Arrows of Time - Kim Falconer [25]
‘Frequency?’ Shane said, looking at the small falcon and rubbing his thumb over the face of the sun.
‘Your mind speech.’
Shane shrugged before slipping the charm into his breast pocket. ‘I don’t have a mind speech.’
‘Then the pendant will help, as long as she doesn’t think you took it from me by force.’
Shane spun around to Selene, about to speak.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, avoiding eye contact with either of them. She adjusted her belt and headed out into the swamp, not looking to see if Jarrod followed.
Shane stared after them as they waded into the fog. It hovered knee-deep above the swamp, rising in wisps that dissipated before touching the misshapen branches and clouds of gnats and flies. If he could bore holes into them with his eyes, he would. He didn’t look away until they’d disappeared.
Perfect. Now I’m to be doorman to some foreigner who’s most likely going to attack before I speak my name. And what did he mean, ‘larger’ tabby? He brushed the flies away from his face—a futile exercise. This day was not going as planned. Nothing close.
Early that morning, he’d volunteered to walk the borders with Selene. He regularly jumped at any chance for her company, love having that insatiable urge towards proximity that cannot otherwise be explained. It certainly wasn’t a pleasant experience, being with the woman. She was sharp, like fine-cut glass, and she used her wit as a barrier against his desires, his suggestions, his lust. There was no way in. Not for him. Every day he awoke hoping she might open up, and every night he fell asleep disappointed, miserable. He hated it and loved it in equal measure—a demon forever swallowing its tail.
Today Selene had proved aloof, as always, her proficient, detached manner impossible to penetrate with any kind of warmth or meaningful exchange. The more she deflected his efforts, the more sullen he’d become, until he’d finally given up his overtures reduced to glares and grumbles. Inevitably he found himself wishing he was far from the stinking border marshes, far from his ice-cold Selene, in a warm pub, drinking beer and playing tunes with other bards. Now that she was gone, it seemed he had been granted half his wish. He was far from her, but it didn’t help. Nothing did.
He turned his back to the cave and slid down the granite face until he sat on the ground, his head resting against the wall. There was no warmth in the rock, and no comfort in the view. A flock of crows circled above. They alighted in several of the trees, their squawks and caws filling the foul air with earsplitting noise.
He rummaged in his pack and brought out his flute. The creases in his forehead softened as he began to play, the music wafting sweet and brisk over the bog, drowning out the incessant hum of insects and competing with the crows. As he played, the pinch in his heart began to lessen and his spirits lightened, just a little.
He played for hours, though his lips went dry and his fingers ached. He played until all thought and turmoil vanished from his mind and he became the notes that rose from the flute, drifting over the land and into the distant haze. As he finished a lengthy tune, drawing breath to begin another, he paused. The crows took off, a mass exodus. Everything went still. Even the insects had stopped buzzing. An eerie silence rang in his ears. He started a new tune when suddenly the mountain answered back with a deep bass rumble of its own.
‘Demon’s brother,’ he whispered. ‘Not a shaker.’ He pulled the flute away from his lips and jumped up, bracing against the cliff face. He thrust his instrument into his backpack, his knees flexing with each rising tremor. The ground rocked. He shouldered his pack, tightened the straps and raised a fist to the mountain. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’
There was no direct answer, but the ground rolled in waves underfoot. He ran into the marsh, coursing for the highest ground he could find. At the base