In the afternoon
they had come upon a series of caves in a red rock canyon. Enormous, unsettling
black and red drawings marched down the length of the cave. The creatures
depicted there were nothing Strange recognized, not man nor beast. They made
the back of his neck crawl.
Aleister was
fascinated by the ancient scrawls--delighted, in fact--and had made extensive
notes and sketches in his journal.
By the time
Strange dragged him away the sun had begun to slip from the sky. The sky was
clear for the first time in days, though everything was still wet from the
biting winter rains.
He would have
liked to put greater distance between them and those damned caves, but these
lands were unfamiliar and he preferred to face the night with his back against
the wall and a goodly fire. Plus Aleister had developed a worrying cough. Which
was to say, it worried Strange. If one of them fell really ill or was badly
injured, there was no help to be had out here on the wrong side of the White
Mountains.
No, not true. If
Strange fell ill, Aleister would probably be able to do something for him. He
was dosing himself with a horrendously unappetizing juice he’d made from
poisonous-tasting berries, continuing to blather away about the caves,
cheeks flushed and eyes shining fever-bright. His confidence in the future
remained as undiminished as it was bewildering.
“Of course they might offer new information on the
former extension of the ancestral abodes of certain clans. I suspect these
cliff-dwellers were not a distinct people--”
“Sit closer to the
fire,” Strange told him. “That wind is like a knife.”
“I’m boiling as it
is.” Aleister smiled widely, eyes shadowy, his teeth very white in the
firelight. “Do you know what this night is, Val?”
“I know you’ll
tell me, Master Sticks and Stones.”
If Aleister fell
ill, really ill, Strange would be able to do little for him. And the thought of
losing Aleister was frankly unbearable. He had been fond of him for some time,
of course. He had expected that his feelings would temper, ease into a more
casual affection, but if anything they had grown more fierce, more intense. It
was painful to care this much, for theirs was often a hand-to-mouth existence,
and death could reach out to grab one or the other at any moment. If
something--any harm came to Aleister--
In the frosty
distance something howled. It did not sound like any animal Strange knew.
He glanced at
Aleister who was still smiling. Perhaps he had not heard that eerie howl. “It’s
the winter solstice.”
The longest night of
the year. What the fuck could be better than that?
“Well, we’ve got
the bonfire for it,” Strange said.
“We’ve got more
than that. I’ve been saving up for your present.”
“My--” But he was
speaking to empty air. Aleister hopped up, went to his pack, rifled around and
brought back a handful of…dust. He picked up one of the metal plates that
Strange had scrubbed clean in the sand, and let the crumbs trickle through his
fingers while he spoke a soft incantation.
Strange was
silent, watching. Was this fever or was Aleister actually practicing magick?
After a second or two, he realized that the dust was, in fact, crumbs. Hardtack
crumbs saved carefully for days on end.
The crumbs seemed
to jump around on the plate and then suddenly four small cakes materialized,
frosted in pink with tiny silver speckled candies. The kind of thing that had
been rare even before the revolution. The kind of sweet Strange had loved as a
boy. And Aleister the only person in the world who knew that.
Aleister laughed
at Strange’s expression. “They’re for you, Val. All four of them.” He was
beaming his pleasure at this foolish, extravagant gift.
Strange’s throat
closed so tightly no speck of dust, let alone tea cake could have passed his
gullet. He said, “You’re a bloody madman, Grimshaw.”
“So they tell me.”
Aleister held the
plate out to him and Strange said, “Two for each.”
“Oh!” Aleister hesitated.
“Go on then. Share
and share alike.”
Looking torn
between guilt and delight, Aleister chose one of the delectable cakes. He
handed the plate to Strange who took a cake and bit it what seemed to be a
cloud made of spun sugar. The sweetness was almost shocking after months of
living on wild game and whatever else they could forage.
Aleister licked
frosting off his lips.
They ate their
cakes and passed Strange’s flask back and forth. Now and again their
companionable silence was broken by one of those long, mournful howls that
seemed to issue from behind the giant, silver moon.
“You’re cold, whether you know it or not. Come
here,” Strange said holding up his cape, and Aleister gave him an
indulgent look and scooted over into the circle of his arm. He leaned against Strange’s shoulder. His lean,
hard body was a warm weight down the length of Strange’s.
“Spring is coming,”
he informed Strange, wiping the last pink stickiness from his fingers.
And only the
entire winter still to get through. But Strange did not say that. He said, “Yes.
Happy Solstice.”
“Happy Solstice,
Val.”
“Those were the
best cakes I ever ate in my life,” Strange said.
Aleister smiled
and tilted his head to rest against Strange’s.
