The Lost War

by Karl K Gallagher

  “Wait,” said Newman, “I don’t get to pick a name?”

  “You can try,” said Buttercup. “If you pick something that fits and there’s no one else using it you can make it stick. If you stay Newman too long we’ll find something that fits you.”

  “Huh. I’d hate to get stuck with a name I hate.”

  “Well, you can change it. But that usually takes doing something spectacular or the King deciding to rename you.”

  “The King? Why would he care about someone’s name?”

  Buttercup chuckled. “That doesn’t happen often. Last one was when King Stonefist decided Lady Chamomile should be Lady Burnout.”

  “What? Why’d he do that?” demanded Newman.

  “Oh, she’s an emergency room doc in mundane life, then she comes here and patches bruises for fun. Stonefist thought she needed to take some time off so he tagged her to shame her into taking some time for herself. Didn’t work. She’s working the chiurgeon tent this weekend.”

  ***

  Newman looked left and right to make sure he was properly spaced between Goldenrod and the stranger to his right. It didn’t seem to matter. The couple dozen people forming the circle were sloppily arranged. Squeezing them between a couple of tents made it more of an oval than a circle. But he wanted to do his part right, even if he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.

  He’d said yes to Goldenrod’s invitation to attend a pagan circle without thinking. Now he wished he’d asked some questions. This other religion didn’t do anything the way he was used to. Everyone faced in toward the cluttered table in the center as the priestess called chants in different directions. He held up his eating knife, turned when the others did, and repeated “So mote it be” when everyone else did. Hopefully it wouldn’t get any more complicated.

  Priestess Belladonna did put on a good show. Her prayers were passionate, her calls to the gods detailed enough to educate him, and the ritual of blade and chalice made the sexual symbolism clear without any adolescent smirking. Now she seemed to start a sermon. “We all came here to seek something—a glimpse of a better past, association with our true peers, a chance to display our strengths, and usually some of all three.” Belladonna turned, looking at each member of the circle in turn. “But we’re also all fleeing something. We’re seeking the same things and fleeing different things. Working together we can help each other escape.”

  Belladonna turned about and walked up to a woman in the circle. “What are you fleeing?”

  “My ex,” she answered.

  “Cut yourself free,” said Belladonna. She aimed her index finger at the ground at the woman’s heels. To the next person in the circle she asked, “What are you fleeing?”

  “My job.”

  “Cut yourself free.” She put her hand on his wrist and angled his blade toward the grass. “Cut the ground and connect it to your neighbors’ cuts, so all in the circle may be free.” She went to the next. “What are you fleeing?”

  “Poverty.”

  “Cut yourself free.” The first two were kneeling to cut through the roots. The third joined them. Belladonna moved on, repeating her question and direction to each. The answers floated across the circle, some firm, some hesitant.

  “My mother.”

  “Stalkers.”

  “Drugs.”

  “Family.”

  “Booze.”

  “Dad.”

  When Newman's turn came he was cheerful. Seeing others fumbling with how to do their part of the ritual made him feel an equal. It made sense to him. Cutting around the circle would symbolically cut all their ties to what they were trying to leave behind.

  “What are you fleeing?” asked Belladonna.

  “Guilt,” answered Newman.

  The priestess inclined her head gravely. “Cut yourself free.”

  Newman knelt to make his cut. Beside him Goldenrod said, “Boredom,” and joined him.

  They were among the last to answer Belladonna. After completing the circle, she moved to the center to urge everyone to finish. “Make your cuts complete! Your cut must join your neighbor’s cut! The circle must be unbroken!”

  Newman noticed Goldenrod’s cut overlapped but didn’t touch his. A swipe of his knife connected them. With their attention on the ground no one in the circle noticed the stars shift into new constellations.

  Belladonna’s black dress streamed out in a breeze between the tents. One of the corner candles nearly went out. “Ground your blades and hold hands,” she ordered. “Feel your freedom. Share your energy with each other. You are released from what pursues you!” As she raised her hands to the sky the circle followed, clasped hands reaching up. “Let us thank the gods for their gifts.”

  The corner callers said thanks to their deities in turn. With the ceremony over the circle broke up, some clumping, others scattering.

  “So?” said Goldenrod.

  “It was . . . more powerful than I imagined,” said Newman. “I feel free, energized, powerful.”

  “So do I,” she said. “It’s not usually this good. Belladonna has her, well, never mind, but she can run a circle.”

  “What's next?”

  “Traditional midnight Steak & Shake run.”

  “Can I come?”

  “Sure,” she smiled. An older couple volunteered to join the expedition. Goldenrod introduced them as Beargut and Elderberry. Newman led them to the parking lot.

  Rounding the last tent he stopped abruptly. A wall of trees was blocking the way. “Uh . . .”

  “Wrong way?” asked Goldenrod.

  “No, look. The path is clear, then it’s just leaves.”

  “This isn’t right,” said Beargut. “I’ve been coming here for ten years. The trees aren’t this dense, there’s grass between them.”

  “Did we get turned around?” Newman asked. He looked left and right. The trees ended neatly a few yards from the tents. Too neatly. Some branches ended as if they’d been sliced with a bandsaw. He pointed them out.

  “Do people trim trees to make room for their tents?”

  “Never,” said Elderberry. “It’s prohibited by park rules. If we cut a tree we’d be banned from the site.”

  “I could have sworn this was the way to the parking lots,” said Goldenrod.

  “It is,” agreed Beargut. “Should be right through there. But I don’t see the streetlights.”

  Newman turned slowly on his heel. “There’s no streetlights in any direction. I thought I saw some before the circle. Did the power go out?”

  Goldenrod fished out her cell phone. “That might be it. I’m not getting any signal.”

  With tents hiding the few campfires around, the greatest source of light was above them. Newman looked up. “Wasn’t the Moon gibbous? Now it looks half full.”

  “No, it’s a crescent,” said Elderberry. Their eyes followed each other's pointing arms. The foursome looked silently between the two moons. There really weren’t any curse words strong enough.

  “What the hell?” snapped Beargut. “Seriously, what the hell is going on?”

  “We’re someplace else. Not where we should be.” Newman’s face was a professional mask of calm, not something Goldenrod had seen on him before.

  Elderberry whimpered and sat down. Beargut knelt next to her and wrapped his arms around her.

  “If we moved . . .” Goldenrod paused for thought. “What moved us?”

  Newman didn’t answer. He turned his head back and forth, checking for threats in the unknown woods.

  “Belladonna. I’d wondered why she’d asked the gods’ protection on the whole camp. Usually we just call them to the circle. That bitch!” Goldenrod sprinted back to the circle. Newman followed, impressed with her ability to run in ankle-length skirts. His tunic kept getting caught between his knees and tripping him.

  Belladonna was alone, packing candles and tables into a wheeled box.

  “What did you do?” demanded Goldenrod.

  “What we all asked for, m
y dear,” said the priestess.

  “I wanted more! I didn’t want to give up everything, everyone I already had!”

  “Maybe you should have phrased yourself more carefully.”

  “Bullshit. Something like this doesn’t happen because of vague words. You set it up. Take us back.”

  Belladonna smirked. “The gods’ gifts are not to be spurned.”

  “It’s your will I’m spurning. Undo what you did!”

  Belladonna laughed.

  Goldenrod knocked her flat.

  Newman was impressed. He hadn’t thought she could pack that much of a wallop.

  “Punish me all you wish,” said the prone priestess. “It’s done. Welcome to your new home.”

  Goldenrod kicked her in the stomach.

  “You’re spending the rest of your life here.” Belladonna laughed.

  As Goldenrod drew back for another kick Newman grabbed her shoulder. “Wait! We need to find out how she did it. With all of us working together maybe we can find a way to get home.”

  Belladonna rolled to her feet and started running. “You can’t. I didn’t do it alone,” she said over her shoulder. Goldenrod gave chase, Newman close behind.

  The priestess followed the shortest path through the tents to the woods. As she disappeared between the trunks Newman grabbed Goldenrod’s arm. “We can’t follow her in there.”

  “She’s getting away!”

  “We don’t know what’s in these woods. There could be something dangerous. It’s night.”

  Goldenrod pulled her arm free but stood still. “I hope the worst thing ever happens to you!” she yelled into the woods.

  ***

  Constable liked patrolling in the wee hours. It was quiet, the parties were smaller, and people were calmer. A dwindling party would invite him to help finish off a bottle. An achy matron was willing to gossip. Some other insomniacs weren’t feeling chatty. They traded polite nods with him.

  He kept his path inside the outer ring of tents. People heading off to the bushes didn’t want anyone spotting them. It wasn’t his job to keep them out of trouble. He just watched for people in trouble in camp.

  That girl in the black dress looked to be in some trouble. Constable watched her long enough to be sure the limp wasn’t from tripping over a tent stake. She was hunched over and clutching herself. “My lady, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m, I’m fine.” She didn’t look up. Her dress was filthy, dirt and pine needles all over the back.

  “May I escort you to your tent?”

  She recognized his tabard. “Yes, thank you, Constable.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “With the Green Stag.”

  “Lean on me, lass.” He guided her around the tents. When they reached his destination he lifted the tent flap and followed her in. “Lady Burnout! Sorry to wake you ma’am, but this one’s for you.”

  Belladonna tried to step back, bouncing off Constable’s broad belly. Lady Burnout switched on the battery-powered lantern by her cot. The light revealed the chiurgeon’s tent, examining table in the middle. “What's the matter?”

  “Nothing,” said Belladonna.

  Lady Burnout threw off her blanket. Her nightgown was thicker than Belladonna’s dress. She stood and held up the lantern before the younger woman’s face. “Split lip, bruises, black eye. Right. Have a seat on the table and we’ll take a look at your nothing.”

  Constable excused himself, letting the flap fall closed.

  “I just fell.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, let me see how bad the fall was so I know what pain meds to give you.” Burnout studied Belladonna’s walk as she stepped to the table and stiffly hoisted her hips onto the edge. The chiurgeon circled the table then stopped in front of her patient. “Where’s it hurt the most?”

  “All over. My legs, I guess.”

  “Okay.” Lady Burnout hung the lantern from a hook and opened a box of swabs. “Did you get right up or lay there a bit?”

  “Took a few minutes to catch my breath.”

  Burnout grabbed Belladonna’s ankle and yanked straight up. The patient fell on her side with a screech. The cotton swab swiped between her legs. “You bitch! How dare you!”

  Ziplocks were stored under the table. Burnout dropped the swab into one and squeezed the air out. “Poor woman's rape kit.”

  “I didn’t consent to that!”

  “No. But I’ve seen dozens like you come into the ER so I know tomorrow, after a nap and a meal and a shower, you’ll decide you want to press charges after all. But it’s too late to get a sample then. So you didn’t consent, this can’t be used as evidence, but when tomorrow you decide to consent the sample will be waiting.”

  “I wasn’t raped.”

  “You're just being fucking insulting now.” Burnout tapped her shoulder. “Loose dirt.” Tap on the hip. “Dirt ground in to the fabric.” She stepped back. “One hand-sized bruise on each wrist. Two-hand bruises on ankles. You were raped. There were at least four of them.” She held the ziplock up to the lantern. “And one had some nasty VD. Orange is new on me. But all the rest I’ve seen plenty of times before.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “No, you don’t. Wish you’d think about the next girl who goes off by herself. I ought to call 911 anyway.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Slightly surprised, Burnout retrieved her cell phone from the pile by her cot. “Crap. No signal. I had four bars at dinner. I’ll try again later.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “Let’s get some antiseptic on those injuries first. And I meant it about giving you some pain pills.”

  After treating the scrapes and giving Belladonna some water to wash the pills down with, Burnout checked her phone again. “Still no signal.”

  Her patient didn’t offer any explanation of the lack of connection.

  “Look, if we can’t get 911 we can have someone drive you to the hospital.”

  Belladonna shook her head. “I just want to go back to my tent and lie down.”

  The chiurgeon sighed. “Will you make a report to Constable so we have a record of it?”

  “I tripped and fell. Can I go now?”

  Lady Burnout let her leave.

  ***

  Newman woke as the stars began to fade. He dressed quietly to not bother anyone else in House Applesmile’s tent. The household had stayed up late in a whispered debate over what could have relocated them until Master Sweetbread declared lights-out. The noise, or maybe the empty side of their sleeping bag, was enough to wake Goldenrod. She pulled on her dress and shoes without asking why. He slung his quiver over his shoulder and picked up his bow.

  Once they stepped out of the tent Goldenrod asked, “What’s that for?”

  “Security blanket.”

  There was one oak tree between the tent and the strange new trees. He studied the bark and leaves. The trunks said ‘elm’ to him but the heart-shaped leaves didn’t fit. He turned left at the edge of the forest and started walking.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Goldenrod.

  “I’m getting a feel for the terrain. Where are we, are there any threats out there, are there better places to be?” Newman kept his eyes outward, just glancing down enough to pick a clear path.

  Goldenrod stayed to the inside of him. The camp was familiar. The woods . . . would have felt just fine to her if she’d expected them. That they’d appeared from nowhere was scary.

  The scary trees thinned out on the west side of the camp. The dawn sun was at their back, so this was still west. Newman led her through a thin line of trees and stopped on the other side.

  They stood on a river bluff, some sixty feet above the flood plain. The river was wide enough to sail on and too fast to swim in. Another bluff rose on the far side, crowned by forest.

  Last night this spot had been a grass lawn sloping gently down to an artificial pond.

  Goldenrod said, “You’d think after seeing tw
o moons I’d expect things to be different.”

  “I think everything is going to keep surprising us,” said Newman.

  He looked up and down the river valley, examining every bend and knot for clues about this new place. A wrack of dead tree trunks and branches hung up in a bend caught his eye.

  “There’s no litter,” he said.

  “You sound like that’s bad.”

  “No trash, or boards, or broken rafts means no people. We’re alone here.”

  Goldenrod slid an arm around his waist. “We have each other. There’s a lot of good people in the Kingdom. We’ll manage.”

  He returned the embrace. “This is a good place for the camp. As close to the river as we can get and still be safe from floods.”

  “Maybe someone’s looking out for us.”

  Behind them the camp was waking up. People who normally would have slept in were jolted from their beds by shouts of shock or simple surprise.

  A herald called out, “Oyez! Their Majesties command all subjects to attend Court at this time! All subjects are commanded to attend!” He moved to a different part of the camp and repeated the call.

  Newman and Goldenrod walked toward the center of the camp. People were arguing as they came in. There were shouts and screams as some who hadn’t realized the change had it pointed out to them. A few were in hysterics. They were settled down gently or forcefully as needed. One man began punching at random until a blow from behind dazed him. Someone steered him along with the crowd into the open space before the royal pavilion.

  The front wall of the pavilion was held up by poles to make an awning over several fancy chairs. Everyone stood. Some had folding chairs. A dozen fancy-clothed people came in. Four sat. The herald directed the crowd to sit. Those nearest to the pavilion plunked down on the grass. The folding chairs went behind them. Newman and Goldenrod were in the outer ring, standing with the rest.

  “Who are these people?” asked Newman, looking at the ones sitting in the fancy chairs. The seats were portable thrones, carved with the Kingdom’s heraldry and tall enough to provide a headrest.

  Goldenrod pointed to the couple in the closest thrones. He was blonde, looked a bit over thirty, and wore a gold crown and an embroidered red velvet tunic tight enough to show off the muscles of his arms and shoulders. The woman next to him was slim, looking like the matching crown was too heavy for her. Her face was paler than his, lacking the sunburn. Thin hands twisted nervously in her lap. Her dress was gold, adorned with hundreds of beads. An older woman stood behind her. Goldenrod said, “King Estoc and Queen Camellia rule the Kingdom. They’re halfway through their six month reign. The one in the gold dress behind them is Baroness Stitches, the chief lady-in-waiting. Sort of their organizer.”