Chapter 58: Listening Dark
"We will take turns," grey-haired man said, breaking silence, voice low, not looking at boy, looking at mouth, at ash falling grey. "You first. Sleep if you can. I’ll watch first watch. Wake me if you hear something that shouldn’t drip."
Danny tried. Really tried, because body wanted it more than food, legs shaking from exhaustion, eyes burning from snow glare all day, shoulder throbbing where rock hit. He closed eyes, knees still up, head leaning to stone, stone cold on back of head like hand. He heard wind, thin keen through slab crack. Heard own breath, fast then slow, trying to slow heart that was still loud. Heard very faint drip of water somewhere in back, deeper than they thought cave went, deeper than lamp showed. Drip. Drip. Drip. Regular, like counting, like clock, like something tapping nail.
He opened eyes again, couldn’t help, eyes had own will. Back of cave was darker than before. Or eyes tired, pupils wide from dark, from fear. Lamp made small circle, barely to knees, barely to man’s boots at mouth. Outside circle, everything was kind of black that feels like it is listening, like snow that fell sideways from Mirebeast breathing, aware, old black that had been there before empire.
He thought of Ashfall, though he never been there, only stories grey man told about patrol and fort and flat land. He thought of ridge, flames going out when wolves came, old man’s fire sputtering. He thought of hundred flames going out in square and what that would cost come morning, who would pay price for lamps going out. Dross would camp. Eskmar would already be writing report. These were not helpful thoughts for sleep, but brain does what brain does when tired, throws memories like cards to keep awake, to keep watch even when eyes closed.
Grey-haired man did not seem to sleep either, though he said he would watch, though he told boy to sleep. He watched mouth, every few minutes glanced back at Danny, check, then back at dark beyond mouth, ash curtain, then at back of cave, where drip was, then mouth again, restless, old soldier sleep, half awake, half dream where dream is still watching.
He shifted weight, boot scraping stone. Small sound, loud in cave. He settled again, hand near knife, not on knife, near it, like habit. He breathed slow, measured, like he had trained breath to be quiet. Danny tried to copy, in through nose, out through mouth, but his breath caught, throat dry, chest tight. He coughed once, small, swallowed it.
"You hear that?" Danny whispered, not wanting to be loud, not wanting to wake whatever might be in back, whatever might be sleeping deeper than they are, whatever might have left cave empty for reason.
"No," grey-haired man whispered back, which meant he did, but did not want to name it, naming makes it real, naming calls it. Old soldiers know that. Don’t name drip if drip might be claws.
It was not sound, not really, not just drip. It was pressure, feeling that cave went back further than it looked, and that further back, something had paused to listen for them listening for it, same game as Mirebeast, waiting, same waiting they had just survived. Empty cave felt empty like mouth that is empty between meals, not empty forever.
Danny pulled cloak tighter, prisoner cloak thin, useless against stone cold, but psychological, like blanket child holds even when cold, like armor made of cloth. He was not cold from air, cold from stone and from being tired and from being honest with himself that he was scared of old man and scared of dark and scared of empty cave that might not stay empty, scared that empty was trick.
Heart started beating loud again, loudest drum, same drum Mirebeast heard, same drum thin prisoner heard before he was taken. He hated his heart sometimes, so loud, so betraying, so unable to be quiet when quiet needed, telling everything where he is.
He tried to count drips to calm heart. One. Two. Three. Drip missed. Then two fast. Then pause longer. That pause was worst. Regular was clock. Irregular was something choosing. He stopped counting. Counting made it worse. He listened to wind instead, wind was honest, wind did not choose.
He gulped, throat dry again, glancing into darkness beyond man’s shoulder, beyond lamp, into back where drip came from, where dark was thicker, where wall sweated and maybe sweated because something behind it breathed warm.
"Damn it. Why does every place we find have to be dangerous? Why can’t one place just be safe? Just one night? One cave that is just cave?"
Grey-haired man didn’t answer at first, just turned lamp up fraction, light pushing back dark inch, showing wall sweating, showing no shape, just rock, just water bead running, but also showing deeper shadow that moved when light moved, as shadows do, but looked like shoulders.
He watched that shadow a long moment. Did not blink. Then turned lamp back down, saving oil. Oil was time. Light was time. They had so little of both.
Then he said, quiet, not looking at boy, looking at mouth, at ash falling outside, at mountain night that never was safe, not even before Mirebeast, not even before empire:
"Because safe places aren’t found. They’re made. And we haven’t made one yet. We just borrow holes until morning. Tonight we borrow this hole. Tomorrow we make better one. That’s how you get to Fort Haven. One borrowed hole at a time until you can build."
Danny stared at him, then at back of cave, where drip went drip, drip, drip, counting borrowed time, counting oil left in lamp, counting heartbeats, and tried to believe morning would come, and that hole would stay borrowed, empty, and not hungry, not listening back.
Outside wind keened again, throwing ash across mouth like curtain, hiding them inside, or hiding things approaching outside, ash falling without footprints, yet.
He closed eyes again, but left ears open, and listened to dark listening to him.