IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
III: Responsibility
Chapter 62 Party, Courtesy of Stovak
Tuesday, August 11, 2708,
continued Bright firelight plays with
the texture of the chapel walls as I wipe grease off my fingers onto my
leggings, high up under the skirt where the stains hopefully won’t show. Rich spices linger on my tongue, a full belly
anchors me on the good side of life, young ones surround me that I helped to
feed, and I can't recall feeling more contented than this as I recline on my
sleeping-bag to gaze up at the stars a-twinkle in the fragrant smoke. (“In Toulin and
Borta,” I read in the galley lamplight, “You may pick your teeth at table, and
in fact you will find, in the wealthier households, a small, silver implement
provided for this purpose situated to the left of your spoon, at the table
setting.” Jake asks, “And the
less wealthy households?” I scan ahead. “They use disposable wooden toothpicks, and
usually carry their own.” We could all study
this much faster individually, but sometimes it just feels right to slow down
and study all together, dry and cozy in the kitchen (sorry, galley) while the
boat rocks us gently on a friendly sea.
A fine fish dinner rests in our tummies, the dishes can wait, and the
anchor will relieve us of sailing-duties till the morning.) Marduk wolfs his ration (expanded for the occasion)
with eyes that gleam in the dim red light, while Aichi trots out her own little
dance of joy, laughing to the sky with a cookie in each hand. The smuggler passes me a mug of some exotic
tea, after pouring one for himself, as adaptable as any of the hardy souls in
his profession. The Abojans have joined
us out here, bundled up in furs, their cheeks pink with the cold, but smiling
as they distribute the food like servants, making sure (of course) that
Kanarik, nestled in Damien’s adoring arms, gets her double portion. Kanarik reaches up with an embroidered
handkerchief to wipe the piskisaw from Damien’s soft young beard. (“At the end of the
meal, the polite Toulinian dips a portion of his napkin into the finger-bowl,
and dabs at his mouth with it, even if his lips are clean, and then thoroughly
rubs his hands with the same cloth. This
implies high standards that can perceive grease or stickiness not apparent to
the eye.” Wryly Jake says to
Don, “Wiping your hands off on your pantsleg doesn’t count,” just as he catches
Don in the act. And we all laugh
together.) “A song! A song!” people cry as they push Damien to
his feet. “I can’t!” he protests
laughingly. “I am much too full to
sing.” Everybody boos and someone throws
a cookie wrapper at him, but it just lands in the fire and burns and he laughs
all the more. “Okay—Okay! Will a story satisfy you?” “Yes! Yes!
Tell us a story! Quiet,
everybody—let him tell his story.” When
all falls still except for the crackling fire and the flapping of a flag made
just for us (equal silver scales on a field of green) he begins. “Let me speak of Ro Jo
Raymos—now there was a fighting man! You
wouldn’t know to look at him, so they say.
He didn’t have much height to him, and not much mass, though muscle and
bone and guts and heart and brain made every ounce of him, nothing left over
for sitting easy. He fought with his
brains and could outmaneuver a soldier three times his weight.” Cyran interrupts with coughing, but it sounds
productive and mild, much better than it has been. Damien waits him out
patiently, and then continues. “He liked
nothing better than a good read, and it told on his eyes—he wore glasses so thick
they could deflect bullets—take care, Lufti, or you’ll need glasses, too!” Lufti blushes and grins; he’d been tearing
through the Abojan library like a fox on fire.
“See, Ro Jo came came from a well-off family—you might have heard of
Raymos Lumber; he’d been the heir, till they disowned him for his politics. But before that they bought him things like
glasses and books and such—he didn’t have to become one of us, he just did it
because it was right.” A few people fidget and I
feel like I can almost read their minds: “Would I have done that? Would I want to let go of privileges so that
others might have them?” Good,
Damien—let them think of that. I catch a
glimpse of Hara beaming off to one side. “Ro Jo had a friend name of Kuncheng Lai, a
mountainfolk man taller than the usual run and longer-limbed—like you,
Deirdre.” The bard nods my way. “Oh, but he had a wicked smile and the most
knowing eyes!” Like yours, Damien,
twinkling in the firelight. “What little
Ro Jo didn’t know about fighting Kuncheng did.
Kuncheng said few words but wry ones to the point. Not to call him sullen or anything; he just
found the whole human race too humorous for comment. Where someone else every bit as smart as him
might have despised the whole silly lot of us, he’d just laugh and love us all
the more. “Kuncheng Lai wore his hair
clear down to his butt and liked to let it fly around loose when he could. Stupid thing to do—got him nearly killed more
than once, when the enemy’d get a fistful or two—take heed, Deirdre!” Everybody laughs, knowing my vanity about my
hair. “But I suppose even brilliant
people need to gets stupid somewhere in their lives,” he says with a wink to
me. “Anyway, it did look grand, whirling
around him in the fight—as our Captain Deirdre knows too well!” I grab up a handful of hair and hide my face
in it as the laughter swells. “I told you Ro Jo’s glasses
could deflect bullets—they did just that.
A bullet that should’ve drilled him to the brain skipped right off the
glass and ricocheted back towards the enemy line. Of course it gouged out the lens, and left it
warped and useless. After that Kuncheng
always fought to Ro Jo’s left, guarding his blind side. Ro Jo never went on any guerilla missions
alone after that. And he lost his sense
of distance, which made him no good for dart or arrow or throwing knives, but
he could shoot just fine.” I see a boy
with a bandaged eye nod his head. So
many of us have lost so much. But rebels
keep on. You just keep on. “A year or two passed like
that,” our bard tells us. “They got it
down real good, fighting side by side.
It worked out especially since Kuncheng was left-handed, anyway. It’s like God made them to match in
battle. But wouldn’t you know it, a
bullet took out the right lens, too.
That one shattered the glass, tore up Ro Jo’s face something awful, and
left him blind as a rock, for the glass hit both eyes. But still alive.” “Sinnnnews and Mussssscles,
alive, alive oh!” Father Man sings out suddenly, then falls to giggling to
himself. “Uh, yes. Very much alive and strong—but how could he
fight? It took some time to let his mess
of a face heal, but he didn’t muster out even then—people still needed him,
with those well-read brains of his.”
Lufti sits up straighter, looking solemn. “As soon as he could get on his feet again, he’d
hang onto Kuncheng right in the thick of battle and shout, “What’s out there?”
and Kuncheng’d tell him, and he’d say just what to do. Ah, there was a general, Ro Jo Raymos! He could map it all out in his head and
strategize, same as if he could see like you or me.” Damien warms his throat
with a good, hot cup of tea, then continues.
“Nothing lasts forever, of course.
There is no love on Novatierre that doesn’t see bereavement, soon or
late. One day, in a pitched battle out
in an open field, Ro Jo heard Kuncheng
break off in the middle of a sentence with a cry of pain as a shot rang out,
and Ro Jo felt the hot blood gush on him.
He toppled onto his friend and felt no pulse, no breath upon the lips,
and then I guess he must’ve fainted or something, but whatever the cause,
friend and foe alike took them both for dead, wondering if one bullet had
pierced the two at once.” Damien pauses, and we wait,
sensing that the story doesn’t end there.
“The rebels despaired and fell back.
Soon the enemy flooded through the line, trampling our dead and
screaming like maniacs at the thought of good men routed by their guns. “They completely surrounded
the duo before Ro Jo snapped back to himself.
He pulled a machete from his dead friend’s sheath and another from his
own belt that he hadn’t used in awhile, and he just had at it, all around
him. The rest of the rebels wanted to
come to his rescue but they didn’t dare draw near, for he couldn’t tell friend
from foe, he could only hear where people moved, so he’d move a little faster
and mow ‘em all down. Oh but the blood
flew that day, arcing out around him like the devil’s ruby necklace in the
setting sun! And the rebels took heart,
and stormed right back into the army’s teeth, and drove them back, and robbed
their tents, and took their own turn shouting out their triumph!” A few hands clap, but
Damien hasn’t finished. “As the sunlight
failed and the firelight took over, Ro Jo’d swing his blades and contact
nothing. He stumbled around a moment,
looking for men to wreak his vengeance on, but all lay dead around him,
sacrifices piled up for Kuncheng’s sake.
Then he just stood there, a forlorn silhouette against the bloodstained
glow. He dropped his arms and let his
people lead him safe away.” Damien’s voice drops low. “Some say he never did muster out, that he continued to fight blind, would let his folks throw him into a knot of soldiers with his blades held high and hack his way out again, till someone on his own side’d call “Halt!” and gather him up again. Some say he still fights for us now, and Kuncheng by his side, and they say that in the spirit world his eyes see keener than ever, that he guides us through fog or dark or any other blinding thing, the same as Kuncheng used to do for him. We never fight alone. We have no blind side. The enemy can never win, because not even death can defeat us.” |
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