by Rob Scott
She laughed and slugged him hard in the shoulder. ‘Well, I won’t need to worry about them finding me in that closet. They’ll get within two or three steps of the door and decide something hideous must have died in there.’
Periodically, Hoyt and Churn ventured out separately to check on the disposition of the Southport citizens. Branag had told them several young men had been accused and hanged for the soldier’s murder and Hoyt had to fight the urge to summarily strangle every occupation soldier who happened by. Neither he nor Churn had ever had an innocent bystander punished for their efforts before, and he didn’t like it.
‘We will make them pay for this,’ he promised under his breath. Hannah detected a different side of the otherwise cheerful young man, a sinister side normally veiled from view by his carefree demeanour. She made note of it, and vowed to be out of the Pragan healer’s reach if he got angry again.
During the next couple of days Hannah marvelled at how Hoyt could change his appearance without apparently trying. A sunken chest, a dropped shoulder, or a protruding stomach: Hannah was startled at the difference such simple changes made. He would leave the store a different person altogether.
When Hoyt returned, he and Branag would speak in hushed tones while signing for Churn. She was sure they were planning something, some retaliation for the innocent lives lost; she was almost glad the trio was keeping her out of the discussion. But as much as Hannah worried their plans might bring her into harm’s way, she did not want to flee and turn herself over to the Malakasians. The only occupation soldiers she had met had been determined to gang-rape her; the Malakasians she was now experiencing – albeit second-hand – were responsible for murdering innocent civilians and trashing Branag’s store at regular intervals for no reason.
Though she tried not to eavesdrop, she could not control herself and strained to make out anything that might give her more information on her whereabouts, on Eldarn, and especially on how she might find Steven and get home.
One morning, Hoyt dared a limp, a dangerous endeavour, he explained, because limps had to be consistent. ‘I’ll never get away with the now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t kind of limp popular on stage. All of those actors are trying to appear as if they have a limp. That’s their mistake. People with a limp are always trying to look as if they don’t have a limp. That’s my secret.’
‘I’m sorry, Hoyt, but that doesn’t sound like much of a strategy to me.’ Hannah was dubious. ‘You’re going out as a man with no limp pretending to be someone with a limp who doesn’t want people to know he has a limp?’
‘Churn!’ the young man bellowed excitedly, ‘we have a virtuoso among us.’ He grinned. ‘That’s exactly it. Well, that and rhythm.’
‘Rhythm?’
‘Yes. I have to ensure I have the rhythm down. People can live with almost anything if it eventually has a predictability… I mean look at Eldarn. No one really gets riled up about revolution until Malagon starts ordering his emissaries to play too rough and people start dying. Predictability breeds a sense of consistency and security. As long as my limp has a steady rhythm, a steady beat, let’s say drag-toe-step-drag-toe-step-drag-toe-step, I’ll look like I have been struggling with it for fifty Twinmoons.’
‘Amazing,’ Hannah said, surprised herself at how impressed she was with the young man’s resourcefulness, ‘but why not just change your hair or wear a hat – or maybe grow a beard?’
‘Amateurs.’ Hoyt draped an irregularly shaped length of tanned cowhide over one shoulder, tousled his hair until it fell in ragged unkempt strands across his face and shuffled awkwardly out front, the rhythm of his limp perfected already.
When Hoyt returned that evening, he came back in a rush. His hands were dirty, stained almost black by what appeared to be a mixture of soot and blood. He was breathing heavily and sweating, and his face was covered with a thin coating of dark grey dust.
‘We need to be ready to move into the back,’ he said, signing simultaneously to Churn, ‘there may be searches again tonight.’
Churn was sitting against one of Branag’s trestles while Hannah rested against the far wall. Two tall candles illuminated the room. She fought the desire to ask Hoyt what had happened, deciding he would tell her if it were something she needed to know. She was quietly impressed that even in the wake of whatever blow he had struck for the Pragan Resistance, Hoyt’s adopted limp was still there, drag-toe-step-drag-toe-step. She watched him move towards his bedroll in the back corner and wondered if the sinister side of the healer, the invisible spirit that haunted Hoyt from time to time, had been permitted to emerge and stretch its gossamer legs that evening.
Branag Otharo was a different matter. From what Hannah had gathered during his periodic visits to the storage room, he was an honest businessman who hated the Malakasian occupation force and their leader, someone called Malagon, a prince of some sort. His long days at the shop were fuelled by venison stew, fresh bread and cold beer at the corner tavern, which led her to believe he was not married, or attached, or whatever they called it here in Eldarn. Flanked constantly by the dog Hannah never heard him refer to as anything but ‘dog’, Branag didn’t appear to have any other companions besides the customers who stopped by periodically, and the itinerant rebels hiding in his back room.
He was a powerful man, with a barrel chest and thick forearms, dressed in a long-sleeved cotton tunic tucked into wool breeches with high boots, regardless of the heat. But what made the greatest impression on Hannah was Branag’s kindness. Despite his size, he appeared to be a gentle soul; he didn’t strike her as the kind of person who would hold anyone, even an occupation force, in such contempt. Like Hoyt though, there was something beneath the surface of the artisan’s jovial demeanour, something unspoken that was motivating him. Hannah could not bring herself to ask what Branag’s grim secret was.
One evening, after a particularly difficult stint in the foul-smelling secret chamber, Branag made a special trip to the tavern to find Hannah some tecan. He brought back a flagon-full, and bottles of beer for Hoyt and Churn.
As she sipped it gratefully, he asked if she had any children.
‘No,’ Hannah replied, ‘at least not yet.’ The question was unexpected; no one had shown much interest in her background so far. She tried to read him, but his face was impassive, not brooding or sullen, but rather devoid of any emotion at all. ‘I do hope to have children one day… perhaps even one day soon,’ she added optimistically.
‘I see,’ he said as he poured her another cup, then he patted the big dog affectionately behind his ears and wished them all good night. Turning to leave, he paused momentarily in the short hallway separating the storage area from the shop’s main showroom. Backlit by a rank of thick candles casting a hazy yellow glow across the burnished saddles and leather goods, he whispered, ‘I believe children are as close as we are allowed to come to feeling as though we have, for just a moment, been singled out by the gods. It is their way of touching us, even briefly, as we make our way to the Northern Forest.’
Hannah could not see his face, but the emotion in his voice answered all her questions. They were gone, and of course he would fight. She felt her chest tighten; she hoped she could reply before he heard her choke back a sympathetic sob. She didn’t feel she had earned the right to cry for the older man.
Casting him a bright smile, Hannah replied, ‘When I have children, Branag, I will remember that, I promise.’
‘A good journey to you, Hannah Sorenson,’ he said, then turned to the Pragans. ‘Hoyt, Churn, good luck.’
Before dawn the following morning, Hannah Sorenson made her way silently out of Branag’s saddlery shop, crouching low behind Hoyt as she moved into the dark street beyond.
Steven Taylor was up and in the saddle, awaiting his companions, before dawn. He felt no hunger or thirst, just an urgent desire to move away from this place. Maybe time and distance between himself and his violence would mitigate the anguish he felt every time he pictured the Seron, dying wi
th a broken length of hickory jutting clumsily from his neck.
He had not been able to participate in Mika’s funeral rites. He had no right to be there. The stench of burning flesh when Sallax ignited the pine boughs beneath the body made him vomit. But he did feel a sense of closure, if not happiness, when Versen and Garec tossed the Seron dead onto their own fire. Even from a distance, Mika’s funeral had been touching. The young Ronan looked as if he were sleeping soundly on a bed of soft, scented pine needles; disposing of the Seron was its antithesis, a makeshift common grave for the animal-like warriors. Soulless and perhaps godless, they burned away in an anonymous pile of broken and dismembered bodies. Garec and Versen tossed the dead into the flames of the pyre, then paid them no further attention.
Now Steven sat astride his mount and waited for the coming dawn. In his hands he held the hickory staff he had used to save his friends’ lives. He absentmindedly ran his thumb over the bloodstain that discoloured the wood: how could Gilmour have reconstructed it so perfectly? Steven could detect no scars where the fragments had broken apart. This morning, as it rested across his lap, he began to grow more comfortable with it there, if no less terrified of what he had done with it.
Steven thought of the magic that had glowed between Gilmour’s fingers; he hoped the old man had enough sorcery left to reconstruct him, to help him forget his experiences in Eldarn and return to Idaho Springs as the timid, scholarly, assistant bank manager he had been only two weeks earlier. He had lived his life as a coward and a pacifist. Although he had discovered bravery in recent days, bravery he had never imagined finding inside himself, he could not accept that he had become violent too. He was deeply uncomfortable with the fact that he had killed two Seron warriors in hand-to-hand combat, even though it had undoubtedly been necessary to save his friends’ lives, but it was the third man who would haunt him for ever.
He had won the fight, disabled the enemy, and then shown no mercy.
Ignoring the sharp chill that sent cramps rippling through his legs, Steven realised he had never known how important mercy was to him. He had often been shocked and horrified at newspaper or television reports of the brutal behaviour of terrorists, or soldiers battling for a cause. His mental tally included kidnappers who killed victims even after collecting ransom money and gunmen who fired on bystanders even though their escape routes lay open. He had hated those people, he abhorred anyone who chose to be merciless: they were the cruellest and most deplorable examples of humankind.
He had become one of them.
He and Gilmour had murdered Seron in blind rage even though, ironically, they were the only members of the Ronan company who had not been attacked when the assault began.
Steven looked down at the hickory staff. It would never happen again. He would never again forget to show mercy. There was no cause worth fighting for if victory meant he was devoid of compassion. He ran his hands along the smooth wooden grain and raised the stained end to sniff at the vestiges of dried blood that clung to the shaft. He had learned bravery and violence in the last weeks. He was strong and athletic, with a sharp mind; Steven was afraid he had only begun to uncover the potential he had for warfare. Death would surround him on this journey; to live through it, he had to remember his true values. He had been a coward and pacifist, and his life had been empty. He could not afford to be a coward or a pacifist here in Eldarn. Somehow he had to tread the thin line between being a killer and killing to preserve love, compassion and peace for the people of Eldarn.
‘Ah, you’re lying to yourself to soften the blow,’ he chided. ‘That’s a bullshit excuse, and you know it.’ He wanted it to be true, though. He wanted to be the one who would fight for something good, something meaningful for those around him. His grandparents talked of the Second World War, and a common unity in the resolve to prevail against evil. He and Mark faced evil now. Why then could he not achieve that righteous vision, a vision his grandparents had realised in the 1940s?
Perhaps, Steven thought, it’s because we have the illusion of happiness. Perhaps we all live with fear or regret, and that is a tragic reality we face but never discuss. He glanced at the remains of Mika’s funeral pyre. Perhaps my inability to differentiate between killing and killing for a cause is the reality that will crack the foundation of my illusion of contentment.
With resolve and time, maybe his conscience would settle. For today, he would use Garec’s dry Ronan wine to soften his guilt.
‘Again the coward,’ he said, and forced a laugh.
‘What’s that?’ Mark approached carrying two brass goblets filled with the hot tecan Garec had brewed over their small campfire. He handed one up to Steven. ‘Good morning to you too. How long have you been sitting up there?’
Steven pulled a tunic sleeve down far enough to protect his fingers and took the cup gratefully. ‘I don’t know, a couple hours, an aven, a lifetime.’
Mark drank as well. ‘I think I have this tecan figured. When Garec strains it twice and adds an extra pinch of the darkest leaves, it tastes almost like a French roast.’
‘You’re right,’ Steven agreed, ‘it is good.’
‘Now if we could only get some decent coffee cups…’ He grinned, before turning serious. ‘How are you doing this morning?’
‘I’ve stopped shaking, if that’s what you mean.’ He inhaled the aroma, then gestured at Mark’s scratched face and bandaged shoulder. ‘You?’
‘I’m alive, thanks to you.’ He patted Steven’s horse gently on the neck. ‘I know you’re sitting up there analysing yourself to a standstill, but that Seron would have killed us. You saved my life, and Brynne’s too: we couldn’t handle him on our own. You didn’t start this.’
‘How is she this morning?’
‘I haven’t talked with her, but I’m sure she’s fine,’ Mark replied. ‘She’s tough, tougher than any woman I’ve ever known. She didn’t hesitate to pull her knife. Sallax was right; she is skilled with that thing. I can’t believe how she moved in on that big bastard, stabbed him right in the chest, and it barely slowed the motherhumper down.’
‘I hope she’s okay,’ Steven moved to dismount, ‘and I’ll be all right, too. I just never imagined I would kill anyone, never mind three people in fifteen seconds.’ He handed the hickory staff and goblet down to Mark. ‘Hang onto these for a second.’
Mark ran his hand along the smooth wooden staff. ‘It’s remarkable. I can’t see where it was broken.’
‘I can’t either, and it seems stronger than it was last night, almost as though Gilmour’s magic has imbued it with some impenetrable strength.’ He laughed at himself. ‘Listen to me: I sound like I believe all this voodoo magic shit.’ He shuddered slightly, then added, ‘I wonder why he insisted on repairing it anyway. It’s just a piece of hickory.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that too,’ Mark said.
‘And?’
‘Do you see any hickory trees in this ravine?’ Mark gestured towards the hillside. It was true. There were no hardwoods in sight save the twisted scrub oaks growing beneath the evergreens. ‘The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it was no accident you picked up this piece of wood.’
By midday, Steven had finished most of a wineskin by himself. He was drunk, not falling-from-the-saddle-drunk, but numbingly, pleasantly drunk. It was a skill he had learned after graduating from college: how to drink just enough to maintain a happy and painless stupor. College had taught him nothing about alcohol except that drinking as much as he could stand inevitably resulted in poor sexual performance, sickening bed spins and powerful all-day hangovers. It took years to learn to slow or stop drinking when he achieved the perfect inebriated state, somewhere between sober and falling down.
His thoughts began to drift back to Colorado, and the many trails, each turn and switchback memorised, that crisscrossed foothills similar to these. Loosely gripping the reins, he imagined himself wandering through Three Sisters Park or along the Mt Evans trail above Evergreen. He could feel glacier
snow beneath his boots and smell clouds of pine pollen as spring breezes cascaded along the Front Range. He saw himself break through the tree line above Leadville as he approached Mt Elbert’s peak, and remembered the lush ferns growing near a stream that flowed past the Decatur Peak trailhead.
Decatur Peak. He and Mark had planned to climb it one last time before winter set in. Hannah had wanted to come with them.
He thought of Hannah Sorenson, and the lilac aroma that lingered in the space between her neck and hair. It was like an alcove, a tiny cave where he could hide away, inhale her essence, and close his mind to the frightening and terrible things he had seen and done since his arrival in Eldarn.
He wondered where she was, and if she was worried about him. He imagined her brow furrowed as she leaned patiently on the staff sergeant’s desk at the Idaho Springs police station. Would the officer find that wrinkled brow endearing, or would he simply push a sheaf of papers across the desk at her? ‘Fill these out, ma’am,’ he would say, unconcerned that she might be losing hope, or worse, losing interest. Steven worked to keep his thoughts focused, frightened of the pain that lay just beyond the edge of his consciousness. If he allowed his mind to run its course, he would convince himself that Hannah had become distracted by more important things in her life. She would forget him and move on. Did she not know how he cared for her? If their roles were reversed, he would never stop looking for her.
Then it was too late. He crossed the line and his musings were out of control. He was a murderer, lost and alone in this curious world of terror and hatred, and he had just convinced himself that his girlfriend was already forgetting him. Reaching for the wineskin again, he decided a comfortable, relaxed stupor was not enough to get him through the afternoon. He needed the whole package, the falling-down, blubbering, sobbing, blacking-out inebriation he remembered from his youth. If Sallax and Versen were disappointed in him and his weakness, so be it. They could tie him to the saddle if they were so damned set on getting to Welstar Palace.