Marcus Vesper's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

By morning the rain had stopped. Marcus and the bearded man walked the wet road together. The mantle hung over Marcus's arm, useless now. The plate on his shoulder had softened back toward skin, but not all the way. His hand still ended in a hard pincer. He could not hide it. Anyone they passed would see. The man walked ahead, watching the road. "Others are coming up this same road," he said. "If a stranger sees you like that, they'll run. They'll spread word. Then no house will take you in." Marcus knew it was true. His only cover was ruined. He pulled the wet cloth around his arm anyway. It slipped off at once. Then he heard boots ahead. A farmer came around a bend, leading a mule. The man carried a basket of yellow flowers, their golden petals bright against the gray. He looked up and saw Marcus's pincer. The farmer stopped. His mouth opened. Marcus felt the old panic rise, the plate spreading fast up his wrist. But the bearded man stepped between them. He reached into his coat and held out the dried scorpion in his open palm. "He's mine to lead," he said. "We're going to the water where the flies swarm. You've heard of it." The farmer stared at the curled tail in the man's hand. Slowly he nodded. His fear did not leave, but it changed shape. "I've heard," he said. He looked at Marcus again, longer this time. He reached into the basket and pulled out one bright bloom. He held it toward Marcus's changed hand. Marcus did not move. The pincer could not take a flower. It could only close and crush. The farmer set the bloom on the road instead, at Marcus's feet. "For where you're going," he said. Then he led the mule wide around them and walked on. Marcus bent and lifted the flower with his good hand. He had braced for a scream. Instead a stranger had marked him as one of a known kind, and let him pass. The dried scorpion had done what the mantle never could. It did not hide him. It named him, and the name meant he belonged somewhere. They walked until noon. The road bent toward low water. Above the shallows hung a cloud of dragonflies, thick and shifting, their wings flashing green and blue in the sun. Marcus stopped. This was the place from the storm, the place the man had promised. "They're just past the water," the bearded man said. "Others like you. Some who shift, some who watch over the ones who do." Marcus looked at the flower in his hand, then at the swarm. He no longer needed to hide. But hiding had been his whole plan for meeting people. Now he had to walk in as himself, pincer and all, and hope someone there could love that shape. He crossed the water toward the flies.