over his head at the Stalker. Her mouth moved, but no words came out, only little whimpering sounds. She put her left hand to her face, and then her right, and Fishcake saw that the right hand was not really a hand at all, just a shiny metal hook.
“Anna?” the woman said. She took a step backward into the darkness of her little house. “No! You are not her!” she said. “I tried and tried, but you are not—”
“Sathya!” whispered the Stalker, and lurched past Fishcake to wrap her steel arms around the frightened woman. Fishcake shouted out, because he thought for a moment that she had turned back into the Stalker Fang again and was murdering the stranger. When he saw that she was just embracing her, he felt relieved, and then jealous.
“Sathya!” his Stalker whispered, tracing the lines of the woman’s face with her metal fingertips. “I haven’t seen you since—oh, that night at Batmunkh Gompa, the snow, and the fire, and Valentine… Oh Sathya, how old you’ve grown! And your poor hand! What happened to your hand?”
Sathya looked at her, and looked at Fishcake, and fainted with a little sigh, collapsing on the flagstone floor.
“She was my friend, my student,” the Stalker whispered, crouching over her. Her blind bronze face looked around at Fishcake. “What is she doing here? What has become of her?”
Fishcake shook his head uneasily. How was he supposed to know anything about this hermit lady? His Stalker was the one who knew her. He said, “We ought to nick some food and get going before she wakes up.”
“No! We must help her! I want to talk to her!”
“But what if the other half of you comes again?
“Then you must watch for her,” his Stalker whispered. “You must warn Sathya when you think the other one is about to come. But perhaps she will not come at all.” She stroked Sathya’s face. “Such memories, Fishcake—all sorts of new memories! They make me stronger, I can feel it. Now help me; where is her bed?”
That was easy; the hermitage had only one room, and the bed was in the far corner; a big bed, heaped with furs and blankets, with a fire of cattle dung burning in a space beneath it. Anna laid Sathya down and gently drew a coverlet over her. Sathya stirred.
“Anna, is it really you?” she asked. “I think so,” the Stalker whispered.
Sathya started to sob. “Anna, it is all my fault! I should have let you rest peaceful, but I couldn’t bear it! I made a deal with Popjoy.”
“Who is Popjoy?”
“An Engineer. He Resurrected you. He promised me that you’d be yourself again, but you didn’t remember me, you didn’t remember anything, you said you weren’t Anna…”
“Sssssh,” the Stalker whispered, holding Sathya’s hand, pressing it against her cold bronze lips. “You brought me back, Sathya. Your love brought me back.”
“Oh, oh,” moaned Sathya, and hid her face in the blankets, while Fishcake watched and waited for Anna to turn into the Stalker Fang. But she did not change, and slowly he started to hope that this meeting with her old friend had given her the strength to keep the Stalker Fang at bay for good.
He slept on the floor that night, pillowed on rugs, warmed by the dung burning in the potbellied stove. The voices of Sathya and the Stalker washed over him and around him, speaking of places he had never been to and people he had never met, dropping now and then into languages he didn’t know.
He woke hours later, to morning sunlight and the steady sound of a pump. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he went outside into the bright morning mist. His Stalker was sitting on the porch, her back to the sun-warmed wall, her blind mask turned inquisitively toward the sounds that Sathya was making as she worked the handle of the pump at the far corner of the house. It looked like hard work for someone with only one hand, so Fishcake went to help. When they had filled Sathya’s big leather bucket, they took a handle each and started carrying it to the house. “You’re wondering what this is for, I suppose?” said Sathya. “Well, it’s a bath, for you.”
Fishcake yelped, protested, and almost dropped the bucket. He didn’t think he’d ever had a bath before, and he didn’t see why he should break the habit of a lifetime now. But Sathya and his Stalker would not listen to any excuses; working together they stripped off his grimy clothes and dumped him into Sathya’s zinc bathtub, and soaped and scrubbed him, and washed his lousy hair.
That was the happiest day of Fishcake’s childhood, and he would remember it always. The sun rose high and burned away the mist, and all around Sathya’s lonely house the snowfields shone clean and dazzling, each summit exhaling a breath of wind-blown snow into the diamond sky. Sathya washed Fishcake’s clothes, and gave him some of her own to wear while they were drying: worn canvas trousers and a woolen shirt. He chopped wood for her, tugging big logs out of a pile that had been brought up to the hermitage as a gift by the people living in the deep valleys below, and splitting them with an axe. His Stalker helped him carry the split logs into the lean-to behind the house, and then Sathya led him down to the drystone enclosure where the cattle were. They frightened Fishcake at first, because they were so big and so alive, but Sathya showed him how gentle they were. He thought they were funny, the way their hairy black ears twitched like mittened hands to bat flies away, and their pink tongues curled around the mouthfuls of hay he held out to them. He watched while Sathya milked the cow, and then carried the pail back to the house for her, careful not to spill a drop of the foamy, steaming milk.
Meanwhile, Anna had unsheathed one of her claws and was using it to carve an off cut of wood she had found in the lean-to. When she had finished, she pressed the thing she had made into Fishcake’s hands. It was a little wooden horse, trotting with its head up and its tail flying out behind it like a flag.
“What is it for?” asked Fishcake, turning it over, surprised.
“For you,” whispered his Stalker. “It’s a toy. For playing with. My father used to carve toys for me when I was a little girl.”
Fishcake looked at the horse in his hands. If he had been a normal child, he would have had lots of toys; he would have spent whole afternoons lying on the carpet inventing worlds of his own with toy animals and cities. If he had been a normal child, he might already think himself too old to play with little wooden horses. But he was a Lost Boy, and he had never owned a toy before. And he started to cry, because the horse was so beautiful, and he loved it so much.
Later he and Sathya walked down to the river: a white rush of a river that spilled under a rickety rope-and- bamboo bridge and went shouting and splashing away toward the wooded valleys. They threw stones into the rapids, while Sathya’s dog barked and bounded up and down the bank. Fishcake found the pole from an old prayer flag washed down in last spring’s thaw from some shrine high on Zhan Shan, and threw that in too, and they watched the river carry it away. The sun was going down. The valleys filled with shadow, and the mountains glowed amber and rose.
“You should stay here, Fishcake,” said Sathya, over the roar of the water.
“I can’t,” Fishcake replied, not wanting to even think about it. “The Stalker …”
“She can stay too.” She looked away from him, far away, beyond the mountains, into her own troubled past. “After I lost my hand and the Stalker took charge at Rogues’ Roost and the Green Storm seized power, I went a little bit mad, I think. I kept trying to tell people that she wasn’t really Anna, but they wouldn’t listen. The Storm wanted to execute me, but there were a few officers—Naga was one of them—who took pity on me, and they arranged for me to come and live here instead. The Stalker Fang must have signed the order, I suppose; that must be how she knew to find me here. I expect the others have all but forgotten me by now. I’m not allowed to leave, but the people in the valley settlements look after me; they bring me wood and honey and tea, and in return I go up onto Zhan Shan and tend the high shrines, and pray for them to the Sky Gods and the Mountain Gods.”
“Don’t you get lonely?” Fishcake asked.
“Of course I do. It’s a better life than I deserve, after the things I did when I was young. But if you wanted to stay for a while, there would be room for you. Just until you are ready to move on, or old enough to move down into the villages and make a life for yourself there… Fishcake, you’re only a child.”
They walked together back to the house. The Stalker stood outside like a statue, her face tilted toward the mountains. Hearing them coming, she turned and whispered, “I must go now.”
“No!” said Sathya.
“No!” cried Fishcake, feeling his perfect day slipping away from him. He wondered if his Stalker had changed again, but she was still Anna.
“I have been thinking,” she said patiently. “The Engineer who Resurrected me is still alive, isn’t he?”
