IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
IV: Braided Paths
Chapter 21 Your Presence is Known
Saturday, September 12,
2708 We move towards drier,
stonier land again, but I won't leave a trail in the scant dust of snow if I
time it just right, allowing enough bitter night hours to fill my footprints in
again with frost. This troop, a patchwork of
several companies with different color tents (pulled together, I gather, by an
officer doing far more than his rank) doesn't rate jeeps. Not very efficient in snow country, when you
have to haul carts of fodder to fuel the oxen, along with everything else. Not that this leaves me nothing to
sabotage... I find the pen easily by
smell in the dark. Maybe I don't need to
give up the tobacco just yet. Big,
docile brutes huddle together for warmth, shoulder to shaggy mountain shoulder. Shorn of horns and testicles, they blink at
me stupidly when I climb in to slit a throat or two. Easier said than done. The beasts keep moving out of my way. I think the bovine brain must contain one of
two possible thoughts at any given time: "I like this!" or, "I don't like
this!" The oxen have clearly placed me
in the latter category. Their eyes roll
as they get more and more skittery, and they begin to make loud moans that could
call altogether too much attention—I've got to cut this short. So I satisfy myself with a
few quick pricks of the knife to stampede them all against one fence that can't
stand the combined weight thrown at it, and so send them bawling off to carry
their excitement to the sleeping soldiers.
I slink away in the opposite direction, catching a glimpse of the first
tents trampled before I can safely duck out of sight, suppressing giggles. A pity. I had looked forward to slicing myself a nice
bit of beef tongue before leaving the carcass for the troops to find in the
morning. But this outcome turns out more
effective, actually. (Bellows burst the night,
with pounding, pounding, louder and LOUDER!
I run from my tent and scream at the sight of all these mad beasts
running straight at me! But arms swoop around my
middle and boost me up into the tree branches before I can catch my breath—I
grab quickly, just short of falling.
Then I crouch up there in the needles and the frost, while the trampling
chaos surges underneath, thick with the stink of cattle and fear. "Head ‘em off in the rocks!"
I hear Sarge shout.
"Easy...easy...they're calming down now, don't rile ‘em up again." Gradually the commotion subsides, and Doc
checks on the injured. "Sir, I think you'd better
take a look at this." I watch Sarge
touch an ox's flank. I see his finger
come back dark with blood. "Rebels!" he says like a
dirty word. "So that's who's terrorizing
the countryside with banditry." I hope
he can't see me grin up here. Good ol'
Deirdre! Sarge helps me back down
from the tree. "Stick close to base,
kid," he tells me. "Those ‘bandits' are
something altogether worse than we thought." Am I really?) Sunday, September 13, 2708 This morning, as expected,
Kiril's birdcall announces, "Your presence is known." We make sure we've muffled all our gear so
that not a single buckle jangles. After
a perfunctory agápé ceremony, we take up our newfound arms, ready to swing them
into action at any moment. Nobody lights
up a cigarette, though our nerves whine for nicotine; we gulp deep lungfuls of
mountain air and hate it for its freshness.
We take some undyed sheets (picked up in town for this eventuality) and
throw them about our shoulders and heads to camouflage us like winter. Thus we march forth, hushing through a thick,
new fall of snow—and here I'd hoped for nothing more than frost! So we're known, huh? That can simplify matters. We needn't disguise our sabotage to look like
accidents—we don't have Damien with us to breed superstition in the ranks,
anyway. And we can openly kill. Let them know the terror of never being sure
when or where they'll find a trooper's throat slit in the night. After all, they've taken Kiril prisoner. What else do they deserve? Monday, September 14, 2708 ("Fresh stuff!" I exclaim
as Sarge proudly presents me with cabbages—the good purple kind—corn-salad,
leeks, and turnips with their frost-bitten greens still on them. "Where did you get it all?" "Oh, the army never goes
without," he says while he adds sausages to our store, and corn and potatoes and
jams. "But a good cook deserves good
ingredients." He opens up a little box;
I can smell its aromatic contents before I even look in. "Caraway seeds! How in the world did you get your hands on
caraway seeds?" "Now, you can't serve
cabbage without caraway seeds, can you?" he says with a smile. "I...I don't know what to
say." "How about, ‘Lunch is on
the way'?") ("Lunch is on the way," Don
says with a smile, smelling cabbage and ham—ham smoked right on the premises
from homegrown pigs, cabbages grown here, too.
I've eaten more than my share of preserved goods—as all agents must—but
fresh tastes much, much better! By the time we reach the
cafeteria the food has already been laid out and we sit down to it. Biscuits, too, with fresh-churned butter—oboy
do I love biscuits! I gobble down mine
first of all, then take one from Don's plate. "Now wait just one…" "Hush," I say, a buttery
finger pressed to his lips. "Isn't it a
big brother's duty to make sure that his little brother stays well-fed and
cared for?" Jake
just chuckles on my other side, and shakes his head.) (We
meet over lunch, but Cybil looks nervous, toying with her noodles. I just enjoy the creamy mushroom sauce and
wait her out. Instead of the carefree
patter of normal restaurant conversation, I hear the barest susurration of
whispers and murmurs, and no laughter anywhere. Not
glancing up at me, she says, almost too quietly to hear, "My pastor felt
disappointed when I showed up without you yesterday." I
take a sip of milk. "I told you why I
couldn't come. I can't afford to
identify myself with any specific religion or group." "He
says I shouldn't spend so much time with you.
You're not one of us" I
wink. "Tell him that you're trying to
convert me. I'll give you ten minutes at
each meeting to pitch your faith to me.
Will that make it okay?" Her
brows knit, but she nods slowly.
"Maybe." Then she looks me in the
eye for the first time. "Zanne, I'll ask
you again. Who do you worship?" "Truth,"
I say. "It's a complicated
religion." I don't tell her that I'm an
apostate, banished from my people for sacrilege. She
frowns. "Are you a Chapelbodlian, then? Or is that just a fancy way of saying
atheist?" "Neither,"
I say quietly. "I wish it were that
simple.")
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