Wanderlust pt.2

Wanderlust

You could forget the difference of right and wrong in a town like this.

The thought made Baird recoil into Misha's side, hands gripping the older man's waistcoat, trying to disappear as he often did when things became too frightening. Innya strutted along in front of the two, batting her eyes playfully at the string of men that called out lewd obscenities at her from under an overhang in front of a general goods store, their faces shadowed with the brim of their hats. The ones guarded by sunlight never knew just how lucky they were – too brave for their own good. They couldn't see Misha's eyes narrow as he guided the horses, didn't feel the intensity of a promise in his aura: 'Don't ever let me learn your name.' 

Innya was oblivious. Baird watched carefully as she stared in wonder at the stumpy buildings, trailed her feet along the cracks in the road as if she'd never before felt cobblestone on her skin; and when a shard of glass sliced a check into the thin bottom of her heel she paused to marvel at the gash. Baird did not understand. But he'd long since stopped trying to. Innya was not a fathomable creature. He could not see how she felt comfortable parading around in such a tense atmosphere. The excitement of new places always seemed to intoxicate her, but this was different. She should have known that. The people seemed to reach out from the sidewalks like octopi, their tendrils snaking around his sense of calm and squeezing anxiety from his lungs. He exhaled panic.

A figure moved in the corner of his vision, far too urgent for a typical day. A man dashed across the street – basket of covered pastries in hand – and jostled Innya. He stopped briefly to help her stabilize her balance and apologized before darting off again. Just before he left Baird's field of vision, he retrieved something from his basket. A familiar chorus of steel bottomed boots was granted his undivided attention.

“Misha,” he whispered hastily through a closing throat.

The older man redirected his gaze from carefully at Innya's back to the boy cowering against him. He didn't think much of Baird's iron grip on his coat, it was common for the younger male to attach himself to Misha's side whenever in public places or groups of people exceeding ten members. Baird was a permanent fixture to the right of Misha's ribcage, whether he agreed with the new appendage or not. But when he met his eyes – ready to tell him to calm down and man up – he was met with a fear far too intense for a casual stroll down the street. And then he knew.

“Innya!”

The girl stopped in her tracks and turned towards the carriage, ready to plead innocent to whatever he was accusing her of, before the look on both of her boy's faces stopped her heart. Without being told, she rushed to the back of the carriage and hopped in.

The town sprung into action.

Whenever things got tense, both Misha and Innya reverted to their native tongue. Baird could not help himself from feeling estranged. Frantically they shouted at each other in hard vowels and rolling consonants and he could do nothing but try and interpret direction from the shifting looks on Misha's face. Eyes wide, mouth agape, and the strange exotic exclamation of his name followed by foreign jargon meant duck, hide, or hold tight. To be safe, he did all three.

Behind him, in the body of the carriage, he could just barely make out Innusha's frantic prayers. She seemed to speak quicker than her mouth could move, her words riding on the coattails of the syllables that proceeded them, using slipstream to propel themselves forward. He recognized “God” and “Misha” and “Baird” and nothing else. He would say his own but could not identify a deity that protected the wicked, and so was silent, but was thankful that Innusha's would consider covering them this time. Instead, he pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his face between his thighs, trying to follow the instructions Misha's face ordered while blocking out the sound of carnage – the snap of bones under horse's feet, Innya's gun blasting away those that got too close, Misha's grunts and shouts of frustration as he tried to lead them to safety while controlling a trigger, and the scrape of uncut nails on metal as he grasped for his own weapon and took time he didn't have to contemplate murder.