by Andy Giesler
Shepherd Michael answered for hisself. “I said, where’s Lee’s baby been hiding all these years?” He pushed my staff aside. “Gabriel, what have you been up to?”
“Michael, let her be,” said Gabriel.
I brought my staff back to Michael’s chest. He pushed it away again, a little rougher. “Tell me, Lee’s daughter,” he said, “why are you having a quiet talk with Gabriel after the way your mother died?”
That prickled me angry. While I didn’t know whether Gabriel helped kill Surecreek, and my ma along with it, a lump in my belly said Michael did. So I said to Michael, “Why are you having a quiet talk with me when you should be running?”
He laughed. “Yeah. That’s Lee’s daughter.”
Gabriel took a step toward us. “Michael, she can help. You know we need help. Whether she knows it or wants it, she’s part of us.”
“Of course she’s not,” Michael said. “You know this. You and Lee wrote the Truce. If anything drops from between a shepherd’s legs, we raise it in Haven. Anything else is too dangerous.” He looked at me. “You dangerous?”
“Michael,” Gabriel said, “don’t do something without—”
“How long since the last shepherd fight?” Michael asked. “Not sparring. I mean serious.”
“You don’t need to—”
“How long?” he asked again.
Gabriel paused. “About sixteen hundred years,” he replied, and my mind whirled. I couldn’t imagine there’d even been so many years, let alone that these folks had seen them.
“Sounds right. Been too long. Lee’s daughter, you know how to use that little staff?”
“Don’t, Root,” Gabriel said. “You’re quicker than him, but you can’t imagine how much better he—”
Since I’ve always had trouble listening to good sense, I’m not real sure what Gabriel said next, though I had the nut of it. By the time he finished talking, I was occupied with other things.
Whatever happened, I think it happened fast, though it didn’t seem so to me. When I swung my staff, I could almost feel it held back by the wind of its passage. When I leaped, it was like I floated up through the air and floated back down again. My cloak rippled through the air slow and gentle, like a hand rippling in water. I wished my body to do things, and it took its own sweet time to obey. It was like my mind flew while my body walked behind it. I’d felt something like it when I fought the Hidden Folk, but nothing just quite. Maybe with the Hidden Folk there hadn’t been such a dreadful need.
And Gabriel was right. I was faster than Shepherd Michael. A good bit faster.
I could feel it. Whatever I did, I seemed to get there a touch quicker than he expected. When we both swung, our staffs met nearer to him. When he sent something at me, I most often moved quick enough to make it miss.
And Gabriel was right. Shepherd Michael was so much better than me.
His reach was longer. His body was stronger. But worst of all, he seemed to know what I’d try before I even thought to try it. I was a young woman with a few years’ practice at the Shepherd’s Dance with my ma or by myself, and a few true fights, and whatever the Nothing had made me. For all I knew, this shepherd had been dancing since before the Reckoning.
What’s more, though you might think it unimportant among all of that, Shepherd Michael had a true and proper shepherd’s staff, where mine was the same one I’d been using these many years. A good staff, as I’d cared for it real well, but slender. After we danced for a short yet endless time, I learned that when a big staff meets a small one, sometimes the small one—no matter how well wielded—loses.
As we crouched close together, down near the ground, the two halves of my broken staff in my hands, I knew I was beat. From the angle of his head, he knew it, too. I couldn’t stand against him with empty hands, and even if I could do any harm with the pieces of my staff, he’d likely ignore it.
Which, just then, I understood something I should have understood before.
If you’ve ever seen your weaver practice the Shepherd’s Dance, you might imagine it’s about giving out a thumping. Most folks seem to think that. And yep, it’s partly that. But it’s mostly not. It’s mostly about watching whatever you’re fighting, and using its own self against it. They run for you? You step aside. They swing at you? You use that swing and pull it on through. They seem confident and full of purpose? You make them confused. You make them hurt. You make them angry. Because whether in body or in mind, you want to shake their balance.
What I realized at that moment is this: When you fight a shepherd, all of that’s different.
They’re after your balance, just the same way you’re after theirs. While you try to rattle them, they’re trying to rattle you. They can guess what you’ll do, having done it themselves, so they’ll be ready for it. They feel no pain, or feel it only brief, so discomfort won’t shake them. If you do manage to hurt their body, they don’t much care, for that wound will heal. However you can think to surprise them with your staff or your elbow or your knee, others have done that same thing to them five times, or a dozen, or a hundred.
So it washed over me, clear as clear. There is no kick or swing or punch within my skill that will put this shepherd off his balance. With my staff or without it, my Shepherd’s Dance will not surprise nor confuse nor anger a shepherd. So I left the Dance behind, and I did the only thing I could think of.
I licked his face. Real wet. Cheek to brow.
He did not fall over squirming, nor did I expect it. He only startled the least little bit, so little a normal person might not even notice, and he yelled a word of the Shepherds’ Speech that sounded four parts confused and one part mad. And that wasn’t much, as far as losing your balance goes. But because I knew just right when he’d lose it? Why, it made all the difference.
Because I was faster than Shepherd Michael.
As I kicked myself back and rolled away to stand again, he said something else in the Shepherds’ Speech that wasn’t confused but just pure mad, five parts at least, and he watched me spin his own shepherd’s staff about my belly.
The rest of it took a while, me with a staff whose balance I had to learn, and him with the broken pieces of mine. I’ll not linger on what became of Shepherd Michael, because I took no joy in it. I’ll only say that I believed, and I still believe, there was no other choice for me, and that I ended him as merciful I could have done.
Once I’d caught my breath and could bear to open my eyes again, I looked to where Shepherd Gabriel had stood, expecting he’d fled. Yet he hadn’t. Fact, he must have left and returned, for he had two traveling packs with him that he hadn’t before. He handed me one of the packs and a water skin. “You’ll be hungry,” he said.
He’d have been right if there was a bigger word than “hungry.”
While I ate, he pulled Michael’s body off to the very edge of the woods and spent a short while with it. By the time he returned, I’d eaten and drunk all my belly could bear. He sat down beside me in the broken dirt our Dance had tilled up. He looked out into the woods as he’d done at the start of it, and not at me. “I’m still pleased you’re not dead,” Gabriel said, and his voice was weary.
“I still have questions,” I said.
“I suppose you do.”
The next part? I’m not sure I meant it for true. But I was tired, and I’ll confess I was mad. So I rested the tip of Michael’s staff gently at the side of Gabriel’s head and said, “You will not take me to Haven. You will answer my questions right here. And if you don’t, I’ll send you off with Shepherd Michael to visit Gebohra Muerta.”
There was a thing or two I expected Shepherd Gabriel might do next, but laughing was not one of them. And not that little whuff of air I’d heard from him, neither, hardly louder than Woodsmith Abram’s laugh deep inside. This was a true and honest laugh right from the middle of his guts. He laughed for a bit, then he wiped his eyes and sighed, and he turned to me.
“Nothing could make me go to Haven, Root. And
I am Gebohra Muerta.”
Words from the Reckoning, So Very Long Ago: Ruth Troyer’s Journal
1
July 29, 2166
So long since I’ve written.
It’s two years since we removed the last strays from our community. Where have two years gone? I’m grateful that we’re doing so well in such times as these.
We’ve over two hundred people now, adding folks from all over the world that’s left to us. We have the beginnings of a village with something like a wall around it. Lis Eicher says we’re “getting all medieval”. Farming outside, living inside. A couple former engineers even set up a smithing shop. The old town of Sugarcreek was a couple miles off, but it burned to the ground in the Reckoning, so we’ve taken its name. Our new village of Sugarcreek is a place we can flee to when we must. More often than we’d like, we must.
Most of our trouble comes from wildlife and chimeras. We’ve seen several small groups of bandits, but most avoid us or run away after a minor night raid or two. Those who try anything vicious are quickly escorted off this mortal coil. I’ll say this for the strays: seems like they swept up nearly every working antique or hobby firearm within a few days’ walk. Modern guns stopped working after the Reckoning, and more than one rascal has tried to threaten us with what amounts to a gun-shaped paperweight. Most bandits carry only knives, clubs, and machetes, with the occasional bow. That leaves me feeling better about our safety. I’m also glad about that little box of violence I sent down south with Nettie Glick.
Far as I’ve heard, Emma’s people are well.
Our people are such a variety. Mostly we speak English, but there’s a good deal of Spanish and Mandarin, with touches of Hindi and Russian here and there. Everyone’s picking up some Deitsch words and phrases, but the only ones who speak it in whole sentences are the few plain people among us, and mostly we speak it to share gossip or jokes.
In sad news, two of our original thirteen matriarchs have died, and another’s not far from it. Those with medical training say it’s some kind of cancer or another. Six of us went on that first scouting trip to Canton-Massillon, and all three sick women were among that group. I’m well so far, as is Jimena Schroeder, but we’re watching nervously. Eleven of our original fourteen refugees from up there have died, too. It was harsh in that area, so we haven’t been there again since, preferring to rescue folks and useful things from smaller places. I wonder whether something up there made us sick.
We sent a party over to Mt. Vernon last spring led by Sadie Stutzman, Pinky’s daughter. They’re not sure what happened, but by the time they got back, Jerome Spinks, one of the new fellows who went with her, was in terrible pain. Almost looked as though his body was rethinking what it was meant to be. We did what we could for him. First time I’ve seen somebody go chimeric. After a few days he went mad and attacked those of us who were watching over him. He clawed and bit two nurses, Euna and Josh, before I could put him down.
By evening of the next day, Euna and Josh started turning.
That was hard.
I gathered the village together and explained bad-before and good-after. We talked it over a long while. Euna and Josh were there, too, aware enough to understand the need, and aware enough to fear what lay ahead. In the end we agreed, most of us. Even Euna and Josh, bless them. I gave them something to gentle them off, then I did what was needful to both of them. I said a few words over them and we burned their bodies, along with Jerome’s. Since then we’ve been burning all our dead, whether we think they might turn or not. We’re teaching people to be careful with body fluid exchange, too.
I finally made it to the world’s edge last June. Looking at it left us all numb. The canyon circling north-central Ohio is so broad and deep I could hardly imagine the scope of it. But it’s not Ohio anymore, is it? It’s the only world left to us. It’s the World That Is.
Oh. Another thing that’s maybe worth mentioning.
I’m surprised how hard this was, but I’ve decided not to keep Troyer as my name. It’s Eli’s, and all I care to keep from him are my daughters. Yoder didn’t seem right either, since I don’t really remember my parents. Grandma Anna and Grandpa Solomon were Beilers, but somehow that’s not right either. So for now, I’m just calling myself Ruth.
Some of the ladies at Common objected, saying they need to call me something, if only to tell me apart from the three other Ruths. A couple wanted to call me Mayor Ruth or Governor Ruth. One even joked at Queen Ruth.
I will not put myself above others. I’ll guide folks if they wish me to, but I’ll not order them about. One by one as folks tried out titles for me, I told them to stop it.
When I told Lis Eicher to stop it, she said, “Come on now, Ruth. Like it or not, you’re our leader. What’ll we call you?”
I just laughed and said, “I’m no leader, Beth. I’m just a weaver.”
So folks have taken to calling me Weaver Ruth, almost like a proper title. I’ll count my blessings. At least nobody calls me the Bitch anymore.
2
January 14, 2167
It’s our fifth day of a chimera lurking. The whole population of Sugarcreek is inside the village walls for now. Most of us would be in here anyway this time of year, but folks are awfully tense.
This chimera seems much smarter than others we’ve encountered. I could swear it knows what a gun is. It’s smart enough not to give us a clear shot during the day, but it’s out there in the woods, and we hardly dare go outside except in heavily armed parties. It’s faster than the other chimeras, too, and bigger, though its shape is more human than many. I’d swear it’s eight feet tall.
Twice in the night it’s come over the wall. The first time inside, it took a ewe and one of our carpenters, a young fellow named Erol Kim. By the time our watchers got there, they didn’t dare shoot lest they hit Erol. The chimera took him back over the wall with them. At least he didn’t scream long.
The second time we were better prepared, and we drove it back before it could hurt somebody. Filled it with an ungodly weight of slugs and shot. Yet it’s still out there. We’ve got to make this wall more respectable, but that’ll need to wait.
If this keeps up, we might need to go out and hunt it. Normally that would only terrify me—but this clever one? I don’t know if we dare try.
3
January 18, 2167
That bastard Teddy was right. Somebody did make the Reckoning happen on purpose. And he was right, too, that the Reckoning was meant to stop chimeric naughts from spreading. Which didn’t entirely work, it seems. Oh well. It’s the thought that counts.
I know this because I spoke with the fellow who did it.
A couple days ago I was nearly at wit’s end with our siege, and I’d half decided to go out chimera hunting with Jimena and a few others when three people came walking from the woods toward Sugarcreek. I had the watchers open our silly little gate and I charged across the field at them to warn them, forgetting I was carrying the Remy. Two of them moved so fast. I’ve never seen a person move like that. They startled me enough that I raised my rifle, but before I had it level it was out of my hands and I was on my back with one of them sitting on me, a machete to my throat.
The other fast one, a tall, skinny woman with long black hair, growled like a drill sergeant, “Damn it, Michael, stand down!” He rolled off me and she helped me up. By then the third one, who was just sprinting in an ordinary-seeming way, reached us. Little fellow, brown hair, beard. Bags under his eyes like nobody deserves. “I’m sorry,” he said. He looked as if he was maybe sorry for more than my butt getting dusty.
I explained I was running to warn them about a chimera. He said they took care of it, and he nodded back toward a smoke trail way off in the woods behind him. Which was something. Not one of them had a weapon more sophisticated than a sharp hunk of metal.
“We’d like to speak with whoever leads you,” he said.
“We don’t have a leader,” I replied. “Just a weaver.”
; He looked puzzled, then he said, “May I speak with your weaver?”
“Not out here, you can’t.”
I took them back into Sugarcreek. Beck Graber took the two fast ones, Livv and Michael, to her home to feed them, and I took the little fellow to mine. He wasn’t much for small talk. I’m not, either. That worked out.
He said he was looking for a couple of bios named Quint Baker and Teddy Scafidis. He’d met a colleague of theirs who saw them near here a few years back.
“This fellow you met, was his name Ernst something?” The little fellow said it was. “Good,” I said. “Glad he’s alive. He seemed a decent fellow.” Something happened in the little fellow’s eyes that I didn’t care for. Like he got even sorrier than he’d been a moment before.
“We’re looking for people with advanced knowledge of Wicc power, bioengineering, and the like. We need to gather them together.” Something about the way he said “gather together,” though he seemed to say it comfortably, it made my hair stand up. It made me wonder whether people would come back home from that gathering. But this village is enough to worry over. I didn’t care to make his business my own.
“Fellow you spoke with was right,” I said. “They were here. Now they’re not.”
“Do you know where they went?” he asked.
“Nowhere you can gather them from,” I replied.
He thought on that a moment, then he nodded and didn’t ask anything else about Quint and Teddy.
“I’m Ruth. I appreciate your help, but we’ll be just fine now. Since your business is done you’re welcome to stay the night if you’d like, or you can be on your way.” I hoped he’d be on his way.
“Call me Gabriel,” he said. “Thanks for your offer, but we should be going. We’ll visit again, though. I’ll leave you with the good news that we’re here to protect you. We can talk more about that another time. We just ask that you follow a few rules in return.”