Free Salt by Maurice Gee

gather food. We’re running out. Food for him too. He won’t know how to find it out here.’
    They moved off to one side, then ahead of where the boy must be, keeping downwind so the dog wouldn’t take their scent. At midday Tealeaf said, ‘Rest, Pearl.’ She pointed to a strip of shade narrow against the foot of rocks. ‘Call if you need me. I won’t be far away.’
    ‘What food can you find out here?’
    ‘You’ll see. Try to sleep.’
    Pearl lay down, using her pack as a pillow. It made her jealous that Tealeaf seemed more concerned for the boy they followed than for her. She did not seem to realise what Pearl was suffering: loss of her brother, loss of her home. Images of her old life played in her mind – food and soft eiderdowns and clothes and entertainments – then she thought of Tilly, who had sheltered them and fed them, and gradually her tiny house and well-used bed became the place she would choose to be. It seemed warmer and more comfortable, with Tilly stirring stew in a blackened pot at the stove . . .
    After a few moments Pearl slept without dreaming, but soon a disturbance crept in from one side – an eddying of mud in the still water of her sleep. It grew and had a smell and shape, and something hard and sharp reached out from it, turning its point, seeking her. She woke with a gasp. The boy stood over her, holding a black-bladed knife. His face was filled with hatred; his eyes burned like the fangcat’s they had met on the plain. He reached for her, to hold her still and plunge the knife.
    Pearl said, ‘Stop,’ and he did not.
    She swam underneath her terror, looking for a word, and found it – any word, as long as she spoke it, thought it, in the right way.
    Stop, she commanded, soundlessly.
    It was almost right. He jerked his head to one side as if avoiding something thrown at him. Stepped back, shook himself, looked at her with fear and calculation. He stepped further away, four steps, and raised his knife to throw.
    ‘Be still,’ Pearl said, firmer now, finding the source more easily.
    He gasped and seemed to fight a creature that had leaped at him and fastened on; tried to push it, stab it. ‘No,’ he screamed.
    Stop, Pearl said silently. It was easier silent.
    He panted and fell still, and slowly his eyes began to glaze as she had seen the gateman’s and the Whip’s when Tealeaf commanded.
    Put down your knife.
    He bent in a drugged way and laid it on the ground. Behind him the dog began to howl.
    Be quiet, Pearl commanded.
    She stood up and gathered her pack. Now what do I do? she thought. She had no idea how long she could hold the boy, or if she could stop him again if he woke.
    Go, she told him, run away as fast as you can. Never come back.
    He began to shake his head and punch the heel of his palm against his temple, as though to shake something out.
    Go away, she commanded.
    But this time her voice seemed to waken, not hold him, and the layer of drugged sleep began to move slowly off the surface of his eyes. He reached for the knife.
    Don’t touch it, she said. Leave it there.
    His hand slowed as though he were forcing it through tar, but he pushed – she heard him push with his mind.
    Be still, she said.
    He answered her – words like an insect scratching in a paper bag: You can’t stop me. I’m stronger than you.
    Stay still, she replied.
    I’ll kill you, he said. Then he spoke aloud: ‘How long do you think you can hold me, girl? In a moment you’ll be too tired. Then . . .’
    Be quiet, she said, and saw him jerk with surprise at the strength of the command. But he wrenched his eyes away from her and forced his hand down again to pick up the knife.
    Leave it, she said, more quietly. Step back. Go away.
    No, he replied. I’ll wait. And you’ll step back, and I will kill you. He spoke aloud: ‘Company dies. You saw me kill the horseman. All of you will die.’
    She struck him with her mind, visualising it – a hand-slap with a dozen times her natural