by David Brin
Four of the volunteers were boys, hardly old enough to shave. The others were all old men.
Gordon did not want to think, but memories crowded in as he pulled on his boots and woolen poncho.
For all of his near-total victory, George Powhatan had seemed quite eager to see Gordon and his band depart. The visitors made the patriarch of Sugarloaf Mountain uncomfortable. His domain would not be the same until they left.
It turned out that Dena had sent two packages—one more in addition to her crazy letter. In the other she had managed to convey gifts to the women of Powhatan’s household in spite of Gordon, by dispatching them via “U.S. Mail.” Pathetic little packets of soap and needles and underwear were accompanied by tiny mimeographed pamphlets. There were vials of pills and ointments Gordon recognized from the Corvallis central pharmacy. And he had seen copies of her letter to himself.
The whole thing had Powhatan mystified. At least as much as Gordon’s speech, Dena’s letter had made the man ill at ease.
“I don’t understand,” he had said, straddling a chair while Gordon hurriedly packed to leave. “How could an obviously intelligent young woman have come up with such a bizarre set of ideas? Hasn’t anybody cared enough to knock some sense into her? What does she and her crew of little girls think they can accomplish against Holnists?”
Gordon had not bothered to answer, knowing it would irritate Powhatan. Anyway, he was in a hurry. He still hoped there was time to get back and stop the Scouts before they performed the worst idiocy since the Doomwar itself.
Powhatan kept probing, though. The man sounded genuinely puzzled. And he was unaccustomed to being put off. At last, Gordon found himself actually speaking out in Dena’s defense.
“What kind of ‘common sense’ would you have had someone knock into her, George? The logic of the colorless drabs who cook meals for complacent men, here in the Camas? Or perhaps she should speak only when spoken to, like those poor women who live as cattle down in the Rogue, and now in Eugene?
“They may be wrong. They may even be crazy. But at least Dena and her comrades care about something bigger than themselves, and have the guts to fight for it. Do you, George? Do you?”
Powhatan had looked down at the floor. Gordon barely heard his reply. “Where is it written that one should only care about big things? I fought for big things, long ago … for issues, principles, a country. Where are all of them now?”
The steely gray eyes were narrow and sad when next he looked up at Gordon. “I found out something, you know. I discovered that the big things don’t love you back. They take and take, and never give in return. They’ll drain your blood, your soul, if you let them, and never let go.
“I lost my wife, my son, while away battling for big things. They needed me, but I had to go off trying to save the world.” Powhatan snorted at the last phrase. “Today I fight for my people, for my farm—for smaller things—things I can hold.”
Gordon had watched Powhatan’s large, hard-calloused hand flex, as if straining to grasp life itself. It had never occurred to him until then that this man feared anything in the world, but there it was, visible for only the briefest moment.
A certain rare kind of terror in his eyes.
At the door to Gordon’s guest room, Powhatan had turned, his chiseled face outlined in the flickering light from the tallow candles. “Me, I think I know why your crazy woman is pulling whatever mad stunt she’s cooked up, and it doesn’t have to do with that grand ‘heroes and villains’ bullshit she wrote about.
“The other women, they’re just following her because she’s a natural leader in desperate times. She has them swept along in her wake, poor girls. But she …” Powhatan shook his head. “She thinks she’s doing it for the big reasons, but one of the small things lies beneath it all.
“She’s doing it out of love, Mr. Inspector. I think she’s doing it for you alone.”
They had looked at each other, that last time, and Gordon realized then that Powhatan was paying the visiting postman back with interest for the unasked-for guilt he had been delivered.
Gordon had nodded to the Squire of Sugarloaf Mountain, accepting the burden—postage prepaid.
Leaving the warmth of the coals, Gordon felt his way over to the horses and carefully checked their lines. All seemed well, though the animals were a little jumpy still. After all, they had been driven hard today. The ruins of the prewar town of Remote lay behind them, and the old Bear Creek Campgrounds. If the band really flew tomorrow, Calvin Lewis figured they might make Roseburg by a little after nightfall.
Powhatan had been generous with provisions for their journey. He had given of the best of his stables. Anything the northerners wanted, they could have. Except for George Powhatan, of course.
As Gordon patted the last nickering horse, and stepped out under the trees, a part of him was still unable to believe they had come all this way for nothing. Failure tasted bitter in his mouth.
… rippling lights … the voice of a long-dead machine …
Gordon smiled without amusement.
“If I could have infected him with your ghost, Cyclops, don’t you think I would have? But you don’t reach a man like him as simply as that! He’s made of stronger stuff than I was.”
… Who will take responsibility …?
“I don’t know!” he whispered urgently, silently, at the darkness all around him. “I don’t even care anymore!”
He was maybe forty feet from the campsite now. It occurred to him that he could just keep on going should he choose. If he disappeared into the forest, right now, he would still be better off than sixteen months ago when, robbed and injured, he had stumbled upon that ancient, wrecked postal jeep in a high, dusty forest.
He had taken the uniform and bag only in order to survive, but something had latched onto him that strange night, the first of many ghosts.
At little Pine View the unsought legend began—this Johnny Appleseed “postman” nonsense that had long since gone completely out of control, thrusting upon him unasked-for responsibility for an entire civilization. Since then his life had no longer been his own. But now, he realized, he could change that!
Just walk away, he thought.
Gordon felt his way in the pitch blackness, using the one forest skill that had never failed him, his sense of path and direction. He walked surefootedly, sensing where the tree roots and little gullies had to be, using the logic of one who had come to know woodlands well.
It required a special, remote kind of concentration to move this way in the near-total darkness … a zenlike exercise that was elevating—as detached but more active than that sunset meditation two days ago, overlooking the roaring confluence of the Coquille. As he walked, he seemed to rise higher and higher above his troubles.
Who needed eyes to see, or ears to hear? Only the touch of the wind guided him. That and the scent of the red cedars, and the faint salt traces of the distant, expectant sea.
Just walk away.… Joyfully, he realized that he had found a counter incantation! One that matched and neutralized the rippling of little lights in his mind. An antidote to ghosts.
He hardly felt the ground, striding through the darkness, repeating it with growing enthusiasm. Just walk away!
The exalted journey ended abruptly, jarringly, as he tripped over something completely unexpected—something that did not belong there on the forest floor.
He tumbled to the ground with barely a sound, a puff of snow-covered pine needles breaking his fall. Gordon scrambled around, but couldn’t make out the obstacle that had brought him down. It was soft and yielding to the touch, though. His hand came away sticky and warm.
Gordon’s pupils should not have been able to dilate wider, but sudden fear did the trick. He bent forward and the face of a dead man came into sudden focus.
Young Cal Lewis stared back at him in a frozen expression of surprise. The boy’s throat gaped, expertly slit.
Gordon scuttled backward until he came up against a n
earby tree trunk. In a daze he realized he hadn’t even taken his belt knife or pouch with him. Somehow, perhaps because of the spell of George Powhatan’s mountain, he had let that deadly sliver of complacency slip in. Perhaps his last mistake.
In the dark, he could hear the rushing waters of the middle fork of the Coquille. Beyond lay the enemy’s home ground. But right now they were on this side of the river.
The ambushers don’t know I’m out here, he realized. It didn’t seem possible after the way he had been moving around, mumbling to himself obliviously, but perhaps there had been a gap in their closing circle.
Perhaps they had been preoccupied.
Gordon understood the principles well. First you take out the pickets, then, in a rush, swoop down on the unsuspecting encampment. Those boys and old men sleeping by the campfire did not have George Powhatan with them, now. They never should have left their mountain.
Gordon hunched down. The raiders would never find him here in the roots of this tree. Not so long as he kept quiet. When the butchery began, while the Holnists were busy collecting trophies, he could be off into the deep woods without a trace.
Dena had said there were two kinds of men who counted … and those in between who did not matter. Fine, he thought. Let me be one of those in between. Living beats “mattering” any day.
He hunkered down, trying to keep as silent as possible.
A twig snapped—barely the tiniest click over in the direction of the camp. A minute later a “night bird” cooed, a little farther away. The rendition was understated and completely believable.
Now that he was listening, Gordon found he could actually follow the deadly encirclement as it closed. His own tree had already been left behind, and was well outside the narrowing ring of death.
Quiet, he told himself. Wait it out.
He tried not to envision the stealthy enemy, their camouflage-painted faces grinning in anticipation as they stroked their oiled knives.
Don’t think about it! He closed his eyes hard, trying to listen only to his pounding heart while he fingered a thin chain around his neck. He had worn it, along with the little keepsake Abby had given him, ever since leaving Pine View.
That’s right, think about Abby. He tried to picture her, smiling and cheerful and loving, but the inner commentary kept on running within his head.
The Holnists would want to make sure the pickets were all finished before they closed the trap. If they had not yet taken care of the other man on watch—Philip Bokuto—they would do it soon.
He made a fist around Abby’s present. The chain made a taut line across the back of his neck.
Bokuto … guarding his commander even when he disapproved … doing Gordon’s dirty work for him under the falling snow … serving with all his heart for the sake of a myth … for a nation that had died and would never, ever rise again.
Bokuto …
For the second time that night Gordon found himself on his feet without remembering how it had happened. There was no volition at all, only a shrill screech that pierced the night as he blew hard on Abby’s whistle, then his own voice, screaming through cupped hands.
“Philip! Watch out!”
… out! … out! … out! … The echo rolled forth, seeming to stun the forest.
For a long second the stillness held, then six sharp concussions shook the air in rapid succession, and suddenly, shouting filled the night.
Gordon blinked. Whatever had come over him, it was too late to turn back now. He had to play it out. “They walked right into our trap!” he shouted as loud as he could. “George says he’ll take them on the river side! Phil, cover the right!”
What an ad lib performance! Even though his words were probably lost amid the outcries and gunfire and yelped survivalist battle calls, the commotion had to be setting their plans off. Gordon kept shouting and blowing the whistle to try to confuse the ambushers.
Men screamed and dark shapes rolled through the undergrowth in desperate struggle. Flames rose high from the stirred campfire, casting grappling silhouettes through the trees.
If the fight was still going on after two full minutes, Gordon knew it meant there was a chance after all. He shouted as if he were directing a whole company of reinforcements.
“Don’t let the bastards get back across the river!” he cried. And indeed, there did seem to be some hurried motion off that way. He ducked from tree to tree toward the fighting—even though he had no weapon. “Keep them bottled in! Don’t let ’em—”
That was when a shape emerged suddenly from around the very next tree. Gordon stopped only ten feet from the jagged patterns of black and white that made the painted face so hard to focus on. A slashlike mouth split into a broad, gap-toothed grin. The body below the unfriendly smile was immense.
“Pretty noisy feller,” the survivalist commented. “Oughta quiet up for a bit, right, Nate?” The dark eyes flickered over Gordon’s shoulder.
For the briefest instant Gordon started to turn, even as he told himself that it was all a trick—that the Holnist was probably alone.
His attention only wavered for a moment, but it was long enough. The camouflaged figure moved like a blur. One blow from a ham-sized, rock-hard fist sent Gordon spinning to the ground.
The world was a whirl of stars and pain. How could anyone move so fast? he wondered with unravelling shreds of consciousness.
It was Gordon’s last clear thought.
10
A frigid, misty rain turned the slushy trail into a quagmire that sucked at the prisoners’ shuffling feet. With hanging heads they fought the mud, struggling to keep up with the horses and riders. After three days, all that mattered in the captives’ narrow world was keeping up, and avoiding any more beatings.
The victors looked hardly less fearsome now, without their war paint. In winter camouflage parkas they rode imperiously on their seized Camas Valley mounts. The rearmost and youngest Holnist—with only one gold ring hanging from his ear—occasionally turned back to snarl at the prisoners and tug the tether around the lead man’s wrist, causing the whole line to stumble ahead faster for a time.
Everywhere along the trail lay trash left by successive waves of refugees. After countless small battles and massacres, the strongest held the high ground in this territory. This was the paradise of Nathan Holn.
Several times the caravan passed through small clusters of hovels, filthy warrens made from bits and scraps of prewar salvage. At every ragged hamlet a population of wretched creatures stumbled out to pay their respects, eyes downcast. Now and then an unlucky one cowered under a few lazy blows meted out for no apparent reason by those on horseback.
Only after the warriors had passed did the villagers look up again. Their tired eyes held no hatred, only a glittering hunger as they watched the receding rumps of the well-fed horses.
The serfs hardly glanced at the new prisoners. Their lack of attention was returned.
Walking filled the daylight hours with few breaks. At night the captives were separated to prevent talking. Each was tied to a hobbled horse for warmth without a fire. Then, with dawn and a meal of weak gruel, the long walk began anew.
By the fourth day two of the prisoners had died. Two more who were too weak to continue were left with the Holnist baron of a tiny, scrabble-backed manor—replacements for serfs whose crucified corpses still hung over the trail as object lessons to anyone contemplating disobedience.
All this time, Gordon saw little more than the back of the man in front of him. He grew to hate the prisoner tethered behind his waist. Each time that one stumbled, the sudden jerk tore into the tortured muscles of his arms and sides. Still, he scarcely noticed by the time that man also disappeared, leaving only two captives to follow the plodding horses. He envied the one who had been left behind, not even knowing if the fellow had died.
The journey seemed interminable. He had awakened into it days ago and had hardly risen to complete awareness since. In spite of the agony, a small part of him welcom
ed the stupor and monotony. No ghosts bothered him here. No complexities and no guilt. It was all quite straightforward actually. One put a foot in front of the other, ate what little one was given, and kept one’s head down.
At some point he noticed that his fellow prisoner was helping him, taking part of his weight on his shoulders as they fought the mud. Semiconsciously, he wondered why anyone would do such a thing.
At last there came a time when he blinked and saw that his hands had been untied. They stood next to a wood-sided structure, offset some distance from a maze of teetering, noisome shanties. From not far away came the roar of rushing water.
“Welcome to Agness Town,” one of the harsh-voiced men said. Someone planted a hand in his back and pushed. There was laughter as the prisoners tumbled inside to collapse on a filthy straw tick.
Neither bothered to move from the exact spot where he rolled to a stop. It was a chance to sleep. For the moment, that was all that mattered. Again, there were no dreams—only occasional twitching as abused muscles misfired through the rest of the day, the night, and all the following morning.
Gordon awakened only when bright sunlight rose high enough to shine painfully through his eyelids. He rolled aside, groaning. A shadow passed over him, and his eyelids fluttered like rusty shutters.
It took a few seconds to focus. Recognition came some time after that. The first thing that occurred to him was that there was a tooth missing from the familiar smile.
“Johnny,” he croaked.
The young man’s face was blistered and bruised. Still, John Stevens grinned cheerfully, gap and all. “Hullo, Gordon. Welcome back among the unlucky—the living.”
He helped Gordon sit up and steadied a ladle of cool river water for him to sip. Meanwhile, Johnny talked. “There’s food over in the corner. And I overheard a guard say something about gettin’ us cleaned up sometime soon. So maybe there’s a reason our balls aren’t already hanging from some asshole’s trophy belt. I guess they brought us all this way to meet some bigshot.”