IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
IV: Braided Paths
Chapter 53
Sunday,
October 25, 2708 (The sun has already
climbed pretty far up by the time I finish digging the grave with the rusty old
shovel that I found out back, though I started at the first hint of light in
the sky.) (The kids arrive at noon,
hungry, shepherded in by Jacques: a brother and sister. He has dark brown, curly hair, hers looks
more bronzy-light brown, kinky and cut short, and he has lighter skin than her,
but they both have the same dark eyes and compact builds. "They're good people,
Zanne," Jacques tells me gruffly, then goes to fetch his lunch. Cybil clucks over the
newcomers, then sets out plates of noodles in cheese sauce, stretching out a
little bit of chopped up vegetables as far as they can go. My money has finally begun to run out. Now comes the time to teach
these city-dwellers how to scavenge weeds and seeds, the secret caches of
rodent nests, and the rodents, too—anything they can find. Now it gets hard.) (Now comes the hard part; I
shiver in my sweat. I go back into the
dead folk's home. I spread out their
blanket on the floor. and then I gently scoot the man's bones into it. They don't hold their form too well, but I do
the best I can, finding every bone chip and fingertip and placing them on the
blanket, many of the bones still in the shirt and pants. Summer clothes, no layers: this happened in
the summer. I hadn't yet become an
Egalitarian then–or maybe this happened on some other summer, long ago, maybe before
I was born.) (I look at the new kids,
eyeing us suspiciously, holding their dishes close. I realize that the wrongness in this country
started before their birth; they've seen nothing else. I shiver. "How well do you know these
two, Jacques?") (The sleeves have kept the
arm bones more or less together, so I lay the poker—his sword—on the hollow of
the shirt stretched over ribs, where his heart used to be, and I move the arm
bones in their sleeves over it, and I pour all the little bones of the hands on
and around the cold steel.) ("Raif and Kimba?" he says,
scratching the beard that he has started on to save razors. "A year or two. They've run errands for my stand now and
then." And that's all he says. "In other words, darling,
you don't know them well at all.") (Now her turn. I drag the blanket over the best I can without
messing up the skeleton any more than I have to. Gently I tug the skirt down to where it
belongs. I think she must have had a
pretty face, with cheekbones like that.
I put her next to her man on the blanket, bone against bone, all
snuggled together.) ("I know them well
enough. They never cheated me." I nod. "That goes a long
way," I say. I give the sibs a light
telepathic scan. Nothing leaps out as
bad...yet something still doesn't feel quite right. "They're French," Jacques
says gruffly, and walks away. Not entirely, I think. Kimba, at least, looks part African, her
lighter hair notwithstanding, and her eyes a dark hazel to Raif's chocolate
brown. He has porcelain skin, like
Merrill's, but hers comes closer to cocoa-powder. His nose is thin and hers looks shorter and
wider, but both have the same chin and shape of face. They appear to have two different fathers, of
two different races—reason enough to become orphans, the way things go these
days. They both stare at their
empty plates hungrily. Cybil goes to the
cupboard to see what else we can give them that doesn't need much preparation.) (I check out the
cupboard. Empty, of course. But I know how people like us hide food from
foraging soldiers. I tap floor-stones
till I hear that hollow-sound, then I lift the stones away. Most of the roots and things have moldered
into dust, just like you'd expect, so it must not have happened this year, but
I do find the bottle of oil I was looking for.
I sniff at it—not as rancid as I feared.
It hasn't been all that long, then, since this tragedy played out–maybe
a couple years. I learned the word
"tragedy" from a book of plays I read from while taking a break from the
digging. I read fast, now. This house has so many books in it! Probably what got them killed.) (Raif notices me studying
him. "My Mum belonged to the
Revolutionary Theater. That's what got
her killed." He gives a short, sharp
laugh, his eyes not smiling. "Just a
name! They just meant the revolution in
the head that art can spark. But folks
called her unpatriotic." And his eyes say don't even
ask about the fathers. And Kimba is not
a French name. Did the killers mean
"patriotic" to the country—or to their ethnicity? Toni pours them the last of
our milk. "I'll say a rosary for your mother," she
tells them, and they visibly relax. ) (I kneel beside the bodies
with the oil, praying for their souls with all the verses that I can remember,
making up the best words I can to fill in the gaps; if it works for Father Man
it'll work for me. As I trace a cross in
oil on the forehead of each skull, I feel a tenderness steal through me, no
fear anymore, like I lay babies to rest, not corpses to the grave. Sleep in peace, my dear ones. Your troubles here are over. And thanks for the shelter—it's something I
always want.) (Beyla, baker that he is,
has made quick-cooking mini-biscuits, and Cybil brings them in for the hungry
children. Then I escort them to our
room-divider couch (more like a loveseat, really) vacant for the moment. I consider the boy's lankiness and add
cushions on the floor so they'll both have room to rest beside each other. Tshura spreads sheets and blankets for
them. "Get some sleep while you can," I
tell them. "You're on night shift." Others will need the bedding when they do
guard duty.) (I fold the blanket ends over skulls and
foot-bones, then I pull over the sides, sort of like that food that Deirdre
makes for us sometimes...what'd she call it?
Wraps. I tuck them into a
wrap. Then I poke around the house till
I find the sewing-kit, and I stitch them in, safe and sound.) (They don't lie down
immediately. The sister kneels on the
cushions whispering to her brother on the couch. I shrug and take my turn washing dishes. They'll learn soon enough to catch rest while
they can.) (When I pick the bundle up
I know that all my care to arrange them meant nothing, that they tumble all
apart in my arms. No, not apart—together. They mingle together, the man's bones and the
woman's—they would have wanted it that way.
I lay them gently into the
grave, bow my head for a moment in a few more prayers, then pile the dirt back
on. I look around for a big enough
stone, roll it over, and scratch words into the headstone with my knife the
best I can:
That'll do. It'll have to. Maybe that's the only name they need. I finish with a cross, then
go back in and take from the floor-cache a bundle of sage leaves. They still have a little scent to them—good. I build another fire, a small one out on the
flagstone floor, so the house will trap the smoke in awhile before it finds its
way to the chimney. I throw the entire
bundle of sage onto it, then leap over the flames again and again, till I know
the smoke has smudged me real good and cleansed me of any possible rudeness to
the dead. Now I'm free to take those
jars of jams and jellies out of the cache and stuff them in my pack, and toss
in some books, too. The army wants to
kill me anyway, so why not? But before I finish I feel
a tug to go over and look under the bed; I don't know why, I just have to. (and I feel like an idiot—if I hadn't been so
tired I'd have noticed that I could've slept soft last night!) I see a bundle in the dark down there and
pull it out, coughing in the smoke. I
take it out to the clean air outside... A tent! It's a little, bundled-up tent—boy will that
ever come in handy! Thank you, Good People.) * * * "They're still
camped out at the dairy?" I ask Bijal as I shift on my crackling bed of leaves,
resting after wound checks. "Still." Another cloudburst rains down hard, and
thunder rolls around the peaks with sudden flashes of light, but Bijal has
sheltered us so cleverly that few drops find their way through to our
individual niches; they just make soft percussion all around and enrich the
air's scent. Bijal stares at me
expectantly. I told him to brief me
every day so I'll be ready to resume command when the time comes. Already I can follow trains of thought pretty
well, and I haven't lain here silent all that long between his words and my
reply..."What are they waiting for?" I remember to ask. He grins. "I think they're waiting for their mommies to
tuck them in and chase all the bad dreams away." "Huh?" "Think about it—the whole
concept of dairies." I do, and visions
swarm in my head of cheese omelets and butter cookies, whipped cream, ice
cream, and frothy shakes. "Mother's milk
and all that. I think they want to stay
as long as they can stretch it, because the minute they set foot out into the
real world again, they go back to being soldiers." He grins wickedly. "And we haven't made them one bit too happy
about that." I can actually follow what
he's saying. "Have you studied
psychology, Bijal?" He glances around a moment,
before grinning shyly and whispering, "Everything I can get my hands on. Talking to people, you know, folks who don't
expect my class to ask questions, whenever I can get away with it. I hope to learn to read, someday, too. I started once, but...things got in the
way. I want to finish what I
started. And when the war's over I want
to become a shrink." I nod. "Good choice—you won't lack for business
before we're done." "I plan to specialize in
post-traumatic stress." I take his hand in mine; I
can't help but note the kind of calluses you develop when you shoot for a
living. "Promise me you'll treat all
comers alike—former rebels and former army, both. Because they really, really, don't think all
that differently, Bijal." He swallows and turns his
scarred-up face away. At last he says,
"I'd tell you no, Deirdre, if God weren't haranguing me for the exact same
thing." Then he blushes and says, "Don't
tell anybody I said that." "Or a shrink might lock you
up?" I smile up at him and he grins
back. "It's hard, though," he
says. "I don't know how I'll ever be
able to treat the other side like human beings, let alone like patients." And then some horrible memory twists his
face. "Don't worry," I say,
patting his hand. "If you've still got
enough soul left to hear God haranguing you, you'll do just fine." |
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