IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume VI: The Rift
Chapter 36 Martial Madness
Friday, January 29, 2709 I barely close my eyes
again, it seems, when Cyran wakes us all, shouting, “R & R’s over, folks!”
and rifle shots punctuate hir words. I
scramble to yank on my boots and grope for my gear in the dark. I grab Lufti up into my arms as I run,
gripping him to my chest, and he wraps his increasingly lanky legs around my
waist to steady himself as he braces a rifle on my shoulder and pack to cover
our rout. Each recoil nearly jolts me
off my feet and the report hurts my ear, the air sulfurous with gunpowder. Yet we run towards our goal, not away–that’s
the main thing. The army can’t block us,
they can only try to pick us off before we get there. Cyran gives orders and leaf passes around
without a break in our strides. So it’s back to
marathon-mode for us, way too soon since the last time—the thought gut-punches
me with a kind of giddy terror as I chew.
God knows how the next few days will grind even the ghosts among us, let
alone those of us who have to push our flesh.
Yet at least I won’t have to think, not with Cyran in charge; all I have
to do is run. I don’t have to feel
hunger, weariness, grief, guilt or longing, just swing my feet and keep my grip
on the tangle-haired boy who weeps and shoots upon my shoulder. I can even forget Tanjin for a little while
in the exigencies of battle. Baruch balks at the
leaf. “That stuff drove my father mad!” I spit pulp and say, “War
is madness—keep up or drop out!” I wipe
my mouth and add, “Or you can make a
white flag from your underpants and hope the enemy sees it before they shoot
you. Then you can tell us all about what
a prisoner of war camp’s like, if you survive it—you’re not crazy like your
mother so they won’t give you a break.
But your father’s ghost comes with us.” He doesn’t say another
word. He takes the leaf and runs with
us. And I chuckle. Saturday, January 30, 2709 I can’t keep this up–Lufti
keeps growing, no matter how skinny, and the pack bouncing on my back weighs me
down with flit and folded wings. But
then Kiril passes me a couple leaves and I can do it. Mother-instinct keeps me running with one
child in my arms and my other racing beside me, slimming down more all the time
and God, she’s beautiful! Brave and
beautiful, with her grip on my arm to keep me from stumbling. Even when the bullet hits my pack and nearly
knocks me to my feet I scramble on, glad it lodged in whatever it did only
because it kept me from dropping my son, from failing my daughter. Sunday, January 31, 2709 We’ve split up into bands
again, spread out across the mountains.
Mine gets just enough respite to open our packs and eat a little, though
my numb tongue hardly registers the cheese and bread and my stomach doesn’t
want it. I discover two shiny new slugs
sunk into the framework of my flit. We hear shells in the
distance coming closer—break’s over. Greenfire’s
running low again, but Lufti grabs my head from where I carry him in front, and
steers me to a new bush that he can’t even see behind him, sobbing, “I’m
sorry!” over and over. And I remember
the last time we stripped a bush. He
drops off of me and curls up, rocking. I hadn’t realized that I’d
grabbed her till I feel the barrel of her gun against my breast. “Don’t die like Kief,” she hisses, and I
freeze. “Greenfire was the bait,”
she says, “and the enemy set the trap.
You’ll remember that in a couple minutes.” She lowers her gun and takes me by the
hand. “Now let’s get out of here before
the entire Charadocian Army crashes down on us!” And Lufti runs beside me before I grab him up
again, my tears falling into his hair. The whistle-code herds me
to the left. Surely the rank and file
don’t know it, surely they don’t all travel with purple mantles, not this far
ahead on the line. Dawn light starts to
gray around us, rock and bush and sponge-tree slowly coming into focus, and now
our forward-retreat becomes the most dangerous of all. Ambush! Of course they know the codes! I throw Lufti down and myself on top of him,
heart hammering. I can’t think, I can’t
think! Another bullet hits my pack,
nearly knocking me to the side and exposing the boy. Kiril dives down behind me and shoots back,
her rifle braced upon me. And I still
can’t think, I can only shield my loved ones with my body and wish myself as
fat as Malcolm at his worst. Then other guns join
hers. And I still can’t think. Then the gunfire gets more distant, and Lufti
pushes me off, saying, “It’s safe now, Deirdre.
It’s okay.” I stare into his eyes
as I rise to my knees and let him go, and I realize that right now he’s saner
than I am. Too much has happened. I can’t think. I can't think. I can't... Way in the back of my mind
a memory plays out, even though I don’t immediately connect it to my own
case. A lecture on geology, of all
things. The teacher, that dry, weathered
old scrambler after rocks, points to his charts on the various kinds of
earthquakes, the faults that slide sideways, the ones that slide over and
under, the blocked faults that can suddenly jolt straight up. “Sometimes it’s not the primary quake that
does the most damage,” he says, his face hardened by what he has seen. “Sometimes the smaller aftershocks do,
shaking loose what the big one weakened.” Kiril’s face comes into my
field of vision. “She’s fried,” she
says. “Lufti, help her to her feet–it’s
not safe here. You keep her going on one
side, and I’ll take the other. We’ve got
to get her running again.” I laugh uncontrollably. What, am I a car, now? Will they push-start
me? I guess they do, because they pull
me on by my arms till my feet find the rhythm again, and still they hold on.
They don’t laugh back. I don’t need to
think to do this–they steer me. Lufti
says as calmly as breaths between leaps allow, “It’s
okay...Deirdre...Nobody...can be...a god...all the...time.” By the time the sun climbs
well into the sky I come to my senses again and can steer my own course. Kiril and I take leaves, but we won’t let
Lufti have any, not with his heart. By
afternoon he can’t keep up, and so I carry him again, as more army closes in on
us. By nightfall’s jolt of
greenfire I find myself laughing again–why fear the paranoia that the leaf can
fan, when people really do pursue me with intent to kill? It seems the world’s funniest joke, as we
dive behind a rock and Lufti falls helplessly asleep at my feet while I shoot
death back at the latest enemies to try us with their lead. By the time they no longer pin us down, the
last leaf has worn down and I need another for the next run. Oh, the Greeks did not know the meaning of a
marathon! Monday, February 1, 2709 Kiril has taken to
screaming in battle. Good job–she scares
even me, her tawny hair wild around her, her shadowed eyes maniacal. But even after the battle, she stands amid
the corpses screaming and screaming, wreathed in stinking gunsmoke, going
hoarse. She jolts and brandishes her
knife at everyone who comes near her.
Finally Lufti approaches her slowly.
She starts to lower her knife. He
steps on a twig that snaps like a gun’s report and she brandishes the knife
again, but by that time I have come behind her and wrapped my arms around her
long enough for Lufti to pry the knife from her fingers. She twists in my arms, but only to hug me
back, sobbing against me. Then Lufti
wraps his arms around us both. “We’re all mad now,” she
gasps, shaking in our embrace. “We’re
all mad now!” Tuesday, February 2, 2709 Cyran sends a messenger,
telling me to fly and reconnoiter the enemy’s positions and our own, but I can’t
raise the flit. Even after Shermio forces
some sort of choking-sticky nut butter down my throat I can’t make it fly. I stare down at the slugs imbedded in the
wood and wonder if they killed it. But
then we don’t have to guess the enemy’s position, because they fall on us
again. I feel the incessant percussion
of battle pound me, pound my bones, crack my skull, powder me. I don’t know what’s left that fights and runs
and fights and runs and fights. Wednesday, February 3, 2709 That
can’t have been Shermio yesterday. I
know that. There’s nothing wrong with my
mind. His ghost is just more present
than usual because we’re headed for where he died; nothing too surprising about
that. Whatever else they might say about
me, I’ve still got all my wits about me.
(Whatever else they say about me, the enemy or my own soldiers, I
remain a lady.) I glance down at
myself. Embarrassed, I straighten out
the skirt that has ridden up as we climb over the ridge, my warriors rising up
one by one ahead of me, silhouetted against the stars. (A woman can get fierce,
you know, in defense of her country. Was
it Robert Louis Stevenson who said, “The female of the species is more deadly
than the male”? No, Kipling. Rudyard Kipling. Or one of those English writers that Sister
Assunta hammered into us, insisting that no one could call themselves educated
without mastering Classic English.
Ridiculous language–no clear-cut rules and two completely independent
spelling conventions.) More shooting! I shove Lufti and Kiril down and fire, fire,
till the gun chokes and I realize that I just spent my last bullet. But no one shoots back anymore–for now. I stare out at a dark trickle coming down off
the top of a moonlit stone, until Kiril takes me by the elbow and says, “Let’s
go.” (I give orders and my men
shoot out the windows. Then they enter,
and soon they open the door for me.
Fussy place, abominably overdecorated.
Ruffles and embroidery everywhere?
Lace and tatting? Not my style.) I glance down at
myself. Not one ornament, not
anywhere. Suddenly it matters–that and
the fact that I smell like a woman but not like a lady. Not so much as a bead in my fraying
braids. I find myself horrified at what
I have become. I rebraid my dirty hair
as I march. I have to unravel it and do
it over again because my hands shake so badly that I make mistakes. I redo them again. And again.
I just can’t seem to get it right. (They shove the elderly
couple in front of me–weeping, bleary creatures, pitiful in their
thinness. Oh but the rebels have bled
them dry, poor things. But that’s what
you get when you make a deal with the devil.) Have I made a deal with the
devil in my dreams, sometime between the laying down and the rising, back in
the days when I used to sleep? I must
have. All the more reason not to sleep
anymore. My fingers unravel braids and
try again, as my legs swing left, right, left, keeping up the march. (“Let the old fools go,” I
tell my men. I am not without
mercy. “The only way they ever
threatened us was with their money, and now that the rebels have used that up,
they pose no further threat. Go on–frisk
them to make sure, then out the door with them.”) Why oh why did I ever frown
on Kanarik for wearing beads in her hair?
I should have encouraged her. Who
knows how little time she might have left in a rebel’s life? I should have encouraged her in everything,
while she was young and could enjoy it.
What if I’m the devil that others have made deals with? What if I...no. No! NO! (Yes, yes, I am well aware
that it’s below freezing out there. The
tiresome old corporal needn’t remind me of the obvious. I was just out there
myself, darling, I should know better than anyone. Cursed mountain peaks–why, you’d never know
it was summer! And no, I will not let
them fetch their coats–who knows what weaponry they might hide in the
closet? They brought this on themselves,
dear, remember that. They betrayed their
country, giving aid and comfort to the enemy.
I give them much better than they deserve.) Do I shake from the
greenfire, or shiver from the evening cold?
Whichever it is, I know that I deserve it, and worse. I miss Lufti’s warmth, but Kiril insisted
that I need a break so Lefty carries him now.
I wrap my poncho over my coat.
Ugly poncho, ugly coat, I look like a man in a dirty black skirt! But I have to poke my chapped fingers out
from under the fabric anyway, because my hair needs rebraiding. (Throw another log on the
fire, Ed–there’s a dear. Frilly chair
here, but at least well-padded–so much nicer than a campaign-stool. And do bring me my pack, please. My boots stretch out towards the flame,
warming my cold toes. I pull the little
delicacy from its waxed envelope in the pocket of my pack; one needs the little
pleasures now and then, even if the crust has broken, flakes all over the
inside of the envelope, I know it still will taste divine. How sweet of Ruby to find some for me. As Chinese New Year’s celebrations go, I’ve
seen worse, my dear. I toss one bill
from my pocket into the flames, because you never know, we all could use some
luck out here. Hold on–what made that
whistling sound? Tea on the
hearth? Perfect. Oh we did catch them by surprise, didn’t we? Here you go, Corporal; I’m sure you’ll do a
better job with a little something in you to warm your vitals. And...one for me. Pardon the flowery cups–the woman had no
taste at all! I let the steam warm my
face before I sip–it’s good for the pores, you know. Well, she at least had some taste in her
beverages–quite a pleasant change from army fare, don’t you think? A hurled knife from the hall shatters my cup,
staining my uniform with scalding tea–the nerve!) Battle again! I kick into action mode, grabbing up rocks as
I run towards those who would fire on my children, dodging from boulder to
boulder but always towards the enemy. I
don’t even have to think anymore–my body knows the moves. (I whip around to the side
and shoot where the knife came from, without half a thought. Well-trained reflexes, darling; I didn’t get
to be general for nothing. Then I fan
away the gunsmoke, rise, and go over to the body crumpled in the bedroom
doorway. Only one arm–a hardened veteran,
then. The beads in the hair would
probably indicate a female, but with the perversions of the enemy, following
such an unnatural leader as they do, you never know. I roll it over with my toe. Female indeed, and pregnant. Any chance of...no. Two of the bullets went straight through the
abdomen. Pity. I would have fancied a child of my own. But come, let’s be practical–domesticity will
just have to go on hold for awhile. I
can adopt when I retire.) I buckle over, suddenly
overwhelmed by a cramp in my belly.
Daba’oth covers for me, flinging rocks while I crumple to the
ground. The kid has gotten nearly as
good at improvising weaponry as my trained recruits; he brings a certain
grinning ferocity to the task, opening things up for Kiril to dive to my side
and shove a spout in my mouth. “You idiot!” she
hisses. “I told you to drink water!” “Sorry.” I revive and rejoin the fight. And my mind
just...erases. (I give orders: find the
old couple and gun them down. They have
obviously participated more deeply in the revolution than I realized. I stare down when the floor feels squishy
underfoot. Blood seeps from the corpse,
a slow, steady flood, but it was an ugly rug, anyway. My men haul the dead thing away while I pace
a bit, examining the house, yanking down a curtain now and then, weary of all
this bother, hoping to settle down awhile for good. Thick walls–that’s a plus, all things
considered. Not a bad place, once one
gets a second look. I could make a
stronghold here. Clear out the clutter,
give it a new paint job, hang different drapes–something not so frilly, more sophisticated–and
yes, it could do the trick.) I snap back to sense when I
overhear Ambrette asking, “Do you really think it wise to give her any more
leaf?” I haven’t been fighting for
awhile. I have been sitting on a granite
outcropping long enough for the red-spattered stone to warm beneath me. “Of course it’s wise!” I
growl at her. “What–do you think Lufti
can carry me?” I climb to my feet and
rejoin the march. She doesn’t miss her stride
to say, “Get any skinnier and he can.”
But before I can retort the enemy falls onto us again. Miles pass before I realize that none of us
have eaten since yesterday, or maybe the day before, or...whatever. But then another battle starts up, and I
forget whatever it was that just now troubled me. Off to my left I see Damien
fighting, all the more carefree the more leaf he chews, laughing at the
enemy. Gauntness looks handsome on him,
desperately dashing. When did he join
us, anyway? And when did Cyran split
off? It scares me, how little I can
recall of these days, when I try. For
some reason that I can’t explain I feel so sorry for Damien that I want to cry. Thursday, February 4, 2709 In the chancy glow of dawn,
the deadly rise of visibility, Lufti, heavy on my shoulder, wakes to say,
“Abojan Pass is Koboros, now,” and not another word do I get from him, only his
nearly silent tears raining, drop by drop, upon my neck. Then the horrible racket starts all over
again, the hammer-blow sounds, the screaming and the red. Friday, February 5, 2709 “I’d
trust you two with my life. I have trusted you with my life. You always pull through. I have nothing to fear from either of
you. Really, I don’t. I would die for you two. I can’t stop
talking, I know it and you know it, and I wish I could; my throat hurts, ha ha,
isn’t it funny that I can’t seem to stop talking, but hey, whatever it takes,
it keeps everything clear for me when it all gets so dark and scary with the
shadows of ghosts cropping up you never know when, to keep reminding me of what
I have right here, what’s worth shooting for.
You are my heirs. You are worth
everything. You are the Charadoc for
me. I know it scares you, I know, it
scares me, too, that I have to keep repeating this litany, keep reminding
myself, but I have to keep remembering just how much I love you both, that I
don’t have to kill you, that I have absolutely nothing to fear from either of
you, ever, because that keeps me going, that makes it all meaningful, I can
keep on running, I can run forever if I have to, run till my bones in rags and
boots swing left and right, till I become a ghost animating a skeleton without
ever slowing down, without ever dropping down to rest in death. Don’t cry like that, it hasn’t happened yet,
maybe it will never happen, OH JESUS HELP US IS THAT no it’s just the rat-a-tat
of a woodpecker, ha ha, scared the bejasus out of me and I wonder if Jesus
really would help us as stained as I am but of course He would for you, for
somebody, there’s got to be someone in the Charadoc still fit for mercy or at
least unscarred enough to beg for it. Ohhhboy
that’s real gunfire now, oh no, and this time we’re the ones out of
bullets! But hold on, I teach
classes in this, you both just get behind me and TAKE THAT YOU HORROR! TAKE THAT AND THAT AND THAT HOW DARE YOU
MENACE MY oh, is it over already? That
way? Okay. I trust you, Kiril. You wouldn’t point me into danger if you
could help it, we’ve established that. I
can trust you both. I’m sorry you got
cramps from running so much honey, and yes I do see you clutch your stomach, you needn't try to hide it, but we must, we
must, we can never slow down or we’ll rest forever. Are you rested enough now already,
Lufti? Can you run with us again for
awhile? Oh thank you, dear child, I feel
easier now with that much less weight, I can last awhile. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Oh.
Thanks. I didn’t see that one coming.
I love you I can trust you it’s all right if you shove me down into the
dirt it has to be for my own good of course and THERE THEY ARE, THE FILTHY
DOGS! Well, come on, you wretches! Have some more teeth for me to knock
out? Call me that again, will you? THUS and THUS and THUS do I do to all who
threaten my puppies–yeah, call me that again!
Yeah, say it in blood if another word can’t flow from your filthy
mouth! Go? Okay.
That way? I can trust you. Here, lean on me even if you have to run
doubled-over. It’s okay, Lufti’s got you
on the other side, dear one, you can make it, we won’t ever leave you behind. I can trust you both because I love you and
you love me and it will be all right someday, someday we will all get to rest
and maybe even before the grave, maybe we will sit together indoors, in chairs
thickly padded in embroidered cushions, draped with antimacassars, and sip tea
and reminisce about the bloody hellish war like we invented it for a diversion
or something, but oh lord I can’t keep up without another chew of oh thank you,
thank you, that’s just exactly what I needed.
You give me good things and so I know that I can trust you, I can trust
you both...” |
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