|
IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
V: Sharing Insanity
Chapter
20
Sunday,
November
8, 2708 (I
can’t believe I fell
asleep at all, the way Damien snored, but I wake up to
twilight glowing through
the twigs above me and it looks sooo beautiful—kind of
jewel-like. I just lie here,
pretending that I’m still
asleep with my eyes open, snug in my blanket with the morning
cool on my
face. If I hadn’t joined the
rebels I
wouldn’t know what dawn looks like overhead, spreading through
the trees. Then I turn over and
realize that last night
I fell asleep just inches from a cashew-vine in the dark. After
doing the necessary
morning stuff in the bushes (keeping a strict eye out for
cashew vine!) I track
Damien by the smoke in the air. He
lights
me a cigarette from his own, and we breakfast on the bread and
sausage
that the barkeep gave us, neither saying a word.
Sometimes a bard’s got to spend time in
silence, or he’ll run out of words when the moment calls for
them; we all know
that. And sometimes you don’t
need
words, anyway. After all this
time on
the road alone, just sitting by an old friend does something,
like he gives off
a kind of warmth that only souls can feel.
At last he stubs his cigarette out and smiles at me. “Here’s
where we part
company, kid,” he tells me. “I’ll
carry
your messages to Cyran, but I’ve got one for you that I picked
up on the way to
the tavern. Do you know why I
rode you
so hard yesterday?” “Getting
shot at comes to
mind.” “Besides
that. I got word that Cyran has
urgent need. I’ve been wracking
my brains on how to deal
with it till I ran into you.” “Yeah?” I feel important, scared,
overwhelmed and
thrilled. “Yeah. Deirdre has to make General Aliso’s
latest
troop movements her first priority and get the info back to us
ASAP. Find her as soon as
possible.” “We’re
already doing that.” “Right. Thanks for passing on what you
know—I won’t
go back to Cyran empty-handed, now. Uh,
keep
it up, okay?” “Okay,”
I say, half amused
and half annoyed. Then
a glow of inspiration
hits him. “Or better—join Kiril’s
troop
yourself, if you can. Say you’re
her
brother. We need someone there
who can
read.” He grins.
“I’m sure Cyran would’ve said the same thing
if he’d heard your report.”) (Don
joins us on the way to morning service, his cloak-collar
turned up, to give us his report from the infirmary.
A few early snowflakes swirl on the air, though
by noon it’ll all melt and turn everything swampy.
Everybody looks a bit eerie walking through
the white eddies and turbulence. While
others shout with laughter over a notorious bully slipping
on a patch of ice (no doubt with a little psychokinetic nudge
of his shoe) Don
whispers to us, “George won’t be joining us at church today. Strict bedrest.” “And
Wallace?” I ask, “No, never mind.” We
see him ourselves, leading the teachers in
to Sunday service, looking pale and nervous, but on his feet. When he catches my eye he blushes
and looks
away.) *
* * The
gaunt woman’s return
from Mass wakes me up—or rather, her dog rushing up to lick me
joyfully does. “You could’ve woken
me earlier,” I complain. “You
looked like you needed
the sleep—it’s a day of rest, after all.”
She eyes me critically as I sit up in bed and yawn. “Besides, I’m not inviting any tart to
church
who runs around in men’s clothing.” “You
took the dog,” I
counter. “And I’ve got a skirt in
my
pack.” I pull it out and on. She
just snorts like she
hardly expects someone like me to know how to dress for church
without being
told. When I glance longingly
towards
the kitchen, where an aroma of bacon still wafts upon the air,
she says,
“Forget it—you slept through breakfast, too.”
Nothing more for it, then, but to just move on. I ride
through a
countryside that doesn’t look like what you’d think of as a
war-torn land. Small towns trade
common goods to farmers for
cartloads of wintered-over vegetables, while the green glow on
the fields
promises harvests yet to come. Young
shepherds
flirt in the spring perfume, old craftspeople cackle over jokes
they
call from forge to shop to potter’s wheel, orchards show the
first pips of
fruit where the blossoms blow away, and chickens own the
streets. You could call it idyllic,
just passing
through; you would, if you were rich. Now
and then you get a
reminder: a glance from a scarred-up face, a child hobbling by
on crutches with
a missing leg, a blown-out shell of a house that people will not
look at or
discuss. People don’t often starve
in
this part of the country, but neither do they thrive.
And all of the of the stores paint pictures
of their wares, because nobody can read. At a
local tavern I pick up
a sandwich, a beer, and information about a rebel hiding out
beyond the town a
ways. I follow a line of ruts in
the mud
that cuts through the weeds and passes for a road.
New-wakened insects buzz around me; I hadn’t
even noticed the advantage of winter in freezing all the bugs
away, when I
shivered in the thick of it—typical mortal ingrate; we only like
what we’ve
lost. I come
to a farm at the
end, where a young woman wrestles a plow through the stony dirt,
behind her
pair of oxen, braid-escaping hair draggled into her mud-streaked
face, as a towheaded,
tan-faced toddler pats out mud pies nearby. Her dark skin shows
her as part
Mountainfolk, but like me, she has the ranginess of something
else in the mix. Another widow? Probably.
She freezes when she sees me and the child runs indoors. “Neither
and both,” I say
just as she opens her mouth. Her
long
jaw could have been homely, if not for the sweetness in the pale
blue eyes. “Know anyone who...” and
I make the gesture
for “scatter and regroup.” She
nods, slowly, her eyes
still wide. “In there,” she says. Oh how easily the Purple Mantles could
gather
us up, knowing what they do now! How
many
have they already pulled in this way? I go
into yet another
bedroom—another of us wounded? How? I see a head of black hair poking up
out from
under a quilt, but that could go with practically anybody. Then he turns over and... “Who
the hell are
you?” For a second I don’t even
know
which of us said it, then
realize that we both
did, simultaneously. I recover
first,
saying, “You must be one of Nayal’s crew.” He
tries to sit up, gasps,
slides back down into the sheets. “How
do
you...” I hold
out my hand. “Deirdre Keller,” I
say, reckless of
names. What the heck, I never had a
chance to go undercover, anyway, from the moment Cyran took me. His fingers barely brush my palm by
way of
handshake before his arm falls back to the bed.
He whispers a reply but I can’t make it out. “Deirdre
Keller?” the woman
gasps. “Cyran’s Tilián witch?” I wince at the label.
“Is it true that you can fly?
Commune with Mountain Maidens?
Explode heads in flames with the Evil Eye?” “Whoa! Wait!”
Damien, I’m gonna strangle you the minute I find you if
you started
these tales! “I’m just one more
soldier
like...” “Tell
me you can bring back
those on the brink of death!” She
grabs
my arm pain-hard. “Tell me at least
that
much.” Gently
but firmly I pry her
fingers off me and rub my arm. “I’m
a
medic, honey. I do my best, but I’m
not
even a doctor.” “But I
heard...” “Entirely
too much. Let me take a look at the
patient.” It’s bad.
The wound stinks the minute I draw the blanket back. I can feel his fever even before I
unwrap the
bandages to reveal the infected chest wound.
I hear no breath at all on the left side; the lung must
have
collapsed. Rashid might know the
medicines to save him, but moving him would kill him.
So might leaving him be. While
I have my ear down to
his chest he tugs faintly on my hair till he coaxes my head to
his lips. “Marry me...” he murmurs. “Beg
pardon?” “Marry
me to Zofia,” he
says, then falls unconscious. I turn
to the woman. “Are you Zofia?” She nods.
“And he is...?” “Kurmal,”
she says softly,
and stares with love on the fever-flushed face. “He
says he wants to marry
you.” “I
know,” she says, and
smiles. “How
long have you two
known each other?” She
blushes, glancing
downwards. “Two weeks.
But...” “Oh,
this is absurd!” Then I hate myself
for blurting it when her
tears trickle down. “Never mind,” I
murmur, “Everything in this country is absurd—maybe in the whole
damn
world. Who am I to judge?
Here, boil these.” I hand her scalpel,
tweezers, and probe. I check out
her
shed and find the barrel of undiluted peroxide that farmers up
here use in
various strengths for fuel, bleach, antiseptic, foliar spray,
and gargle. As I thin a measure
down with water the
little girl peers around the door at me and darts quickly away
the minute she
catches my attention. When I
have everything
ready and I’ve scrubbed up the best I can, Zofia approaches me
in Kurmal’s
room. “Marry us?” she asks. “I’m
not a priest,” I say. “Then
invoke the Mountain
Maidens. They can witness to the
wedding.” I
stare at her. For a moment I can
find no words. “Let’s just see what
we can do to patch him
up first,” I say at last. “Then we
can
talk.” Jesus forgive us both. I
don’t know how long the
makeshift surgery drags on; maybe not so long—not that much that
I can do. I can’t remember ever
draining so much pus
out of a single wound before, but if I can just stabilize him
enough to move
him to Koboros...who am I kidding? Even
if
he got so far Rashid would only dig another grave. * * * (“Faster! Faster!” I gasp to my mount as we
already fly
so fast I can hardly keep my rump in the saddle; I bend so low
to help his
speed that his mane lashes my face. Will
I
die with the smell of horse in my nose? Bandits
gallop behind us,
shouting taunts and shooting bullets; the canyon rings with
the sound of hooves
and ricochets. I don’t even know
where
the beast carries me anymore, I just trust his hair-raising
leaps and
scrabbling over stone and gully, his well-trained dodging and
darting that makes
the worst target, sparks flying out from his hooves on the
stones as the light
begins to fail. Sometimes I just
close
my eyes tight, then I open them again and raise my head just
in time to duck a
bough when we thunder through a thicket and out again. Oh God, oh God, forgive me for ever
even
thinking of looting along the way, and save me from these
thieves! I
feel wetness hit my hand;
foam flies from the horse’s mouth, he strives so hard, so
fast. I feel his chest heaving
between my
knees. Oh brave one, brave one,
save us
both! And he’s doing it—he’s
doing
it! The bandits fall farther and
farther
behind; we race out of bullet’s range and then out of sight. Yan and Yaimis did not train those
other mounts.
I swear I will never say another word against horses
for the rest of my
life! Slow now, staggering a bit,
he
ambles to a creek and drinks.
Remembering Zahir’s instructions, I ease off his gear
and towel him
down, though my legs scream for rest. Anyone
who saves my life deserves at least so
much. Then
I hear approaching
hooves again. I saddle him up as
fast as
I know how, and we take off, away from the sunset, hurtling
straight into the
night.) *
* * After
a brief rest,
emerging into twilight, we hold the wedding of Zofia and Kurmal. Zofia has dressed herself in undyed
stuff,
and wrapped her head and shoulders in a tablecloth of homemade
lace that has
seen many generations of her family. The
toddler
wears a spring wreath in her hair and solemnly carries a fistful
of
flowers, standing as straight and tall as the little thing can
manage. Kurmal tosses fitfully on
the cot that we
carried outside, for how can anyone invoke the Mountain Maidens
indoors? Dirt clings to the bride’s
hands and marks her
knees on her skirt, where she’d knelt to bury a horseshoe as a
gift of metal
back to the soil, but now she stands as proudly as her daughter. I pile
wood on the bonfire
that we’ve lit, because the Mountain Maidens are, after all,
volcanic beings,
and because I want to keep Kurmal as warm as I can.
As night folds over us the sparks spiral
upwards to meet the stars and I think of that Chinese New Year
fire so long
ago, burning up money for luck; we could use a little of either
or both right
here. The color of the flames
blushes on
the bride and dyes her muslin a brilliant coral red; it flickers
over the dying
man as if to loan him a feverish burst of life, and it glitters
in the eyes of
the watching child. I
raise my hands and say
words that I know I won’t remember afterwards because I hardly
pay attention
now. I just let them flow out
through
me; something about matrimony being as deeply rooted,
lofty-crowned, and
indestructible as the mountains, something invoking the power of
those
mountains, I don’t know what all.
Insects chirp and buzz amens to what I say, and the night
has a quiet,
holy feel. I know
that I have no right
to tell them, “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” as I place
hand in
trembling hand, but it doesn’t really matter, nothing matters
but the love;
even if it’s mostly pity and delirium, it’s better than nothing
in this sad and
hungry world. They exchange rings
of
wire and the child claps her hands and cheers, scattering
flowers to the
ground. After
we carry Kurmal back
in, Zofia laughs and blushes with big, wet eyes.
She offers me cider, and drinks some herself,
then goes in to hold Kurmal’s hand as he dozes, gazing on him
adoringly. The little girl puts
herself to bed. I sit for a long
time outside, sipping my
cider and smoking the day’s last cigarette, poking the dying
coals, watching
the sparks spiral upwards to heaven. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
||
|