Read Online The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth by Michelle Paver - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michelle Paver
Tags: Romance
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from the stirrup as the horse goes crashing down onto the rocks, with him beneath.
Cameron jumps off his horse and runs to where Ainsley is lying, and drops to his knees in the stinking black sand.
Ainsley lies on his back, his blue eyes wide and astonished. His lips move, but no sound comes. Cameron sees the matted pulp at the back of the head, and the white gleam of bone, and the bright blood pumping out onto the rock and pouring down into the sand. Already the sand is turning to paste beneath him: hot, soft black paste, and a copper-sweet stink, and that brilliant red arterial spurt.
Cameron looks down into the blue eyes and watches the dullness come, like the bloom on a grape.
A small wind tosses a handful of sand across the waxy features, and Cameron tries to brush it away, but it’s impossible. The black sand keeps coming, gently sifting into mouth and nostrils, silently sugaring the staring eyes.
Someone is shaking him by the shoulder. ‘Captain Lawe. Captain Lawe. Sir. Wake up.’
Cameron woke up.
It was dark in the zeriba, for the moon had not yet risen. So cold that his breath steamed. The tears were hot on his cheeks.
‘Wake up, sir,’ said the orderly. ‘The colonel wishes to see you in his tent.’
Cameron lay on his back blinking at the stars. He thought, it wasn’t a dream. He is dead. He is dead. And now it’s too late to make anything right, ever again.
He kicked his way out of his blanket-bag and got to his feet and straightened his uniform. Then he followed the orderly through the sleeping camp. He felt heavy and stiff but strangely fragile, as if one touch would shatter him to pieces. He looked about him at the complicated paraphernalia of war, and thought, how do men live with the knowledge that what they love can be destroyed in an instant?
The lamps were bright in the colonel’s tent, and he blinked as he went in. The colonel sat on a canvas stool before a small field desk covered with a tidy litter of papers. An officer whom Cameron didn’t know sat beside him with a notebook on his lap and a silver propelling pencil at the ready. He had the clean, unbroken fingernails of a staff officer, but his eyes were pink and inflamed. Perhaps, thought Cameron, he’s never seen a battlefield before. Perhaps he’s not used to the smell.
He had a vague sense that he was in some sort of trouble. The colonel, a spare, lugubrious man with an extravagantly hooked nose, was studying him in silence, tapping his pencil on the desk.
What have I done now, he thought from a great distance. He was suddenly extremely thirsty. There was a flask of water on the field desk, with a tumbler upended over the top to keep out the flies. He wished someone would offer him a drink.
The colonel cleared his throat. Cameron swayed, and tried to assume an expression of respectful attention.
‘A report has reached me’, said the colonel, ‘that the day before yesterday you disregarded a direct order of your CO. Your CO, the late Major Falkirk.’
Cameron struggled to follow him. The day before yesterday? Yesterday. The late Major Falkirk.
The colonel’s voice came at him in waves. ‘. . . for reasons which pass understanding, Major Falkirk let that go unpunished.’ A pause. ‘I take it that it was a personal matter. Some kind of – bad blood between you?’
Behind his back Cameron flexed his injured palm, and the new scab cracked. Bad blood. Odd way of putting it. The truth is, there was no blood between us, either good or bad. And yet we always felt like brothers. We used to be like brothers , Ainsley had said. But as far as you’re concerned, none of that ever happened. Did it, Cameron?
Oh, you’re wrong, he wanted to reply. I never stopped thinking of you as a brother. I know that now. Why didn’t I tell you when I still had the chance?
He dragged himself back to the present. He squared his shoulders. ‘Yes sir,’ he said. ‘Bad blood.’
Again the colonel tapped the desk with his pencil. The
Cameron jumps off his horse and runs to where Ainsley is lying, and drops to his knees in the stinking black sand.
Ainsley lies on his back, his blue eyes wide and astonished. His lips move, but no sound comes. Cameron sees the matted pulp at the back of the head, and the white gleam of bone, and the bright blood pumping out onto the rock and pouring down into the sand. Already the sand is turning to paste beneath him: hot, soft black paste, and a copper-sweet stink, and that brilliant red arterial spurt.
Cameron looks down into the blue eyes and watches the dullness come, like the bloom on a grape.
A small wind tosses a handful of sand across the waxy features, and Cameron tries to brush it away, but it’s impossible. The black sand keeps coming, gently sifting into mouth and nostrils, silently sugaring the staring eyes.
Someone is shaking him by the shoulder. ‘Captain Lawe. Captain Lawe. Sir. Wake up.’
Cameron woke up.
It was dark in the zeriba, for the moon had not yet risen. So cold that his breath steamed. The tears were hot on his cheeks.
‘Wake up, sir,’ said the orderly. ‘The colonel wishes to see you in his tent.’
Cameron lay on his back blinking at the stars. He thought, it wasn’t a dream. He is dead. He is dead. And now it’s too late to make anything right, ever again.
He kicked his way out of his blanket-bag and got to his feet and straightened his uniform. Then he followed the orderly through the sleeping camp. He felt heavy and stiff but strangely fragile, as if one touch would shatter him to pieces. He looked about him at the complicated paraphernalia of war, and thought, how do men live with the knowledge that what they love can be destroyed in an instant?
The lamps were bright in the colonel’s tent, and he blinked as he went in. The colonel sat on a canvas stool before a small field desk covered with a tidy litter of papers. An officer whom Cameron didn’t know sat beside him with a notebook on his lap and a silver propelling pencil at the ready. He had the clean, unbroken fingernails of a staff officer, but his eyes were pink and inflamed. Perhaps, thought Cameron, he’s never seen a battlefield before. Perhaps he’s not used to the smell.
He had a vague sense that he was in some sort of trouble. The colonel, a spare, lugubrious man with an extravagantly hooked nose, was studying him in silence, tapping his pencil on the desk.
What have I done now, he thought from a great distance. He was suddenly extremely thirsty. There was a flask of water on the field desk, with a tumbler upended over the top to keep out the flies. He wished someone would offer him a drink.
The colonel cleared his throat. Cameron swayed, and tried to assume an expression of respectful attention.
‘A report has reached me’, said the colonel, ‘that the day before yesterday you disregarded a direct order of your CO. Your CO, the late Major Falkirk.’
Cameron struggled to follow him. The day before yesterday? Yesterday. The late Major Falkirk.
The colonel’s voice came at him in waves. ‘. . . for reasons which pass understanding, Major Falkirk let that go unpunished.’ A pause. ‘I take it that it was a personal matter. Some kind of – bad blood between you?’
Behind his back Cameron flexed his injured palm, and the new scab cracked. Bad blood. Odd way of putting it. The truth is, there was no blood between us, either good or bad. And yet we always felt like brothers. We used to be like brothers , Ainsley had said. But as far as you’re concerned, none of that ever happened. Did it, Cameron?
Oh, you’re wrong, he wanted to reply. I never stopped thinking of you as a brother. I know that now. Why didn’t I tell you when I still had the chance?
He dragged himself back to the present. He squared his shoulders. ‘Yes sir,’ he said. ‘Bad blood.’
Again the colonel tapped the desk with his pencil. The
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