Íde

“Don’t touch anything. Don’t take anything. We don’t know what he did to us, on the Village Idiot. He might be able to do it again here.”

Iseult hisses the words into my ear as we descend from the gangplank of the Feist and Calico onto the moon. I can hear the heat of her breath as she pulls close and grips my bicep. Sean smiles humourlessly, and says nothing. This place has entirely snuffed his joy. I see he has removed his dress shoes.

Ever since we breached the moon, I’ve felt something in the top of my mind. Stray thoughts from nowhere. They rebound through my head, only to be immediately forgotten. Dreamlike.

They are both armed. I am not. I cannot believe that Iseult actually brought a gun to the launch ceremony. Or that this whole time, she was right about Mister Tumble. Her jezail gleams evilly in the moon’s dimness, and makes little oiled clicking noises as she works bullets into its worn and hungry cylinder. I debate returning to the Oxenfree to retrieve a weapon, but I’m not sure what I would actually do with it. Just as I am about to make my way back up the gangplank, Sean cocks his head and hands me his little cavalry sabre, pulling a separate one, unsheathed and previously unnoticed, from the scarf wrapped around his waist. Even after the patient hours Sean spent teaching me aboard the deck of the Gundog Walking, I’m not confident. A weapon still feels foreign in my hand.

I have no pretensions at being a swordswoman. But I can, at least, remove my heels and walk silently.

We’re at the cusp of the meagre light from the Oxenfree’s oil lamps and engine ring. I’ve wrapped my shaking fingers around the sabre’s hilt, for strength, and try to steady my breathing. My other hand is tangled around the bullet necklace that Iseult gave me.

We emerge from the shadow cast by Evin Tumble’s vessel, and the sailors on deck give us cautious waves. When Sean reaches the blurry edge of the light, just as he is about to walk further into the moon, he turns. He salutes both sailors, cutlass to forehead, then moves into a half-crouch, concealing the blade behind his back. It flashes in the light.

No reflection for someone looking at him from the front.

Iseult follows. She’s clutching her long rifle, one-armed against her chest, and she traces her free hand on the wall of the moon’s tunnel as she disappears into the darkness. Neither of them are audible over the tiny drips and sloshes of the ocean.

Now or never, I suppose. I swoop in behind them, trying to emulate that soft, silent walk. We prowl quietly into the darkness.

We’re in the moon.

We’re in the moon.

Holy Saints, we are in the moon.

My head pounds with the beat of my fluttering heart. I’m keyed in to any sound, to any thing I can sense.

Walls, floor, ceiling. All invisible, in this darkness. Now that we’re entirely out of sight of the ship, we’re plunged into a blackness so total and so crushing that there is no difference if my eyes are closed or open. Only my feet slapping on the floor and my desperate grip on Iseult’s jacket gives me any connection to something else in this dismal dark. While aboard the Oxenfree, it was obvious that parts of this mountain had been carved into regular channels and corridors. We’d sailed through a rent in the moon’s flank, but there had been tunnels that intersected at near-vertical angles to the water.

This hallway is surprisingly comfortable, and set at a gentle incline that we easily scale. It’s also obviously designed for someone (or something) human-sized. The walls are smooth. Outrageously smooth, like marble, like Saint bones. If it’s anything like the corridors we saw on the way in, illuminated by flickering engine light and the soft yellow glare of oil lamps, it’s clad in a slick, light material that’s shines in a lustre somewhere in between stone and metal. Everything we saw was smooth and white, save for one corridor mounted directly above the Oxenfree’s path. That one had been ruffled with some material that looked identical like frozen grey cloth. The rest of the tunnels had been almost featureless, save for the occasional regular straight line marked on the ceiling or wall. No sigilwork. At least, not any I’m familiar with. It’s impossible to make out anything in this darkness. I can’t even see my hands.

There’s a faint dripping, coming from somewhere. Occasionally, a moan, like rock or metal being twisted, far distant. Once, just once, the entire moon shivers, and the vibration caused us all to stop involuntarily, every muscle tensed.

We pause at a deep, regular opening in the tunnel wall. I know it’s there, because Iseult seizes wrist hand and runs my fingers along the edge. Nobody speaks. After spending so long in the darkness, I can feel a space where Sean has stood up, and imagine that he is staring into the hole, wide-eyed, hungry for any form of light. Neither of them says anything.

We start moving again, and I get no explanation as to why or what just happened. As I prowl past, I get a better feel of the opening. It is easily the width of a double door, and I can make out nothing in its yawning depths but a vertiginous awareness of cold and dread.

I suddenly realise that I cannot actually see Iseult, so I may actually be clutching someone else’s sleeve, some moon-ghoul who has seamlessly replaced my friend. My heartbeat thunders in my chest, and I wonder if this monster can hear it, wonder if even now it is planning to turn around and-

No. Breathe. Breathe. My head is buzzing.

My footsteps seem impossibly loud. Other than Iseult’s sleeve, there is nothing around me to suggest anything is there. I don’t think we’ve deviated from a straight path. But how would I really know? How does Sean know where he’s going? Does he, like the captain, possess some sigil-charmed sight? I doubt it. I must simply trust that he knows what he’s doing, and that Iseult does as well.

I have no way of knowing if Iseult is even holding onto Sean.

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Oh Saints. Why am I here.

We shuffle further on, groping our way into that wretched nothing. The kind of darkness that starts to make you see things, little phantasms and coils of movement. The kind that you could lose yourself in, forever.

Iseult slows, then stops. She tugs at me, and I grasp her wrist so tightly I hear her make a tiny, surprised sound in the back of her throat. We shuffle forwards, and I feel her twist her entire body over a long, straddling distance, like she’s stepped over something. More importantly, now that she’s out of the way, I can see the faintest flicker of light coming from something below. She’s avoided a spot, on the floor, which I step widely over as well. I look down.

The moon is torn at this spot. I can see a tiny thread of violet light, a beacon in the gloom, far beneath me. There’s no chance I would fall down this tear, this ten-story hole that has punched its way through the floor, but an inexplicable unsteadiness slams through me. Iseult and Sean have made their way over the gap, and I can barely make out their shapes in the gloom. Losing my grip on her looses a panic within me, and it takes me a moment to realise that I can see both of their eyes, lit by the faint purple lighting, staring back at me.

I look down again.

The hole is deep. The ragged edges of whatever the moon is made out of are highlighted in the faint indigo light of a worming mass of what looks like intestines, spilling in a confused tangle, some fifty yards underneath us. I stare and stare at the mass, daring it to twitch or react. It sits, unmoving, lit by some internal alchemy. When I look back to my companions, I see only one set of eyes. Sean, I think.

I swallow my fear and step over the little rent. I feel his hand close around my shoulder, and he pulls me forward, hugging me.

“There’s a light ahead.”

His voice in my ear is shockingly loud. Though he’s speaking with the barest whisper, the quietest he can, his words ring my ears like a shout.

In this darkness, that faint ghost of lamplight is a beacon. I can see it in my peripheral vision, and in the minute it takes for us to creep closer, I can see it clear as day. Mister Tumble is here.

Or, as we creep closer, my gut running cold, maybe something else. Maybe there are people in the moon, as well. Maybe they also use oil lamps.

Maybe they can see in the dark.

Or maybe it’s Mister Tumble.

I’m not sure which one I’d rather deal with. We’ve crept to the edge of the doorway.

Sean pauses, straining. Lamplight is clearly visible from beyond the corner, so Sean does not peek his head around, does not silhouette himself. He simply stands there, both hands digging into the tunnel walls, his ears perked and his eyes closed. Iseult joins him, just shy of the wall, and I slip behind them, imitating their poses. I concentrate, hard. I’m listening for- for what, exactly?

There’s almost certainly nothing in the room. Just a dim light. No sound but the almost imperceptible hiss of the oil lamp, merrily crackling. Iseult, with a heron’s grace, is bringing her weapon to bear. She does it slowly, certainly, and in complete silence.

Sean rushes around the corner, low, at a sprint. He’s there one second, ready, and the next he has disappeared, exploded into the room. A beat later, there is a loud mechanical twang, followed by a thumping noise and a long, surprised-sounding gurgle. Iseult’s body tenses, and she too takes the corner rapidly, ripping her rifle to a firing position in front of her and stepping in a wide arc through the hole in the tunnel. She’s doing that thing with her hands, whatever mechanical ritual she does that turns the jezail from a lump of wood and metal into a killing machine.

For several seconds, I can hear nothing. No shot. When I hear Mister Tumble’s voice, it is all I can do to bite down the panic.

“You can come out, Sigilist Ceallaigh.”

I screw my eyes shut, until I hear Iseult.

“It’s alright, Íde. I can handle this fucking cockroach. Help Sean.”

I run my hand along the edge of the door, and emerge into the light. It’s blinding, at first, even though we’ve spent only a few minutes in the blackness.

From what we’ve seen so far of the moon, this small room is surprisingly small: a cube, perhaps ten yards a side. Soft oil-light spills just shy of its ceiling, so we are completely encircled by shadows. I hurry behind Iseult, who is currently rigid, her rage palpable, near the entrance way. She’s in a firing posture, both hands ready, eyes locked on the man in front of her. Her prey, Evin Tumble, stands bolt upright on the far side of the room. One hand is thrust into his pocket, as if he’s bored. The other is holding a small crossbow, an evil-looking thing made from iron and dark-painted wood. There’s another at his feet, already used.

I see Sean, crumpled over, reclining limply against the chamber wall. He looks at me lazily as I run to him in a pair of quick steps, expecting at any moment to be skewered with a crossbow bolt. Mister Tumble doesn’t even twitch the weapon in my direction. Sean smiles weakly, both hands clutched around the shaft of a bolt that is embedded in his abdomen.

“Hi Íde.”

He rasps it out. I’ve never seen him like this. His face looks wooden, and is already dripping with sweat.

I hear Iseult’s voice behind me. “Evin. Tell me what is happening.”

Her tone is pure, cold malice. I put my hands on Sean’s shoulders and turn to look at Iseult. She’s poised, feet set and hands tight around her jezail. The warm light of Mister Tumble’s oil lamp does nothing to mask the seething hate on her face.

“This is over, Evin. Whatever you want, it’s done. Whatever is wrong with you, it’s finished. You are either coming back as prisoner or as a corpse, but that’s your choice.”

She’s speaking slowly, in funeral tones.

Mister Tumble responds, but not to her. “Take care of Sean, Íde.”

That’s all he says. He doesn’t seem to even be registering her as a threat- when I glance over at Mister Tumble, he’s looking straight at me. There’s none of the ferocity I saw from Captain Holofernes, none of the malevolence that is evident in Iseult. He looks so… unaffected. Like this entire situation is beneath him.

For the first time since I set foot on the moon, I know what I’m supposed to do. I bend over Sean, who grabs my wrist weakly with his free hand. His other is still clutching the crossbow bolt that has impaled him. Its black-feathered tail juts abominably out of his gut. There are tears in his eyes, and his face is sweaty and ragged. I hear a grating noise that puts my teeth on edge: the bolt has gone most of the way through him, and scrapes against the wall behind him as he shifts his weight.

“Break it,” he grunts. I fumble ineffectively for a moment, trying to wrap my hands around the slippery shaft. It’s blood. It’s his blood. His blood stains my hands now, too, and it is warm and wet and I can’t do it. I can’t do it without hurting him. Iseult and Mister Tumble are speaking, in breathy murmurs that I can’t understand. Right now, Sean is my entire world, and he is dying.

A sob starts bubbling in my throat. My friend is going to die. I’m reminded of my time with the Swatch-Eater, when I couldn’t climb, when I was saved only by Sean himself, hauling me up the rope. He saved me. He saved me, and I can’t save him. Tears coil at the corner of my eyes. I’m appalled by the dignity that has been stripped from him.

“Hello,” he croaks. Absurdly. He is trying to comfort me, even as he’s dying. “Break it. Please.”

I can hear Mister Tumble saying something behind me, in quiet, polite tones. I can’t understand him, because if I lose focus on Sean and the bolt then I will fall to pieces.

He gasps when I finally grip the wood and bend it as hard as I can, and I feel the squirm of his guts vibrate through the shaft as it snaps. I am not going to panic. I am going to finish this. Sean’s chest is heaving, and his eyes have opened wider, like he’s just woken up. He looks at me, and blinks several times before speaking. “Thanks for that.“

I stifle an absurd, inappropriate laugh. “Now push it through,” he finishes. Push it through what? Through- Oh. Through him.

The conversation behind me ebbs. Mister Tumble speaking calmly, a soft fireplace cadence. It is insane. My friend is bleeding to death in my hands, and the two of them are talking, like students. Iseult interrupts him, cutting through his storyteller’s timbre.

“Spare me the pious dribble. I’m not from Yvreathe, I don’t give a shit about the liturgy. You’re either walking out with us, or I’m going to core your fucking knees and drag you out myself.”

I almost cut myself on the wicked blade of the bolt’s head when I reach around Sean’s soaking back. His breath saws and his body shakes horribly as I grip the bolt as hard as I can and pull the shaft through him. I finish the job with a wet squelch, and Sean doesn’t stop shaking. He smiles, weakly.

“The words of Saint Anchor, actually. I don’t want to hurt you, Iseult. I tried not to kill Sean,” Mister Tumble continues. There’s an exhalation from Sean. The world’s quietest cheer.

“I want you to help me, with this. I’m sorry for deceiving you, and I’m sorry for deceiving everyone else. But this is so much bigger than you. You cannot understand what this moon is. Why we called it here.”

Why we called it here?

“No,” Iseult spits. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in the same grave as you, traitor. You are coming with us. You did something to my work. My knotwork.” I shuck my coat and tie it around Sean’s wound, binding both sides with the thick cloth.

“That is what you’re interested in? The way I altered your sigilry?” Mister Tumble laughs, genuinely surprised. “Not the moon? Not what this place was made for? Or why I called it? Don’t you want to understand why we are here?”

“No. You are coming,” and here her voice strains, slightly, as she dips the barrel of the rifle slightly, aiming at his knees. “With us. I know people like you, Evin. You just want people like me to help you, to do whatever the fuck you want to. You wanted to use a storm in a bottle, and now that you’ve let me out to do your work you just want to put me back in. Whatever you’re trying to do to me, it’s not going to work. Now drop the shit. We are leaving. This is your last warning.”

That calm, uncaring grin. He opens his mouth. “You cannot kill me, Isrā Mahrin. Surely you understand who-“

She twitches the gun up, to point at his heart, and pulls the trigger.