Tome I

The Lost Children

Ye. I did meet him once,

And though I saw a thing made of flesh

I knew that he was but a ghost. 

Ye. I did meet him once,

And though I cannot say I met a good man

 I say this, 

He was a man 

His was a sad story

But then again, so is ours.

• A disciple of the New West 

Age V, Time of United Blood 

Prologue:  

 The Grey Mother sat broken in the night sky. Bill could see her shattered visage through the dead branches that stretched overhead. The trees were bare, leaves dried and fallen. The only sounds that came from this dead place were the insects chirping in the night and the sound of tree limbs dancing together with every breeze. And of course the campfire that was crackling to an end. He saw the two kids across that same fire. They were playing a game of sorts, one he did not know. Their faces were mostly shadows but they were nervous, he could taste it on them, radiating out from then was an unsettled aura. The boy kept redirecting his sister’s eyes back to his own, hushing her, comforting her, telling her it would be alright.

This campsite was little more than rocks and bedrolls. With enough light from the stars and the dwindling fire that you could see the edges of the forest on the outskirts. The tight clearing they were in was encircled by these creaking trees. Shifting trees. Their charred arms looked like bones when they caught the little light. It was unsettling. They reached out to you from the corner of your eye, encroaching with every glance. This was a hungry place, where monsters roam. There was a beast in those woods, Bill knew it. He knew it was watching them, waiting. 

 The two other idiots standing before him, did not.

 One was tall, thin, with a pouty pointed face that made him look perpetually sad. Maybe he was, Bill didn’t know his life. He wore mostly rags and the wrappings on his arms and legs didn’t match. Brown here, a stained wrapping that was once white, a bit of orange, all pieced together from whatever he could steal. His feet were bare. The six toes on each one had long nails that were black from dirt and grime. He uneasily dug into the dirt with his toes, shifting in his stance, never quite standing still.

The other was stout. This one had goatskin boots, with several holes in them. His shirt and pants were plain brown wool marked with stains. He had taken off his wrappings unlike his friend. He removed them from his head and arms as soon as the sun first fell, no need for them. Now in the night one could see his white limbs were stained muddy red from whatever dirt he bathed in, by the smell it had been days ago. This one had a fat round face with a gnarly scar across his forehead that wasn’t sewn shut right. He licked the air impulsively with his long pointed tongue. 

Maybe he needs salt. Bill thought to himself. 

Those low on Salt get a dry mouth. Before it drives them mad. 

The tall, dirty one with the sad face was called Fourfingers. Not because he had Fourfingers but because he was missing them. The judgment for theft. Three on his left and one on his right had been removed. It made holding the bustergat more difficult for him. He had to constantly readjust his grip when he was pressing the gun to Bill’s head with his more maimed hand. 

He should just switch hands, idiot. 

The thing is going to buck right out of his grip if he pulls the trigger.  

Bill would know, it was his gun and it kicked real heavy.

Fourfingers was unfamiliar with a gat, any gat, that was obvious. Bill could tell the stout one was the killer of the two. His eyes were cold. They darted around like an animal trapped in a snare. He was looking to claw his way out of this mess. He was stupid enough to do anything too, stupid or frightened… Bill sized him up and concluded that it was a mixture of both. The Marked were like that often, sometimes it made his job less enjoyable, but only sometimes. He would hunt them all the same, for the Grey mother made him her soldier when he was young. An oath he couldn’t take back now. Although he would be scolded for getting caught by the ones he was supposed to catch.

Best talk my way out of this one. Quin will be fuming.

Even with this bustergat to his head his worries were far away. He ran with the best, they could handle any bounty together, even when they were handed a short hand. He himself had an easy way with words and an easier way through life. To be short, luck followed him, it pissed off his sister so. Bill recalled the Westfolk Village and the fight there, where gunpowder laid so thick across the town it was like a fog. All that gunning and Bill was the only one who hadn’t got wounded… and that’s if guns are drawn and fired. 

There was the one time he led a gang of thieves back to the town they thieved from. Bill watched them accept their punishment with smiles and laughs, they shot knowing looks to one another that they thought he didn’t comprehend. He just kept on promising them they were going to be rewarded for the “found items” they happened upon. Instead they were removed of hands. 

Pim would call him Snaketongue. A compliment, of course. He was able to persuade the best and the worst out of people.

He stared down the fat one who was scanning the woods, tongue licking his splotchy chops. He was thinking of an angle for this unsavory fellow. 

These two idiots don’t know a hired hunter from an Argo’s ass, I’ll be fine. 

The fat one leaned in, going down to one knee. He was close to Bill’s face now. Staring with his shaky pale eyes. Bill tried to stand up but Fourfingers once again pressed the gun to his head. Bill sat back down, crossing his legs in the dirt with a puff of his chest.

“We know you’re a Hired Hunter,” the one close to his face said. 

Bill smiled. “I’ve told you I’m not. I’m a runner who’s running a message to Tradetown.”

“Why you carrying such a nice Bustergat then? Doing lots of shooting?” The fat man used a long dirty fingernail to flick the short double-barreled gun pressed to Bill’s head. The metal made a dull ring.

“My father was the village hunter. He never had to use it. But I got it when he died. Running’s a dangerous job.” He said it fast, no hesitation. No time for them to question the lie. 

Fourfingers spoke up in that high pitched and nasally voice that was so unexpected coming from a taller man. Like a tea kettle bore a no-good scoundrel for a son. “He could be telling the truth, let’s just let him go, we keep the bustergat. The kids said they weren’t gonna Mark us.”

The fat one responded with a glare. “No, this is a tricky little Bury Bee. I smell it on him.” He flicked his long tongue inches from his face. “You said you’re going to go to Tradetown. But you came up to us from the wrong way.” The man's snout crawled up into a grin. 

“Well I never said I was good at my job.” He smiled himself, trying to relieve some tension. Silence was their reply. Bill rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, he spoke once more “I got turned around and was coming to ask directions is all. Had I known this would have turned so hostile!” He glared at them. “I would have kept running.”

The man snorted at the excuse. “More like fell into us. You were sneaking about. Any runner worth any Salt would avoid this camp at night. We could be killers stuck in this life.” He leaned in closer. Bill could taste his rotten teeth, but he didn’t show it when he responded. 

“Like I said, I’m not very good at this job, really I’m a herder who tends some sheep. I was just doing this for a favor to a neighbor.” He leaned away from the rancid breath.

“He’s got a neighbor, that’s all.” Fourfingers said. He dropped the gat to his side. “Let’s get him out of here, this is damned what we’re doing.” 

The fat one sighed. He stood up and took Fourfingers by the arm. Together they walked a couple of feet towards the fire and started whispering together.

Bill yawned. He poured over the forest, licking the air. With his eyes he could barely make out anything past the first trees that surrounded the camp, he could taste much more. A spectrum of smell. He searched for any familiar scents. Apart from the sweating bodies, and the worry of musk, only ash and dust greeted him. 

He scratched the flaking skin from his snout. He had gotten sun-bit on the trail, and it still bothered him. He had to be more careful even in the mornings. The Sun was the best Hunter of all and it found everyone out here. He wanted to go back to sleeping through the heat, avoiding its rays, but they had to get this job done first. They couldn't track as well at night. That was obvious from his predicament. 

This whole situation would best be resolved before the rest of the gang got here. Before his sister flies into camp and attacks him as well as their Marks. Before the Old Man makes an appearance and gives him that scolding look. Before that monster lashes out and scares the kids here to their early graves. Maybe Bill made a slip-up, sure, but this was something he could handle. Hopefully he will handle it alone. He wanted to prove himself after all, especially in these dwindling times. Prove that he deserved to Hunt with the best, to one day lead the best.

Now the Old Man would give him a lashing, lay out all his mistakes in front of him and make Bill eat them. He could see it now, how he would be red in the face yelling, his one eye will be wide and the other ruined eye will be winced shut like an iron vice. That’s the eye that can’t look at him, it doesn’t see, and it will never be able to look at him and see a true Hunter. Not as long as he lives. 

And what did the Old Man's brother once say, that crazy Dar? 

“Mistakes will get you killed or worse get me killed.” 

Well, Bill wasn't the one that got them into the Westlands. Into their greatest folly. He pulled his weight then, no mistakes, when it was all so wrong. Everyone ignores that part. Although at the end of that fight he was unconscious floating down the river and most likely would have died had it not been for the Firstling. 

That was one time, the only time I didn't land on my feet. 

I still didn’t get hit in that fight. 

But they only remember me getting fished out of there. 

He peered out into the forest again, squinting his red eyes. The wind stopped for a moment. Letting the trees rest and the moment breath. Then the breeze shifted and carried a familiar scent.

He must have gave up on me. He frowned. Great, now it’s gonna get bloody.

The others tasted it too. The young one named Quick stood up. “You two stop arguing, do you smell something?” He stood in front of his sister, Kassa, with a hand on her shoulder. She started pulling on his arm nervous and looking into the forest herself. The two men stopped their muttering and tilted the heads up into the wind, tongues flailing about. The fat one slapped Fourfingers “Do it”

They shuffled over to Bill, blocking his view of the young ones. They were the reason they were here after all, kidnapping was the word. The brother and sister were not to be hurt, unfortunately. Bill wanted to knock some sense into them. Fourfingers walked over to some discarded wrappings. They were just thin sheets of fabric used to keep the blazing sun off of limbs and face. He quickly grabbed them and went behind Bill.

“Give me your hands. He says your friends are comin. Sorry.” Bill obliged and his hands were sloppily bound behind his back. His shoulder blades pinched and cramped as he was pulled to his feet. Fourfingers was still behind him, his arm now rested on Bill’s shoulder, the bustergat outstretched into the night. Waiting on the wind. 

The fat one unsheathed his knife from his belt. A crude thing, still, it twinkled in the Grey Mother’s light.

“They wouldn’t hire a Hunter!” The boy called out.

“Shut up, sit down. I’m thinking they would,” their leader responded. 

The boy obeyed. He started pouring through his rucksack looking for something. His sister got close and he pushed her away again.

Finally, there was stillness from all of them. They waited. The scent swirled around but it was coming from the west. Carried on the slight breeze. Bill noticed the slight tremor of Fourfinger’s three-fingered hand. The gat was heavy. Fourfingers had to readjust once, twice, three times. Bill could taste the acidic scent created as the bandit held onto that bronze plated handle. How the metal mixed with his sweating palm. Bill wasn’t nervous to start but now it was creeping up on him, it was infectious. It was around them all, heavy in the air.

Biquu will be angry if he gets punched full of holes with my own gat. Again. 

 The insects stopped chirping.

Footsteps were heard. Faint at first but steadily growing closer.

They came from the black of the forest. Behind tree and foliage. The same way Bill had stumbled into camp. They shuffled along.

Branches cracked and broke under foot. Until finally, it stopped.

 “Shit,” A gruff voice echoed from the dark.

Noise roared to life once more as other branches cracked, it sounded like a boar crashing through the woods. From the shadows came a figure true. Slender, old. He wore plain clothes, nice boots made of leather. His shirt was a simple brown and he still had his day wrappings on. They covered his arms and face. Their color was once white, now they were covered in dirt and were mostly beige from the dust. On his hip he had a Bustergat. It was the nicest thing he wore. A single barrel, with a fine wood handle carved with designs. His eyes were covered with sunslit glasses. So he would not be blinded on bright days. It only blocked his already poor vision at night. He even had a walking stick to sell the image. Bill shook his head. 

No wonder he was crashing around in the woods. 

He’s trying to be incognito but he can’t see a thing.

Biq might not look intimidating to most. He was smaller than average, wiry, and old. But Bill knew just how dangerous he was.

“Who are you?” the fat one yelled out

“Thank you fine folks.” He walked forward using his stick to support himself. He shuffled closer with ridiculously small steps. “I have been looking for my son since the sun fell. Blasted fool, wandering from the trail.”

Fourfingers dropped the gat so it was no longer pointed at the old man. He poked his head around Bill’s to get a good look at the stranger. He turned, perplexed, at his hostage. “I thought you said your father was dead.”

The fat one still had his knife raised and gritted his teeth. “Yeah that’s right.” 

Fourfingers raised the gat once more, determined this time.

“Oh Biquu, who’s the fool? You already shook up my story!” Bill groaned.

The entire camp stood still watching the strange man under the canopy of this doomed night change. It seemed the insects were too worried to sing, the stars too frightened to fall. He huffed to himself and in an instance he became not-so-old. He dropped the walking stick, stood up straight with a crack of his spine, then took long strides forward. 

“Well how am I supposed to know what you said? Dust you!” He was stopped by the fat one shuffling forward, pointing the knife at his face.

“Give me your gat.” He said through gritted teeth.

Biquu’s hands went up. “Take it.” His voice was like worn leather, cracked and dusted with wear.

The man did so. He pulled it from the holster and sheathed his knife in two quick movements. Now Biq’s own gat was pointed at him. The fat one licked his lips, and smiled with renewed bravery. The two young pups sat silently on their fallen log. The men in the standoff were lit orange by only embers.

“Great, now all we’ve done is gift them our Gats.” Bill noted.

Biq shook his head, hands resting on his hips. “I’m sitting down. It’s getting cold for an old man like me.” He did so and even added some branches to renew the flames.

“Who are you?” The fat one asked, still standing and eyeing him up and down.

“I’m Biquu, he’s Billgii. A fool if you ask me.” He pointed towards Bill. If his face was visible behind the fabric and glasses Bill could guess the scowl that would greet him. “He’s Fourfingers, his real name lost with those fingers. Those are Quick and Kassa, of the Fallen River village. And you’re Barde the Thief. Now stealing people. And lives.” His pointed finger fell from the last man. 

“You’re a Bury.” He replied, a quiver in his double chin.

“You’re right, and you’re my Marked.” He removed his sun slit glasses. His left eye was a bluish-grey. The other was dead, white in the firelight, glowing when it caught the moonshine.

“What he say about stealing life?” Quick, the boy questioned. Now standing up looking through the burgeoning flames.

“Shut it.” Barde said snidely.

“We didn’t do anything. They wanted to come, we’ve never caused trouble, it just follows us! I swear we ain’t ever been Marked before.” Fourfingers said, his voice grew desperate. The gun wavered even more-so.

“Barde is a killer,” Biq’s wrinkled finger pointed to the fat man across the fire. Biquu only had five fingers on that hand. One taken long before Bill met him. 

Barde spoke again. “They didn’t want us to leave. He attacked me,”

Biq replied by shrugging in an air of exhaustion. “We go back, you’ll be judged. They mostly want the young pups back. Maybe you get away with a missing hand. Or a tongue. I always found people are easier on the Marked when they face them. Easier on them than I.”

“Let’s go back, Barde, we’ll sort out these problems.” Fourfingers said.

“I agree.” Quick said. The boy looked confusedly at his sister.

“I agree as well.” Bill said before he was throttled.

Everyone was looking towards Barde. The fire crackled with those new flames while silence fought against it. He finally spoke up.

“No.” raising his eyes to meet the Old Man’s own. “They’ll take my head. I know them. I know they will.” He licked his lips. “We kill them and we leave.” He said to his companions.

The girl gasped. “No.. we...” She was cut off by Barde.

“This is what you were getting yourself into when you wanted to come with us. This is your fault as much as mine! You knew it. We do what we have to.” His eyes were darting around wildly. He stumbled back still pointing the gat at the Hired Hunter.

The Old Man’s eye hardened. The fire reflected in it. “If you will not be judged in this life. You will in the next. Doomed to wander this world a thousand times.” He uttered.

“I’ll kill you,” was the reply.

“Then you surely will be damned. And I will follow you again. And again. Through all your lives. You won’t escape me like you won’t escape your fate.”

The boy spoke up. “We’ll pay you. Give you all the Salt we took.”

“You can’t pay this one.” Barde said softly, his demeanor was strangely calm now. He groped back and found a low stone to sit on. The gun rested on his knee still pointing towards Biq. The shadows made the oiled barrel swim like inky waves at night.

“It is true. You know me?”  The Old Man turned his head staring at the young man Quick. “Do you know me younging? Biq of the Hunter Brothers?”

Quick looked at his sister and they both looked perplexed.

He continued. “I had partners once. They took a payment from a Marked man. He gave them Salt, powder, shot, and wine. They accepted. I would not.” He prodded the fire some more with a stick, lost in his recollection. “A Marked man is a dead man. Until he is judged. I do not judge. I hunt them and send them to those who do. Simple. They are judged by those who they have wronged, or to the beyond, and the Grey Mother is less forgiving. Me and my partner are like guides. Now where do you want to go tonight? Back home? Or in the ground?” He looked at Barde and Fourfingers. 

Bill was rolling his eyes. He is incapable of de-escalating a situation.

A man of principle. Sure. If only we didn’t have guns pointed at our heads.

I’ll have to save us.

Bill scanned the forest, he needed Quin, he needed the Firstling too. The thing could practically see in the dark. He could take a shot no one else could. Bill knew he was out there. Watching. Stalking. He heard the insects start up once more. This time it was a familiar way. A sign. It was going to start. He knew.

“I’ll fill you full of holes. I know who you are! You piece of shit!” Barde said through a closed jaw. Still spit trickled out and hung from his stubby mouth.

“What happened to them?” Fourfingers asked. “Your partners?” He sounded like he was almost in a dream, asking absentmindedly. Barde shared just the slightest angry glance to his compatriot.

The moment that was so taut Bill thought the air would snap, loosened just a little.

The Old Man laughed. Then took a long look at him,“Right.” He breathed in through his wrappings. “They made a deal to kill me. For double of everything.” He undid his face wrappings. The head was of course bald. His skin, which once was pale as the Grey Mother herself, had red splotches in places. He had several scars across his face, one over his blue left eye, another across his jaw. He was missing an ear on that side as well. But the most frightening thing was his smile. Bill only saw him smile when he was in the midst of killing. It was a mouth full of gnarled teeth that were yellow, barely contained by his thin lips. Three were missing on his upper left side. Leaving a hole where his tongue would sometimes loll out of his snout like a lazing dog.

“I killed all of them. Then, collected the Marked.” He turned his broken gaze on the fat man, Barde, The Marked Man, The man who Bill knew would die this night. Either because he was too stupid or too stubborn to know the best way to keep sucking air.  “I buried him. Alive.” Biq finished.

The movement was spontaneous and fast, Bill thought it might be a gunshot. Even flames flared up, like they would out of a barrell. But no thunder followed. 

The Old Man could not still be that fast? 

Biq had kicked the fire. Specifically, the main flaming log he had placed on it minutes ago. Embers poured up, whirling through the night sky. Barde covered his eyes as the sparks hit him in the face. He pulled the trigger. But it clicked. Empty. 

Bill grinned. 

To be fair, Barde had lived 20-some summers in these Shaken Lands and had never held a Bustergat. Bill’s gun wasn’t empty however and Fourfingers was aiming at the Old Man. But the elderly man had tricked them all into believing he was what he looked like. In actuality, he moved like he was young. Those bones were spry as green tree limbs in the spring, they were just wrapped in wrinkled skin. Fourfingers was tracking him but Bill leaned into his arm. Sending the shot wide right. 

One of the barrels lit up and he felt the heat of the explosion. The shot was so deafening his ear popped in pain. Silence took over his world. 

Except, somewhere far off there was ringing and screaming. The girl was screaming. 

Now Biq was on top of Barde. Slashing in an instance. They both had knives out. He saw blood streak through the air with one blow, cutting Bardes shin to the bone. He saw a couple of blows bounce off Barde’s own blade as he scooted backwards, his bleeding leg kicking up the ground. Frantically trying to get away from this gnarled crazed animal of a man. 

Bill needed to help his mentor. There were no winners in a knife fight. Real winners had gats. Like the one that landed with a clang and bounced off a rock in front of him.

Dropped it. Fool. 

He crouched down and shot up. The crown of Bill’s head smashed into the bottom of Fourfinger’s chin. Right where it needed to hit him, Fourfingers stumbled back, dazed. Bill was on the ground wiggling towards the gun, he saw the Quick pull out something from his rucksack. The embers that swirled in the air faded. Pieces of the fire had scattered, setting flames to bedrolls. The two men were now dancing around the fire. Almost on top of flames. Bill squeezed his bound hands under his butt. They were in front now.

I’m not useless! He thought with a grin

He saw the orange flicker of light reflecting off of his Bustergat. It was only an arm's reach away. 

Pain erupted from his back. Something popped, or snapped. He didn’t want to think about it. The air in his lungs was lost and he heard another thud. It stopped his whole body, the pain deafening his senses more and flashing stars across his vision. Turning over he saw the big man stomping on him. He curled up just enough to avoid more serious hits. He returned with kicks of his own but they were ignored by his size. Bouncing off his frame harmlessly.

Shit.

A white flash seared through the air. It came from the woods, hitting the big man above the neck. He could taste the blood in the air. Metallic like. A laser always had that flavor, accompanied with the smell of burnt meat. Fourfinger dropped. His head no longer there. A canal burned through the center as big as a fist.

Thank you Boy.

He crawled to the gun still with a sharp pain in his chest. The fat man was being stabbed on the ground. Biq had blood splattered across his face. He wasn’t paying attention to the young ones. The sister was indeed screaming. She was thrashing about on the ground. Fresh blood was caked on her chest, brown, mixed with dirt as she rolled around. She clutched her neck as crimson was pouring out. Her boot had caught aflame and fire licked up her leg. Her screams were gurgled now like she was under water.

Dying. She’s dying. Who shot her?

The young man, Quick, wasn’t, and in his hand he held a gat. It wasn’t Biq’s, it wasn’t Bill’s. It was his own. Newly crafted it looked like. And most likely loaded. Above the outstretched gun Quick’s eyes were horror stricken, looking at his dying sister. The gat raised towards The Old Man. 

“NO!” Bill yelled. Pointing his own at Quick.

This was not how it was supposed to go. He thought horrified. 

Quick's eyes peeled away from his target and found Bill. Tears spilled down past his snarl. They were unfocused. Like he was looking past him. The gun turned and followed his eyes in a sweeping motion. Bill was now peering down the barrel. It was the kid's life or his own, an easy choice to make even if he was but a child. 

Bill pulled his trigger. His second barrel would ignite and the shot would tear the young one to bits. He would feel bad after it happened. Maybe be comforted by his twin. They would all tell him he had no choice. He figured he would feel better after a couple of days. Such is life. 

But his weapon clicked and fizzled.

Bad Powder

His stomach dropped. He had nowhere to run or hide.

    Boy will get him.

Right on cue, the flash of the laser reached out. The beam tore over Quick’s shoulder. Burning a burrow through several trees behind him. Flames ignited out of the holes for a brief moment. They faded an instance later. The young pup stood. Alive. In the white light Bill saw how young he was. No fingers or toes missing. His skin was smooth and so pale-grey it almost looked metallic when the sweat soaked it. He wore no scars or sun marks from the long days slaving under it. 

The kid had shielded his eyes from the white flash. Bill’s sight was bad as any others, but the two were so close now he couldn’t miss it. The laser flash still dying in the air (the copper taste spread through it) he saw the color of his eyes even with the rage that swirled in them. They were purple. Like Quin’s eyes. 

Oh.

----

Quick’s trigger was pulled and the shot went off. Bill felt a comet hit him.

I’m on fire. He thought. Boy shot me with that damned laser!

He tried to stand up. To run away from this pain. His legs kicked at air. They didn’t seem to be listening to him. He was still crumbled face down in the dirt.

I gotta get up. I’m not dying. I’m fine. 

Quin will be so mad at me. 

I really dusted this up.

Blood was covering his chest.

That can’t be all mine?

It was pouring out of him from several holes. He tried to plug the wounds but his right arm was not moving. It was bent and hanging from the forearm. The muscle jittering under the open air. It was dancing. He rolled over looking up at the sky. He could do that much. He couldn't stand but he could get his face out of the dirt. Lone embers danced up into his view. Creating more stars.

I can’t die. Quin needs me. 

I have to find the Tallman. 

I’m not finished. Okay get up. There's a lot to do. 

His legs worked even less now. The strength in them seemed to be draining with every second. The thrashing that was once strong and kicked up dust, stamping his life into the uncaring ground, was gone. They twitched and moved in spasms instead. His eyes couldn’t focus anymore. He was looking at the tree tops. Perhaps at the stars behind them? But really, he realized, he was looking at something even farther away than that. Maybe nothing at all. 

Gasping, he knew he was broken. The searing pain in his chest had ripped him in two. Lightning had struck him. Tore him to bits. He might be in trouble after all. But his friends were close and they would help him. Help him ease this weight that crushed him. That twisted every bit of himself. The agony was electric. But it was fading now. He was laying in a puddle of water. His left hand splashed into the dirt. He tried to grab at it, to paw at the ground, to tear up the dried grass but he only found warm water. 

He was in a lake.

They always hated water but Bill hadn’t. He loved floating in the lake behind his town when he was small. They would tell him not to, his Matron would have long talks with him about the dangers. There were things in there (Bill knew there weren’t), He could drown (Bill knew he wouldn’t). Still she rambled on and others told him the same thing. Everyone told him not too. 

Everyone but Quin. 

She had given him a stone with a line attached to it. A stone so big you needed two hands to move it ten feet. She told him “It will help you float.”. They both laughed for days about that. Sneaking peeks at one another and snickering about the joke no one else knew. Randomly exploding into hysteria in the most inappropriate times. That made it funnier, you see? They could always do that. Know exactly what the other was thinking by just a look. By even less. 

Days later he joked about using it, and Quin nearly killed him herself wrestling it out of his hands. They sat there on the shore, out of breath, the small waves lapping at their heels. They giggled, which turned to a chuckle, and then a full-on whooping laugh until they were crying. After they were done Bill took her out on the lake as the sun came down. It was the only time she ever came with him. He said that he would hold her hand the whole time and show her how to swim and how to lay atop the water. It took a while but she learned well enough. And Bill never let go of her. 

Then they laid there together. In the warm waters of summer and watched the sunlight fade to blues and purples and finally black. Quin never was scared because her brother had her hand. He was doing that now. He was sure of it. Floating in the waters on that summer's evening. Even the stars were the same. 

I have to go home now. To see our mother. I have to go. 

I can't leave Quin. 

The waters that he floated on bound him now. Between his gasps he willed his body to move. His legs didn’t work. His arms didn’t work. He couldn’t breathe. 

He was terrified. But even that was muted. Drowning behind all his other thoughts and commands that fell short. He focused on breathing, surely he could do that. But finally one short gurgled breath came and not another followed.

His vision closed in and he finally saw what he was looking at. The thing behind all things.

This must be how it feels to die. He realized, startled.

Bill had a great epiphany about something. Clarity struck him, just as hard as the lead did in his chest. Then, that moment was lost, it fell away and carried him with it. Bill’s body remained, a lump of meat and bones, but Bill was gone.

---