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Acting on impulse, they found an accord so quickly it seemed choreographed: knit right hand to left, then threw opposite arms ’round Hosteen before the old Hollander could even think to extricate himself, and knit those ten clawed fingers like-a-wise. Over Hosteen’s shoulder, Chess could already see dust kicking up in front of the Dead Posse like an evil cloud, rushing toward them with all the fell force of its transit. So he shut his eyes tight ’gainst the grit and laid his cheek to Oona’s, beard-rough to reborn-smooth, folding tight together to poor Kees — while, at the very same time, the oldest tune he knew came pouring out through his mouth all unsummoned, a flood of bile and honey borne on somebody else’s breath.

As they walked down to the water’s brim,

Bow we down —

As they walked down to the water’s brim,

Bow and balance to me;

As they walked down to the water’s brim,

the oldest pushed the youngest in.

For I’ll be true to my love,

If my love will be true to me.

And here he heard Oona’s voice in his ear again, murmuring, without her even opening her mouth. Saying: My own Ma used to sing it different, though — in more of a country way, p’raps, ’stead’a the tune I always ’eard from those in the Clock-’ouse. Or maybe ’cause she died well content wiv what she ’ad, little as that might’ve been; us kids, ’er man, my useless Pa wiv ’is tricks, drinkin’ all she worked for away at the week’s end, and never fankin’ ’er for the use of it, neither.

Always wantin’ t’make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, was my Ma. Just like that ’arper in the song . . .

Her father’s knight came riding by

And this maid’s body chanced to spy.

Oh he took three locks of her yellow hair

And with them strung a bow so fair.

And w

hat did he do with her breast-bone?

He made it a fiddle to play upon.

And what did he do with her veins so blue?

He made fiddle strings to play a tune.

And what did he do with her fingers slight?

He made little pegs to hold them tight.

And the only tune that the fiddle would play

Was oh, oh, the wind and rain —

And the only tune that the fiddle would play

Was oh, the dreadful wind and rain.

Make a corpse into music, a mermaid, a swan. Make your ’eart’s desire into your own death. Make your sister’s love into your husband. Make her grave your marriage bed.

Make —

— two men and an old/young woman into one more shadow on a heap of shadows, a blank spot blending into the outcropping, livid grey on grey. Nothing that would stand out far enough to be seen, even as the Dead Posse howled by and Hosteen trembled between them.

The Posse’s train tore up and down, back and forth, with Love staggering headlong after at the point of a rope. Sometimes he tripped, fell and was pulled, scraping himself on the stony soil, only to rise up once more covered with fresh wounds, his mouth set; though they offered no quarter, he asked none. Sometimes Chess thought he saw his bitter lips move, as if he might be praying.