IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume VI: The Rift
Chapter 22 The Burden of Flight
Monday, December 28, 2708 Now Cyran informs me that e
must fly me every day–reconnaissance matters too much to leave me marching on
the ground. I've done reconnaissance for
him before, sure, but not over such a wide stretch. Does he have any idea what this costs
me? That flying burns calories like
crazy? He must. He saw me come in yesterday. The needs of the People surpass those of any
one soldier. Accordingly, I have made a
framework of scrub-branches, rags, and turkey-feathers (thanks to the turkey-farmer
who slaughtered much of his flock to feed us) almost double my armspan, not
because I really need wings (actually they slow me down and make my shoulders
ache) but because they make a grand target for the army snipers who keep trying
to shoot me down, ever since that stupid stunt with stealing the officer's wig—much
easier to aim for than the skinny little body that dangles in between them. I have even scavenged
hinges, springs and wires from a dump we passed. Between my movements and the wind, the wings
make interesting random flaps and bounces, foldings and extensions, that make
them seem lifelike, and only I'd be close enough to hear the little squeaks and
creaks. I feel rather proud of the
effect. And they've saved my life
several times today already. Whenever
the bullets tear through the structure (doing its looseness no real harm) I
make a creditable screaming tailspin, tumble down to a sheltered spot in the
worst terrain that I can find, quickly fold the wings up, and zip out of there
unseen, grazing close to the ground in my escape-flight, while cheering
army-grunts scramble over rocks and through thorn-choked ravines to find my
supposedly dead or wounded body. Scouring the countryside delays them nicely,
and the absence of my mortal shell (plus subsequent sightings of me elsewhere)
only enhances the stories. Then, out of sight, I
shoulder the cursed, heavy thing again and fly to overshadow the next troop,
crucified to my legend. The Ancients
made communication-devices that everyone could carry in a pocket, connecting in
an instant from anywhere to anywhere in the world: little hand-held things that
fried the brains with radiation over time, or so they say, but right now they
do sound tempting. What sounds even more
tempting right now would be a nice, hot cup of coffee, maybe because that's
something familiar and useful and friendly, and it warms the chest in a way
that greenfire never could, and the wind blows so cold high up in the
mountains. But we ran out three days
ago. I can almost taste it as I fly. (Cybil has spoken all day of the major city just beyond the hills:
her birthplace, Vayefeleze. She tells us
of their winter celebrations, their art museums, their tempting cafés, till I
can almost taste the cappuccino on my tongue and hear the New Year's carols
under festoons of blinking colored lights reflecting on the snow—oh, but she's
a sybaritic poet! In the meantime we drink cups of aromatic treetip tea and
appreciate the art of nature all around us, stark but lovely chiaroscuro
strokes of winter, or at least I do, happy to have at last recovered from that
dreadful migraine. And the hills do seem
a wee bit closer. I examine the device that Toni gave to me. It looks like some antique from Earth, the
sort of doodad that a rich family like the Montoyas might pass down in their
family without any understanding of its nature.
It is neither aesthetic nor ugly, sort of pleasantly prosaic, really. Many hands have taken good care of the
leather. Old grime has gotten inside the
glass of the dials, on the other hand, and in one I see a dead bug. I suppose they had no idea how to repair
whatever it is. Besides, that grime might
come from the Mother Planet, adding value. I open up the battery-compartment in back, and find it stuffed
with magentine crystals. Of course. I probe it telepathically.
I find Tshura sleeping. I leave
her dreams undisturbed; she will need all the rest she can get to recharge.) Tuesday, December 29, 2708 Some of the battles have
already begun. I soon lose count of how
many bloodied fields that I have soared above.
Some of the smaller bands have vanished completely. Sometimes I have
seen bodies with no one left to bury them–and God help me, I don't have the
strength to bury them, either. But if we
have lost many, the army has lost more.
At least I think so. At least I
hope that my yearnings have not distorted my estimates. Now I gather some
especially juicy information: I sight Sanzio D'Arco himself, directly behind
Cyran's band, as though by arrangement.
I watch him walk through some post-skirmish wreckage, taking his notes,
gesturing for men to lift up a wounded rebel and haul him towards the largest
tent. Even without the blazing-white
shirt, much too full but with those tight, long cuffs, I'd know his every
posture, every move, better than I know my own.
With the pistol that I've taken to carrying on flights, I shoot the
wounded rebel dead, and those on either side who carried him, hurl backwards
from the shooting, and then speed out of there, flying blind with tears. A doubt pounds in my heart,
something that I suddenly know for sure even as I fly away, like it explodes
into my skull with the force of rage behind it–he never meant to torture that
poor fool! What information could he
possibly pry from such a one that he didn't already know? That was the medic's tent they hauled him
to! I groan, tumbling into freefall with
my head in my hands–then grab the wings before the wind rips them off my back,
pull myself together, and fly back on track.
And then, too late, I wonder why on earth I didn't shoot D'Arco, too? Which craving,
Deirdre? Seriously. The powder or the ticket home? Or maybe just the existence of one bitter
soul who understands? More troops, on both
sides. I make mental notes as Til
Institute trained me to, fixed in full detail in my memory to disgorge
later. I try to remember the innocent
little girl in memorization-class, all those years ago. I can recall details–a pair of flower-printed
leggings with grass-stains on the knees, a teacher who wore her hair in a
complicated double bun, a kid who fell asleep in class and made us giggle with
his snores–but I can't recall the girl, herself. I can't recall what it felt like to have
never seen a battle, to have never killed. The land looks red in
places, raw and torn up by trampling feet and bullets. But the blood came from human beings though
the mountains groan with what we've done, the Maidens hiss, I can hear it all
in the wind. And I can smell the
bloodshed clear up here. I swoop down
for any glimpse of survivors, see none, move on. ("Red," Jake says, staring at his wrist as Don changes his
bandages, in a smoky, drafty hotel room.
"I can see the color red." "Good," Don answers, and binds it up with gauze, though Jake
doesn't look the least bit happy with this breakthrough.) The powder or the ticket
home. Either flight would leave such
thoughts behind. Instead I have to fly
the hard way, with nothing better than a few raw leaves and a prayer to ghosts
to hold me up in the sky a little longer. ("I see red, too!" George exclaims, and he bursts into tears. And now Jake finally smiles, reaching his
uninjured arm out to the boy. George stares
a moment, and then embraces him, sobbing like it would break him. "Tears burst through," Jake says, "They can shatter spells and set
you free." And then he looks sad again, and my heart just breaks. George doesn't see Jake's lips move, saying,
"I wish that I could cry.") Landfall. Usual bruises. My skin looks tie-dyed in plum and
charcoal-blue by now, and blood stains the knees of my leggings these days,
underneath the skirt. But I always make
it back to my feet to do my duty and report.
I have informed Cyran about Sanzio's presence nearby. He has not said a word all evening since,
brooding on the coals of our campfire. I stumble on my way to the
bed that they make for me, and Tanjin catches me before I hit the ground one
more time. "I fly so much I'm forgetting
how to walk," I joke. He makes a stab at
smiling back, but I cannot make him laugh.
No one ever wakes me for a shift at guard duty anymore. Wednesday, December 30,
2708 Lufti will not help Kiril
strap me in anymore. I caught him this
morning, in fact, beating my fake wings with a stick, crying, "Bad horse! Bad horse!" He watches now, in horror,
in this tarped-off space for the wounded, after my day's flight, as Makhliya
salves the sores upon my shoulders, taping on thick pads that I know will wear
through before tomorrow ends. Kiril
tries to make me eat, but I feel too tired to move my jaws. I finally give Makhliya a
good look. She thrives despite the harsh
conditions, her face rosy, almost glowing, even if a little bit more pimply
than I remember. And she has gained
weight. Her once concave waist has
become a bit convex. She sees where I stare,
glances down at herself, and back at me.
"I know," she says. "I've started
to show. But it's okay. Father Man has already performed the
marriage—sorry we couldn't find you to invite you." "No," I say, my eyes
watering as I take her hand. "It's not
okay. It's not okay at all." But she just shrugs and moves on to other
patients. Lufti looks sideways at
me. He does that a lot. I make a point of only chewing greenfire in
the morning, so that I will sleep at night, so there's no point in telling
Kiril about something that has already worn off. But Lufti sometimes sees what the sane could
miss. It turns out he has
something else in mind. "You should
promiscu too," he tells me gravely. "We
use you up too fast—we need more Deirdres, lots of Deirdres before the fall of
night." But then his face clouds. "My night falls faster still. The stars come
out and oh, how they glare!" He stands
up, mutters, "I've got to find Kiril," and walks rapidly for the entry-flap. "Come back here," I call, and he returns. "Tell Kiril she gets a cigarette tonight, and
tomorrow. I deceived her for two days. I will abstain tomorrow." I hear that people like a little nicotine
after...that. "Tell her I'm sorry I
didn't confess before." He nods, and
leaves me to my shame. ("We've found them," I say.
George turns dead white. Beside
me Wallace gazes on the dilapidated house with weary remorse. The mailbox reads, "Winsalls" and nothing
more. "Hanukkah," Jake murmurs, his eyes thoughtfully wild. "Even now Alroy hasn't lost his touch." Don looks at him, nearly as crazily. "You think he...but of course. He knew exactly when it would all have to
end, and how long after it would take us to get here." Wallace clears his throat, then says, "Come along, George; we must
secure their permission," as he pulls off his gloves to extract the necessary
papers from the briefcase at his side. I
can hear them rattle faintly in his hand. In a small voice George asks, "Must I?" Wallace forces a smile.
"They'll think I've kidnapped you, otherwise." "They won't care." Wallace climbs out of the sleigh and holds his hand out to
George. "Come, come. Everything improves when you face your fears
and get it over with. I should have
learned that years ago.") The whisper goes on and on.
"I can't face it any more. I just can't,
I can't. No more. I can't face it. No. I
can't." I turn my head as Makhliya moves
my hair to bandage the other shoulder and I see the woman beyond her,
trembling, sipping a fragrant chamomile tea as her husband rubs her shoulders,
in this space for the wounded, without a wound on her visible flesh, but oh my
heart breaks for her. Cyran ducks in and looks
down on her. "I hear you want to muster
out already, Suleya." "Can't face it
anymore. Just can't. I just can't, can't, can't face another day
of it." "Let her go," her husband
pleads. "Let her take the children back
to the farm." "We've had children in the
ranks long before you enlisted. What
makes yours so special?" He lifts his chin at
that. "That they are mine." Cyran sighs. "She has seen our faces, Rogan. She knows our movements." "The whole damn midlands
have seen your faces! Everybody knows
your movements!" He starts forward, but
Cyran pushes him back. "Okay, okay! Good point." E stares at him a moment, then
says, "Call the children in." E steps back and lets the man leave and come
back quickly with two lanky boys and a girl, whispering to them. The older boy pulls
away. "But I want to stay and fight,
Papa!" "But your mother needs..." "Let him," Cyran says, in a
tone that brooks no argument. "Go outside, then,
Baruch." He kisses his wife, then says,
"Darling, heart of my heart, lead the children back to the safety of the
Midlands. Tend the farm. Keep a hearth for me to come home to. Can you do that for me?" She nods, and then I can
see her relax, even from here. So Cyran asks, "Do you vow
to uphold Egalitarianism your whole life long?" The mother and both
children say, "We do," one after another. "Do you vow to give aid and
comfort to the Egalitarians whenever you are able?" "We do." "Do you vow to spread the
word of Egalitarianism to any who will listen?" "We do." E doesn't ask them to bear
arms again if called upon, I notice, but e invented this ritual, so I guess e
has the leeway to omit whatever e wants.
"Then go in peace. You are mustered
out." Then e kneels down and takes the
woman's hand. "But stay with us anyway,
for a few nights more. Serve with the
medics, if you can't face the coming battle.
Because battle must happen, if we are to clear the way behind us for you
to go home." ("The road to home," Cybil sighs, as we walk openly on the pavement,
feeling simultaneously relieved and uneasy.
Twilight begins to settle around us as the sky colors brightly. Yet...too bright, too many particles in the
smoky air. And the sun shouldn't set in
the north. The device which I carry starts to crackle and hiss. "Tshura?" Toni asks.
"Zanne, she's trying to tell us something." "I know," I say. I study
the dials, but the corroded old arrows cannot move. We jump back from the rush of the first cars. Then climb up the forested hill above it just
in time, for not only do more and more cars come barreling out of Vayefeleze
but some of them veer to either side of the road to hurtle past the
faster. We hear crashes now and
then. And then the road clogs with cars
and people leap out of their vehicles to run. "What's going on?" Cybil cries out to the nearest runner. "Fire!" he calls back and doesn't wait for us to catch up. "They went mad and set the whole thing on fire!" shouts another
runner "Who?" A woman running by wails, "Evvvverybody!" We see now the wall of flame galloping behind
them, leaping higher than the buildings.
A fire-tornado begins to rise. We
join them running. "Hold together!" I cry out, but the crowd shoves us apart anyway. It doesn't take long to reach snowy fields and meadows that no blaze
could burn. Dazed strangers wander
around, coughing the smoke out of their lungs, looking about themselves as if
they expected shelter to just materialize. Night falls quickly in December.
It gets colder and colder—cold enough to kill. I start pulling people together to improvise
shelter and start a fire of our own. And
I don't recognize a single face around me.) Daylight lingers long in
summer, but the shadows of the mountains plunge us into twilight hours ahead of
time. I don't care; I sink into the
inner night of utter, total exhaustion. (Night falls before George and Wallace come out, though a faint
ghost of sunset still streaks the sky, in the purply-gray ashes of the prior
blush; we can see it through the door of the stable where we huddle with the horses. The sound of shouting and breaking stopped
long before, when Jake had restrained us from going in. And the hour long passed when Don asked,
"Don't you think we should go in there and see if they're still alive?" We ate a cold lunch waiting, and have just
begun to rummage in our packs for a dinner when lamplight warms the grimy
windows and the door creaks open. Now Wallace emerges to beckon us in. "Come on," he says, "they want to serve you
supper." His face looks boiled in
tears. "I have wrecked their lives, I
have wrecked their son's life, and yet they want to feed us." Mr. and Mrs. Winsall appear at the door to wave us in. They're both drunk, of course. That's the only way they know how to be,
now. They have grown swollen-faced and
florid, and their teeth rot from passing out before they can brush them, for
years on end. They no longer look a
thing like the radiant young couple in the wedding-picture on the dust-thick
mantle, behind the broken glass. And yet
they set out what remains of their best china, wiping out the dust on dirty
towels, and pour us steaming bowls of overcooked, unseasoned soup, and do their
best to smile. Jake stops them as they lay out silverware, taking a hand of
each. "The spell has broken," he
says. "You can go into town, now, and
seek treatment for your illness. You
will find the townspeople more merciful.
You will find hope." Mrs. Winsall throws herself onto his breast, sobbing, and he hugs
her back, stink and all, then holds out an arm for Mr. Winsall, too. And after that we eat.
And no one says a word of complaint about the cooking. As they pass the bottle around, Don and I
partake a little, enough to cut the evening chill. And then we head out to the sleigh again, not
about to spend the night in that sad house, with directions on how to find the
nearest inn.) |
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