IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume VI: The Rift
Chapter 60 Days, Days, Days
Tuesday, March 2, 2709 I string corks in the
light-speckled dimness of my cell, hearing steps and voices and life just
outside the walls that I made for myself.
I keep thinking about what Father said.
I didn’t have to keep on
building stairs, once everyone had seen me help. I could have built one stair each. My shoulders still ache with the memory of
it. And I could have sent messengers
between camps; I didn’t have to personally visit each one over again for day
after day after day. (“Days, days, days!” George grumbles, swabbing the deck with
heated water that steams before turning so cold that I swab rapidly behind him,
drying it before it can freeze and make the deck still more slippery. “Who would’ve guessed that adventure could
get so monotonous?” “Welcome to the life of an agent,” I say with a smile. “We don’t spend quite every minute saving the
space-time continuum.” Jake ducks out of the cabin.
“Whose turn is it to clean the head?
It stinks in there.” George groans with a bit of his old theatricality, but goes for
the brush and soap. Wallace watches after him.
Softly he asks, “Do you think he forgets, too quickly, that he has
killed people?” Jake stops in the middle of hanging blankets to air, and stares at
him darkly. “No.” He shakes out the wool. “And he never will.) Days, days, days, days, days. A burden and a blessing. Time to breathe, to sleep, to eat. Time to mend my raveled hems and nerves, to
scrub out stains, time to knit some socks of soft alpaca wool, worth pennies in
The Charadoc and a fortune in Stovak.
Time to forget the exigencies of the road and battlefield, and time to
remember...well, everything. And
everybody. Every body, ha ha. Not a joke. The map spreads out now
over three big sheets of paper, which I have cut to fit together into the curve
of the coast that I knew. It reminds me
of that other place, that land not in the Charadoc, where I hiked and boated
and explored with the free heart of a child.
Sometimes, when Kiril takes a break from her tent (retraining her lungs
to the outside air) she and Lufti crowd to either side of me, as I tell them
stories of this coastline where I hiked and boated and explored, this place I
loved. Sometimes others come 'round and
listen, too. Whatever makes them happy. Speaking of exploration,
Father Man or Mykolas or whatever leads others out to fathom a whole network of
tunnels and canyons in these mountains.
He has quite a nose for which ones will lead out to air and light again,
and which will dead-end. I am certain that
he must be some kind of oracle; the untrained ones often do become
schizophrenic. Which presupposes some
kind of tragic early in his life before he even became a priest–maybe even
driving him into the priesthood in the first place. He did say “traumas”, plural, in our
conversation, after all. But if he doesn’t
want to talk any more about it, I sure don’t want to pry. He’s already told me almost more than I can
bear. Today he came home with a
string of cave-fish, sparkling and more precious than the pearl and silver they
resemble. Now I smell them frying in
stapleseed oil. Good–I really want
something fresh. Except I’d love fresh
greens even better than fish–something from the vegetable kingdom that doesn’t
come out of a canning-jar or dried up in a bag.
I’m going to see if I can get some sprouts going. I have the time. And have regular meals
rendered me so delicate in my tastes?
Was it so long ago that I wolfed down barely edible mushrooms just to
chew on anything at all? (Days, days, days, days,
days, and no relief in sight. The llamas
escaped last night–there goes half my plans, right there, and a good source of
meat, if worst came to worst. I must not be delicate in
my tastes. The supplies will have to
last. My field-book calls these
mushrooms edible, though fibrous and not recommended for taste. And this fat rock-rat, convulsing itself to
death in my snare, will make as nice a meal for me as for a condor, once I get
it sizzling over the fire. That’s what I
shall become–the condor that swoops down on his prey from on high. That should put some heart into me!) Wednesday, March 3, 2709 (Sometimes, at twilight, that time unsure of whether to be day or
night, I step away from the field-desk and out of the tent, to breathe deeply
of the moisture-charged air, listen to the birds begin or end their day in
flock-fellowship, and think of what could have been, instead of what is. What if I had never joined the Purple
Mantles, nor the Rebels for that matter, nor any side at all? Who would I be, if my flock had never held a
gun? Fruitless. I have imagined
all of it before and none of it magically came into existence. I must finish the road that I have taken, too
far from what I’d wish to ever turn back now. I go back into my tent, returning to the reports that have arrived
on the loss of Abojan Pass and the fall of General Layne Aliso. What other path might you have tread, dear
Layne? You could have outshone all the
other ladies in their shimmering petal-dresses, and I, your loyal butler, could
have met you at night when respectability didn’t matter, blessed and
uninhibited by your wickedness. Impossible. Her road ended
in a bloodsoaked battlefield, as I suppose mine shall, someday. I pick up the report from the deserter who fled before the final
fall, spared execution if he could write this report as thoroughly as
possible. And indeed he spilled out a
thick sheaf of information as if a pile of words could fortify him against me,
when I couldn’t care less about his cowardice, because this time it came in
handy. He mentions Deirdre Keller, giving me a satisfying account of her
destruction. Or it ought to satisfy me;
it doesn’t. Skeletal frame, matted hair,
sores all over her skin, wild eyes. The
man writes about his living nightmare in such morbid detail that I can see
precisely how well my plan unfolds. Because of course Ms. Keller would never have accepted
concentrated stimulants from the hands of the enemy. I suspected as much, though I had hoped it
could have ended that quickly—one more what if.
The real trap was to get her to see the self-destruction that she had
already begun as not too bad in comparison.
Believing herself moderate, resistant to temptation, she has completely
lost control. Oh Deirdre, what alternate path might you have walked, long enough
ago to have made a difference?) Sometimes, at twilight, I
sit on the ledge, my feet dangling over the abyss, with Kiril and Lufti beside
me. She now breathes the thin air
full-time, on the understanding that she must not exert herself. The cave faces north, so we don’t see the
sunset head-on, but we do get enough of the color to count for something, as we
watch the first stars come out, the bluish light from struggling lanterns
behind us casting a twilight glow around us, even after night has fallen
full. I have grown used to the cold and
the stingy air. We don’t say
anything. The wind sighs and groans
enough for all of us, filled with centuries of ghosts. (The common folk believe in
ghosts. I don’t, of course. But on a night like this, miles from my usual
reality checks, temptation comes upon me to set my reason aside, to listen to
the wind, and wonder if I hear the voices of my friends in them. I find myself averting my eyes from the black
hole of the cave entrance, half-afraid to see them there. And no one can see me cower, so I have no
shame in doing this. Ridiculous! I can see myself. I force myself to stare straight out. Nothing out there but the stars.) Thursday, March 4, 2709 (Barter wins you goods from All Kinds Sanctuary, but continued
lodging requires manual labor. Which I
don’t mind in the least. Yes, feeding
chickens and mucking stables doesn’t exactly suit my glamorous image, not to
mention my inclination to perfume myself and my surroundings any way I can as
often as I can, but seriously, my dear Tshura, it sure beats sleeping in a car
and scavenging for food! You may be a
Gypsy, but I am not. I am an agent. Oh botheration! You’re
right! I pick up a pail of pig slop with one hand, and Tshura’s box with
the other. Nobody questions why I carry
the box everywhere; I’m not the only one with “security objects”, although Lula
knows it’s more than that. I don’t think
Apollo and Courtney have ever understood, but still regard me as comparatively sane,
for Vanikke. Yes, darling, I’m fully aware that you’re listening to every word
I think, at least on the conscious level.
You are officially classified as my harmless neurosis. I can feel you laughing. I try to keep from laughing, too, though I
can’t suppress a grin. Random giggles
over a jest between me and my invisible friend might be a bit much even for
locals. But getting back to…no, I’m in no hurry to get back to the
subject. Let me feed the pigs first;
before their eager grunts turn into squeals of indignation at me standing here so
long with food just out of reach. There,
you go, Vosco, and you Brunnel, and Sanchez, and Pierrot. Their owners have named them each for a
politician of the fallen government. Okay, okay, back to the subject!
Let me wipe my hands first, girl, and then hit me with it. But I already know, Tshura. I have let days pass without leaving to be
the agent that I came here to be. The
mission has changed but not ended. Back in the barn, I sit on a milking-stool and fiddle intuitively
with the dials. I don’t know why this
helps me tune into Tshura. It just does. Not yet. Don’t go quite
yet, Make your mind ready but don’t go yet. No? You know something I
don’t? But that’s lovely. I won’t complain! I stand up, stretch some kinks out of my bones, and start
coughing. Oh my. Better get back indoors!) Peace begins to bore
me. I pace my “room” after completing my
few chores. Good news–I must be
mending. Bad news–how can I ever go back
to a normal life? But that starts a thought:
bored, board, why not make board games?
We have scrap cardboard enough to cover with squares or loops or
whatever the games demand. We can use
pebbles or any other small things for markers.
What have I done with my brains these past months that this didn’t occur
to me till now? Something needs done. I’ve seen some of the kids chatting with the
man who deals in muras. I smell a musty
sweetness on the air. Nothing certain,
but I think I’ll mention it to Cyran.
Boredom can endanger soldiers more than bullets, sometimes. (I pull myself together
more every day. In fact, I feel almost
bored. I take out the deck of cards that
I brought along for a few friendly games, and I play solitaire for awhile. Then, for a change of pace, I make a house of
cards, rebuilding it again every time it tumbles. Tomorrow,
I know, I’ll feel up to more than this.
Time for me to make some reconnaissance.
They have to have some weakness, these inferiors. They cannot hole up Cherone Peshawr forever.) On the other hand, why not? Why not sample just a taste of the pleasures
of the rich? Cyran and Makhliya won’t
let me budge; I’m as useless as some idle Lady smothered in a petal-dress
anyway. Discreetly I make my purchase
out of the sight of the others, then slip into my “room”. Just this once; I’ll try it just this once. Flaky.
Delectable looking. Smells like
rare perfume. Will it give me visions as
sweet and dark as it smells and looks and oh my yes as sweet and dark as it
tastes? My teeth crush through the
delicate filo into the sticky richness in between. Will it make me forget
everything I want to forget, just for one delicious night? I chew, I swallow, the body eager for the
calories, oblivious to what else the confection carries, the mind eager for
surcease. The senses swoon into the
moment, the feel of pastry on the tongue, licking the jam from the teeth…oh
heaven! Now what? I finished it, so now what? Maybe a slight wooziness, but maybe not,
maybe that’s just what I hoped for. So
disappointing! My neurological
difference probably interferes. Forget it. I turn to old-fashioned escapism, picking up
a book beside my mat. “In the Mountains
of Fire”, the title says, wreathed in an amateurish attempt at stylized vines. Looks interesting. It’s an easy read, too. Sort of.
The images fly at me off the page; I don’t seem to need the actual words
in print—images from my life, everything I long to forget! I watch screaming men burn to death as they
try to escape their tank, I watch exploding heads, I watch the thatch of a hut
catch fire despite the rain that washes blood off my hands but not my soul, I
burn, I burn, I burn! I rip the book to shreds and my hands
catch fire—I can write a better story than this! I grab up multicolored pens and start
scribbling furiously! “You ruin my life
to write your stories, only to balk at letting me publish them!” But why do I write in black? I’m supposed to write in blue, aren’t I? Why am I writing this at all? Because every time I ask for
therapy my family says they can’t afford it.
Because it’s my only chance at getting well, to hold group therapy
sessions with different parts of myself and try to work things out between
us. I open the big felt-pen
collection. Red will be Merrill, blue
will be Deirdre, purple for Zanne, green for Don, orange for Lisa, brown for
Jake and turquoise for Randy. I’ll take
the black pen, myself… Questions and answers, questions and
answers, but the answers never seem to make sense and lead to more
questions. And the images don’t stop
assaulting me—my hands on Kiril’s throat, Tanjin’s face exploding into blood,
the craziness burning in Lufti’s eyes… “Wake up, Deirdre! Snap out of it!” Hands grip my hair, rocking my head back and
forth. I grab Lufti and stare back at
him; his madness makes more sense than anything right now. “I’ve seen where you went, Deirdre. I’ve been there, too. That world’s too much for us. Come back to this one. Come back here.” I hold him and he holds me, and I don’t cry,
I burn, but no more flames surround us, and I never had a book in my room or
pens of different colors. “She did get
therapy, Deirdre. We all got therapy,
even though I never got a color. I don’t
have to carry it all by myself.” And I stare at him, trying to remember
what he’s talking about, but I just feel spent. “Never mind,” he says resignedly. “Just lay down. Sleep it off.
World-hopping can wear you out.” She looks on me compassionately,
and without judgment, as I explain to my therapist, “For years I’ve held what I
call polylogues . I’d give each of my
dream-characters a different color pen, and we’d hold conversations, trying to
solve our problems. The idea is that my
waking world would be their dreaming, so while in the polylogues they’d have
access to my memories, but wouldn’t remember any of it when waking up in theirs.” It’s such a relief to finally have someone to
talk to, a professional so moved that she only charges me twenty-five cents a
session. God bless you, Joan Winchell! |
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