IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
III: Responsibility
Chapter 21 Greenfire Ash
Sunday, June 21, 2708 "I know of a rich
man's hunting-lodge near here," Malcolm says. "The good news is that tomorrow's the
winter solstice. We should find it
abandoned for the season, but with the larder stocked and ready for the owner's
return." My stomach growls to
imagine it. "And the bad
news?" I ask. "Tomorrow's the winter
solstice, and it lies upslope." I nod wearily. "Above the snowline, is it?" "Close enough to make
it too uncomfortable for the rich this time of year, but not reliably enough to
make it a ski resort. It might be
snowing there; I don't know." I sigh. Most of the Cumencians discarded their gear
along the way—blankets, serapes, winter clothes. "Walk apart with me, Malcolm." When we get away from the others I say,
"You're in an interesting position, my friend...ah, how shall I put
this?" "Say it, Deirdre. I’m fat." Yes, even now, though much less. With an ironic grin he adds, “I’ve known this
for awhile.” "You’re insulated. And you’re the only one among us with any
surviving reserves.” I hesitate to admit
what I have to. “We may have to count on
you to keep the rest of us going, Malcolm.
I...I don't know how well I'll keep my head, myself, under hypothermia,
on top of everything else." I do
know that I lost it as bad as the rest when faced with sensory deprivation
mixed with hunger—accelerated intelligence doesn't seem to interfere with that
at all; maybe it even helps the madness along. "I'll do what I
can. You know that." "Thanks," I say,
as I grin up at him and squeeze his hand.
I wish Marduk could see now how much we need this man. We go back to the
others. We link hands and pray. Pray for the Sabbath, pray for the dead, pray
for the living still bearing this war, pray most of all for the virtue of
hope. We have no bread, oh God, we have
no bread, and certainly no wine, but we take communion from the puffs of each
other's breaths misting on the air. "Pack up camp and hide
the firepit," I say. "Malcolm
will take the lead." Monday, June 22, 2708 The foliage gets thinner,
the leaves brown and brittle (at least I assume that they’re brown; I know yet
cannot feel the colors) yet still it grows
enough to block our path now and then.
In rear-guard position, I watch the others push a branch on the left out
of the way, one after another, till Gaziley’s turn comes and it smacks him in
the face. The others laugh grimly, just
a few chuckles dry of any real mirth, but I push up to his side and examine his
face. “How long have you been
blind in one eye, Gaziley?” I stare past the charcoal around his eyes, at the scar
of a corneal ulcer. Yet whatever
infection caused it has long since passed.
No wonder the kid can’t shoot! “I dunno, a year,
maybe. Lucinda eventually found somebody
to give me drops, and it stopped hurting.”
I release his face; nothing I can do about it now, then. And the light scratches on his face don’t
need my attention. Chulan says, “We didn’t
used to have medics, Deirdre. We did the
best we could.” Gaziley adds, “And after I
got the infection, Lucinda would try and get us the best cosmetics, when she
could, not because we needed it, just because she loved us. She went out and learned which brands were safe.” We start walking again, as
Chulan says, “Government never inspects the cheap stuff. Some companies put all kinds of poison in
there if you’re not careful, or don’t use clean methods, or both. Your Ma and Pop store homemade is the best
for cheap and safe, unless you’re in a mining town. Then they put in local junk that could give
you the palsy, but it’s what they’ve got to hand.” Damien says, “They probably
don’t even know they’re poisoning people, so many have the palsy already in
those towns.” “Now perfumes,” Chulan goes
on, “Most of those are safe, if you don’t drink them. Contact poisons don’t usually smell nice,
though they come in pretty colors. Some
perfumes’ll give you a rash, but that won’t do much harm if you stop using them
soon as it happens.” She pushes a branch out of
the way and holds it for Gaziley before she adds, "Fatima used to like
this one perfume, kind of resinous, sweet but sharp." She bites her lip, fighting not to cry, and
then continues. "She wore it so
much that it became a kind of signature for her; we knew by the scent when she came
down the hall before she reached the door." The branches across the path grow fewer, as the
vegetation becomes sparser still; we've almost reached the altitude where I got
sick when Malcolm drove us up so fast.
"Then one Sunday I sat near the aisle at mass and smelled the
censer as the altar-boys passed by. I
suddenly realized that it smelled just like Fatima—that's why she picked that
one." Chulan giggles abruptly. "Was that the same
mass," Gaziley asked, "where one of the regular altar-boys worked at
Madame's every night? And the priests
never guessed?" "No, Berel only did
the noon mass. And the priests all knew—they
just didn't let on." She broke off
a twig and threw it at him. "He had
a family to feed, Gaziley—what with his dad dead, his mom gone mad, and all
those kids younger than him. What's a
guy s'posed to do?" "Priests could've
helped." "And get their church
shut down?" Gazi prowls the thinning
forest, scowling at the dying grass.
"Some things are worth getting shut down for." "What—leave us with no
sacraments, as happened in other towns?
Blow it out your hole, Gazi." I ask her, "What about
Lucinda? Did she have a favorite
perfume?" "A subtle one. Apple-blossom. You wouldn't know to look at her, but she
liked delicate things.” Chulan laughs
sadly and says, “You should've seen her room, Deirdre—more ruffles and lace
than any of the whore's quarters, and loops and bows of ribbons, all different
colors.” Smirking, but
affectionately, Gazi says, “Girls hardly ever got a bouquet from the gentlemen
without her coming around a week later to see how the rosebuds dried and
whether she could use any of the baby's breath.” “Of course we always gave
her what she wanted,” Chulan tells us.
“We owed her. She protected us as
fiercely as she did those fragile little dried-flower arrangements of hers.” She stops to light her last
cigarette, her face momentarily gaunt and old-looking when she sucks on
it. “Lucinda kissed all that goodbye to
join the rebels, of course.” The cold
air whisks away the frail wreathes of smoke as though they’d never been. “But you know, if you ever got close to her
right after she bathed, with her hair all wet, you'd still get a whiff of that
apple-blossom stuff—I think she kept a vial of it hidden somewhere." Ambrette nods. "I remember that. Anybody smells apple blossoms, we'll know
she's watching over us." I can hardly even imagine
the scent of perfume, I ache so badly all over.
Leaf burns bright inside, but it leaves an evil smoke behind; I've never
seen the daylight look so drear. But I
take it on faith that good things still exist in the world. Apple blossoms. Incense.
Dried rosebuds and ruffles and baby's breath. And brave, devoted, big brothers, loving the
little ones so much that they'd go to work in a house of...God! Nothing can shake this mood off me; I'll just
have to ride it out. Chulan says, "You
getting all this, Damien? Because it's
up to you to pass their memories on." "All that and more," he says. "You'll have to tell me all your
separate adventures, too." He
stares grimly on ahead, gun on one shoulder, thambriy on the other. "I'm writing a song called The Black
Retreat." |
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