North Dark | Chapter 5 of 21

Two Crows draws his knife from its sheath by only a degree—an inch of blade—and steps toward them.

The crippling pain in Two Crows’ skull never lessens. He only becomes more accustomed to it. The hurt evolves into bleary numbness, a constant presence thudding from the top of his skull down to his stomach. He whips the dogs and they speed on toward the Ribs. The wind pushes tears from his eyes. Blood blows across his cheeks in flat red lines so that they look like outrageous whiskers and he himself looks like some kind of catfishheaded demon on a dogsled. The loose and thready ends of the wolfskin holding his face together snap in the wind.

He passes Maunder camps of domed leather turtleshell tents and cold, extinguished torches sunk in the ground. It is noon when he pulls into the wintry, ruined city of shattered towers. Smoke streams like a banner from some upper room of a skyscraper. Small candleflames burn in darkened window spaces all around him. He pulls his sled team to the side of the road and rummages through his bags. He is well armed now. Ready to hunt. He tears a page from the dictionary and removes a glove from his hand. He sticks his finger in his mouth and wets it with blood. He draws the word Rexroat onto the paper and drools some bloody spittle onto the back of it. He opens his cloak, slaps the page onto his chest and walks toward the coast, leaving the baying dogs strapped to the sled. He does not know if he will return to them or not. He thinks he will not.

Two ragged men stumble from an alley and flap their arms at him. They are drunk and leering. They have just done something suspicious in the alley. One shouts to him, “What’s on your face, man?”

Two Crows draws his knife from its sheath by only a degree—an inch of blade—and steps toward them. Both men run away.

He passes into the silent, blighted city. He walks down enormous, snowy streets walled with steel wreckage and little else. After time, he finds the boatyards on the coast and opens his cloak. People stare at him and read the hellish sign on his frame. Finally, a child, dumbstruck, points to a stout trawler at the end of the dock.  Two Crows walks away feeling the weight of the fascinated eyes of sailors on him the whole time. A thin man in a mask and goggles holding a crossbow upright in his hands before the docked boat. The ship’s crewmen are each wrapped in parkas, hoods up. They look small for sailors. He catches a glimpse of one of their faces within the hood. A woman! The ship is crewed by women. He has never seen such a thing before.

He touches the sign on his chest and shows it to the guard. The guard just shakes his head no. Two Crows urgently taps his chest once more but the guard gestures for him to shove off. Fine. Two Crows drops his crossbow onto the dock and reaches within his cloak and draws out handfuls of ammunition. The guard stares at the money as if he does not know what he is looking at. One of the women steps forward and looks at Two Crows. She ignores the jingling bullets. “He’s hurt. He can come aboard.”

The guard looks at the woman, then back at Two Crows, and waves him up. Two Crows takes up his crossbow and walks the gangplank, but is stopped once he is on the deck. The rocking motion of the boat travels through his legs to his belly. The guard pats him down for weapons. He takes away his crossbow, knives and fire iron, and stares at the ammunition. He is the least likely rich man he has ever seen. The woman steps forward and lightly places her hands on his temples, careful not to touch his jaw. “Your injury needs to be cleaned. You’re probably hungry, yes?”

Two Crows makes no attempt at a response. The woman looks to the guard and says, “Take him below please.”

This woman is the captain?

The guard walks Two Crows below deck to a steel cell. A cot and a sink stand in the room under white electric lights. Two Crows does not know what to do so he stands in the room while the guard watches him.

When the woman captain does come down, she no longer wears her parka but a dirty blue sweater and rubber gloves. She is beautiful. She has a golden face, graygreen eyes, and long sandcolored hair tied back in a ponytail. Her face is very serious. She does not glance at the guard nor does she ask him to leave the room. She understands that Two Crows cannot speak but she speaks to him anyway. “I’m a doctor. This is a medical ship, which is good news for you; however, our supplies are limited. So, we will do what we can for you, but you’ll not get much else. I’m telling you this so that you have realistic expectations of the quality of care you’ll receive. Turn your head.”

The doctor lightly unties his strange beard of bloody wolfskin and fur, drops it on the floor, and looks at his injured jaw. “Did a person do this?”

Two Crows does not answer and the doctor says, “I can give you something for the pain but the effect will not last long—the length of our trip to Rexroat. That is where you’re going? We can take you there. You look like you need to be off your feet anyway. My name is Doctor Bell.” She looks him in the eyes and says, “I think you will be able to speak again one day.”

A lie?

“I’ll return with fluids and pain medication. You can stay in this cabin. You’re not a prisoner, you are free to walk the boat, just do not interfere with the crew’s work. I’ll have someone bring you a blanket. Is there anything you want me to know? Do you want an inkpen and paper?”

Two Crows shakes his head. No.

Doctor Bell nods. “All right then.” And she leaves the room.