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IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume V: Sharing Insanity
Chapter 15
Friday,
November 6, 2708, continued The weather warms up, but
not so much as to make the humidity unpleasant.
Fragrant, rather, full of young green growth, moss, and the second round
of blossoming. I ought to appreciate it
more, and would if I felt better, and if I didn't need a smoke and maybe
another hour of sleep, perhaps with less painful dreams. But who gets everything? Today, thanks to those
dreams, I can remember precisely the whistle that the twins used to use, its
every pitch and plunge and tremulo. I
had no idea that its shrilling contained so much pain! But never mind that now, pucker up and let it
loose, pierce the wall between man and beast with a long and loud warble, and
wait...wait...listen for the sound, soft at first, of hooves pounding across
the turf...wait...the pounding grows louder and louder and there! I see them!
A silver-white steed speckled black, and a black stallion blazed in
white: they gallop straight for us, beauty in motion of muscle and bone and
glossy, shining fur, prepared by someone who knows the whistle, too, for their
reins flip loose on empty saddles. Exactly what we require,
delayed as we've been, and here it comes, for love of our lost ones in the hour
of our need. Now we can race to our date
with men who have no knowledge of our coming, thundering like Valkyries to steal
them from this life. Oh Yan, oh
Yaimis! Thank you, thank you, and thank
you again! (Blood. The red stones want
red blood.) "We set a fine feast last
Wednesday," I murmur to Betany. She
nods, but then looks at me, wondering
why I'd bring that up now. "Those
horses," I say, "are dead men's steeds." * * * (Smile sleepily, girl! Don't let Sarge know that I feel like biting
the heads off of those disgustingly fluffy little squirrels cavorting across
our path with such insolent cheeriness, because the bright-eyed and
bushy-tailed little rats couldn't care less about my edginess. Children who nibble on pot-laced cookies
don't get a bad case of the grumpies—only the ones who suddenly quit do.) Smile bravely at Betany
across the gap, as she takes her place on the far slope above the road. Commanding officers don't acknowledge
hangovers. Act like it doesn't hurt in
the least to braid my hair as tightly as possible and coil it so that I can
stuff it back in a hood and disguise myself from that trooper who thinks he's
seen me somewhere. By rights I should
just snip it all off; vanity over having never cut my hair in my life (beyond a
little trimming of split ends, at Zanne's insistence) does not become an Agent
of the Tilián. So whoever said I had to
be the perfectest agent on the planet?
And dang, but there is some silver in it! Where'd that come from? Hide—quick! Can you almost hear them coming, Betany, on
your hill opposite my hill, with the road rising up to cleave a passage in
between? Or do I listen to the
double-time march of my own heart beating?
Quick, faster—it may be them!
Hide yourself, like me! (Act like I fit right in
with all the lazily grinning soldiers who don't notice that they march
annoyingly out of step. See how well I
keep my promises, Sarge? The men so much
liked getting special biscuits for breakfast that I outdid myself the second
time with some REALLY special biscuits—morale has never been so good.) I can recall every gesture
and caress that the twins used to use on their horses, like some key in my
memory has unlocked a secret chamber in my head. The black horse lies warm and docile beside
me under the bushes, my arm around his neck as if we conspire together. Betany cowers in the foliage, now, with the
other horse, on the other side of the road, touching her silver steed exactly
as I told her to; now nobody could tell that she's there but me. I stroke fur silently and the horse smells so
much like Yan and Yaimis that I struggle not to weep. (I found Sarge's cache of buds—the hidden
evidence that he's been making new drugged cookies, out of my sight, keeping
the box stocked. I thought
I saw him washing a mixing-bowl in secret, at the last creek, and I know the
Dutch oven went missing and then mysteriously returned. Still, to watch the soldiers,
I didn't expect such a response —just how much have I gotten used to? I'm sending men to hell for this!) Men's clothing feels
strange on me; I haven't worn trousers since I came to this country, so some
part of my mind keeps trying to insist that it's all over, that I've made it
safe and sound back to Til Institute and everything's all right. Dream on, Deirdre! But a "tall woman" can make an average-sized
man when you've got as little breast as I do.
Who was that guy gone AWOL at the tavern, anyway, and why does he notice
things that others miss? Has he dreamed
of me, the way I sometimes dream of people I have yet to meet? Or did I just get sloppy? (Reno doesn't nod at the
reins the way he did before—maybe he's just a bit more accustomed than the
others by now. Or maybe it's his curse
to always wake up a little more than normal people do. I hope it saves his life, today. I shouldn't, but I do.) I clearly hear the marching
boots now, no doubt about it, coming up over the rise. I try not to hold my breath. The steps don't quite match each other as
strictly as they should. I don't know
how you managed this, Kiril, but well done!
I wait...the sweat trickles down my body where I lie. This will be the most daring daytime assault
I've tried yet. Betany says she can ride
a horse, but can either of us match what these steeds expect from comrades
lost? Now I see the troops pass
by below us. The horse stirs at the
smell of gunpowder as the munitions cart rolls by, but I pat his neck and calm
him down again. I hope, I pray, that the
squeals and groans of the great wooden wheels drown out the twigs that snapped
under his flank just now. Easy...you'll
get battle enough to suit you soon, my friend. (My neck prickles as the
road rises up over a saddle between two overgrown hills—just the sort of place
Deirdre would pick for an ambush. Does
Sarge watch for such things? Or have I
made him too happy to notice or care?
Isn't that the job he wants me to do, more than cooking, to make the
troop happy? Happy and oblivious? All right, then.) Can Betany wait for my
signal? She began her bleedings recently
and twitches full of impatient new hormonal surges—judgment always gets worse
at this age, just when you expect them to know better. (Do not—I repeat, DO NOT
glance to either side, looking for Deirdre or whoever she might have sent. You know better than that, Kiril. Do not take the least risk of eye contact,
the twitch of recognition. Half-close
your eyes and nod in your seat, and if Reno gets too alert, slump against him
till he gives you all his attention.) There goes the cook's cart,
right in the middle, the safest location.
Do not pass judgment on how fat the child has grown; her labors deserve
her pay. Gladly I let the cart roll by
unhurt. And...isn't that my tavern
Lothario riding beside Kiril? She seems
to have fallen asleep against him—how tenderly he turns to her to rest her head
onto his lap. I shiver at the memory of
one evening's kiss; little moments like that stand out in a life gone mostly
hard. I'm glad he rides in the cook's
cart, far from danger. I shouldn't feel
that way, but I do. (I don't mean to let out a
held breath when we get through those two hills, but I do. "You all right?" Reno asks
me. "Me? Sure."
Don't, Reno; this is not the time to notice too much. "For a moment there I
thought you were wheezing. You sure you
don't need your medicine?" I sit up again and rub my eyes. "Just sighing over a memory about my mother."
That usually shuts the soldiers up.) More soldiers file by. The teenagers remind me way too much of my
own troop, but then troubled countries always have a low median age—and damn
them for it! How are my own doing, by
the way? I gave Tanjin the scatter and
regroup order—with a move this bold, I don't want them concentrated anywhere
that soldiers could hunt them down, not now, beneath the noonday sun. As long as we pass through this restless
territory, we should take advantage of the shelter that the locals give. Now the medical cart rolls
past, and I let it go. The army might
not abide by the Geneva convention where we're concerned, but revolution is as
much a war of ideologies as it is of bullets.
We have to at least make a stab at being better than them. Now we start to get to the
stragglers, as the gaps between men grow wider here and there, fitful
irregularities, barely noticeable at first.
Wait... (Don't tense up. Don't let Reno know I'm waiting for
something. I wish I'd had some of those
cookies! But if I pull any out now
Reno'd have reason to wonder.) Wait...let it get to that nice-sized
bunch of stragglers, stumbling along more or less together at the tail
end...now! I let out a loud yip to signal
Betany and we leap onto our rising horses to charge straight down on the men
faster than they can fumble for their rifles, when we already whip out our own
and fire. My steed rears up and crashes
hooves down onto skulls, red spattering bright on the white-blazed chest, as
the men scream and the bullets shout, and now the men ahead turn round and fire
back but they shoot wide and thank you Kiril for whatever you gave ‘em
for breakfast! We pound away, horses
fighting back up the slope with rolling eyes—the men may shoot wide but so many
of ‘em blast away all at once! Betany shrieks horribly and
pitches forward, but holds onto her horse as she clutches her side, riding so
fast that the blood sprays behind her.
We crash through the forest, twigs flagellating our faces as we leap
over roots and duck under boughs and the bullets keep on coming. "Split up!" I whistle and
Betany has the presence to veer off. Oh
God, oh God, grant that her ribs stopped the worst of it, grant that she find
shelter with somebody who knows medicine, grant that she live! I shoot off one last round to draw the
soldiers my way. A horse can't run so
fast in woods this thick, but the men leap through feeling nothing, tearing
through cashew-vine like it was ivy—"impaired" can work both ways. My horse plunges down a
steep ravine to splash into the snow-melt creek on the bottom, but cliff climbs
steep on the other side; we have no choice but to gallop down the water-course,
the spray icy on my legs, right out in the open while soldiers fire from above
in the wood's protection. My horse screams and rears—I
jump clear just in time, leaping from his back to an overhanging bough right
before he flounders into the stream, thrashing in his death-throes, kicking up
the bloodied water in great, loud splashes while I try to vanish into the
woods, but they saw exactly where I went.
Now the soldiers tumble madly into the ravine and I take potshots at a
few to slow them, then I swing through branch and vine so swooping-fast I make
my own head spin, but no time for vertigo—leap!
And trust your hand'll meet the bough it needs, and swing out again, let
go over empty space before the bending wood can crack under your weight! Hand and foot touch wood, release, touch
again, as I change height and direction at random, dancing in three dimensions
like the Lady of the Mast—but did she ever dance around fierce hummingbirds of
lead? Then come the thick-furred
monkeys of the mountain-slopes, oh, blessed fallen comrades! They screech and scramble crashing through
the woods, confusing my trail for me, making their commotion everywhere at
once. Oh brave, brave souls, pay off
your debts at last, no cowards any longer nor traitors perished in disgrace,
but faithful to this second death. I
watch and hear as monkeys fall thudding to the ground in gouts of penitential
blood, squealing as though surprised. My
tears burn the scratches on my face as I believe, I really, truly believe every
story that Damien ever told. At last I double back in
the direction that the army least expects for me to take. My steed lies still now, a glossy black
island that the water rushes all around, and all the creek below him streaks
with red. Today has been a day for the
sacrifice of beasts; I hope I'm worth it.
Sorry I had to send you a horse, Yan, but I hope you like the company. |
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