“How many horses?” the tall Gray repeated, grinding his teeth and holding out his hand for Bram to stop.
“I don’t know. Four or five hundred.” Bram kept his steady gaze forward. “We’ll pay your tax. We don’t want to fight you. How about five horses?”
The Gray’s mouth curled into a flare. He cursed a string of vile words, spat on the ground, and finished with “All your horses or all your women.”
Bram couldn’t hide his shock. He threw the loaves down and choked out a single syllable.
* * *
“No!” I bound over the bread and reach this extortionist in two strides. His cohorts are too slow to react or too timid, but now that I have this evil man’s throat in my grasp I hear the click of readied guns and feel the prick of sharply honed arrowheads on my back. The stench of his breath gags me. “Back off or your leader is dead.” I hiss the words over my shoulder but watch my victim’s eyes dart a silent plea to the closest men.
They pull back the arrows, lower the carbines; I loosen my grip. “Horses or women? Are you crazy?”
“They … the army from the underground city … they’ve raided our lands for years. Taken our food. Taken our women.” His attitude changes from belligerent to defeated. “They burned our fields.”
I sense the men moving around, bobbing up and down, collecting the loaves. Something is off.
“You have no women?” I loosen my grip even more. Some of the things we found in the city made no sense to us then, but now … I suppose I didn’t want to imagine the depravity. I drop my hand, ready to bargain.
But two young men, untrained in Suppression fighting, grab my arms. Two more take my wet legs and lift me up, splay me out four feet above the ground. Their simple maneuver nullifies my long ago ingrained response. I struggle, though it’s futile. But I know exactly the five words to make them set me down. I can name their wives, their mothers. I can tell them where their graves are.
Predictably my tongue adheres to the top of my mouth.
* * *
The sound that bellowed from across the river came most certainly from Malcolm’s box and rang harsh. Insistent. Discordant.
The cloud above Bram purpled.
The Gray leader regained his composure and uttered three surprising commands.
Chapter 11 Cars on Cadence
From the tenth page of the third Ledger:
Beyond the river there was death. The victims of their enemies became their victims. Beyond the place of death they found seeds of life. With the seeds there was hidden a strong addiction.
“DROP HIM,” THE leader of the Grays yelled. “Regroup! Recharge!”
The men heaved Bram down the incline while those with bows took positions behind the cars and those with carbines slid behind driver’s wheels and clipped their weapons into recharging stations in the dashboards.
Bram tumbled a few feet, popped up, found his footing and ran to the bay mare. The horse spooked at his sudden return and bolted into the river before he could grab the reins.
The darkening sky added to the frightening sounds that emanated from all around. The Reds positioned themselves as well as they could behind rocks and trees and sent their women and children farther back out of range of bullets and arrows. When the cloud changed colors and the box set off ringing tones that hurt their ears, they roared in pain and anger. Only a few Reds had long-range weapons; those with swords and spears yelled all the louder as if their voices alone could push back the enemy.
The Grays’ line of cars set off a series of honks that followed some well-rehearsed tempo, drawing the Reds attention right, then left, then right again. That allowed their archers to stand, aim, and send measured volleys of arrows across the river.
Bram pulled the rod from the mud and unclipped the bottom twelve inch section just as an arrow struck the black ooze a few feet away. Between the blaring horns, the amplified noise from the box, and his men’s shouts, his head was splitting with pain and his vision was darkening. He levered two tiny controls in the rod and hoped he was setting the right distance. He shoved the dirtied end back into the mud and watched it burrow deeper.
Another arrow struck right at his feet spurring him to plunge into the river. He waded into the deep. He had no idea how to swim, but he kept his head up and used the rod, now only nine feet long, to check the depth. The middle of the river, where his horse had to swim, was up to his chin. He continued on while arrows shot into the water around him.
The splashing sounds suddenly stopped as Bram got closer to the other shore. Harmon met him, took the rod, and ushered him back to cover. The cloud above whitened, Malcolm’s box quieted, and the Grays’ horns raised their clamor. Suddenly an explosion of dirt, car parts, bodies, and fire rippled along the enemies’ line. The honking ceased. First one car burst into flames followed by those on either side and down the rows. Some tumbled end over end toward the river, others simply collapsed in on themselves, incinerating. A few men screamed, tried to ran, but were enveloped in fire or swallowed by earthquake-like fissures in the ground. Two or three seconds were all it took, but to the Reds it seemed like longer as they watched in awe. The scent of burning rubber, flesh, and sulfurous gases reached the silent side of the river.
“We’re invincible,” Eugene shouted after a few more seconds of stillness. He was joined in sudden celebration by the returning women, who matched the children’s jubilant screams.
Lydia found Bram and threw her arms around him.
* * *
I’m stunned. I hug Lydia with all my strength, but I feel weak with disgust. Mostly I’m ashamed of my indifference to the Grays’ plight. I reacted too rashly, killed them all without a care.
And I’m disgusted with my people’s reaction to this carnage. Banners are out, children are dancing, and no one is sad that we’ve—I’ve—wiped out all these souls.
“What’s wrong?” She strokes my hair.
“Nothing. We can cross now. Children on horses. It’s not too deep for you, but you can ride your mare if you can find her.” She holds my face in her hands, searching my eyes.
“It’s not your fault,” she says. She runs her hands down my neck to my shoulders, arms, hands.
“Yes, it is. I set the charge. Sent it to the middle of their little army.”
“But they weren’t going to let us cross, were they?”
I look away. “They wanted all our horses or all our women.”
“What?” When I don’t say anything else she squeezes my hands. “You had to do it. I don’t pretend to understand why we’re traipsing around the country following that cloud, but there’s a plan we can’t understand. Remember the song? The warrior of milchamah—he is triumphant, hero, law! I trust Ronel … I trust your God.”
Her words spike my chest. Do I trust? Is Ronel God?
The letters spin. Is Ronel God?
I suppose he is.
Or song lied.
* * *
It was dangerous crossing the river balancing supplies or children. There were no sleds that floated and no way to build rafts. Strapping sleds and carts across the backs of two horses was Eugene’s unwieldy solution. Sometimes it worked and belongings reached the shore safely though wet. But other times the horses moved apart and wrenched the packs from their ropes. The few good swimmers among the Reds worked the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon retrieving soaked bundles. Those who hadn’t eaten bread in the morning still found loaves on the new side of the river. Some ventured upstream to refill water jugs with fresh water that hadn’t been muddied.
Bram posted guards on the hill to watch for anyone attracted to the explosion and to collect whatever weapons were still viable. He suspected there might be more Grays, a second division, or perhaps older men—or even women—whose curiosity would draw them to the river. The noise before the fatal detonation, as well as the blast, should have been heard for miles. The guards moved like ghosts among the charred cars and scattered corpses.
A strang
e quiet fell over the Reds when at last every man, horse, and cart arrived on the debris-strewn side of the river. It was late enough to consider setting up camp, but to stay there meant burning or burying the Grays’ bodies, a decision that Bram and his twelve judges rejected because the cloud had already moved ahead half a mile. They voted to leave the bodies to the beetles and worms, and to the larger scavengers like raccoons and wolves and maybe lions. It was a grim and grisly choice, repugnant to all but three of the judges.
There were dirt roads that ran in every direction, well-used but full of potholes. The recent tracks of the Grays’ vehicles revealed the most likely direction of their town, if it was a town they came from. Feet and hooves obliterated those prints as the Reds stamped after the cloud.
* * *
“There’s something ahead.” Lydia’s soft words make me lift my eyes. Something red winks between the oaks and pines, its horizontal lines crossing sharply against the forest trees.
“Something ahead!” I yell and raise the rod. The banner Lydia has tied on it swings like a flag on its shortened staff. Josh and Blake and about forty others rush ahead toward the structures.
Lydia’s far-sightedness gives us a chance to be prepared.
“There are more,” she whispers, though with the sounds our large troop is making there’s no advantage to whispering.
My oldest judges, Teague and Korzon, draw near. Korzon, old as the wind, speaks as low as Lydia has. “Those are shipping containers. Used to see them on long trucks when I was a boy. Full of products, everything imaginable, from all over the world. And those over there are box cars.”
Teague, just as ancient, furrows his brow and nods. “Yeah, I remember. And after the Suppression, when so many homes got burned, people turned them into dwellings, just like the cars in the Red slum back in Exodia.”
Of their own accord the Reds behind us stop and let more of our semi-soldiers advance. The last thing we need is an ambush.
But the last thing I need is to ambush and kill innocent people. Again.
I shout without the help of Malcolm’s box and raise a warning to any who might live in these steel-clad cabins.
Josh kicks in the door of the first one with his soldier-like force. He reports what he sees: beds, crude vents, and shelves of personal items. Some food. Lots of jugs. Fermented juices, he says. No weapons.
The forest gives up fifty or sixty more of these cages, all the same, red from peeling paint and iron rust, and jam-packed with ciders and ales. There are at least another hundred sitting on long narrow wheeled platforms, attached to one another, end to end.
Teague sighs and Korzon explains, “Flatbeds. There used to be trains. Those containers were moved by ships across the oceans, then by truck or train across the nation.”
I have, of course, heard of trains. My grandfather, that is, the man I thought was my grandfather, made sure I had superior combat training and the best tutors in as many subjects as possible. This train, however, is much bigger than anything I imagined. The rails run off into the distance as far as I can see. The forest, now behind us, opens unto carelessly-tended fields, burnt along the edges. The Grays are … were… farmers. The cave-dwellers stole food and women from these men. Stole their hope. Stole their future. I can’t imagine how industrious these people had been to move so many containers into the sheltering trees, to toil these fields, to keep a fleet of cars running. The lead Gray said he’d heard of Exodia by a different name. What if everything I learned is wrong?
“Don’t shoot!”
More pleas of mercy follow the scream. Teens, children, old women reveal themselves.
Words come at me from all directions. Instead of single letters rearranging into prophecies or warnings the words jumble around in my ears. I pick the ones I need to hear, but nothing comes together to make sense. Little girls pop up from their hiding spots, an old man surrenders two guns, women and boys peer out with wary eyes. Ragged clothes, thin bodies, rough hands. Tears. Barrett’s father wants to assimilate these people into our mass; Cleavon says to shoot them all; Herb thinks we should make them harvest the field and take what we need; Malcolm urges us to catch up to the cloud which is far beyond the visible end of the train; and Teague suggests we let these sixty or so souls tag along, agreeing with Barrett’s father.
But how can we bring them with us? They will hate us for what I’ve done.
The judges argue on. Placid expressions mold the faces of the older Grays, but a random twitch or a darting eye betray their fear. I heed their silent plea for mercy.
And then they sing. The tune astonishes me. Each line begins with the same lilting measure the Reds sang as we left Exodia, but the words are new and the lines end on lower notes. The refrain curses the men beneath the earth and repeats an oath to fight against the orange and black.
The words fade. It grows quiet and both groups, confused Reds and helpless Grays, look to me.
“Your men are all dead. Back at the river.” I feel sick to say these terrible words, sicker still to lie to them: “Killed by the orange and black devils who lived underground. But you can come with us if you want to. You don’t have to fear us. We’ve killed the devils.” These fragile Grays cling to one another, but nod their agreement. They will come with us.
Not one Red refutes the lie I stitched between the facts. I push my shame to the darkest part of my heart, where I’ve buried the guilt of all my sins. Harmon whispers his approval, “It was a necessary lie, Bram.”
And Lydia is comfortable with my falsehood, too. She hated all the Blue propaganda in Exodia, but she’s ready to share my guilt in this. I look away from these widows and orphans and up toward the heavens. Have I taunted God with my lie? The cloud settles behind us, shrinking over the structures that hide in the woods. Tonight we’ll camp in the homes of the misjudged Grays.
* * *
Jenny and Mira were the first to approach the women. None were as young as Mira. They seemed to be Jenny’s age or much older, apparently too old or too undesirable to be stolen by the men of Proserpina. But these women were friendly enough as soon as Jenny and Mira offered their sympathies, but all except one held back on answering Jenny’s question about the words to the song.
That one, Sabina, spoke in a storyteller’s rhythmic pace, “Come along with us, they said. Let’s lie in wait for someone’s blood. Let’s waylay some harmless soul.” She crouched and put her crooked fingers over her eyes as if hiding. “Let’s swallow them alive, like the grave, they said. Let’s swallow them whole, like those who go down to the pit. We will get all sorts of fine things and fill our underground city with plunder.” She rose and stretched her hands out to gather invisible treasures. “Throw in your lot with us, they said, and we will share a common purse.”
Jenny looked at Mira and Mira shook her head. “And so you did?” Jenny asked.
Sabina gave a sad nod. “I told my son, I said, do not go along with them. Do not set foot on their paths. Their feet rush into sin and they will be swift to shed blood.”
Mira put her hand on the old woman’s arm. “But your men went along with them, didn’t they?”
“Yes, they did, and they were taken far away, left to battle while the deceivers returned to steal our women. Only a few of our men made it home. And now you tell us that they are dead, too. Killed at the river.” Her eyes filled with tears and she finished with grim effort. “Such is the end of all who go after what is not theirs. It takes away the lives of those who get it.”
* * *
I study their red metal lodgings and try to imagine something much better for all of us if we can only get to Ronel’s promised land. Our daily ration of meat begins to drop across the fields to the amazement of the Gray children. Their brief bereavement gives way to wonder. I cannot hide the little smile that jerks at the right corner of my mouth. I see something that no one else does. I see those steel shipping containers as iron lodges.
Iron lodges.
Ronel is God.
Such
a simple transformation. But there’s more. The letters tremble in my mind, aching to move again. Aching to reveal a bigger secret. For how can Ronel be God if he’s a man? Were the stories my mother told me filled with untruths?
Lydia breaks the spell. I can’t be upset that her gentle caring touch brings me out of the trance. I trust that I’ll get to the truth when the truth needs to be known. It’s enough for now to know that we’re in God’s plan, whether his name is God or Ronel or something else. I’m sure it’s his plan or we wouldn’t have found these iron lodges.
I say it aloud to her, “Iron lodges.”
A single crisp memory flashes and I go rigid again: I’d been at Kassandra’s ranch a month when her sister Katie walked between me and the youngest lambs one morning as we headed for the grassy hills. She scrunched her face and complained about her sisters’ special talents and in particular about young Sana’s ability to make prophecies from random phrases. At the time I had no idea that I was a gemfry and that my gemfry skills included the same odd gift. Katie told me how Kassandra had broken the news to Sana that a sheep called Carnation died. Sana went into a trance, like I do now, and answered her sister with several cryptic prophecies from Carnation died: addiction near, raid contained, and iron candidate. They never figured out what they meant, but today … it seems clear to me. The letters quickly flicker from one phrase to the next and end with a fifth: a road incident.
“Bram. Bram. You’re talking weird.” Lydia clicks her fingers by my ears.
“Sorry. Just remembered something.”
“Well, you mumbled like that when we crossed the bridge and left Exodia. You’ve done it other times. Strange phrases. Do they mean something important? ‘Raid contained’ makes sense and ‘a road incident’, but what addiction is near?”
I worry my head back and forth. I can think of a certain addiction that ruled the cave-dwellers’ lives, but I doubt the Grays were willing participants in that.
Out of Exodia Page 10