Promise the Sky

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Keenan

 

 

 

"Keenan, I'm so bored. Are we nearly there yet?"

I catch my head in my hand, attempting to rub the stress from my forehead.

"Seriously?" I ask, throwing my pained expression in Hugh's direction. "He's seriously asking that?"

Hugh shrugs.

"Rather Will than Moira," he says, gesturing to the little girl asleep on the closest wagon. "She's so squeaky it hurts."

"Yes," I say, "but..."

"Keenan!"

"...Will never shuts up." I nod my head in the direction of the interruption to prove my point.

"And he always focuses on you." Hugh grins, nodding a head over his shoulder. "Go, Keenan. Go see to the William-baby."

I scowl but turn my horse's head anyway, guiding it over to the second wagon where Will continues to ride regally alongside the driver. We began our first climb into the mountains yesterday morning and the road grows ever steeper; rocks skitter away beneath my steed's nervous feet and she snorts her reluctance, one that I echo.

"What's the matter, Will?" I ask.

I feel a little guilty. Our path has entered its treacherous parts, and though it remains wide enough to navigate safely, a deep chasm has opened up to our left. It grows deeper by the hour, and a stream trickles pleasantly along the bottom. It should be beautiful, I should find it beautiful. But I simply cannot forget that every step we take is a step in the wrong direction, and even the purest beauty is dulled beneath my helpless dissatisfaction.

"Everything hurts, Keenan!" Will whines, "When are we going to get there?"

"You're not the one with saddle sores," I mutter, and wonder what happened to the dark, adult William that was hassling me on matters of morality, just a week ago.

"I can handle saddle sores," Will grumbles, "I'm a man, I'm used to saddle sores. You've never had wagon sores; they come from wood not supple leather."

At his side, the mute driver nods his agreement with adamant fervour.

"Stop encouraging him," I snap.

Will stiffens.

"What is it?"

"Moira's having nightmares," he says.

"So? She's a little girl, little girls have nightmares. My whole life's a nightmare right now and you're a key player, William Montgomery, but no one cares about me."

"Stop being a child, Keenan," Will commands.

I want to call him a hypocrite; his accusation rankles. But something has shifted in his posture and his tone and I cannot help but accept that he has aged about a decade in just a second. Maturity calls, and William answers.

"Don't touch her!" He shouts suddenly as a concerned Hugh notices the way the little girl has begun to squirm in her sleep. "She'll be hell if you wake her up too early; she forgets when she is."

"When she is?" I ask, but Will ignores me.

"I don't like this," he mutters, eyes locked firmly on his sister.