The Sword-Edged blonde elm-1

by Alex Bledsoe

  She dug inside her pack and pulled out the small map she’d previously consulted only in private. She unfolded it on the mossy ground between us.

  “Here’s where we are,” she said, indicating a spot next to the river’s wiggly outline. “And here’s where we’re going. There’s no road or path; we have to look for landmarks.”

  The destination seemed to be high in the Ogachic Mountains ahead. “What’s there?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Have no idea. Except that it’s where I’ll find the person I’m supposed to deliver this package to.”

  “Do you know this person’s name?”

  She nodded. “Epona Gray.”

  “A woman?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  I looked at the map. Our destination really was in the middle of nowhere. “Does it seem odd to you that a woman would get a package way out here?”

  “Depends on the woman, I guess,” she said. “Or the package.”

  “I don’t know anything about either,” I pointed out.

  She looked at me again for a long, quiet moment. Something had changed in her expression. “Yeah,” she said at last.

  She peered over the log to make sure we were alone, then unbuttoned her shirt. Strapped around her stomach was a soft fur-lined belt, and in it she’d stuck a thin sealed parcel no bigger than my hand. She pulled it free and handed it to me.

  I examined the box. It was a faceless wooden case, tied with string, and the knot had been sealed with unembossed wax. It could hold nothing bigger than my hand. When I shook it, a single large heavy object slid around inside. “Sounds like a rock.”

  “Might be,” she said as she put it back and buttoned up her shirt. I realized I hadn’t even glanced at her to see what skin she might reveal.

  We waited until dark, then crept back onto the road. There wasn’t much traffic at night, and the nearly full moon provided plenty of illumination. A breeze blew from the east, keeping the air cool and clear. Something about the combination of wind, moon and silence made us speak softly; it was the kind of night that, in retrospect, earns the name “magical.” At the time, though, it was just another night on the job.

  Cathy told me about her first delivery, escorting a valuable show dog through fairly harmless territories to the home of its new owner. It had been just her and the dog, a medium-sized wolfhound, walking together for two weeks. The customer tried to stiff her for her fee because the dog had replaced so much flab with muscle. He was not successful.

  “That poor dog used to howl at the moon for hours every night,” she said wistfully. “It was the saddest, loneliest sound you can imagine. She never had a proper home, just kennels and dog shows and such. The lady who sold her had never even petted her. I would try to calm her down, comfort her, and it would work for a while. But then she’d move away from the fire and just howl some more.”

  I had my hands in my pockets and looked out at the trees tinted blue by the moonlight. Our footsteps were the only unnatural sounds. “Sounds like she had a tough life,” I agreed.

  She kicked at the road’s surface. Without looking at me she asked, “Want to know a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  Her voice grew softer. “One night, when she seemed so alone and pitiful… I howled with her. I took off all my clothes, danced around in the moonlight and howled…” She smiled at the memory.

  For some reason this made me uncomfortable. “How much had you been drinking?”

  She laughed quietly, musically. “Oh, I was cold sober, Eddie, just like I am now.” She twirled slowly, like a child, and looked up at the sky. “You think she’s a goddess?”

  “The dog?”

  “No, the moon. Priestesses say it’s the light of the goddess. They say her tug makes women bleed once a month so we can have kids. What do you think?”

  “I dunno.”

  “I hope she is. I hope there’s a goddess somewhere who hears all those howls in the moonlight.”

  “It’s not my area of expertise.”

  She laughed again and danced ahead of me. Her long shadow reached down the road. I’d never seen her like this, so… uninhibited. Janet had the same paradoxical quality, as if more life experience somehow made her more innocent. A big knot of conflicting feelings fought unsuccessfully to untie itself in my gut.

  After that little outburst, we walked in silence until, past midnight, we made camp. I watched her sleep for a long time, enjoying the play of firelight on her features. She had great lips, I belatedly decided-full enough to be delectably pouty in the right circumstances.

  A wolf howled in the distance, too far away to be a threat. And I had to admit, the urge to howl along was pretty damn strong.

  FOURTEEN

  Following the map, Cathy and I hiked into the Ogachic Mountains. There was no existing trail, so we had to work with the terrain. It grew harder as we climbed higher, rocks replacing dirt and trees giving way to bushes and scrub. It seemed unlikely that this was really the most efficient way to get to our destination, but the map gave us no alternatives, and I knew nothing of this area.

  At last, just above the tree line on one rocky face, we found the first landmark: a horse’s head, in silhouette, painted in white on black granite.

  The image was about four feet across, and right at eye level. While Cathy checked the map, I scratched at the paint; it did not flake off. “This is some heavy-duty artwork. Whatever they used, it sealed pretty good.”

  “Have to be to survive the weather up here,” Cathy said. “The winters get vicious.”

  I knew a bit about art from my childhood tutoring. This wasn’t in the usual regional style, which favored a flatter, more abstract approach. The horse’s silhouette was entirely realistic, down to the slightly parted lips and flying mane. Then I noticed something unexpected.

  I got very close to the fine detail work along the mane’s fringe and squinted. “Wow,” I whispered. “Cathy, this isn’t paint.”

  She looked up from the map. “What do you mean?”

  “This is… quartz or something. Some other kind of rock. Inside the granite.” I ran my hand over it, and only the slightest bump marked the border of the image. “This is a natural formation.”

  She joined me and peered at the seam between the two rocks. I was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of her proximity. “Rocks can do weird things sometimes,” she agreed. “Back in Bonduel, there’s a mountain in the shape of an old man’s profile. It looks just like somebody carved it, but it’s all natural.” She turned, and our faces were inches apart. She looked into my eyes, glanced away, and looked back. “Nature can be pretty powerful,” she said.

  Her eyes were hazel flecked with gold. I asked softly, “Weren’t we supposed to avoid a white horse?”

  “Only if a woman was riding it.” She licked her lips, and I realized my own were suddenly dry.

  I broke the moment and stepped away. My face felt unaccountably hot. “So which direction now?”

  “Northwest,” she said quickly, looking down at the map. “The next landmark is about a day’s walk away, if the terrain’s not too much more difficult.”

  The landscape cooperated and we made it halfway before darkness forced us to camp. It was one thing to use an open road at night, but neither of us wanted to climb over unfamiliar ridges and chasms we couldn’t see. We picked a hidden area next to a small stream, sheltered on three sides. If we kept our fire small, we’d be invisible.

  O VER A DECADE later, I stood before that same flat rock again. The weather was a little cooler, but the sunlight shone on its surface just as brightly now as it had done on that long-ago day. The white quartz deposit still stood out starkly against the gray-black granite. But the equine shape I remembered as so definite was now… vague. It could still be seen as a horse’s head. It could just as easily be a wolf, or the bow of a ship, or a random geological formation that resembled any one of a dozen things if you looked at it cockeyed.

  I put my hand flat against it just
as I’d done thirteen years earlier. It felt weathered and smooth. No marks of workmanship showed; no one had altered it. Either I remembered it wrong, or…

  There was less point in speculating now than there had been then. Then, our ultimate goal had been a mystery tugging us on. Now I knew where I was headed, and what awaited me.

  I climbed back onto my horse. I don’t know when I began to think of her as “mine,” but somewhere between Arentia and here, I’d actually grown a little fond of her. I still didn’t trust her, but I felt I could turn my back to pee without risking a kick to the head. That was a big change. As we picked our way along, I considered names for her. None of the possibilities clicked.

  By nightfall, I reached the stream where Cathy and I had camped before. Given what happened, there was no way I’d use the same spot, so we crossed the stream and continued on until it was so dark my nameless horse refused to proceed. But ultimately, it didn’t matter where I slept. The memories were just as vivid.

  It had been a warm night back then. As always, Cathy and I put our bedrolls on opposite sides of the fire. I lay awake staring up at the stars. Tendrils of smoke from the dying fire made gray shifting shapes in the moonlight. I felt tense, and couldn’t place the reason for it. I was absolutely sure no one followed us, especially no mysterious woman on a white horse, and this whole delivery trip should be over in a couple of days. I’d get the rest of my money and be free to continue wandering. And if I wanted to return to Bonduel with Cathy, to help her with her business or for any other reason, there was nothing stopping me. But did I want that?

  No. I wanted Janet. But Cathy was everything I should want.

  Shit, I thought as I rolled onto my side. I couldn’t believe I was actually losing sleep over this. This was just a job, after all. Cathy was my boss, not my damn soul mate. I was making way too much out of it.

  I looked through the smoke at Cathy’s bedroll for a long moment before I belatedly realized it was empty. I sat up and heard splashing in the creek. I pulled on my pants and went to check on her.

  Cathy lay crossways in the shallow water with her back against a rock. She was naked, of course, and as I watched she ducked her head under and came up with a gasp of happiness. I’d never heard that sound from her before. If a sound like that could still exist in the world, I thought, maybe fate was telling me I’d suffered enough.

  I called out, softly so I wouldn’t startle her. “Sorry, but I saw you were gone and came down to see if you were okay.”

  “I just couldn’t pass up the chance for a bath, even a primitive one,” she said. She made no effort to cover herself, although the moonlight twinkling on the water preserved her modesty. She kicked her feet like a child. “You have no idea how good this feels.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed.

  She turned onto her stomach and crossed her ankles above the water. For a moment only the creek made any sound. Finally I said, “Guess I’ll go back to camp.”

  “I couldn’t sleep, either,” she said. “I can’t help thinking this is all some big, elaborate game, and we’re pieces the players would gladly sacrifice. Not a good feeling.”

  “No.”

  She looked back over her shoulder at me. “So since we both can’t sleep, why don’t you come out for a swim?”

  “Not much of a swimmer.”

  “Oh, come on. Those feet of yours could use it, if nothing else. Do it for me.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  She stood up in the knee-deep water, hands at her side, unashamed. Her short red hair swept back from her face. The moon cast highlights on her straight shoulders, the tops of her breasts and the sides of her hips. The rest of her body glowed pale gray against the sparkling river.

  I’d seen plenty of naked women, but never one who seemed so naked, exposing not just her skin but some aspect of herself hidden far beneath her tough-girl personality. That was it, I realized: she was a girl now, untested and untouched in the ways of adult women. It had nothing to do with physical virginity and everything to do with a heart filled with things that had long ago been driven from my own.

  “I have a surprise for you,” she said.

  “I’m already pretty surprised.”

  “It’s the only thing you’ve ever asked me for.”

  She turned her back to me. There was, indeed, a tattoo of a dancing girl across her shoulder blades, the legs extending down her spine. “Worth the wait?”

  “I dunno. Can you make it dance?”

  “Not sober, I can’t.” She faced me again. “So,” she said after a moment. “What do you think?”

  “Nice ink.”

  “And the canvas?”

  I bit my lip. The rest of the evening played out before me now; I’d undress and join her in the river, we’d make love until the cold water drove us out, then we’d return to the fire and continue until we fell asleep. And tomorrow everything would be different.

  “The canvas is nice,” I said. “But I really only know about ancient art.”

  She walked toward me, making little bow waves with her shins. “Some of the modern stuff can be pretty exciting.”

  “My taste is for the classics.”

  She stepped out of the water in front of me, shining and soft and very, very desirable. Even though she was tall for a girl, she had to tilt her head up to see me with those big guileless eyes, unashamed of anything in her life. Then she smiled. “Even the classics were new once.”

  I took the deepest breath I’d managed in years. She put her hand on my chest, stepped closer and gazed into my eyes. “Care for a little art appreciation?” she said softly, then tiptoed so she could kiss me.

  I let her, but I didn’t respond. She settled back on her heels and scowled. “What?” she asked, in her old voice.

  I couldn’t look at her. I mumbled, “I’m not really up for this right now.”

  She grabbed me around the waist and pulled her body tight against mine. Her smile returned. “That’s not true,” she said in a soft growl.

  “Hey, it’s nothing personal, he always gets up a half-hour before I do.” Instantly I regretted it. Even in the moonlight-maybe because of the moonlight-I saw tears fill her eyes. She strode quickly back to the water’s edge and stopped, her back to me, arms wrapped around her sides. Her voice did not weaken. “You’re a jackass, LaCrosse. And you just missed your chance.”

  With that she splashed back into the water and swam away downstream. I sighed. I had no idea at the time whether I’d been noble or idiotic.

  Now, though, I know.

  FIFTEEN

  The second marker was another horse head silhouette on a rock face. To reach it Cathy and I traveled a fairly tortuous route along a narrow canyon ledge shadowed by mocking crows and silent, watchful buzzards. Once, as we negotiated a sharp turn, we surprised a wildcat, or rather it surprised us. I almost lost my balance and tumbled to the forest below, but Cathy caught me, the cat scrambled up out of sight, and we continued on without incident. The map did not indicate the path’s increasing danger, and I wondered what other important information it omitted.

  This second horse image was formed of shiny black obsidian inside a wall of whitish slate, a reverse image of the first. Cathy also discovered that, if you stood in the right spot, a tiny chink reflected the sun so that the beast appeared to have one glowing, vaguely malevolent eye. This one also looked like a natural formation, but it seemed unlikely that two such identical mineral deposits would be found within a day’s walk of each other. We consulted the map again and set out for the third and final marker.

  Cathy never spoke of that night by the stream. She came back to camp fully dressed, went to sleep without a word and awoke at dawn just like always. She acted as if nothing unusual had happened, and I did the same. I couldn’t believe she was letting me off the hook so easily, and kept waiting for the blow I knew must be coming. But it never did.

  Back in the present I murmured, “Easy, sweetheart,” to the horse as we reached the remains
of the third marker. I’d taken an alternate route around the mountain’s base to avoid the treacherous ledge. “Nothing’s gonna gitcha.” Her hooves clacked nervously against the rocky ground, and she repeatedly tossed her big head. I didn’t understand why this one bothered her more than the other two, but I finally gave in and led her down the slope a ways before I returned to look more closely.

  When we first found it thirteen years earlier, the third marker had been a relief carving of a woman on horseback, done in the style of Delavan, far to the east. That puzzled me then, although I later learned the explanation. Hidden in a crevice like a shrine, it would’ve been invisible had Cathy’s map not been accurate and precise about its location. Once we found it, we knew our destination was near.

  But now that marker had been utterly obliterated. Someone had thoroughly chiseled the image out of its rock home and left a shallow, ragged crater. I could imagine how difficult carving it must have been in that narrow, tight space; getting both the tools and the elbow room to destroy it so completely must have been equally hard. Obviously none of Epona’s people could have done it, but who else would hate it so much?

  The area outside the crevice shrine provided a spectacular view of the mountains ahead. In the distance the tallest peaks, including Mount Ogachic itself, sported snowcaps testifying to their height. Nearer, the low ones cut jaggedly into the sky, so close together it seemed impossible anyone would travel, let alone live, here.

  Our old trail showed no sign of recent use. For all I knew, I was the first person to travel it since I used it to leave after the encounter with Epona. Here in the thin, dry air change came slowly; what changes waited in the hidden valley below?

  I was putting off the inevitable, but it seemed the right moment for reflection. I needed to make sure my head was on straight before I made the final part of the journey. I knew what I’d left in the valley ahead; I was less sure what I’d find now, or how I’d feel about it.