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IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume V: Sharing Insanity
Chapter 8
Tuesday,
November 3, 2708 (I’m back home, in
Ishkal, that sad little rock of an island where I grew up. The windows rattle with a storm, as we run
about, trying to put something under every leak waiting for my father to come
home and fix the roof again. I hear
water patter into hollow-voiced pans and pots and vases all over the hut. Buckets, too, and basins, but not nearly
enough. It’s going to be one of those
nights where we don’t get any sleep, running around changing vessels, braving
the door to dump them out into the icy blast, getting nearly as much back in
our faces again. Thunder hammers at us,
and lightning makes all things strange and startling. The lightning
flashes, and I see my mother naked. She
must have gotten out of bed in too much haste to dress, to try and save our
furnishings from rain. And then the
lightning flashes again and I see her fleshless—a skeleton, fighting the flood
with inadequate little teapots and cups and whatever comes to hand. And then darkness and a flash—and we stand
face to face, the skull grinning at me! I wake with a
cry, in the Headmaster’s suite, safe from all that, miles and miles away. Bad dreams—grown men don’t bother with
them. I grope for the lamp and the
matches, and regard the clock. Hours
yet, till dawn. And I hear the
windows, still rattling, the rain still pelting the roof. I venture out of bed to stare out the window
into the flashes of lightning that make the campus strange. A storm, blowing up from the south by the
looks of it, out of Vanikke. We
shouldn’t have a storm—the weather report said so. I shiver in the dark like a little boy,
scared that the nightmare didn’t stop with waking.) * * * (I wake, my face
pillowed on a pile of chamois, in the forgotten room, left to dust and decay in
the quarter where nobody else in the school can even look. I had dreams full of thunder and they still
roll and crackle in my head. I sit up on the floor, gazing on the old treadle sewing-machine
abandoned there. Did they leave so
hastily that they couldn’t even take something that valuable with them? We could have used this. My head aches;
the storm will not clear from it. I have
to pull myself together, to attend classes as if nothing happened, keep my
grades up and the teachers favoring me.
But they’re slipping, aren’t they?
Everything’s slipping. Well, what did
you expect with change? It’s not always
going to go smoothly. I pick myself up
off the floor, rummage for the change of clothes that I keep handy…and notice
how many of the chamois pieces now connect with each other. I vaguely remember sewing. That happens sometimes, in these
sessions. I must have fallen from the
chair, there, and landed on my work. I glance fondly
over at the sewing machine. Does it
still remember the touch of her hands?
Did she guide me at the stitches?
Is her spirit still in there somewhere, the way she used to be? Will what I do give it back to her?) * * * At dawn some of us clean up
the dirty dishes and bottles and debris, while others brush out the borders of
the “grave” and strew forest litter back upon the once-bare ground. As the leader, I pile resinous wood against
the “headstone”, then set it all on fire, to purify the rock and release its
connection to the dead. The flames look
pale against the rising light—as pale as memories that you should never forget,
but do. Wearily, the others gather to
warm themselves beside me after a long and especially chilling night. I look up and see that snow has fallen on the
peaks lower down than usual for this time of year. The sharp, sweet scent of smoke spirals
upward till the winds snatch at it and whip it all away. * * * (In the morning the men
take up the flag. Oh dear Lord—that’s
the very flag we march under! Then they
never release their dead like we do?
They’re there, all of them, tethered to that thin bit of rag, fluttering
in the slightest breeze? I shiver—and I
thought the Charadocian army only oppressed the living! Fat sizzles in the skillet
as I fry up batter for the morning bread; the smell brings me back to here and
now. Better for us, then, if their
ghosts aren’t as free as ours when battle comes. But from now on, every time we win, whenever
I get a chance, I’m gonna burn their flag.
Surely the dead won’t fight against us if we’re the ones who set them
free.) * * * (I wake up shivering in my sleeping-bag, not wanting to
poke my nose out beyond the fleece. I
open my eyes to a blurry, frost-bitten forest, the leaves losing their last,
vivid colors as the temperature just keeps dropping more and more. I hear the clatter of Cybil’s pans and the
crackle of flames—brave dear, to get up before the rest of us to fix us
breakfast. We need to find some better
solution than this. But not living in some house full of death, not like that
last one. Even the most skeptical among
us agreed; we left as soon as the storm blew north. We couldn’t stay there.) * * * (I wake up cold and stiff
on the trampled ground. I ache—Oh God
save me how I hurt, like I never have in my entire life! Every muscle of my body—did the ghosts get to
me for not dancing all night long? And
hungry—sick hungry, like I’ll die if I don’t find food, but I can barely move,
I don’t think I could even crawl back to the road. And thirsty even more than hungry—thirsty as
hell on a hot summer day, thirsty till my head aches like a hangover...sweet
Virgin Mary save my soul! I didn’t drink
with the dead last night, did I? I don’t
remember. I do not remember one single
fornicatin’ detail of how or why I stopped dancing or how the night ended! Good Lord—I must have taken the forbidden draught! So why do I still
live? Maybe I’m dying. Maybe that’s why I feel so bad. Maybe it’s no use even trying to move. If I stay still, the cold will become normal
and I will die, join all my dead friends and have nothing more to do. Stuff that. Cyran depends on me. Deirdre sent me out with a job to do. And Kiril...it would break Kiril’s
heart. Sit up, you stupid ass—sit up! Can’t. Feels warmer to lie here. Feels warmer all the time...nice… Footsteps trudge towards
me. Don’t care anymore. Could be all the Charadoc’s soldiers and ol’
Whitesleeves at their head. But what can
they do to the dead? “Look, Marta—see, the dream
told the truth!” “Leave him, Ben—what good
can come of what you dream when you fall asleep like you shouldn’t on All
Soul’s Night?” Arms lift me up, crackling
the frozen sweat—I cry in pain! “There there,” he
says. “You don’t know your own
benefit.” To the woman he says, “What
harm can come of a little feller like this?” “I don’t want to find out,
Benomi Marst! Put him back down—don’t
you go bringin' him into our house!” “What, leave him here to
die?” I feel the man turn to face
someone, but I can’t open my eyes anymore.
“You think that’s all right, but falling asleep in the rites is bad?” I feel motion, swaying—he walks with me in
his arms, and I hear his woman’s steps crunch the frost beside us. “Kid’s half-dead from hypo—what’s it called?” “Hy-po-thermy. That’s what Medic used to say.” “Yeah, that. I don’t know how he survived the night, with
the cold come back and all. Heaven knows
how he managed—you saw that bird fallen by the path, frozen dead.” “Don’t sound canny, that he
lives. Heaven knows, you say? Maybe it’s the other place that knows. I don’t like it, Ben—‘specially with you
falling asleep and all.” “Maybe God willed that I
fall asleep to dream of finding him here.” “Don’t sound like no angel
guided you, neither—an ugly, scarred-up woman looking almost like a man, you
said. Some ghosts come from Hell, Ben,
and you shouldn’t listen to ‘em.” “That whiff of
apple-blossoms didn’t come from Hell.” Can it be? “Lucinda...” I moan from cracked lips. They halt abruptly. “What’s that, son?” “Lucinda...always lookin’
out for me. Ugly face...beau’ful heart.” “Live or dead, son?” “Dead, now. Live once.”
I open my eyes and look up at him, my head a little clearer, just for
hope. “What man or woman do you serve,
sir?” The peasant’s eyes
widen. Then he says, “Neither and both.” I sigh and relax in his
arms. “Then I’m in good hands,” I say,
right before falling back asleep.) * * * (I don’t care if
the men reproach me. Falling on the
enemy in the midst of their feast gave us a quick and easy victory, stamping
out an entire band at once. They ought to thank me. Shouldn’t it suffice that I let them have their
mass? I wish I could feel the comfort of the common people, in their
yearly rituals of bereavement and release.
It did seem to help, in the brief ceremony that I’d allowed, to speak of
Jordan last night, who died in uniform for The Cause. Yet something in me burned at the lie,
knowing that he really died for love of me. I remember the
old nanny at his wake. She stank of it,
but I’d had a bit too much, myself, my youth notwithstanding. She shouldn’t have even been there, in her
thin black sleeves, but people made allowances for the grievous circumstance;
she had loved Jordan from his infancy. She had looked at
me with pure hatred. She knew why his
captain had sent him on that suicide mission.
“Your kind of love would burn a man alive!” she hissed, and then she
tottered away, leaving me too stunned to reply, and too young and unsure of
myself to ask anyone else to rebuke her for the horrid breach of protocol. I consider her
words, now, as I sit here by the campfire, pushing together, with the silly
sabre that officers must wear, the chunks of wood that haven’t taken flame
yet. Sparks fly up and vanish into
night, like the souls of men in battle.
It’s just something the peasants say about troublesome women, who seduce
and betray and lead men to their ruin, just for the excitement. I didn’t deserve that. I wasn’t even a woman; if anybody should’ve
been ashamed, it should have been Jordan. No. I don’t believe that. Forgive me, Jordan. I know what I am. I have never let myself love another man.
Play the physical games, yes, but not love. Oh come on,
Layne! Trying to think like the rebels
has made you superstitious. Shake it
off! Jordan can’t forgive you, nor
condemn you. Jordan is no more. And it doesn’t matter who I burn alive, for
there is no judgment day. We have
nothing but now. We might as well make
the most of it. I sigh, and sip
my tea, wishing I had something stronger, something to fend off the cold of
this night, thinking of the warmth and comfort of the suite I had in my mother’s
home. How, exactly, do I make the most
of life out here, huddled by a fire, shivering off the day’s battle and bracing
myself for the next? A camp-follower comes up, the little washer-woman with the choker
of cheap mountain garnets, poorly cut.
“You look sad, Ma’am”, she says, and part of me melts a little at the
sympathy, coming from a fellow woman, a non-soldier with whom I can relax—even
if she is just Mountainfolk, maybe even especially. “Forgive me, if I’m out of place, but do you
want to talk about it?” I shake my head, but I smile.
“Just regretting a foolish love, long ago.” She smiles back, gently.
“We’ve all been young and stupid, Ma’am.
That’s how we learn and grow wise.” “Kind of you,” I say, and finish the tea. It doesn’t help at all. “Chamomile,” she says. “I
can smell it. It’s supposed to cheer the
heart and aid in sleep, but it’s never worked for me. Does it work for you?” “Not really.” Then she leans down and whispers, “I know herbs that do.” For a second her garnets, glinting in the firelight, look like
drops of blood. Then I push aside the
silly notion and say, “Tell me more, darling.” It’s all pointless anyway.
At least I could have a good night’s rest.) * * * The sacred rites of the
night before have put me into a mystical mood, but I mustn’t let that interfere
with a good bit of work—no better time to act than now, as twilight deepens
back to night again. The warmer the
weather, the more the report comes around from the country people that the army
raids their cold-cellars for the blocks of ice that folk gathered all winter to
keep their summer-food. I myself have
watched, from a distance, how the foolish soldiers pack their dead comrades in
a cart full of portable winter, though the stench has begun to grow and they
can hardly force the oxen to the yoke anymore. We have sent enough corpses
to those fine, military graveyards so far away; the time has come to liberate
these dead. So, after asking all in my
troop to blow tobacco-smoke over me for the protection of my soul, I slip out
into a night nearly as chill as the last, and just a wee bit darker as the moon
continues to wane. Carefully I calculate
trajectories. The mountain roads still
run steep, here in The Midlands, and skirt many a cliff on their winding paths. Some ways downhill from the camp of the
enemy, I grope along the ground and find the wagon ruts, then dig them to a
different curve, gouging the earth with my knife, feeling rather than seeing
what I do. I move rocks as large as I
can bear to key positions. I think my
own ghosts oblige in stirring up a wind so loud that it drowns out my huffing
and puffing, though it cuts so cold through my sweat that it burns. Oh please, my dear, dead ones, so recently
feted, be on my side tonight and guard me from the spirits of my foes! I pray, but I can’t control my shivering over
what I’m about to do. Now for it. I wipe my palms off on my hips and calm
myself the Tilián way, tuning in to the rhythmless rhythms of nature till I can
do the thing I came for. Silently I
steal to the camp, by now so practiced at dodging guards that I hardly feel any
fear at all. This entire land slopes;
there is no level place. I see that I
have calculated right. I cross myself,
then dive under the stinking cart, release the break, and give a little
push. As I slip away again, a shadow
behind a passing guard’s back, I hear the first wooden groans behind me build
up momentum as gravity does the rest. Horrified soldiers pop out
of their tents to watch their dead roll past them unassisted by any hand that
they can see, faster and faster and no man dares step forward to stop it as
their late comrades abandon them, offended, perhaps, by some mis-step of the
living on the night before. Now the cart
jumps and skips it goes so fast, stiff limbs jerking with every jolt as zippers
twitch open and body-bags split wide—and the cart swerves as though steered,
they all see it swerve uncannily right over the cliff, spilling at last the
sullen corpses to tumble beyond all reach. In daylight their leader
might well discover the rocks I moved, the ruts new-dug. And it won’t matter one bit. At least half the soldiers won’t believe his
explanation, no matter what evidence he finds.
They will have their own explanations, and they will whisper these to
each other the minute he turns his back. People think that terrorism
is about killing, about blowing things and people up. Some have done it that way. But it’s really about terror—pure, ungodly
terror. May God and the ghosts
forgive me! |
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