Even in the dim light, however, there was no mistaking how little packing Line had done. Farm tools—spades, hoes, and buckets—were still caked with dirt. The corners were thick with cobwebs made by strangely industrious spiders that emerged in the recent months of Twilight. Dirty plates and dishes, crusted and flaking from previous meals, lay on the kitchen table and counters. Bearing mute witness to the dirt and grime was an army of toy soldiers, perched on every ledge and in every crevice.

  Line waved a hand at the mess. “I may have mentioned that I haven’t packed up the house yet.”

  “You may have mentioned that,” Marin said dryly. It was strange to be in Line’s house without an adult present. And yet this was how Line lived—on his own—with no one to answer to. She imagined, for a moment, what it would be like to live here, too, with Line, spending her time with her own rules, rather than those of her parents.

  Line led Francis into a small alcove at the back of the house, which served as the kitchen. He pushed a small wooden panel in the wall, triggering a copper pipe to splash cold water into a cast-iron pot that sat in the jade washing basin. Marin stood nearby, fidgeting with a toy soldier that she’d picked up.

  Just then, Francis screamed.

  A monstrous apparition was staring at them through the front window. Its face was long and blackened, except for its eye sockets—a pair of cavernous, bloodred tunnels through which two green serpents protruded. The face quickly disappeared, and then there was a knock on the door. Francis cowered behind Line.

  “It’s okay,” said Line, lifting his brother into his arms. “I was expecting something like this—they’re a little early, though.”

  He swung the front door open. A nine- or ten-year-old child stood in the doorway, wearing the gruesome mask they’d seen in the window. Marin considered ducking out the back door, but it was too late; the child had already seen her. Will he tell anyone? It probably didn’t matter. People had bigger things to worry about these days than who was unchaperoned.

  “Take off your mask,” ordered Line. “You’re scaring my brother.”

  “We’re not allowed to,” said the boy. He turned his head, as if looking for confirmation, and a second figure emerged in the doorway. This was a grown man, wearing a yellow mask emblazoned with flame-shaped metalwork.

  “Who are they?” whispered Francis, his face half buried in Line’s neck.

  “I am the Specter of Night,” the boy with the serpent eyes intoned. His deep voice was clearly forced. “And he is the Specter of Day.”

  The man in the golden mask nodded.

  “The tide has turned,” continued the boy with the serpent eyes. He spoke solemnly and deliberately, enunciating every word, as if reciting the lines from a poem. “The cycle of the stars has begun. The sun is gone. Darkness shrouds the island. We are to leave.”

  Line took a step forward. “We have the envelope,” he said. “And we’re in the middle of preparing the house.” He paused. “Are you done here? Like I said, my brother is scared.”

  “He should be scared,” the boy said. “I am the Specter of Night and there are other spirits, much more gruesome than I, waiting in the woods. My face was made in their likeness.”

  “Is that true?” asked Francis, looking up at his brother.

  “He’s repeating the lines from an old poem,” said Line. “It’s just a silly game.”

  “You should show more respect,” interjected the man with the golden mask. He pointed an accusing finger at Line. “These customs are sacred. Prepare your house before the furriers arrive.” He looked around. “You have work to do here, boy.”

  Line’s jaw tightened. He set his brother on the ground and stalked toward the door. Marin, sensing a possible confrontation, stepped in front of Line and addressed the man with the golden mask.

  “Specter of Night,” she said, inclining her head respectfully. “You have something for this house, do you not?”

  The man nodded, appeased. The boy with the serpent eyes reached into his coat, pulled out a small paper bag, and gave it to Marin. “Cover your scent.”

  Francis pushed his way toward Marin. “What is it?”

  “Lime,” replied the boy with the serpent eyes, using his regular pitch now. “It’s what they put on dead bodies. You need to sprinkle it around the house before you leave.”

  Marin bowed. “I’m sure there are other houses awaiting your arrival.”

  “Blessed be the Day,” said the man with the golden mask.

  “Save us from the Night,” said the boy with the serpent eyes.

  And then, much to everyone’s relief, they departed.

  No one spoke at first. Francis kept his large brown eyes fixed on his brother.

  “Was that the silversmith?” asked Marin, finally breaking the silence.

  “It sounded like him. He’s a friend of my uncle’s,” Line said with a roll of his eyes.

  Line sent Francis to play with his soldiers, then returned to the kitchen. Eager for something to do, Marin began to clean, starting with wiping down the windows. As she rubbed a cloth across the dusty panes of glass, she thought again of the hag in the ocean. The houses must be without stain.

  Line cooked up a generous amount of dandelion greens, sprinkling in salt, pepper, and dried cod. When the food was ready, he served three large plates and they sat at a rickety wooden table. They were hungry, and ate in silence.

  Francis finished first. He dashed to a worn-down armchair and picked up an oversize leather-bound book embossed with flowing gold script across its cover: Tales of the Desert Lands. It told the story of a little girl named Shiloh who was born along the equator, where the sun rose and set in a shorter cycle: seventy-two hours of Day followed by seventy-two hours of Night. Children from all of the northern islands were given this book, in order to prepare them for life in the desert. Once there, the islanders would spend fourteen years in a small city of sandstone buildings, situated on a crescent-shaped beach hemmed in by the Desert Lands on one side and the ocean
on the other.

  Marin stood up from the table and walked over to the chair where Francis was sitting. She eyed his book and recalled how Shiloh rode a two-humped horse across the dunes, befriended the desert nomads, and found wadis where treasures were buried. Most memorable of all was the story of Shiloh’s time at the Cloister—a forbidding stone tower rising from the sand—where she spent a year isolated with other girls her age. It was a rite of passage for natives of the Desert Lands and their daughters. During this time, the “women-to-become” meditated together and used scalpels and ink to etch markings across their bodies and faces.

  Francis looked up at Marin. “What’s it really like in the Desert Lands?” he asked. “Your mother lived there, didn’t she?”

  Marin nodded. “She did.”

  “And that’s why she has those marks on her wrists?”

  Marin nodded again. “The markings aren’t only on her wrists,” she explained. “They go all the way up her back, too.”

  “Can I touch them one day?”

  “Francis—it’s late,” said Line, eager to change the subject. “You need to get to bed.”

  Francis shook his head. “I don’t want to go by myself. And I’m not tired.”

  “Go with him,” Marin told Line. She felt a sudden pang of sadness for Francis, this little boy with no parents to tuck him in. “I’ll clean up, and we can move the furniture when you come down. And don’t forget, we also have to deal with the key.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Line walked Francis up the narrow, creaking stairs that led to the second floor, holding his hand so he wouldn’t trip in the dark stairwell. At the top of the stairs was a small landing and three doorways. One doorway led into Line’s room, another into Francis’s room, and a third into the room his parents had shared.