IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
IV: Braided Lives
Chapter 44 Generosity
Monday, October 19, 2708,
continued (“Human
blood,” Don whispers, shuddering, in the next bed of the infirmary, after the
nurse goes off to fetch clear broth for our dinner. “That’s what George sprinkled on us. I never felt anything so empty as that
blood.” He props up on an elbow and
turns to us, a bit louder now that we know we’re alone. “More than just from someone dead. From someone whose soul had already dribbled
away before he died.” I
like the infirmary. Much softer beds,
warmer blankets, and some sunny windows facing south. The sick get privileges. I just wish I didn’t need those privileges
right now. I haven’t felt this awful
since the morning after that crazy, spell-induced party at Don’s, years ago. Okay, so maybe also that morning after in
Dixie...but no. Not even close. “Human
sacrifice,” Jake rumbles softly. “I had
no idea it had gotten near so bad. But I
should have known.” “Why?”
I sound irritable even to myself.
“Because you’re perfect?” Don
says, painfully, “Let’s just agree it’s bad,” and sinks back down onto his
pillows, with a creak of cords beneath the mattress. “That’s
not the worst of it,” says Jake. “You
know it’s not.” Don
groans. “I know.” “I
don’t,” I snap. “What are you two
talking about?” Don
hesitates before answering.
“That…thing. What he made us
kiss.” “Yeah? The dry, stinking thing that set off
explosions in our heads? What, did it
have some further drug or something on the skin?” Then I realize that I just said “skin”
instead of surface, and I feel odd about that. Jake
says, “It had no need of that.” “Randy,
do you remember that awful relic that Deirdre stole from Alroy, found in the
ruins of that corrupted mission?” “Ugh. Better than you, Don. You weren’t even there.” Jake
interrupts. “What’s your problem,
Randy? No need to get nasty.” “I’m
not nasty. Now finish the damned story!” Don
says, “I wish I did know the story behind this.
It’s impossible.” “Randy,”
Jake says, “It’s the same thing. That
relic, and the one we touched last night.
The exact same thing.” Dear
God. The time-mummified corpse of a baby
born deformed by a beaklike bone-growth, ritually tortured to death centuries
ago. “But…but
it fell into a boiling vat of dye and disintegrated! And then Alroy took the bits and goo to make a
monstrous idol, and he destroyed that, too.
Vaporized it.” “Well,
now it’s back.” “How?” Don
says, “I have no idea.” “I
do,” Jake groans, and pulls his blanket up over his head. “A rift in space and time.” For a long moment nobody
says a word. Then I almost don’t hear
Don whisper, “What are we going to do?”) * * * “What are we going to do?” Chianti asks. “We can’t move her, but the farmers can’t
keep us forever—not after the army just got through looting them.” Bijal says, “I talked to
the farmers. When they understood that
we don’t eat dinners, they recalculated.
They can keep us on for a few days more, with a little help from the
neighbors.” “Will the neighbors help,
you think?” “The word has already gone
‘round,” says Bijal. “They’re all mad at
the government troops coming through all the time—so many and so often, like
locusts. With unemployment so high in
the lowlands, and the extra votes that soldiers get, all the city riffraff’s
enlisting these days and ripping off the countryside.” “In the name of hunting us
down. But why should the locals like us
any better” “Because we’re not from the
government. Chianti, I’ve heard about
this stuff. Guerillas are supposed
to lure the people in power into getting more and more oppressive, to get more
of the people on our side.” Silence hangs in the air
like the smell of farm manure. “I wish you’d never told me
that, Bijal.” Yeah, Bijal—I don’t want to
hear it, either. I don’t want to admit
that I already knew. Come back darkness,
quickly, please! Send me somewhere
better than here... (Darkness fills me, the aftermath of last night’s overdose, with
an aching at the shoulders and the neck, and throughout my entire scalp. And I want it. I want to face the ugliness of Truth with
open eyes. “Cybil,” I say as I try to set candles where they’ll cast the most
light and cause the least danger, “We can’t just keep on running. We have to figure out what happened, and what
to do about it.” “You do,” she says, sitting on the floor and hugging her
knees. “You’re the fancy foreign
agent. I’m just a displaced bureaucrat
with no idea what hit me.” I give her a hand up. “Then
help me figure it out.” “What’s that?” Maury cries, jumping up. “Relax,” I say. “Just a
branch tapping on the window.” I really
need to engage these poor dears in some positive action or they’ll
self-destruct. As would I. Tomorrow, then,
when I feel a little better.) (I hear a tapping at the
door. Sarge says, “Kiril? You decent?” “Uh huh.” “Come on, then; they’re
serving supper.” He studies me in my new
outfit. “My oh my, ain’t you just the
cutest little thing alive!” I grin in
spite of myself and do a twirl for him. As soon as I step into the
dining hall, between the family quarters and the help’s barracks, my mouth
waters at all the rich smells. One long
table stretches down the middle and it just steams with food. “Look at all this!” someone
says with relish. “Real dairy stuff!” “They even got an ice cream
machine in the kitchen. We can have
real, honest-to-God ice cream!” “And butter, too—I can’t
remember the last time I had genuine butter on my bread.” “I thought you couldn’t get
butter from goat milk.” “You need a special
separator—and they’ve got one.” “Oh my dear Lord!” Sarge asks me, “What’ll you
have on your potatoes, Kiril? Butter,
sour cream, cheese, or gravy?” “Yes!” I say. The men laugh and cheer my enthusiasm. “That’ll take a couple
potatoes, then,” Sarge says, and snaps his fingers at the farmwife. “See to it, woman!” And she makes a sour smile. Suddenly self-conscious, I
cross my arms over my middle. “Sarge,” I
ask hesitantly. “Yeah, kid?” “Do I look like a pig?” “Do you what?” “Am I fat and ugly?” “No!” He picks me up and again pulls me onto his
lap. “No, no, no! You’re cute and cuddly!” His arms feel so good around me, wrapping me
close and warm. “We like you just the
way you are—don’t we, Men?” “Yeah!” “Yeah!”
“Hell yeah, Kiril!” “Watch your
tongue, man!” Again I grin despite myself—seems
my mouth does what it wants, these days.
“Then I’ll have bacon on my ‘taters, too!” I say. If Malcolm gets to eat, then so can I. Sarge holds me so gently, as tenderly as Papa
ever did, his big hand protectively cupping my tummy, his cheek soft against my
head, so that I feel almost too good, almost drunk on affection, safe in his
embrace and he keeps me right there for the whole meal. I work through several
potato-halves in a row, each with a different, clever combination of toppings—oh,
chives! Capers! And yes, yes, bacon! And just when I’ve seen enough of potatoes to
last me forever, they bring out the most succulent kid-goat steak, and biscuits
full of cheese, and buttery-candied carrots.
Sometimes Sarge laughs and
feeds me just like I was a little baby; sometimes I reach out, myself, and all
I have to do is point and the soldiers all pass whatever I want to me with big
smiles on their faces. Beans taste good
with cheese on ‘em—I never had them that way, before. I already felt full just on the potatoes, but
I can make room for more, finish off this stuffed tomato, at least, then maybe
just a touch of that other kind of meat over there. I’ve been doing that lately, each day I can
eat a tiny bit more past full than the day before...stealing food from the army
while safe in Sarge’s unsuspecting arms, if I just go slow, if...very, very
slow...) Eyes open...didn’t mean to
open them—close them quick again. “She’s responding,” Tanjin
says. “Here, Chianti, prop her up—I
can’t. My arm...” “Got it. You got the broth?” My headache makes me too
sick for the very smell of broth.
‘Noooo,” I moan. “Come on, Deirdre. You haven’t eaten since yesterday
morning. A little soup’ll do you...” “No,” I insist. “Way too full for...” Blissfully I pass out again. |
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