Chapter 18: So Below
Cradle, past witching hour.
De'afi got hirself skunk drunk, had to be put down for the night. Wasn't gonna let hir drive home, damn sure about that. Not happening, nope, no sirree. Sadie Crane wrangled hir off the bike, got hir back in and threw hir onto the loft to--hopefully, gods willing--sleep it off. But that meant they were sans one bike sans their only way of getting home. Like Viola was gonna drive that beast--get real. She was more of a tell truth to power Punk, not one of those drives a rad ass bike Punks. Loud snarly deathtraps.
Sadie Crane crawled under a half-nude blanket, tried to get some shut-eye. Viola excavated the blankets off a chest of drawers, said they better not catch death or Sadie Crane was gonna catch hands. They could tell she was wiped. Viola never threatened physical violence unless she was super tired.
Sadie Crane half-shut their eyes, wound their feet under the blanket. Cripes. No sleepies. Not even an errant wink. Do Punks dream of revolution? Nope, they dream of getting a full night's sleep for once in their goddamn lives.
Thought: Does it ever stop?
De'afi snored and drooled all over hir blanket, pulling Viola into hir tangling their legs and feet like webbing. Her head slotted into De'afi's front, breathed softly in out back in back out.
Thought: You'll never deserve their patience.
They scuttled down from loft, made quick across the floor. If they couldn't sleep, they might as well wander.
Black-shuttered box windows lined the right and left walls, above the floor where the lanterns were mounted. Not big enough to crawl out of. Unless you were a newborn baby. And Sadie Crane wasn't, much as they felt.
Thought: Cry me a river.
One of the black-shuttered windows had been left open. They watched for....something. No telling what.
Thought: You're made of him. Always always him. That's all you are. And whatever else tags along. They only want you because they hear him in you. He's the only part of you alive.
"You see that?" they asked nobody.
A blob of Shape passed the window, flowed through pitch black outside. Twisted like something not alive. Or shouldn't be alive anyhow. Like an oil spill or a splatter of thin ink rivering down magazine paper. Stars above. There and gone so fast Sadie Crane nearly got whiplash trying to follow.
They ran at the barn door. They were alone in this, always had been always will be. Just Sadie Crane and their head. For goddamn dumb fuck eternity.
Cripes on crackers. Maybe don't go chasing after the spooky? Almost died last time they chased after the spooky.
Sadie Crane put on their denim jacket, went to chase the spooky. That jacket was gonna protect them, sure as anything. Just you watch.
Thought: Found dead. Outside a barn in Whalefall. The Cradle. Twenty-five years old.
Sadie Crane clambered outside bare-footed.
Blast. Didn't see anything.
Thought: Something bad's
Skinny of blood dribbled out Sadie Crane's left nostril. Wiped it off with the back of their fist, sightline on the grass. Road that led into town, little ways past where they could see. And the pond, nearest to their right. The heaps of abandoned furniture.
Their eyes flung at blackened sky, pinch shards of cold peppering their spine and sternum. Bass throbbed behind their eyeballs, seared their corneas like signal flare. Dread roosted in their ribcage like a gaggle of freaky birds. Near distance, they heard a jackalope shrieking. The bird-things in their ribcage got more agitated.
Thought: Remember that card game you liked? Hook? Remember how bad you were at it? Remember how much you hated losing? Rotten luck but you still tried?
They stumped down the grass. And they wondered. Wait. Why was this happening to them? They did all this, they did the mourning and the grief! They did the wake, held the urn, even said prayers. So why was this happening to them? They were supposed to have gotten over this. Everyone else did! Maybe O'anna didn't, but that was mostly because she destructed hard enough to wreck her life. Even Sybil's guardians were past it, their kid literally died and they moved past enough to leave and start new. So why was Sadie Crane beating themself into bloody bruised meat?
The path finished at pond's edge. The surface rippled like whitish-blue fabric shifting, like ruffled silk you could get wasted off. Liquid finery.
Thought: You didn't save him. You could have. You know it. In your head, all the ways. You know you could've saved him.
"He was dead," the anarchist said. "You hear me? He was plenty dead--"
The Thing with Antlers was, had already been, would forever be other side of the pond. Between a pair of ruined armchairs. Right there across the Cradle. Seven feet, give or take. Its whole body dressed down in coal-dark shadow, neck to feet. Antlers. Deer skull head. That why it was called Cradle? Because they died here? Cradle to Grave?
Sadie Crane and The Thing with Antlers faced each other, opposite ends of the pond. For every body, water. For every water, body.
Thought: IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU. IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU. IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU. YOU KNOW. YOU KNOW. YOU KNOW. IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU. IT'S WHAT THEY ALL THINK. IT'S WHAT THEY ALL SAID.
They jerked their head back like they got shot in the nose, bones in their neck pulled.
"No," they said.
Knew they were fooling themself, had been for six goddamn years. Of course they should have died that night, plain as anything. Sybil alive was worth so much more than their dumb measly life. Viola might have hated Sybil, but if she got that choice? If anyone got that choice? No contest. It was always gonna be Sadie Crane.
THOUGHT: BUT THE WIND CAME FOR YOU. IT CAME FOR YOU AND YOU LET IT TAKE HIM. IT CAME FOR YOU AND YOU LET IT TAKE HIM.
Their head throbbed, eyeballs squeezing against their sockets. They couldn't breathe. Their skin was gonna explode splatters off their body, flake into the windsweep like soggy paper.
THOUGHT: I AM THE SPIRIT OF THE WOODS. I AM THE END. I AM THE LAST SONG. I AM WHAT WAS MISSING.
A hand, skeletal and not there even a little bit, pressed into their shoulder. And held. And tugged.
THOUGHT: YOU HAVE SOMETHING THAT IS MINE ALL MINE MADE FOR ME.
Blood hailed down their front, pressure in their head built and built and built and built. Like an enormous palm clenched their frontal lobe.
Thought: Going
"When's there ever been time?" the anarchist gritted. "Time for me? There sure ain't time for me now. This is bull. This is bull and you know it's bull."
Thought: Going
"I don't have what you want!" they yelled and knew that wasn't true, it was never true, nothing about Sybil Basalt-Eislane was ever true.
Something in their head popped. Softly. It wasn't much actually, this slow building pressure in their head and then a give. A wet muffled plop in their parietal.
Thought: Gone
Sadie Crane wasn't sure they said anything coherent, babbled on somebody's neck a good long while. Lashed into big strong arms and dragged to the staying house in Whalefall. Whole thing was mostly rug-swept in their brain.
They had a pretty bad fever. Sat themself up in bed to hold their wetted cheeks, damp cloth piled on their forehead.
"Antlers," they choked. "He--It--"
The aviator flattened them into the mattress.
"Sleep, my love," ze said. "You gotta sleep."
They fell back sleeping onto the bed. Whatever they'd been about to say, it could wait until they weren't so body and head sick.
Thought: Rest.
End of Chapter 18