“Like the coat of a deer,” the grandmother said. “Very pretty.”
“Where are we?” the young man asked. “What’s that city?”
“Shut up,” the shouting man said, kicking dirt at the line of people. “You.” He thrust a scab-covered finger at the pixie-like woman. “Stay in line.”
“It’s really beautiful,” the young man said. He moved toward the city, walking as if entranced. The shouting man struck him across the face and pushed him back.
“You’ll go when I tell you.”
The young man shook his head, and the wind sniffed at the shouting one. Rotting teeth. Decaying flesh. Dirt under his fingernails. Dried blood on his hands.
The pixie-like woman frowned at the tall stone walls. They thrust from the ground like black monoliths placed by giants. Firelight flickered around the city, and smoke curled at its edges.
The woman took a hobbling step forward.
“Where are you going, dear?” the grandmother asked the pixie-like one.
“Hey!” The shouting man swung around, his fist raised.
The pixie-like woman stared at the man. The wind moaned at the black abyss filling her gaze. It quivered at the rattling of branches in a cold November wind.
“Yes?”
The shouting man lowered his fist. He shivered and then glared at the woman. “You stay in line. It’s the rules. All new ones line up. Then you go and meet the Maker.”
“The Maker?”
The wind perked up. Who was the Maker?
The shouting man sneered, and the stench of his rotting teeth swirled on his laugh. The wind knew this type of being. He loved having power over others. He was the petty, tyrant type. These beings flocked to places where a thousand petty rules could be used as canes to beat and belittle others. They didn’t need a lot of power—they only needed a lot of rules. A little power was enough for any little tyrant. The wind had seen enough of them through the centuries to know their special sneer.
“He’ll make you, or he’ll break you. It’s him what chooses. You get heaven, or you get hell. The Maker is he what made this place.” The shouting man thrust his thumb at himself. “I’m the one what takes you to him.”
He said the final “him” with an anticipatory, awe-filled voice.
The pixie-like woman’s expression turned thoughtful. Then she smiled at the shouting man. “All right, I’ll meet your Maker.”
The shouting man snorted. “You act like you have a choice. It’s the rules. Everyone meets the Maker.”
The wind pushed a sharp gust of air, blowing the man’s stench across the plain.
“I love it here,” the grandmother said, her rheumy eyes happily vacant. She patted the young man’s arm. “Don’t you?”
He nodded, and then the shouting man shoved the long line of beings forward.
The pixie-like one hobbled after them. The wind sent a questioning breeze—was she okay?—but instead of answering, the woman only smiled.
73
The wind crept along the gravel field, turning stones and kicking dirt. The pixie-like woman hobbled after the line of beings, smiling thoughtfully at the miasma of black clouds and the flickering firelight that chased the dark away.
The line of beings chattered about the beauty of the place, and the wind huffed, stirring the soupy star-jasmine scent. There was nothing beautiful about this place. It was a pit of despair. The wind could feel the agony oozing from the pores of every grain of sand, every misshapen rock, and every living thing. It hid from the plants covered in a black fungus that twisted their leaves. It shied from the many-eyed creatures watching hungrily from the forest. It skittered away from the strange howls and frenetic laughter of the beings who called this den home.
Before the pixie-like one existed, when there was only a tree, the wind had ridden over her shaking branches. It had swirled in her moans. It had swung on the creaking sorrow and circled her mournful heart. But after the pixie-like one was born from the executioner tree’s heart, the wind had always avoided her. The despair that coated her voice was too shivery of a thing. The wind liked shivery things—of course—but only in small doses.
For the first time since the pixie-like one had stepped from her lightning-struck tree, the wind curled around her. It wrapped itself around her ankle, supporting the swelling joint. As she walked through the city’s wide streets, the pixie-like woman’s steps became steadier. The wind peeked from beneath the black curtain of her skirt.
The city revealed itself in flashes. The wind caught half-images of humans drunk, dead, or delighting. At least, it thought the frenzied laughter was delight. It swished the pixie-like woman’s skirt, peering at the strange sights.
