Neither soft nor pliant was her husband, Fireclaw.
And now, with pride, he’d informed this dirty old stranger, a former countryman to all appearances, that her people were his own! This he’d intoned in ceremony many years ago, but never before within the hearing of foreigners.
Life, Dove Blossom thought to herself, never for a moment permitting the crosshairs of her bowsight to waver from the dark-eyed girl’s left breast, is very good.
At the land-ship’s side, Fireclaw spoke.
“If she’d have me say the words myself, tell them to me that I might say them aright.”
The old man started to relay Fireclaw’s request, but the giant red-haired stranger interrupted in something resembling Helvetian, with a heavy, burred, and rolling accent.
“Me understandum. Fireclaw fella sayum ‘sapaagh chalhayr.’ It meanum ‘good morning.’”
“Sapaagh chalhayr...what’s her name?”
The red-haired one opened his mouth, but the girl spoke first.
“Ayesha. Anah ismih Ayesha.”
“Sapaagh chalhayr, Ayesha.”
A quiet, sharp command dispersed the dogs.
“Keep your weapon, girl, if you’re feeling a need of it. My oath you’ll not be harmed by me.”
He turned to Red-Hair. “Tell her.”
More conversation, strange words flitted about the ship.
“Maa manna...” one person offered.
Another replied, “Charjooh.”
“Min bhatlah” and something else Dove Blossom couldn’t hear came from the red-haired man.
“Chanaa la chabhgham?” asked the girl.
“D’you say I mean for her to keep the gun,” Fireclaw interrupted. “I’ll disarm no one upon my own land, do they not threaten me or mine. Tell her now and tell her straight.”
Dove Blossom heard the feeling in his voice. After what he’d suffered as a youth, his hand-fashioned nine-shot, self-cocking revolver—born of a quarter century of continuing experiment and whence came the name his wife’s family had given him—served as an ever-present reminder of the trumped-up offenses which had lost him his right hand, his homeland, and his first true love. That he’d taken an entirely different lesson from the experience than most men, obedient to authority, would have, was one of the things she loved most about him.
Ne’er again would such a disaster be allowed—would he allow it—to come to pass.
The dark-eyed girl nodded.
She lowered her rifle.
She let it rest upon its buttplate upon the deck.
She leaned the barrel against the rail.
She took her hand away.
She smiled.
A collective sigh of relief escaped from a dozen pairs of lips.
Dove Blossom let the string of her bow relax, began to flex her aching hand and the painfully cramped muscles of her shoulders.
Below her, the land-ship began emptying itself of passengers.
XXII: Owald
“Surely We have put on their necks fetters up to the chin, so their heads are raised; and We have put before them a barrier and behind them a barrier; and We have covered them, so they do not see.”—The Koran, Sura XXXVI
“Saracens, you call them?”
Fighting a fatigue born of suppressing thoughts of what he’d truly like to do at this moment, Sedrich Fireclaw asked this of the man who stood across the machine shop from him, the man he’d dreamed of killing slowly, very slowly, for the last twenty years.
There came no immediate reply.
“Saracens, then. What manner of people are Saracens?”
The sun of an early prairie afternoon filtered through the resin-impregnated skins which served as windows—the proprietor had promised himself for years that he’d someday teach himself to make glass—filling the small sod building with a diffuse light.
While Fireclaw was struggling to control himself, Dove Blossom was seeing to the disposition of the land-ship’s passengers, showing them the well, sending word to her brother that supplies would be greatly welcome and well paid for.
For the time being, the foreigners would sleep in their own quarters aboard the land-ship, whose sails had been furled by the expedient of lowering the upper booms, and whose wheels, with their brakes applied, had been further secured with large stones piled about them.
Outside the shop, the alien gabble of the Saracens’ conversation filled the yard.
Oln Woeck laid a mill bastard file back upon the workbench whence he’d taken it for casual, disapproving examination, wiped a filthy yellow hand upon his filthier robe in a gesture reeking—among other things—of fastidious piety. As with aught else about the man, this infuriated Fireclaw, who by lifelong habit maintained a scrupulously spotless workspace.
Even so, he kept his peace.
With difficulty.
For the moment.
“They’re those whom we once knew as ‘Invader,’” Oln Woeck replied at last, turning to Fireclaw as he did. “Those unbelievers sent by an avenging God who did o’errun the Old World e’en as our forbears, steeped in sin, were rendered helpless with the Great Death.”
Shaking his tattooed head, he looked round the building, taking in Fireclaw’s drill-press, lathe, and mill.
“I see thou’rt still at it, boy. One would think thou’d’ve learned a lesson, after aught that hath transpired.”
Fighting back an anger which threatened to sweep consciousness away, Fireclaw stepped forward, whispering through clenched teeth.
“What makes you think I haven’t, mutilator of children and helpless cripples? I pay fire-tithe to no man now, nor any god!”
At some saner level within him, he was glad he’d not brought Ursi to the shop with them. Sensing what his master felt, the great bear-dog would likeliest have torn the old man’s throat out.
“Give me a tithe instead, priest,” he hissed, “a tithe of words. I stayed my hand this morning, though that looks more and more to be an unwise decision. Give me a single reason why I should allow you to live another heartbeat. I’m still at it, am I? You presume much for someone who’s at the most charitable best an unwelcome visitor.”
Oln Woeck chuckled, a sound to raise the short hairs upon the back of anybody’s neck. Those who foolishly believed in honor and the like were defenseless puppets to him. His cowardly display had served its purpose this morning and could be dispensed with now. He’d other, better strings to jerk.
“Nor hath thy manner much improved. A wise man did inform me once that a guest is a jewel upon the cushion of hospitality. Treat’st thou all thy guests like the cushion rather than the jewel?”
He chuckled again.
“No matter. I simply observe that thou still followest the mechanic’s trade, in any case, and that, like all thy worldy efforts, ’tis a wasted one and futile.”
A peculiar species of embarrassment swept through the Helvetian warrior, astonishment and chagrin that a grown man could utter such nonsense and nature leave him yet alive. Still, he himself permitted Oln Woeck to go on breathing simply because of this devouring need of his to learn more.
“Have you lost hold of all caution along with your senses, senile one? Look about you at what I’ve built—”
He held up his steel- and leather-covered stump.
“—single-handedly, thanks to your good offices. Tell me, worthless parasite, how’s the effort wasted which feeds me and mine at no expense to anybody else?”
Oln Woeck frowned, as if considering this.
“Your, um, wife...we’ll pass discussing her for a time. I say what I say upon account of these selfsame Saracens. Thou’rt but one man, whose solitary efforts are inevitably wasted. They, in their greater numbers and in selfless cooperation, have far surpassed your smidgenous tinkering, young Sedrich.”
Fireclaw laughed, and in the laughing felt himself relax. Neither man knew it, but it was at this moment that the younger of the two became most dangerous.
“Oln Woeck, as e’er, you m
istake me. I don’t begrudge the worthy accomplishments of others, but try to learn from them. Thus I’ve built upon the meager legacy which you and others like you did your Jesus-damnedest to destroy for all time.”
He gazed about the shop as he’d invited Oln Woeck to do, as if seeing it for the first time himself.
“’Twas a place to start from,” he nodded with grim satisfaction, “the onliest I had.”
He brightened and, for a moment, was the boy Old Woeck had known.
“Now I’ll learn whate’er these harsh-spoken strangers have to teach me, and go on from there.”
The leader of the Brotherhood opened his mouth to protest this enormity, but was interrupted by Fireclaw, who’d had another thought.
“If anybody’s work’s futile, ’tis yours, limb-chopper. Here these impious strangers worship different gods than yours, have for centuries by all accounts, and haven’t yet been punished for it. They seem to have waxed more prosperous by far and healthier than those who’ve taken your advice. What say you to that?”
“I say to you that God’s good time is not a man’s time. I say that prosperity measureth not a man’s soul, nor a people’s. I say that a man’s healthy aspect is a disguised curse—’tis simply that much longer he must needs remain within this illusory vale of tears and testing, before ascending to the real world.”
He spread his yellow, ropy hands. “E’en did I concern myself with such worldy matters, I’d not sanction this wasteful duplication of vain effort which thou celebratest, boy. Each person hath his rightful place in God’s well-ordered—”
Fireclaw drew his revolver.
Oln Woeck stepped back a step.
Fireclaw thumbed the latch below the rear sight, pressed the barrel against his thigh, and tipped both it and the cylinder forward upon the frame. Nine golden cylinders rose slightly from their chambers.
“Look here at a sample of such wasteful duplication, Oln Woeck. Here’s a cartridge of my devising. The brass casing holds black powder, percussive primer, and a length-split shoe of resin which in its turn contains a tiny arrow.”
He slapped the pistol shut against his leg, holstered it, and shuffled through the clutter of the bench, displaying cartridge parts which had not yet been assembled.
“My first shoes were of carven wood. I shot one of your blue-templed bugger-boys with such a load, remember?” He grinned. “No matter, as you say. These Saracens, on the other hand, push great globs of lead from out of their barrels. Both ideas are sound. I think I’ve got the edge o’er them for range and penetration, while their approach is best for knocking things down. Different people arrive at different answers to the same problem, causing all to benefit. ’Twas e’er thus.”
Oln Woeck made a strangled noise.
There was silence for a time.
“I came here, Young Sedrich, neither to open old wounds nor to debate with thee upon the pragmatics of heresy. ’Twas my purpose for this afternoon to bring thee tidings overdue of the village thou didst abandon in thy youth.”
He peered into Fireclaw’s eyes.
“Knowest thou that thy mother’s dead?”
The naked words were like a slap across the face. He stood a long while reeling from it, leaning on the bench beside him, while pain coursed through his body, centering on a tight, burning knot in his stomach. His eyes stung with boyish tears. It wasn’t the kindliest wise in which to change the subject, Fireclaw thought when he was somewhat recovered. Why he’d expected better of the old man he didn’t know.
“’Tis true, my boy, these past five years. I came with that news for thee, and other word which concerneth all Helvetii.”
Fireclaw bowed his head and closed his eyes, pressing pain away from himself.
“What was the manner of her dying?”
“The manner of her dying,” Old Woeck replied, “was that she passed away without pain in her sleep, weary with a long-carried burden of grief which was entirely of thy making.”
He smiled. “One gathereth that her last thought was of thee.”
A puzzled look crossed Fireclaw’s face as he experienced a strange, emptying sensation. Ever had Oln Woeck had the best of him. He’d been prepared to kill the Cultist when the land-ship had arrived and had let himself be persuaded otherwise—though it had been the dream of a lifetime to spill the old man’s guts into the dirt.
Next, he’d resolved to deny the man, exchange no words with him, refuse him whatever it was he wanted. That resolve had not lasted an hour.
Now they stood in converse, as if they still were neighbors. As if there weren’t decades of bad blood between them. And now his righteous anger, the burning in the pit of his stomach which had sustained him through all the terrible years upon the plains, and for which five hundred Comanche warriors and many others had suffered, had deserted him, leaving him naught behind it but a sucking hollowness.
He looked down to where his right hand had been.
“My mother’s dead. What other glad tidings have you brought me, Oln Woeck? Be quick, for I’ve things to do, and my patience shortens with each breath I draw.”
The old man’s eyes widened.
“Why, Sedrich, my boy, thou’st verily grown taller but no wiser. Look thou round thyself, at this prosperous establishment, thy fields, thy shops, thy dogs, thy...woman. Consider but thy formidable new name. ’Twas I who put thee here. Neither wouldst thou’ve a scrap of it, were it nor for the will of Him who worketh through me.”
Sedrich felt a welcome flash of renewed rage at the injustice being spoken.
In another breath, even that much deserted him.
Oln Woeck continued. “E’en so, thou didst hurry off too soon, and hast borne with thee certain assumptions which are incorrect, concerning the final outcome of events.”
“What?”
“I see I’ve thy interest at last.” Oln Woeck chuckled. “Thy lady-love, young Fr—”
“Speak not her name or you shall die where you stand!”
The old man cleared his throat.
“As you wish it. She who was to have been my lawful bride, according to the customs of our people, died not in vain entire.”
“What are you speaking of, you, you—”
“She bore thee a son whose life thou didst believe as lost as hers. But it was not to be. Thou art a father still, Sedrich-called-Fireclaw. Thy son’s name’s called Owald.”
2
The slanting sun streamed into the workshop door, glinting off the metal parts and tools, dazzling the eyes. Fireclaw’s head was whirling. A son! Why, in the name of aught that was intelligent and decent, had he fled? Why had he—
He turned and seized the Cultist’s robe, lifting the man off his feet.
“What became of my son, old man, tell me now do you wish to live an eyeblink longer!”
“Why, Sedrich,” Oln Woeck squeaked. There was a tone of triumph to him, nonetheless. “I’ve not the faintest of ideas.”
Fireclaw set him down upon the oil-stained dirt floor.
The old man smiled, exposing toothless gums, enjoying Fireclaw’s pain and consternation.
“Treachery’s an inherited trait within thy line, boy. We’d a bargain, Sister Ilse and myself, a bargain which she violated at the premonition of her death.”
Fireclaw raised one good hand, palm outward in interruption. “You mean she knew...?”
The old man nodded. Both knew it happened in that wise with the Sisters sometimes.
“She told my son—thy son—our son about the circumstances of his birth. Fifteen years old he was by then, e’en younger than thyself, methinks, and he, too, disappeared. ’Tis rumored to seek thee out.
“He hath not been heard of since.”
3
Dove Blossom found her husband where she’d thought she would, in a favorite spot of theirs, high upon a ridge above their ranch where they’d first hunted together, fifteen years before. Refusing to make Old Woeck any immediate answer—it was characteristic of the old man, she
understood, to follow up on unjust calumny and shocking news by demanding a favor—Fireclaw had left the ranch overnight, heading for the hills to think things through.
To the east, the land slanted dizzily—a “hogback” Fireclaw named it, although she had never seen one of the half-feral pigs his people had brought with them from an Old World which was scarcely real to her itself—as if tip-tilted by a giant, losing four hundred paces of altitude in not much over twice that horizontal distance. Across this windswept diagonal, sage, coarse grasses, stunted pine, and cactus intermingled, fodder for the gray-brown ghostly mule deer, hares, ground squirrels, and rabbits, all drawing meager sustenance from the reddish, sandy soil.
To the west, the ridge lost half its height all at once, in a sharp, vertical drop overlooking a broad, pale green and boulder-studded mountain meadow where grew the yellow and purple flowers she was named for. Porcupine gnawed girdles in the bark of aspen trees. Beyond lay mountain forest, above that snow, blue-purple barren rock, and mysteries she had no wish to penetrate.
North and south the ridge extended, a league in each direction, until it was broken off like the brittle edges of a bit of kneaded cornmeal dough. Here creek valleys, dry this time of year, flowed from the mountains to the plains. Daytimes, one could see across these steep-sided clefts to their other sides, where the ridges took up once again, bordering the Great Blue Mountains as they marched from ice and tundra in the north to the broiling of southern deserts.
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