Of Dreams and Rust

by Sarah Fine

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  MELIK AND A few of the others trace the outline of the canyon in the dirt, carving bends and ridges from memory. Melik uses his paces to measure miles, talking nonstop to the men and women gathered around him. But as Bo moves forward to look, shoulders and hips and elbows and backs create a wall of flesh, edging him out. Instead of pushing his way through, which he could do easily, Bo drifts to the back of the group, giving me a look that says, See? They will not let me help.

  Then Sinan pokes Bo’s metal arm. He jerks his hand back when the spiders on Bo’s shoulders raise their fangs, but he seems more fascinated than afraid. “Teach me about the machines,” Sinan says, as much a challenge as a request.

  Bo stares at the boy’s face, at his defiant stance and the eager glimmer in his eyes. “Why don’t you go argue about crates of dirt and blasting powder with your brother? Not all of his ideas are stupid.”

  Sinan folds his arms over his chest. “None of his ideas are stupid. But I think understanding the war machines themselves will make us more able to defeat them.”

  Bo tilts his head. “Very well. We’ll see if you are capable of understanding them. They are far more complicated than a horse-drawn plow.”

  Sinan’s mouth twitches, like he wants to grin but is trying to look like a man. I sit on a low stone fence and watch as Bo takes a sharp stick, one used as a spit for meat devoured earlier in the evening, and makes drawings of his own in the dusty earth.

  The war machine’s body and legs take shape quickly. “Eight legs with three segments each. This configuration allows the legs to take on a bow-shaped structure that is both powerful and flexible,” says Bo, his metal fingers wrapped around the stick as he slides it along the ground. “The movements of the legs are very efficient.” He holds his hand, palm down, parallel to the ground. “The thorax and abdomen of the machine are stable, with no vertical oscillation, as the legs propel it over the ground.”

  Sinan wears a grimace of concentration as he listens. I am sure he does not understand Itanyai words like “oscillation,” but he seems to pick them up from the context. “Are they able to jump?” he asks.

  Bo shakes his head. “But they can accelerate quickly and maneuver over uneven ground easily. They are capable of climbing inclines as steep as sixty degrees, though that burns a lot of fuel. The front and rear legs are synchronized on each side, with the middle legs synchronized to the opposite side.” He gazes fondly at his drawing. “It really is marvelous.”

  Sinan frowns. “But if the legs are synchronized, what does the pilot do?”

  “He creates modifications in the patterns with the levers in the cockpit. He is heavily protected. There is a metal hatch at the top of the thorax, but no windows. Only the small eyes at the front. Some of them are connected to openings on the sides and rear of the abdomen with a mirror system.” Bo’s eye briefly meets mine as I realize how much he has learned from these animals of war.

  Next Bo draws two long guns where a spider’s fangs should be. “The front gunner sits in a compartment below the pilot, but there is also a way for the pilot to control the guns from the cockpit if necessary. The machine is most dangerous head-on, but there is also a top gunner here.” He taps the top of the spider’s round abdomen. “He is protected from ground attack but would be easy to take out from above. His chair is positioned over the fireman’s compartment. That crew member manages the engine, adding coal to the firebox and monitoring the boiler’s water levels. His hatch is on the rear of the machine, also armored. It can be penetrated, but it is not easy. There is something else, though. A panel, here.” He pokes a spot where the thorax and abdomen are joined. “Beneath that panel is a kill switch of sorts, meant to be used if the boiler catches fire or the pilot is incapacitated.”

  When Bo sees Sinan smile, he starts to laugh. “It is much harder to reach than you would think,” he says.

  Sinan stares at the sketch for a moment longer before asking, “What is the range of this machine? Is there a way to starve it? Cut off its fuel?”

  Bo considers the rust-haired boy. “You have a very good mind,” he says matter-of-factly, and Sinan beams. “Water is the most significant limitation of these machines.” He leans forward. “I overheard the factory boss talking to a general. They are anticipating a quick, easy campaign with no detours or major battles because they have sent false intelligence that the entire army will attack from the north.”

  Sinan calls out something in Noor to Melik before returning his attention to Bo. “You must tell my brother everything that you heard.”

  “Or I could tell you, and you could tell him,” says Bo in a flat voice.

  Sinan rubs the back of his head and glances at me. “If you insist,” he mutters. “So, they are planning to march up from the south and approach our forces from behind?”

  Bo shifts his weight from one steel boot to the other, and I know him well enough to recognize the pain he is trying to hide. “That is the strategy. Infantry troops will follow the war machines through the canyon, but it is only an occupying force. They will be laden with supplies.”

  “And days behind the machines,” says Sinan, absently gouging the ground with his stick. “The drought will make it harder for the spiders. How much water must they carry?”

  Bo grins. “You ask the right questions, boy. Their tanks carry five thousand gallons. The upper rear level of the abdomen holds the coal—approximately eight tons. With that load their range is a hundred miles. There will be a carrier spider behind them, loaded with coal. It looks different from the others.” Bo sketches a massive body and short legs. “It is even more heavily armored.”

  Sinan glares at it as if he has a personal grudge. “But if we could destroy it?”

  “Then the machines could be stranded.”

  Sinan’s eyebrow arches. “Or used against the oncoming infantry forces?”

  Bo smiles as if he admires the boy’s thirst for destruction. “We should focus on stopping the machines first.”

  As they continue to banter, I look up to see Melik staring at the three of us. I am suddenly very aware of my red dress and cap, of how I am dressed like a Noor woman but still don’t bear the slightest resemblance to the ones who are crowded around him, looking as fierce and strong as he does as they all make their plans for battle. Instead, I probably look like a little girl in a costume, playing pretend. Melik’s rust-colored hair glints with gold in the light of the bonfire. Again I want to know what he is thinking, what he sees as he gazes at me, dressed for the wedding that never was. I wonder if he knows how much I am willing to hurt both of us to make sure he and those he loves continue to breathe.

  I rise to my feet, working up the courage to tell him, but he looks away quickly and returns to his plans. The night suddenly feels very cold. I sink to the ground and lean my head against the stone, listening to men I care about planning to fight a war with terrible odds and painfully high stakes. Hearing Bo talk about all the ways a war machine can be destroyed gives me hope, though, and I drift into nothing on the raft of reassurance it provides. When I shiver myself awake, most of the villagers have disappeared into their cottages for the night. Melik is gone, and so is Sinan. Bo is hunched over his drawing, muttering to himself.

  “You must be so tired,” I say, slowly pulling myself to my feet.

  He sighs. “I should probably get some rest.” His spider-laden shoulders sag. “I need to do maintenance on this suit if I want it to remain functional.”

  “You need to do maintenance on your body if you want it to remain functional,” I remind him, laying my palm over his cold metal forearm.

  He looks down at my fingers, which look weak and skinny on his steel body. “I will see you once the sun comes up, then.”

  “Where will you sleep?”

  His gaze rises to the low ridges of the canyon. “In a place safe from greedy, sabotaging hands and wide, staring eyes.”

  “Why would they hurt you? You’re helping t
hem.”

  He steps away from me, shedding my grasp easily. “Tomorrow, Wen.” And then he strides away as if he cannot put enough distance between us.

  Too exhausted and twisted up to chase, I trudge back to the wedding tent, hoping Melik is still awake, hoping he will talk to me, hoping he will take me in his arms and let me fall asleep listening to his heart beat. But when I lift the flap, the tent is empty. The pallet has been arranged for sleep, with a soft wool-stuffed pillow and a warm blanket, and someone, probably Anni, has left a woolen nightgown and a plain tunic and trousers. They are small and probably belong to one of the village boys, but they are practical and I am grateful to have them. My muscles heavy with dread, I remove the embroidered cap and bloodred dress, folding them carefully. I sit on the ground and pull the ties from my braids one by one, then put on the nightgown and slide under the blanket.

  This is my wedding night, and it is worse than I feared for none of the reasons I expected. I curl onto my side, alone in my white tent. I wonder where Melik is, and if he’s sleeping, and whether this is part of his promise to be honorable. If so, there are few dishonors that would hurt more.

  It takes me a long time to fall asleep.

  * * *

  I wake to the sound of roosters crowing and pull my trousers and tunic under my blanket, dressing in the warm cocoon instead of the chilly air in the tent. I use one of the ties to corral my hair in a low ponytail and slide on my boots, knowing I look more like a young boy than a woman. But maybe that is good, because I can hardly scramble across rocks and ridges in a wedding dress.

  Melik did not come to me. He found somewhere else to sleep. But even so, I will not mope or feel sorry for myself. I will not think about the loneliness and foreboding gnawing at my heart. No, today I will make myself useful in the only way I know how. My feet make no sound on the dirt as I march to Anni’s cottage. Yes, part of me secretly hopes to catch Melik at his breakfast. Yes, that part of me wilts when I see that he is not in front of the hearth. But I smile anyway as Anni beckons me inside. If she is aware that Melik and I were apart last night, she does not let on.

  “Good morning,” she says. “I am making flatbread for the fighters who will occupy the high ridges. Will you join me?”

  “I would, but I have something else I must do,” I say. “Is there a doctor in this village?”

  Her eyebrows rise. “A doctor?” She chuckles. “The nearest doctor is in Kegu, cuz. But we have a healer.”

  I accept a chunk of warm flatbread with a bow of thanks. “May I speak with that healer?”

  She frowns. “Are you ill?”

  “No. I want to offer him my assistance.”

  “Her.”

  “Her, then,” I mumble with a full mouth, covering it with my palm until I swallow. “If we are going to battle with war machines, there will most certainly be injuries. I have assisted my father for over a year and have seen all manner of wounds. I can help.”

  She gives me a pitying look. “And you have likely had the benefit of equipment and medicine far more sophisticated than we have here. Cuz, if our men are shot, we carry them home and give them enough heavy drink to ease their pain as they die.”

  My stomach knots as I hear the resignation in her tone. “We can do more than that.”

  She lays her palm on my cheek. “You are welcome to try. Come, I will introduce you to Aysun.”

  I polish off my bread as she pulls a patterned red head scarf over her rust-colored braid. I follow her through the scattering of cottages closest to the cliff that leads up to the plateaus above the village. Anni claps her hands before entering the cottage, which I can only assume is the equivalent of knocking. A skinny woman with sharp brown eyes peers out, and those eyes narrow as they land on me. She’s the one who shoved me yesterday before Melik claimed me as his bride. Anni converses with her in Noor as I take in the woman’s appearance—a blue head scarf that covers a thin white braid, sallow skin that suggests a liver ailment, and large, knobby knuckles that tell me she must be racked with joint pain.

  Aysun the healer lets out a bark of laughter as Anni puts her hand on my shoulder and gestures at me. She shakes her head and waves her gnarled, veined hands like she’s trying to ward me off. Anni gives me an apologetic look. “She says she will not accept your help.”

  “Then I will work on my own,” I say loudly, knowing I am being shamefully bold. There is too much at stake to worry about it. “Anni, I need cloth, a very sharp knife, and a curved needle and thread. I also need to look at what herbs you have. Please.”

  Anni hesitates. “What are you planning to do?”

  “I’m going to travel with the fighters, and I’m going to treat them on the field,” I say, tightening my muscles to keep from shaking. “I’m going to save as many lives as I can.”

  She blinks at me, as if surprised to hear such big statements coming out of my little body. “Cuz, Melik will not be happy to have you so close to the danger.”

  I stand as tall as I can and lift my chin. “Melik knows what I can do.”

  Her mouth softens into a motherly smile. “Very well. How can I help?”

  “Please ask Aysun if she has san qi root.” I describe the plant, and after Anni spends several long moments arguing with the healer, the older woman disappears into her cottage and emerges with the homely, bumpy dried root. I hold my hands out and she drops it into my cupped palms with a muttered “kuchuksivengi.”

  With Anni as my translator, I gather a small collection of healing herbs from the snarling medicine woman, then return to Anni’s cottage and sit in front of the fire with a mortar and pestle, grinding mixtures that slow bleeding and ease pain. I create cloth packets for each, tied with strings of various colors. Despite her refusal to work with me, Aysun repeatedly pokes her head into the cottage to see what I’m doing. I don’t miss her nod of approval as I pack a precious jar of honey to disinfect wounds. Anni brings me a metal needle, and though it is straight instead of curved, it is thin and will suit. She offers me what I suspect is her finest thread and helps me cut a bolt of unbleached cloth into strips to use as tourniquets and bandages. After I sort and fold them, I wander the ditches by the road and the edge of the village, plucking sticks to be used as splints. Throughout the morning I am so focused that I don’t have time to feel the sting of Melik’s absence or to worry about Bo.

  Once my medical kit is assembled, I pack it all into an old satchel Anni provides, along with a loaf of flatbread, a canteen, and a sleeping blanket. I sling it onto my back. It is not too heavy to carry. I am strong enough. I think.

  Anni gives me a tight hug and returns to her cottage to finish her baking, and I hike to the village square to find Melik and Bo. Like last night, Melik is surrounded by village elders and young men. He has changed into a plain brown tunic and trousers, but his hair is still tied back. His jaw is shadowed with stubble and there are circles of fatigue beneath his eyes. I want to run to him. I want to ask what is happening between us. I want to know why he is avoiding me. But then I remind myself that he is dealing with something very big, and now that I am safe within his family, I should rightfully be very low on his list of priorities.

  He does not look up when I pass, so I approach Bo and Sinan, who are once again off to the side, quibbling over a diagram of a war machine. Both of them are smiling, and I am struck by the identical fire of intense curiosity that I read on their faces. I wonder if Bo used to be a lot like Sinan, bold and unafraid of his elders, unapologetically thirsty to learn, too confident and eager to be aware of how small he is in this world.

  Bo looks up and notices me. He waves, but I read the fatigue on his face.

  “How are the preparations?” I ask.

  Sinan stretches his long limbs, though he doesn’t look tired at all. “There are a number of ways to attack these machines. They are more vulnerable than I imagined.”

  He sounds gleeful, the way only a teenage boy can, and his delight draws a smile to my lips despite my concern for Bo. �
��That is encouraging.”

  “Melik has already sent a group ahead to prepare,” says Sinan.

  “But he is determined to keep the men high on the ridges,” sneers Bo. “He’ll be hard pressed to stop the machines that way, no matter how much blasting powder or dirt he uses.”

  “Dirt?” I ask.

  Bo’s mouth quirks up. “He believes he will damage the gears of the machines if he dumps enough small-grained debris on them.”

  “Is he correct?”

  Bo grumbles “yes” before saying, “But more can be done from the ground.”

  Sinan frowns and glances at his brother. “He wants to protect the fighters.”

  “And in doing so, he will condemn everyone else.”

  “I can hear you, Ghost,” Melik says loudly, raising his head from the diagram of the ridge at his feet. “And as I’ve told you, I welcome your suggestions, but they are not the only ones I will consider.”

  “They are the ones that will work best,” Bo retorts.

  Melik says something to his group and then strides over to us. “We have only a hundred men right now, and a handful of women,” he says quietly. “Though I have sent riders to nearby villages, no one has come, and that is because most of their fighters are with General Ahmet in the north.” His eyes narrow. “Assuming he is still alive after your destruction of the compound in Kegu.”

  Bo rolls his eye. I know very well the general’s life does not matter to him at all.

  Melik is stiff with tension. “I have to stretch this tiny force as far as I can,” he explains. “If I put all of them on the ground, as you suggested, we could be wiped out in the first wave. That is why I am trying to protect them.”

  Bo’s mouth snaps shut over whatever acid remark he was preparing. He looks away and nods. “Some should be on the ground, though.”

  “Perhaps,” says Melik. “We can prepare for both types of attack.”

  Bo kneels next to his dirt sketch and begins to make a few calculations, and Melik turns to me. “Are you planning a hike?” he asks, unsmiling, his gaze sliding from my boots to my trousers to my pack.