IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume VI: The Rift
Chapter 36 A Song of Koboros
Thursday, January 28, 2709,
continued (Whatever it takes. Koboros
needs me. The patients weep and moan,
the wounds stink of my failures, each red streak or swelling of infection writes
out my incompetence for even the illiterate to read, and the weight of every
dead body crushes down my shoulders. If
I don’t manage to get some sleep tonight, still more will die, and everyone will
know that it’s all my fault. If only I could stop dreaming of my mother’s finger!) We won the battle, but not
without casualties. Six of my trainees
flunked their first test. Another in a
sling barely passed. And one in a
stretcher might not survive transport to Koboros. I have died six and three-quarters times, and
no mountain could bear up the weight of my shame. Yet the survivors laugh and
clap me on the back, shouting, “We did it!
Everything you said worked!” And
we toast each other in great draughts of hysteria, giddy on it, punch-drunk
silly and chortling over everything even as our feet tangle on our
weariness. They survived because of
me. I live through nine rebel soldiers,
because they have me to thank. I guess
that makes me more alive than dead.
Mathematics of war. Soon cold water and a chill
wind on our nakedness sobers us up as we seize the opportunity of an oasis to
bathe. A little trickle of a waterfall
darkens and enriches the color of the rocks that it spills over, into a full-fledged
stream. Greenery softens the margins of
the icy mountain brook that curves between the granite blocks–even where it’s
only moss grown shaggy upon rock. To the
delight of many new recruits who still have a sense of modesty, a tall island
of boulder separates part of the brook into two broad sections, shallow enough
for the sun to take a bit of an edge off its chill; in no time they designate
one side male and one side female. Lush grass thrives in every
stony crack, along with many an herb that Rashid has taught me about. I pass the knowledge on to Makhliya as we
gather them to dry upon the stones in the parched summer air, stepping gingerly
with our bare feet. The most healing
herbs always come from the harshest circumstances. “Like us,” Makhliya says, but I haven’t
really felt like a healer in a long, long time. I savor the bonding
moment. Cyran plans to send Makhliya on
ahead by the main road on a donkey’s back, with no visible weaponry: nothing to
see here, just another pregnant peasant girl plodding her way to her personal
Bethlehem. Apart from the delicacy of
her condition, e wants her to set up a medical station at the other end and
wait for us; we’ll need it by the time we fight through, slowed by evasive
maneuvers as much as by combat. Others
important to infrastructure will also melt into the common citizenry to make
their way more discreetly than the rest of us. Not me. Cyran values me too much as a warrior, now. After cleaning ourselves,
we attend to our clothes, smacking them against the wet rock scrub-boards that
nature provides, kneeling on the slippery moss.
I hear the same slapping sounds on the other side. I wish we had somebody to put a tune to that
rhythm! It would make the labor lighter. I notice that Cyran washes
on our side, shivering and blue, hir nipples tight upon the tiny, goose-bumped
breasts. The little nub between hir legs
hardly shows as a paleness in the private wool.
I glance down at my own chest, corrugated with ribs; Cyran looks more
like a woman right now than I do. Nothing will get the blood
out completely. Yet we can fade it to a
pale hazel stain and work the stiffness out.
At least it won’t stink anymore.
And my weathered, off-black clothes don’t show it much at all, just a
faint mottling, like the spots upon a panther, that you can’t see except up
dangerously close. Now we lie upon the
sun-soaked rocks while our clothes dry on another with the herbs. Ambrette helps me fan my hair out on the
stone, while I note without comment a new pink scar on her arm–glancing shot,
probably didn’t need more than field-care.
I also see the wrinkles on her belly, hips and pancake-breasts, no
longer plumped out to meet the local taste in whores. I glance over at Nishka; the burns on her
breasts don't look so horrible anymore, just a lot of spots and mottling. I lean back, then, and soon
see only sky. We feel the summer in the
sun when we lie too low for the wind to trouble us. Oh, rest, rest, rest! Even on bare granite it feels so good. I watch the circling
carrion-birds overhead, graceful dardies, angels of deliverance. Few people know that most Biblical references
to eagles actually mistranslate vultures–for the wise in Egypt and the Middle
East regarded the vulture as the bird of mercy: the carnivore too kind-hearted
to kill, the deliverer who cleared away the bodies that no one else had a
chance to tend. Oh, lift me up on
vulture wings! No, on second thought,
I’ve had enough of wings. Next to me Cyran lies,
staring up at the same birds. “What are
we going to do about Lufti?” e asks. “He’d die in Koboros,” I
say, surprising myself with my certainty.
“He’s taken against the place; his damaged heart couldn’t stand the
emotional stress.” “He’d die with us, too”
Cyran replies. “He can’t keep up with
war. Maybe we can settle him onto some
sympathizer’s farm.” “He’d leave and follow
us. He’s made his choice, Cyran.” I swallow a lump, and say what I don’t want
to hear, myself: “Any way you look at it, I don’t see him living to full manhood. He might as well choose the company he dies
with.” I hear a
sussuration–Cyran’s shrugging shoulders sliding on the rock. “Maybe he’ll surprise us,”
I say more to myself than hir. “Aichi
did. He might still serve the revolution,
and he might last longer than we expect.
The world’s full of chance and
changes. Maybe he will grow up.” I lean up on
an elbow and look at hir. “Besides, can
you honestly tell me that he’s any madder than Daba’oth?” “Daba’oth doesn’t have a
bad heart.” “How about Father Man, then,
with most of his fingers missing?” Cyran’s blue eyes stare up
into mine. “Lufti might make it, at
that. He seems to have some sort of
blessing on him, like Father Man does.
Who knows what he’s capable of?” “He’s a potential oracle,”
I tell hir. “If Lufti survives the
revolution, we should persuade him to go with me to Til, for training and
healing. In the meantime, his hunches
have already saved my life.” Cyran sits up. From the back view I can see hir ribs, too,
hir vertebrae, the sharp-cut waist above the pelvic bone; this war hasn’t gone
easy on hir, either. “Let’s go check and
see if our clothes have dried.” * * * The
road seems easier, fresher, wearing clean clothes on a clean body. Mountain flowers quiver in the wind between
the rocks and birds dart singing in among them.
I almost feel my melancholy lighten; at least it feels more like
“melancholy” than frank depression. In
the distance I see corries leap from rock to rock, glancing our way warily
before returning to their business of grazing on the sparse mountain grass,
climbing higher and steeper than we’d ever want to, their silhouettes lofty and
innocent between us and the sun. Our
weapons can’t shoot so far, and I feel perversely glad, though I’d like a bit
of meat that wasn’t salted half to death. Delicate
notes shiver on the air. I almost
thought it birds at first, but I know now all the calls in the Charadoc and
this tune shapes more like the melodies of men.
Harpstrings sing in the distance, I soon realize, but come closer with
every step. Now
a voice sings out, deeper and more steady than I remember, but oh I know it
well! “One
autumn day in Koboros, When
fruit grows sweet and lovers meet To
pledge their hearts for coming snows, To
share their blankets’ warm retreat, There
came a crackle and a smoke, A
flashing light, and orange bright Glowed
on the stones, the dawn invoked, For
soldiers thought to give us fright. They
lit a fire in Koboros, Fair
Koboros, sweet Koboros! They
lit a fire in Koboros, But
our stones they cannot burn! The
cattle bellowed, chickens screamed, The
children cried as mothers died, The
arcing spark-trailed missiles streamed, Explosions
roared, nowhere to hide! Yet
hiding didn’t cross our minds. Our
guns we raised, our rifles blazed! Through
smoke we marched, our homes behind, Though
roof and cote and shed they razed. They
lit a fire in Koboros, Fair
Koboros, proud Koboros! They
lit a fire in Koboros, But
our stones they cannot burn! We
fought, but bullets found each man, Each
woman brave, each helpless babe, The
battle ended, scarce begun, Yet
one boy reached a cave. They
lit a fire in Koboros, Fair
Koboros, sad Koboros. They
lit a fire in Koboros But
our stories they can’t burn! He
shot the soldier chasing him Then
went in deep and fell asleep, Exhaustion,
grief, despair and grim Resolve
his dreams to steep. While
soldiers searched for more to die, Then
rolled the brave into one grave. They
thought them all now dead must lie, But
they overlooked the cave! They
lit a fire in Koboros, My
undefeated Koboros! One
bard survives from Koboros And
my songs will always burn!” “Damien!”
Several of us cry at once. And there he
comes around a boulder, riding on a mule, strumming a harp with the fire of his
village in his eyes. We run to him, and
all of us who know him must embrace him, taking the harp from his hands to do a
proper job of it, half-knocking him off his feet and thoroughly tousling him
till he looks nearly beaten up by our affection. Grinning,
the bard turns to Cyran and says, “I hear you have a war to fight? Mind if I join you?” Cyran
bursts out laughing and pushes us all aside to take hir turn embracing,
thumping the life out of Damien’s black jacket. “Where’s
your motorcycle?” Kiril asks when the commotion settles down. “Ran
out of fuel,” he says cheerfully. “It
only took taroleum, and supplies have seen disruption of late.” He shrugs, scratching his beard. “It’s time we parted anyway; the noise hurt
my ears.” Cyran
frowns. “I didn’t order any attacks
against taroleum shipments. All military
vehicles run on stapleseed.” “It’s
some commotion in another country, from what I hear. Nothing to do with us.” I
frown. Plenty to do with me,
though. The transoceanic shuttles fly on
taroleum—that’s why there’s only three stations. And if it just got rarer still, I’m going to
have a devil of a time getting home. Damien
yawns hugely. “Tell me you’re going to
camp soon, Cyran. I’ve had a long
journey.” (The black pall cut out the light all day
long. I thought at first it just came
from another city burning, but it smells different, familiar yet changed and
grown grotesquely. And the cloud’s much
darker than the smoke of wildfire; you can barely see the red disk of the sun. Now, at twilight, I watch the glow competing with the sunset that
flashes underneath the hem of murk. Over
there: pillars of firelight, swirling and shuddering. And now I recognize the scent.
It smells like a shuttle station.
The taroleum refineries have caught fire. I sigh, and feel the miles in my feet. Istislan has its own refineries, though this
will cut the supply in half. There’s
always been talk about developing the infrastructure for more in the Plague
Belt itself, where taroleum comes from, but nobody’s really too keen on the
idea. So we can expect considerable
jostling, politics and maybe even violence, to fill in the power void of who
gets to take over a juicy piece of the trade. I scan for a place suitable for my band to loot some dinner and
retire for the night. It’s not my
problem. I’ve got my hands full right
now. Let some other agent worry about
it! Then I sigh again, deeper this time, and my entire body aches from
my soles to my scalp. And just how are
these other agents supposed to get here to fix it? It will have to fall on any who happen to
already be in the west. Especially any
agents from Fireheart Friendclan. And they will all look at me.
And they will all know that I failed, that I’m the reason why the
refineries of Vanikke went up in smoke.) (Jake sniffs the night air.
“What is that? It doesn’t smell like a regular forest fire.” Wallace lays down the sail that he was stitching in the lantern’s
glow. “You’re right, my boy. It smells like...like gateways closing.” Then he frowns, puzzled with himself. George stops scaling the fish that he’s supposed to be helping me
prepare for our supper. “Something
creepy,” he breathes. “Something creepy
that I did. I’m the reason that this
happened.” I shudder; sometimes I really
do not
like traveling with three oracles. But then I pat his shoulder.
“No reason to take all the blame on yourself, lad. Whatever’s happening is much too complex for
that. Now let’s finish up before we all
faint from hunger.” Jake nods and joins us to help.
“Randy’s not wrong,” he tells the boy.) I spend a quiet evening in with my husband, trying to ignore the
creepy things happening all around us. I
did not see anything scurry out of the corner of my
eye, or if I did, it must have been a mouse. I don’t hear anything outside
except the wind, and it certainly doesn’t have voices in it. If the curtain stirs , it must mean a draft
somewhere. Suddenly the lights fail. I fetch a flashlight. My husband calls me into the other room, in
the dark. “Is that a human finger?” he
asks, and points to something stuck in the old bay window. He wants me to shine my flashlight on the
thing. Just as I prepare to, however, I
look beyond it, out the window. A man in
a red flannel shirt stands out there, staring at us. I can’t make out anything in the dark except
the homicidal gleam in his eyes. My own screaming wakes me
up. I find myself outdoors, in my bedroll, and feel disoriented for a moment,
then recollect myself. Tanjin’s eyes
wouldn’t look like that! He must’ve
symbolized something else. Something
inside me. |
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