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IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume V: Sharing Insanity
Chapter 13
Thursday,
November 5, 2708, continued (Zahir never fought a
government soldier. He never faced the
tests of fire and blood. But not all
veterans serve on battlefields; I don't know if I could find his kind of courage
in me, all alone out here on the farm that his parents left to him. "You'll have to watch your
step in these parts," he tells me as he brushes off the straw-dust and pulls
his shirt back on, shivering slightly now that work no longer heats him up. "Folks have it good here, no real caste to
speak of, and they don't all sympathize with revolution." I see that his sleeves show enough fullness
for the homespun cloth to let him move comfortably at his work, and so did
Ben's sleeves, come to think of it. He
sees me looking at his shirt and smiles for a second. "Nobody around here collects fines on the
sumptuary laws—no money to collect, no high-born to see and take offense, no
budget for police to waste on things like that." "What about soldiers?" Have I left them behind at last? He puts away his pitchfork,
not speaking till he fetches the lamp from the barn, and walks with me uphill. "They come by, sometimes—more and more as
time goes on. Some of the worse lot pick
out somebody wearing clothes where they don't like the cut, and they'll make an
example of him. They have their fun and
then they go away." He stops before the
two graves. "People around here say let
it go, lie low and they'll pass through without remark. Most soldiers understand the realities out
here." I'd be a fool if I didn't
see the meaning in his gaze upon those graves.
"But your parents..." "Not everybody survives the
fun and games." His face looks hard and
golden in the lamplight, not quite human, almost...what's the word I learned? Illuminated.
Like one of those stars that fill up the sky behind him had come down
among us. "They felt bad about it, they
said. Accidents happen, they said. They gave me a wad of bills; I still have
them somewhere." He shrugs, saying, "I
can't read the writing on ‘em, so I don't know how much." Then he scowls straight at me and says, "Some
blame the rebels for stirring up trouble—without them the soldiers might not
come at all." Such fiery eyes! I feel exactly where my knife rests against
my thigh, trying not to look obvious about keeping my hand free for it. "Do you believe that, Zahir?" "I dunno," he says softly,
and looks away again. "No," he finally
says. "We shouldn't have such rules in
the first place. We shouldn't have to
think about what if the soldiers come by.
We shouldn't have to make our own hidden country in the middle of a
nation that wants the food we grow but not us, ourselves." He lifts his eyes and gazes out over the
hills; I follow his look to what I had missed before in the dark: a
construction-site on a distant hillside.
"And we can't stay hidden for long; the rich build manors
everywhere. They have discovered the
beauties of the mountainside. Soon we
shall become fashionable.") * * * I hear the new recruit
whistle—it's the only tune we teach somebody that we're sniffing out, maybe the
only tune left that's safe, if only because we handle it with caution. I put down the knife I've been whetting and
nod to Bijal. He gets up, too, and we
head out into the night. That beard of
his has come in so nicely that it almost covers up the scars. I approve, though, that it doesn't quite—if
the sight doesn't scare away recruits too fainthearted to serve with us anyway,
it will at least teach caution. The night smells even more
like spring than day. I must still be
young; I keep wishing we were sneaking out into the night for something fun. (Looks like we'll sneak out just fine. Pauline finishes stitching Anselmo and
bandages him securely while I clean up.
Then I go out to the reception room and stuff some bills into the pocket
of the tan-skinned night veterinarian, where we keep him tied up and
blindfolded. "Buy yourself a stiff drink
when your shift ends, dear boy, and forget we were ever here." "Much obliged," he says faintly.
Nearby Dalmar spoons activated charcoal slurry, through the bars of a
big-dog cage, into Kimba. Raif urges her
to keep swallowing, no matter how much she mislikes the taste, that the sooner
she finishes, the sooner he can put her back on the leash and let her out. I add a few extra bills as payment for a
light, fold-up cage we can take with us, so that Kimba can sleep unbound. "It's not the first operating room I've cleaned," I assure the
vet. "No one need ever know. However, if someone should ever be so rude as
to mention it to anyone in authority," and here I rifle noisily through some
random papers, "I see your home address, right here on your employment
papers. Now considering, my dear, how
easily I subdued you in the first place, you do not want me to have to pay a
visit." "No Ma'am.") I hear the whistle again,
this time tentative. We halt, we
hide. Let them get nervous. Let them wonder if we're going to show up at
all. I sit down and make myself
comfortable, motioning Bijal to do likewise.
If they go home prematurely, they aren't the kind we need. (Pauline comes out and says, "We're going to need someplace for
Anselmo to recuperate, and some way to get him there." Unexpectedly, our captive says, "I could help." I murmur, "And why would you do that, darling?" as I rest a hand
lightly on his shoulder. "His name. He's Latino like
me, isn't he?" "That's correct." "We take care of our own around here. You folks seem all right. Despite everything, I mean. Or maybe because of it. You're doing all this to fix up somebody
who's not one of your own." "He's as much ours as any of the rest," I inform him, rather
stiffly I must say. "No, really, I caught just a glimpse before you blindfolded me—you're
not all Latino, not even most; you're a
great big jumbled-up mess." My hand digs
nails into his shoulder. "But you're all
right," he quickly adds. "You fixed him
up when you could have left him to die.
I wouldn't want any harm come to people who help out Latinos, I don't
care who they are." What's that rustle? I'm not
handling the papers anymore. Don't be
silly, Zanne. The place reeks of caged
animals—of course you hear rustling! "I'm going to take a big risk on you," I say for show, even as I
scan him telepathically and find only sincerity. I lift off the veterinarian's blindfold and
then untie him. "Let's talk.") I'd like to discuss the
routine with Bijal one last time, but silence serves us better. I have no real reason to doubt that he knows
how to manage, anyway—he's done it and I haven't. The contact (meaning me) brings a Captain
(meaning Bijal, or whomever one finds handy to promote in a pinch) to the first
meeting, wary every step of the way for a betrayal. My hand strays to my knife; I prefer it to a
gun for close combat, and Bijal feels the same.
Captain stays with the new recruits, Contact leaves. Captain trains them and, if they turn out
worthy, initiates them, or leads them to someone else for the honors. I favor the latter course, myself; something
tells me that Cyran could use the company, and I know from personal experience
that a journey makes a good way to sort out recruits. But Bijal has to make the final decision;
once I leave the picture it becomes his command. (Zahir leads me down the hill again, silent for awhile, before
glancing at me sideways, and asks, "Did you get supper?" "We rebels don't eat supper," I say, but my mouth waters. He grins, suddenly, surprisingly.
"Well, I won't tell your officers.
Come on in, let me fix you something,"
And he opens the door for me. His home looks dusty but orderly, with lots of carvings on the
furniture. Folks up here in the
mountains do that, when they get snowed in, to pass the time. I sit at the table and the back-support feels
just right. He goes down into the cellar and comes up with a basket full of
vegetables and sausage in one hand and two mugs of home brew in the other. When he sets one mug beside me I say,
reluctantly, "I'm not supposed to drink on my mission." Zahir just winks and says, "I won't tell your officers that,
either." Good beer, the way I like
it—thickish and a bit sweet, with just the right touch of bitterness. As he chops up cabbage and potatoes, I notice
that no two legs on the table or the chairs match each other, and I like that
just fine. The food smells so good and
warm and homey that I feel downright sleepy with contentment—but not so much
that I'd miss that dinner! He sees me rest my chin on my folded arms. "I'd offer you a sleep on the couch, tonight,
but rats got into it. I've got it ripped
up to reupholster, and I'm still collecting hair and feathers to stuff it with. Barn okay with you?" "I've slept in so many barns that it feels like home." "Good, because my bed's got room for one." "So I'm staying the night?" "Yep. Benomi says you'll
need some teaching before you go." And
he checks on whether the frying bits of sausage have released enough grease yet
before adding in the vegetables. "So
it's settled, then. Ol' Ben says you
never learned to ride a horse. We're
gonna fix that." Funny, I don't remember telling him that.) (It's settled. When our new
friend drives out at dawn, returning a healed horse to his uncle, Anselmo will
ride with him, into the nearby farm country.
We'll be long gone by then. I've
told Anselmo, when he gets the chance, to get to a Til embassy, any country,
anywhere. I told him to mention my name,
and then ask about his wife and kids. We, of course, must slip out much, much sooner. Maury carries Kimba, who actually looks
better. I've packed along more activated
charcoal with which to dose her nightly for the next couple of days. Suddenly Raif grabs my arm.
He points down in the weeds. I
don't like using a flashlight if I can help it; it blinds you to everything
outside of its circle, and shows your position from miles away, but I switch
one on briefly to see what he points at.
A mottled rat stares back, eyes bright red in the sudden glow.; Then it scurries away. "Is that all!" I laugh, shutting off the light and pocketing it
again. "Raif, it was just a..." "Rat. I recognize him. I used to feed him cookies, in the days
before we met you, in the old place where Kimba found that teddy-bear. I don't like sweets, so I'd give him my
share." "Are you sure it's the same one?" "I recognize the patterns on his fur. He's following us." I shrug. "Maybe he's hoping
for more cookies.") (I open my eyes in the dark.
I fell asleep beside Gita again, my arm draped over her dry little body,
the air thick with dust and her scent. Am I still George Winsall, Changewright, or am I someone
else? Or something else? Just now, I think I saw
from the eyes of a rat. Someone flashed
a light in my eyes, blinding me.
Somebody with impossibly radiant blonde hair, but I couldn't make out
anything more. This...person...has some
connection with the Lumne Boys. And I stalk hi...her.
Her. Because...somebody...has
taken a deep interest in all these people. I suddenly recall that I have dreamed this before, but not with
the radiant one. Maybe I couldn't see a
female before. I dreamed before of a
dark-haired boy feeding me cookies, and the more I ate, the more clearly could
I see him. I turn over, my back to Gita but still comforted by her presence,
and snuggle into my pillow. Whatever the
dream or vision or experience, it's gone now.) ("Come along, dear," I say to Raif. "He's gone now; there's nothing we can do
about it. The further we go from here
the better.") After the fifth forlorn
whistle I tap Bijal on the shoulder and we get back to our feet. "You can do it," I whisper to him. "You're ready." He nods, trying to look confident and at that
moment I admire his courage for attempting this again. We stride out into the night with as much
command in our carriage as we can muster.
Time to meet our applicants. * * * (I spread my blanket out on
soft heaps of straw by the horse's stables.
You know, anybody with eyes to see could figure out that those two fine
dappled grays ain't draft animals. How
could I ever doubt Zahir? Yan and Yaimis
didn't. The horses make soft noises
as I lay here all muzzy with sleep, blinking at dim shapes in the dark, and I
feel safe and warm...yet still I feel the dance in my veins, the dead-dance
from the other world. Something changed
forever in me, or maybe the dance just woke me up to changes already
there. I see it all sort of like I'm
outside of time looking in, the way that ghosts see things. I've grown up awful fast—will
I someday have eyes like Zahir, just another farmer in the distance till you
come up close and really look at him? Or
will I go through my life in a hurry and die of old age before I grow a
beard? Or will another twist wait just
around the corner to slow me down again? I think of Zia and her warm
milk smell. I could like a life with
smells like that in it, I could settle down into it like settling down into a
sweet straw bed. I could listen to a
baby laugh and gurgle, soft and plump upon my knee, and forget all about guns
and marching and causes worth blood. I
feel funny tingles deep down just to think of it. If Kiril and I survive all
this, I think I'd like to have that kind of life. I get along with Kiril—we finish each other's
sentences, sometimes, we know what makes each other laugh, and when we talk of
dreams, we recognize the pictures in each other's sleep. But there's something hard and bony about
Kiril; I can't imagine anything about her having to do with babies, and her
eyes grow more like Zahir's every day.) |
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