|
IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume V: Sharing Insanity
Chapter 52 No Time for Subtlety
Tuesday,
December 8, 2708 (No more subtlety. I can't
afford that anymore—The Lumne Boys saw to that.) Nothing subtle about this
night's work. The guard died quickly
enough—he barely had time to squeak, let alone rip out an army-rousing scream
the way I'd feared—but we can make it look like he took a long time about it,
praying that I'd hurry and release his soul to Hell. (The hour of Hell must arrive, whether I feel ready or not. He has waited a long time for this, living
and living and dead.) I can do that much, simulate more evil than I've got the guts for
yet. Speaking of which, don't they look
wicked, draped from branch to branch like that?
They do send a message, don't they? (The message has gone out.
We must do it on the 13th of the month, on Sunday—desecrate
the moribund religion to rip wide the rift.
My shivers, my doubts, don't matter anymore—this is bigger than me. Who cares what I think?) No, take the entrails down again; I've got a
better idea. Although the traces of
blood left up there afterwards do still add a touch, suggestive of wild
spurting mayhem. Here we go, drag his body
in the dirt like he crawled a ways, trying to make it back to camp, slowly unraveling
as he went. Put grass in his mouth like
he chewed the turf. Drive his
fingernails into the ground and get the soil under them like he clawed his way. The silence in the night will only make it
more horrible; they won't know that I only cut his vocal chords after the
fact. They won't find any forensic
scientists out here to tell them the real order of events; they wouldn't wait
around for his investigation even if they could. (They all know their roles, my Changewright disciples. At each psychosensitive point about the
campus, they will make their sacrifices.
Animals for them, rats and chickens and such, lest they lose their
nerve, but it makes good practice, he says, for bigger things. And it's all about the terror, anyway. Kill a rat horribly enough, and even a
gardener who kills rats routinely will shudder and feel the knife.) It's all about the
terror. Let each and every one of them
grab his own belly and wince, picturing what they think transpired here. Let them pay for making Kiril's tummy hurt. (Because they all have to pay.
They have made me this. They left
me nowhere to turn but evil when they gutted good. They…oh God!
What has become of me?) I listen for the nearest
brook and follow the liquid sounds in the dark.
Then I plunge into the cleansing cold while the frogs fall suddenly
silent at my splash. I scrub up with
chattering teeth, then rise up dripping from the water that I've stained. (No turning back now, whatever Jake might say. Nothing can wash me clean of blood.) They will doubtless track
me here, but will soon lose me again.
Without my flit I can barely manage a hover, inches off the ground, but
that's enough to leave no exit tracks upon the soft, wet soil. They will curse my unknown name and hope that
I have drowned. They will, for twelve
hours or so, believe that God avenges them, that they are in the right. And then I will strike tomorrow night. And every night thereafter, I or one of my
soldiers, till we pick them off, one by one, till I leave them no more faith
than me. Hell, I might even send in
Hekut to do some really dirty work—the kid's not going to Heaven, anyway. Maybe the more evil I fake, the better I'll
get at the real thing. ("So much evil," I murmur, before I catch myself. What Guaril and Tshura showed me, what they
were forced to link to—even their captors have no idea! Or is it evil? Is it
something turned evil by suppression, longing to be good? Does it matter? Yes, for
you can redeem twisted good. Evil you
can only kill. "Zanne?" Cybil looks concerned, as she makes breakfasts from
Apollo's kitchen raid—only the unprocessed stuff, which means cakes of flour,
raisins and nuts, more dried than cooked by a radiator. "Are you okay, honey?" We found an entire hall of unused guest
rooms—hiding out in luxury (especially after the way we've been living) with
deep mattresses and velvety blankets, nice once we removed the dusty bedspreads. Even a cot would have delighted us. "Certainly," I say with a smile, though I still fight to shake off
the aftereffects of that brain-jolt and the subsequent drugging that might well
have saved me from a stroke. "Just
thinking aloud." I wanted to do this smoothly, subtly, waiting for just the right
moment. But we might not have time.) Wednesday,
December 9, 2708 (I pick up buckets and head
for the nearest stream. If I get up
early enough, sometimes I can haul water for myself, before Sarge catches me
and sends soldiers to do all the work. I don't feel real; I
suspect that the herbed cream cheese that Sarge keeps spreading on bread for me
holds more than garlic and oregano, and I think I found something leafy
crumpled in the fudge. But he keeps
dropping by the cart to supervise, to make sure I keep a steady nibble
going. There's no need for secrets
between us anymore. "I want to provide
for you, honey," he'll tell me whenever I curl up in pain and can't take in any
more. "You rest now; I'll come back in a
couple hours and see how you're doing.
You may not understand now, but you'll thank me later. It's only for a few more days, Kiril, till we
find our way back to the road again."
That says volumes, right there.) (I scan ahead for any guards in the halls. Now I
can carry our dirty clothes to the Montoya Manor laundry-room.
Nobody seems to notice or care about our additional expenditures of
water and soap; that says volumes, right there, about just how dramatically
shut down the minds of our opposition have become to anything not on the radar
of the collective mind. I step into the steam and
scent of bleach to hear Courtney squeal, "He's a Protestant!" as she and Apollo
leap from a pile of dirty sheets, tugging clothes back onto their rosy bodies
as fast as the sweat allows. "Do I look like I care, darling?"
I say, pointedly averting my eyes for their sakes as I load up a machine,
trying not to grin with amusement that at least they've shed the nationwide
plague of racism. "I was about your age
when I lost my virginity, after all."
Then my half-suppressed smile turns into a frown. "I hope it's been better for you than it was
for me." Courtney starts to mumble
something about not being a virgin but I take her hands and stop her. "Rape doesn't count, dear. The only time that counts is the first time
you consent." She looks up at me then,
tears on her face, tentatively smiles and nods. "We'd marry if we could,"
Apollo says, straightening and trying to look like a man. "It's just...well, we could die
tomorrow. Maybe tonight. Maybe guards will rush in on the laundry any
minute and kill us for, you know, mixing it up between kinds like this." "We don't have time!"
Courtney protests. "Whoa! Slow down!
You are both way too young to even think about marriage!" Don't make the same mistake I did,
darlings. "So, how did you two manage to
get your hands on contraceptives?" They
both turn even redder than they've been.
"Don't tell me. You didn't even
think of that." I sigh. "You're both grounded." "Wait just one minute!"
Apollo shouts. "You're not my Mom!" "Hush! Do you want to bring armed guards running on
us already?" His face goes from cinnamon
to gray in a flash, while Courtney's looks like chocolate-chip ice cream. "I am the leader of this expedition so yes, I
do have authority over both of you—and we can't afford any pregnancies under
current circumstances. So the two of you
will go nowhere without adult supervision until we can get the means for you to
make responsible choices." "But..." "But nothing. Games up, children. If you can't handle waiting, you don't have
the maturity for sex. End of discussion!" And for a long time only the washing-machine
makes a sound, as I wait to put my load in the dryer.) ("Kiril, wait!" Uh oh, I hear Sarge running after me. Games up; I set the buckets down. But Sarge keeps on; he tackles me and wraps
his hands around my eyes. "Don't look,
Kiril! Don't look." He buries my face in his chest and holds me
trembling-tight as he shouts at the men, a catch in his voice, "For God's sake
cut them down before the child sees!" Deirdre doesn't know—we
don't have time for this.) (As the kids and I fold
laundry I can feel her. Belen
Montoya. Her telepathy burns as brightly
as a fever on the psychic landscape. She
pleads for us to find her. But soon,
soon! She's dying.) I step on a sharp rock. After an appropriately bad word I pick it out
of my foot, wondering if it's one of Nayal's caltrops fallen where it
shouldn't. No, just a plain old natural
menace, lying on the road. Then I
realize just how cold my toes feel, never mind the bruise in the heel. Then it dawns on me...how did I wind up
barefoot? Oh pox! Did I leave those fine, tailored llama-skin
boots by the creek last night?
Idiot! I'll never own the like
again. And could they trace...but no.
They already massacred that village. No
reprisals will follow, merely discomfort for me. My fingers strum the twigs
of my homemade flit, still strapped onto my chest. Who needs feet, anyway? Wait a minute. Did I
forget, earlier, that I had this on? |
| |
|
|
|
|
||
|