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IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume V: Sharing Insanity
Chapter 3
Friday,
October 30, 2708 (I fight to walk in the right direction. I fight to look at the old building, the
peeling paint and exposed wood of it, so out of place with the rest of the
campus. I fight to enter the door that
creaks on unoiled hinges, to drag myself up the steps, to kneel before
h..h..h... Before her. In a burst I
remember her name. I reel and grip the
bed, suddenly overpowered with dizziness...and shame. I know what I have done, now, and I know what
to do. “Dear, dear Gita, please hear my confession.”) I didn’t want to wake up
this morning, after so little sleep. I
didn’t want to do what I have to do now, crouching out here behind a bush,
looking out over the enemy encampment. I
just wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep, dreaming of anything far away from
here, even nightmares, so long as they’d differ from the shocks of waking life. (“That’s the house,” Raif says, pointing to a low, rambling, pale
stucco building. “I really felt
comfortable there, before Kimba started in on nightmares.” I put an arm around Kimba.
“Well, you didn’t have me with you then, honey. Did you know that I can enter into dreams to
protect you?” Kimba turns wide eyes up at me.
“Really?” “Yes, if you give me permission.
Til has trained me in this.” All
telepathy lessons start with dream-entry—the easiest avenue for the beginner. She snuggles close and says, “Okay. Let’s go, then.” I feel her tremble under my arm.) They say that when a horse
tosses you, climb right back on, or be slave to your fears forever. There is nothing wrong with my reflexes. Spring flowers fill the bush, so, as I wait,
I capture a bee and release her again before she has time to sting me. She darts around my head, buzzing
indignantly, but then flower-scents recall her to her business—as I must recall
my own. I will do this. In daylight, just to challenge myself. I can.
I will. I must. (Kimba’s steps slow as we approach the house, surrounded by
concrete, with a single huge conifer growing from a hole cast in the
center. Her grip on me tightens “Come on, honey,” I tell her.
“You can do this. I’m right here
with you.” Maury growls, “The owner didn’t fancy gardening, I take it.” “Judging from the number of add-ons to the house,” says Lula, “I’d
guess that the parents had their hands full raising children.” “Yes,” says Raif. “They
have lots of bedrooms inside, full of toys and stuff for different ages.” His brow knits as he says, “I don’t know
where they went, but they didn’t take their things with them.” He looks up at me and asks, “Is it wrong,
that till now I never wondered where they went?”) (“I messed up, Gita. Hulda
didn’t deserve what I did. I got
confused. I listened to the wrong
spirit. And...and I can’t reverse it!” I feel the tears lurch up out of me, I feel the wetness slide down
my cheeks, I taste salt seeping into the corners of my mouth, I hear my own
sobs. I can hardly see her dry and dusty
little body through so many tears. “I, I, I thought I’d tuned in.
But not to you. To him. Filthy ol’ Weatherbent! His spirit poisons everything, this whole
school, the nation, even beyond the nation!
I can feel it stretching out everywhere.” The old bedspread rips under my clawing
hands, tiny little holes, but they could snag, they could grow. “I did soooo wrong!” I gasp for air, still on my knees, and then humbly, more humbly
than I’ve ever done in my life, I ask, “Will you take me back?”) There’s the gap—take
it. Slither in along a tree’s long
shade, in the split instant when not a soul looks this way, as the soldiers
busy themselves about breaking up camp for the day. Hide behind the army-green canvas, then slip
silently to the next tent as men walk to the tent that I just left to take it
down; now move on to the next, and the next, all along the perimeter. Here, stop, they won’t get to this one for
awhile. Catch breath as quietly as
possible, slow, deep breaths. (Kimba takes a deep breath as we enter the house. Nice place.
Lace doilies, a small electric organ in the corner, religious pictures
on the wall. Courtney makes a disgusted face at a crowned statue of the virgin
Mary, but before she can say something stupid and adolescent I pull her aside
for a wound-check and while I’m at it I whisper, “We’ve got enough troubles
without you deciding it’s Marching Season, girlie. Play nice with the Catholics, and I’ll make
sure they play nice with you.” She shrugs her good shoulder, her eyes downcast, muttering, “Awr,
their superstitions’ no skin off my nose.”
And when I pronounce her wound clean and healing nicely, she ventures a
brief smile as I bandage her up. Anselmo looks around,
smiling, and says, “it looks like my wife decorated it!” And then his smile turns sad. I help him wrestle his blanket out of its compression-sack. “Did she die?” I ask. “No,” he answers. “ She
took the children and fled the country.
I told her I’d follow her, when I got the money. I put her on a ship full of other Latinos,
paid the captain, and I don’t even know what damn country he’s taking them to,
he said it was better for both of us if I didn’t know, but I
...told...my...wife...I’d...follow her!”
The tears streak down his burn-scarred face. I pat his arm. “Til can
find them. We have people all over. We watch for things like shiploads of
refugees.” Or slaves, I can’t help
thinking. “For all I know,” he says,
“I loaded them onto a slave ship and paid my last dime for the privilege.” I look at him sharply. Did he just read my mind? “But Zanne, at least as slaves they’ll stay
alive.” I feel exhausted, crowded,
like so many thoughts push up against me that my shields could crash at any
minute. I want to throw myself onto
that overstuffed couch right over there.
Instead I inspect the bedrooms, looking for what I fear to find.) Watch as the men inspect
the oxcart wheels in the habit that we’ve taught them. Watch the soldiers get dusty climbing under
each and every one. Repress the desire
to giggle. (And I find exactly what I
expected. Teddy bears and other stuffed
animals, glaring with magentine eyes. “Shon, Lula...well, everybody.
Take these toys and get rid of them.
I think I saw a shed out in the back.
Get every toy you find out of the house.” Helping in the search, myself, a bag full of toxic playthings in
my arms, coughing on the stirred-up dust, my mind goes back to that moment,
before the toy store window, when I acutely felt a link to Jake. And then, with only that connection, I
suddenly remember the time when Randy got him drunk to stop a neural relapse,
and he nearly beat up my husband over something harmless, till I kicked his
knee out. I sit down, right on the floor.
Why does that matter now? And why
do I get the weird feeling that in some way I’m standing in for Deirdre? And why, on top of all that, do I feel that something
has gone wrong with her? It all tangles
up in me, none of it explained, till my poor head hurts as if it’s trying to
explode. I feel Cybil’s hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay? Do you, uh, need that medicine?” Yes. No! I squeeze her hand. “I’m fine, Cyb.” And then I climb back to my feet and help
look for toys.) And so the inspection moves
past the carts on to other things. Now,
that wouldn’t be the cook’s cart, would it?
No, medical—I see the red cross on it.
Tempting...but I do so want to best the enemy morally as well as
physically, don’t I? What would you know about
it, Killer-Virgin? I did not hear that. I close my eyes tightly, only to see the
afterimages of men’s heads exploding into flame. Oh Lord, we’re entering the Season of the
Dead; the air teems with spirits massing for their Day, everything I do
might...no. Get control of yourself. I clench my jaw and open my eyes again,
glaring at that medical cart. Okay—I
don’t just want to best the army morally, I want to best myself morally,
too. I want to stop sinking and sinking
and...stop that, Deirdre. We all just do
our best. Real enough for you yet? Shut up shut up I don’t hear anything. Stop wasting time! No one sees, so slip under the cart, creep
along in its shadow to the next cart up—ammunition, guns, grenades, the tools
of war. Help yourself quickly, but don’t
take too long filling up your pockets. Now, slip under its wooden
belly, ignore the peripheral glimpses of faces in the shadows, and take knife
in hand to pry out the pegs and twist loose the
screws...carefully...carefully...that’s it, leave ‘em where they’ll hold for a
little while, then collapse upon the road.
And the soldiers will say to each other, “But we inspected that cart!”
and they will shiver, thinking also of the dead. I almost see, in the corner of my eye, the
shadow of someone nodding grimly. “You concealed a memory, there.” Deirdre roused groggily from the trance to face the serene smile
of her accuser. Which quickly frowned
into a look of concern as he switched off the trance-tones. “Getting your vengeance upon me?” she asked, shuddering from the
abrupt transition. “I’m sorry! Really. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Deirdre rubbed her hand across her face. “Do you usually talk to people you don’t mean
to wake up?” “Here? Indeed I do. Most people sit there nicely sedated and
willing to take suggestions. I was about
to tell you to dive deeper, below the concealments.” Deirdre tensed, her hand slipping unconsciously down to the hip
where she used to wear a knife. “What
makes you think,” she said slowly, “that I’m concealing a memory?” “It’s a common enough pattern,” he replied, not at all menaced
when her hand touched only fabric.
Gently he said, “Plenty of agents hide the early stages of drug abuse
from themselves.” “What are you talking about?” “You remember hallucinating.
You tried to suppress that, too, but you didn’t quite make it. Audial hallucinations particularly go with
abusing the greenfire leaf over time. “I’d had a concussion!” she snapped. “Which causes all manner of interesting symptoms, but not, as a
rule, audial hallucinations.” “I’m neurologically different, remember?” “You must have been nibbling the leaf now and then, trying to stir
yourself out of the stupor from your injury.
It grows plentifully in the Midlands, after all. That might also have had a lot to do with
your lack of appetite.” “Or it just might have been telepathic overlap from the
Charadocian army stuffing Kiril silly!
Not to mention that concussions cause nausea.” “Don’t get angry, dear. We
handle all kinds of secrets discreetly here.” “I told you, I’m neurologically different. You already know that. Tampered with. Permanently.
Psychoactive substances affect all of us Fireheart folks abnormally.” He stroked his chin a moment, thinking about it. “Could be,” he conceded. “It might take a lot less, in a shorter time,
to start affecting you, maybe even subjecting you to flashbacks from abuse
past. Especially considering how
traumatically stimulant herbs affected you initially, on your Rookie
mission.” At her stare he smiled again,
sadly shaking his head. “You agents
really don’t remember our faces after debriefing, do you? And after we share such intimacy!” “Was it you who…” “Yes. I debriefed you after
your rookie mission.” “Then you understand. I
could have been reacting to all kinds of things, hearing Kief’s voice like
that.” “True. It’s possible,” he
said soothingly, and switched the music back on. Deirdre relaxed, gripping the magentine bar,
just as she started to remember a bitter taste in my mouth… …But that was hours ago,
and I’ve had no help since—and boy do I feel it! I pick myself up off the ground anyway, and
dust myself off. Agents can do without
help. And I promptly reel into a
roadside tree, but push myself back to my feet as soon as the dizziness and
weariness subside. Don’t lose it,
Deidre, not now. The children need
you. But no more leaf today—don’t want
to wind up like Lucinda, do you? |
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