Rebel Heart by Moira Young Read Free Book Online

hid besides. Still, the driver of the mule cart lifts his head. Turns it this way. Maybe the sun caught on the glass of my looker. A brief glance, then he sets his face forwards once agin.
    He’s bitter-faced, sick yellow skin. With the look of a man who’s left any hope by the side of the road a long way back. A sorry crew, altogether. They look like they’re carryin sickness. Maybe the blood lung, maybe worse. Fer definite we don’t want ’em stoppin to ask fer no water.
    Old folk. Weak men an women. Sickly young. Jest like th’other wagon trains we seen crossin the Waste. Not one person lookin fit enough to travel good roads, let alone this one. Lugh’s right. People’s on the move west.
    I wonder why.
    Not jest wagons, lone travellers too. We found the leftover bits of one fella. Well, Nero did. Dead eaters had bin at him, jackals an vultures, so you couldn’t tell much. Jest his hair colour an boot size. The boots was good an they fit Tommo. You never feel right, takin from the dead. But he wouldn’t be doin no more walkin an Tommo would. We piled rocks over what was left of him an Lugh said a few respeckful words.
    I watch till it’s clear this train ain’t gonna stop. Then I head around the hill to camp.

    There’s one good thing in all this. It turns out that Tommo’s a genius cook. Ike learned him in the kitchen of The One-Eyed Man, where they had to feed travellers day after day.
    He roasts an bastes. He stirs an tastes. He mashes an crushes an boils. Then he’ll sprinkle a pinch from his herb bag an whatever limped into the pot comes high-steppin into our mouths. We bin stuck with crickets an small lizard fer some time, which don’t even start to kill our hunger. Tommo does champion with the wolfdog an, fer once, our tight bellies ease.
    Strange to say, but I ain’t much bothered by bein hungry. I know I am, my stummick tells me so, I jest don’t seem to care. I give half my portion to Tommo.
    The day slouches towards night. The pines around us settle in. Their parched needles sigh in the warm breeze. Their tired sweetness gentles the air. After Tommo’s finished cookin, we keep the small bitterbrush fire goin, not fer warmth so much as comfort.
    I sit unner a tree, apart from everybody. It took three pans of precious water to boil wash the wolfdog blood from my clothes. I huddle in my skivvies, wrapped in a blanket while they drip dry on a branch.
    My bones ache with weariness. I long fer sleep. But it won’t come. I won’t let it. I don’t dare.
    I can feel the shadows gatherin.
    Earlier, Lugh an Tommo made a rack from deadwood an hung thin slices of wolfie meat to air dry. Now they lift an twist in the breeze - rustlin, whisperin wind chimes.
    Once we’ve scoured our eatin tins clean with pine needles, we settle down to eventide tasks. Everybody but me, that is. Tommo starts to fashion two new cleft poles fer his sleep skellie. His old ones snapped in the middle of last night an the whole shebang collapsed on top of him. Lugh’s mendin his boot sole with a chunk of goodyear.
    Emmi’s playin dice with Nero. It’s his favourite game, but ever since Jack learned him to cheat Em’s th’only one’ll give him a game. She’s on a mission to mend his wicked ways. Tonight, she’s kept aside a fried locust fer a reward.
    No, she says. Cheatin crows do not git bugs. Well, if you want one, play proper. Now, watch me. You see? Okay, now you go. No . . . no, Nero! Oh, I give up.
    She leaves him to gobble the bug an comes to crouch beside me. That bird of yers is a lost cause, she says. Jack’s a bad inflamence. When I see him, I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind. Fancy teachin innocent crows to cheat.
    He tried to pick my pocket th’other day, I says. You can lay that at Jack’s door too.
    Jack’s a rascal, all right, she says. He must be at the Big Water by now. Probly bin there ages. He must think we ain’t comin. D’you think he’ll . . . he will wait fer us, won’t he?
    I keep