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IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume V: Sharing Insanity
Chapter 44
Monday,
November 30, 2708, continued (I knew Keller could
fly. I knew
it! Magentine technology, it’s called.
I had it on good report. I’m not a yokel. But my research showed that flying expends
calories lavishly, and in my brief glimpse of Keller she looked too depleted,
barely able to hover above the ground, to survive a plunge off a cliff. I watched them
plummet. I saw the boy stuff something
in her mouth, and then she took off.
Candy? Greenfire? Whichever it was, I need to find out.
Different aids bring different vulnerabilities.) The
world grinds on as the greenfire fades, the burning of my cuts taking its
place, and every step feels like I climb a mountain, but the night only shows a
level ground before me, and the murky trunks of trees to push against. What am I even doing here? I came to this land as a diplomatic
aide—Archives never profiled me to wage a war.
Oh God how long till I can lay me down and let my burdens slip
away? (“I’m not of the
mountains,” I can hear Cybil’s thoughts though her lips remain silent, almost
as clearly as if she thought it in actual words. “I’m not cut out for this.” But the chubby little bureaucrat navigates
the steep slope with the rest of us, feeling for each frosty rock in the
dark. I hope she can pick up the thoughts
that I send back her way, of my respect for her. It worries me that
increasingly such information just breaks through my shields and training like
they were mistreated antique silk. I
used to strain at telepathy—so now I’m doing it by accident? I hear the keening of some night-haunting
birds of prey, while we hold onto rocks, branches, roots, whatever will make
the slippery journey downslope easier.
Over there: I see their gyre on the wind, hunting whatever prey stands
out against the snow. They seem so
light, so sure of themselves, with nothing underneath. “I wish I had wings,” Cybil
grumbles audibly as we make the last, steep descent down to Goeddalville
Valley. I make no reply, not even
telepathically, but think achingly of Deirdre, who has the gift of flight. She should have taken Vanikke, not me. But how were we to know that levitation would
ever come handy on a diplomatic mission? She would have done better
than I did. She would not have lost any
lives on her watch, surely. And Deirdre
would never have mindblasted anybody. Oh
Gates—how can I ever look into those innocent eyes again? Rubbish, Zanne. You’re just tired. Tired and still reeling from the recoil. You take second place to no one. Yes, keep on telling
yourself that, o worshiper of Truth!) The
leaf wears off faster than I expect. I
find myself leaning on Tanjin by the time we stumble into camp, ground-mist
swirling all around us, and all the forest looks haunted in the dark. “Where
are we?” I ask, and my voice sounds fretful even to me. “I...I don’t know this place.” Guerillas should always know the land better
than their opponents. “Chabi’s
Wood,” someone offers in the dark, “In Bosco Valley.” Just having a name calms me some. Then I gasp as Tanjin cleans my wounds with a
sharp disinfectant. “It’s
okay,” Tanjin murmurs. “You’re okay
wherever I am. And we have locals in the
band.” (Somewhere I have a
wife, Chabelle D’Arco. I know precisely
where, actually. A little village that
nobody here has ever heard of, but it could just as well be on the far side of
Earth. I can’t go back to a decent woman
like that; I can only send her money with which to raise the children that she
bore me. This woman, on
the other hand, of much greater status than Chabelle, in fact outranking me and
certainly of higher family, this woman I do not respect. Why not, then, indulge in an affair? What’s one more sin? She has blood on her hands the same as me. And at times I
can admire her, which differs a little bit from respect, but will suffice. Masterful, the way she directed the chase of
that rogue tank. She achieved her goal,
too; it’s not her fault that a witch got away.
Nobody could have seen that coming, not based merely on rumors from
hysterical men. I have clashed with
Keller myself, and never saw her fly. A pity to waste
Layne’s talents on organizing the clean-up of debris. She does so smartly, her face a stone,
barking orders firmly and yet almost indifferently, absent-mindedly fluffing
her hair now and then. She knows that
the generals with more seniority blame her for losing Keller. I didn’t see them come up with something
better. I feel tempted to
help, to go over there and load rubble into wheelbarrows, or saw half-shattered
beams. I began with humble work like
that. I wonder if my muscles can remember
how? No, it would only
leave me aching, now, and accomplish nothing but reducing my status among the
men. I must wait by the side,
patiently. Patience has always been my
friend. They have no work
for me right now. No one to
interrogate. No trail to study. I might have assisted in tracking where these
rebels came from, at least, but nobody has asked it of me, and I deign not to
volunteer. The insult has not been lost
on me. They don't like me to do my work
in plain sight, even in a simple matter of following tracks through a
wood. They want what I give them,
without respecting me. Yes, Layne and I
have much in common. I sigh. The wind has gone chilly with the nightfall. I might as well go into the warmth, while I
have it. Maybe even turn in early. Fantasize how I
might, I know that I will not approach General Layne Aliso with lustful intent. Some stubborn spine of morality remains
unbroken in me, or at least grown back.
Rosebud, in the end, gave me nothing but regret. I can hardly remember my wife’s face anymore,
yet I will not betray her again.) Tanjin takes me straight to the sleep area as
soon as he finishes bandaging me, leans me against a tree and unfurls my
bedroll for me, while I watch through the lashes of eyelids that won’t lift all
the way. Whenever anybody tries to
report to me, he growls, “Can’t you see she’s exhausted?” (“Sleep,” I tell my ragtag band of bureaucrats and other refugees
from the madness of Vanikke. I heap damp
armfuls of fragrant autumn leaves onto the tarps to increase the warmth beneath
against the freshly falling snow. “We’re
close now, to Montoya Manor, less than a week away.” Now I crawl in with them, and I tuck them
in, one by one, smoothing Magda’s graying hair, careful around Kimba. “Why so early?”
Courtney complains. “I’m not
sleepy.” Yet she hardly gets the words
out before yawning; that descent took a toll on all of us, and she had a
particularly tough time with her injured arm. “So we can get up
at three in the morning, chickling.” The
other teenagers join her in groaning.
“Over the next few days I plan to phase us into sleeping by day and
traveling by night. We can approach the
manor more safely that way.” Ozwald shrugs
where he lies. “Oh, well that’s
okay. I’m a night-hawk by nature.” “It’s better to move in the chill of night anyway.” I say, then wriggle into my own sleeping-bag. Minerva
sighs. “It’s nice, having people
snuggled up close again. Did I ever
mention that?” “No, dear. Did you lose somebody?” “Oh, he’s still
alive. Somewhere. We’re still married in the eyes of God,
whatever he might say. But he’s Swiss
and didn’t want to admit to marrying an Italian. When he heard the mob coming down the street,
pulling people out of homes, he shoved me out the door, himself, screaming at
me, ‘You’re fired!” and going on about how he should never have trusted a
thieving Italian cook in his kitchen.”
She turns over and settles her cheek into the “pillow”. Sleepily she says, “He married me in
Church. He’s going to have to answer to
God about me.”) All those men on fire.
Not just a tankful, but hundreds and hundreds of men, dying horribly
before our eyes. And I felt
nothing. I’m going to have to answer to
God for that. But maybe they deserved it. Maybe God’s roasting them, Himself, right
now. Maybe I’m just too tired right now
to tell right from wrong. “How’d it go?” asks Hekut
as he tends Tanjin’s wounds in turn.
“Kill any of those rapin’ devils for the cause?” I can’t see his face, but I can feel Tanjin go pale as if
the blood rushed out of my own face, before he says, “Yeah. Quite a few, actually. We hit their cafeteria just in time for
supper, and then we blew up their magazine.” “Aw jee—you should have looted it! We can always use more
guns and ammo.” Sarcastically Tanjin says, “If you come along next time,
lil’ Hoofmite, we’ll let you try.” (Loot. Think
about the future, Lufti. If I set enough
aside, Kiril and I can slip out of the war, clean off the radar, whatever radar
is; it probably means where the stars can’t see. We’ll get out of Hell and go to where the
dead don’t dance and we’ll live together happily ever after in a little farm of
our own, high up in the mountains where nobody will bother us, soldiers or
rebels or devils or gods or ghosts or anybody, and we’ll have children, and
chickens, and maybe a couple goats, but we won’t need horses because we’ll all
be able to walk. And I shall plant
hollyhocks because they serve no earthly purpose except to look pretty, we’ll
be so well-off we can grow things besides food. I mean, look at all this
treasure! Gold and silver and ruby-red
and sapphire-blue and that clear stuff must be diamond. Be smart, Lufti, and we’ll be set for life!) Why do I know what Hekut
saw happen to his sister? Why do I feel the memory of his seeing so viscerally
that I suddenly feel the world tip under me? “Whoa, Deirdre—here.
Lie down. That’s it, head below
your feet. Now let me go get you some
food, okay?” (“Give your brother some
more sausage to balance off the coconut rolls, Kiril. And here’s some cheese.” Sarge lets Lufti share our indoor quarters
for the night. He has even rolled out
his own sleeping-bag on the floor and let us have the bed. I look Sarge in the
eye. “You’re getting rid of him
tomorrow, aren’t you?” He freezes, staring at me
the longest time before he says, “First thing after breakfast.” Well, whaddya know—a straight answer! He looks away. “But it’ll be a very nice breakfast, even if
we have to cook outdoors the old-fashioned way.
Cheese omelets—your favorite, Kiril.”
And then I know for sure. “Am I going at the same
time, then?” “Kiril, what makes you
think...okay. Not quite the same
time. We can travel with you for a week,
maybe two, before Commissioner D’Arco can dispatch a new camp cook for us.” “Ah. I see.
The Purple Mantles want to keep an eye on you.” “How did you know...” “Everybody can see what he
wears, Sarge. A normal cook would come
from the regular military.” “They do not want to keep an eye
on me, personally—it’s not like that, little girl. Here, try this rubyberry tart. Anyway, you shouldn’t trouble your little head
about...” “Is it because you lost so
many men and guns to rebels?” “Everybody has—I’m not
unique. The government thinks they
should keep an extra pair of eyes and ears in every troop these days, that’s
all. It’s not me in particular.” Good to know.
I’ll make sure that Lufti tells Deirdre that when he gets back. Lufti asks, “Are the new
recruits dead, too?” “No, silly,” I tell
him. “Why, what a thing to say!” They would be, of course, if the army didn’t
eat in shifts. “They’re just so scary.” His eyes narrow. “The stars didn’t send them, did they?” “Don’t you worry about the
stars, dearheart. Here, you can have a
tart, too.” Sarge says, “Two or three,
if he wants.” Ah, Sarge! You think you can pay off your debts so
cheaply! But I don’t think Lufti’s ever
going to have that cute, round face again, and all the food you stuff into him
in this one night won’t take the wolf out of his eyes. We hear boots halt outside
the tent. “Captain Anras, sir?” “Yes,” Sarge says and goes
out. I never heard his real name before—all
this time, come to think of it, he’s been more under cover than me. He doesn’t even use his real rank. I signal Lufti to make no sound as I strain
to listen to the whispered conversation just outside the door. “Leave before the others,
sir,” the voice says. “General Aliso
will reconnect with you at the location described. She wants these papers far from any obvious
targets.” I hear them rustle—sounds like
a lot. “Meaning my own troop’s
ragtag enough by now that rebels won’t bother it anymore? Don’t count on it.” “We don’t count on
anything, sir, but even the enemy has to go by probabilities.” Thanks be to all good
ghosts! I look at Lufti, who smiles
slyly at me and winks as he gathers up, stealthily, all the golden, silvery,
red, blue, and clear candy wrappers and stuffs them in his pockets. Then Sarge comes in and puts a fat sheaf of
paper into his footlocker like it was nothing.
“Anybody up for hot chocolate?” he asks.) Oh
lord but I feel hungry! With trembling
hands I wolf down all the bread, cheese, and greens that Tanjin hands me, then
pick the crumbs off my clothes while he struggles to unfasten the body-flit
from me. It almost feels good, when he
releases me. Yet something in my heart
feels sure that I can never feel good again.
I betrayed Kiril. I nearly got
her killed. If not for Tanjin…! (Who needs chocolate when I
have treasure? Gold and silver, rubies,
sapphires, and diamonds! I shall bury
them deep, a little here, a little there, and on each cache I shall leave a
lucky stone so the stars won’t find them.
And Kiril and I shall live happily ever after, and nobody shall know
where we went, not even the mountain maidens, not even the hawk upon the wing!) Tanjin wipes off my hands and face
with a damp cloth, and I let him, blinking stupidly at the empty wrappers
before he puts them away. At last he
pulls off my boots, loosens my clothing here and there, and spreads my blankets
over me. The ground feels hard under the
thin padding, but I don’t care, I don’t care about anything anymore except this
crazy craving for chocolate that will not let me be! Chocolate. I remember it well. I…remember…forget…I just want to…so tired!...so… “It’s just real,
Deirdre.” |
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