Gunwitch

by David Michael

  Corporal Edwards looked her over. Except for adjusting the angle of the hat and telling her to keep her hair out of her eyes, the corporal’s only reaction was a curt nod. Then the corporal said, “You are now Pistoleer Private Bainbridge, of the King’s Infantry. Forget your old name. It is entirely possible that you will never hear it again.” She paused, as if waiting for Rosalind to say something. Then, before Rosalind could think of a question, added, “Follow me, Private.”

  The corporal led Rosalind out of the tent again. Rosalind tried to match the stride and bearing of the corporal, but it felt awkward. Like she was trying to walk like a man. Or was rushing to keep up with one. A question had occurred to her.

  “Corporal,” she said, “will I see Thomas again?”

  The woman stopped, and Rosalind almost ran into her back. Corporal Edwards turned around and leaned in so her face was close to Rosalind’s. “The private,” she said, “will only speak when spoken to. And when she speaks to a superior, she will say, ‘sir’.” Her face showed no emotion, but her eyes seemed to be telling–ordering–Rosalind not to be so stupid as to point out her gender.

  “I’m sorry,” Rosalind said. The corporal stared at her. “I mean, I am sorry, sir.”

  Another curt nod, and the corporal was again leading her forward.

  The next tent was long and open on two sides, north and east. The open sides looked over a wide, flat field. Men and women in uniform clustered around two tables near the west wall. Looking at the other uniforms, Rosalind noticed a difference. Everyone wore a peaked hat like hers, but most, including Corporal Edwards, had badges on the front of their hat. The badges were black metal with a bright red circle. In the circle were a lightning bolt and a musket, crossed.

  Corporal Edwards took her to the southernmost table where only a woman sat. The woman sat with her hands steepled in front of her, elbows on the arms of her chair, looking at nothing. She had her hat on the table near to hand, revealing her close-cropped gray hair, cut like a man’s, even shorter than Rosalind’s new coiffure. The badge on her hat had a white circle instead of a red one, but the crossed lightning bolt and musket were still there. A musket pistol lay on the table in front of the woman, pointing to her right, due north. Perpendicular to the musket lay a long knife, it’s tip pointing east, directly at Rosalind. She saw that the packed dirt of the floor had a darker tint in front of the woman’s table. She wanted to ask why, but kept her mouth closed.

  As they approached the table, the soldiers around the northern table turned to look at Corporal Edwards, then at Rosalind. Their faces showed only curiosity. No malice nor ill will.

  Not until they stood directly in front of the woman’s table, and Corporal Edwards had saluted–Rosalind considered saluting, decided she did not know how, and just stood there–did the woman seem to see them. Her eyes, as gray as her hair, focused on Rosalind, who felt goosebumps run down her back.

  “Pistoleer Bainbridge,” Corporal Edwards said, “is rumored to have the gift of healing. The rumor must be–” She paused. “The rumor must be confirmed.”

  The woman at the table nodded to indicate she had heard the corporal, but she did not take her eyes off Rosalind. Rosalind wanted to blink or look away, but found she could not. The woman’s gray eyes pinned hers. The goosebumps became a trembling chill and Rosalind felt more naked than she had in front of Sergeant Strauss. This woman saw her, inside and out, top to toes.

  Rosalind felt as if her bones and her organs were being pulled out one by one and examined. Then her mind and her heart. She relived the Leftenant’s lashes, her capture, the day in the woods with William Phillips, the broken betrothal, Mother Stevens restored breathing, her first issuance of blood …

  With a start, she found herself back in the tent, standing in front of the table beside Corporal Edwards. The woman still sat across from her, her hands steepled again. She only looked at Rosalind now, not into her. The woman gave a nod.

  Corporal Edwards tensed, then picked up the musket and presented it, grip first, to Rosalind. “Take it, Pistoleer,” the corporal said. “It is not loaded,” she added when Rosalind hesitated.

  Rosalind took the musket in her right hand, wrapping her fingers around the grip. As she did, she felt a jolt run up her arm, through her chest, to the bracelet on her left wrist. Runes flashed on the bracelet, and along the black metal barrel of the pistol.

  “Do not drop it,” the corporal said.

  The other woman sat up now, and handed the long knife to Corporal Edwards hilt first.

  Rosalind stared at the corporal, and at the woman behind the table. The gun felt heavy in her hand. She did not like the way Corporal Edwards’ face tensed up.

  The corporal hefted the knife, as she met Rosalind’s eye. Her tight, unfriendly smile made Rosalind take a step back. She held the gun in front of her, though she was not sure what she would do with it if the corporal attacked her. She noticed that all of the other soldiers in the tent stood, watching and waiting.

  “Stand ready, Pistoleer,” Corporal Edwards said. She held up her left hand, palm facing Rosalind. Then she turned her hand and put the point of the knife against her palm.

  “What are you doing?” Rosalind asked. “Sir?”

  Corporal Edwards did not answer. Instead she plunged the knife into her palm, six inches of bloody blade stabbing out the back of her hand. Rosalind had only begun to cry out when the corporal pulled the blade back, and turned the gashed palm to face Rosalind again. Only a tightness around the corporal’s eyes betrayed any sign of pain.

  “Pistoleer,” the corporal said, “heal my hand.”

  Shocked past words, Rosalind could only stare.

  “Remember the hand whole,” the woman across the table said, her first words. Her voice was calm, steady, as if she had seen many hands stabbed in front of her.

  Rosalind stared at the woman, then looked back at the corporal’s hand again, which seemed to hover in front of her, disembodied. Blood dripped from the wound to splash on the dirt floor, adding another stain to the ground. She opened her mouth, but all she could manage was, “What … ?”

  “Remember the hand whole,” the woman said again. “Feel your own hand. Then touch the wound.”

  “Touch … ?”

  “Use your left hand,” the woman said. Her voice was still calm, still steady, unmoved by either the violence or the blood or Rosalind’s growing panic. “Your left hand is closer to your heart, making the touch more powerful. And,” she added, “you are holding a gun in your right hand. If you would prefer, though, you can touch her hand with the gun.”

  Rosalind wanted to drop the gun and run away from the bloody hand, the tent, and the whole bloody King’s infantry.

  “Hold yourself together, Pistoleer,” the woman said, as if she had read Rosalind’s thoughts. “Blood is not the problem. The blood is not even important, to a point. All that is important is that you remember Corporal Edwards’ hand as it was before.”

  Before she stabbed it with a knife! Rosalind wanted to shout, but she could only shake her head.

  “And that you touch her wound,” the woman finished.

  Rosalind continued to shake her head. “No,” she said.

  “But you must.”

  Rosalind started, surprised to hear the words whispered in her ear. Surprised to find the woman now stood behind her. The woman put one hand on Rosalind’s right shoulder, and one under her left elbow.

  “Remember the corporal’s hand as it was before.” Whispering, soft, in control. The hand on her shoulder gently pushed her forward, closer to Corporal Edwards. The hand on her elbow then, also gently, pushed and caused her to extend her left hand.

  Rosalind felt the warmth in her chest, but she hesitated to reach for it. Instead she resisted, pushed back against the woman’s urgings. She wanted to help the corporal. But the eyes. Of the corporal. Of the woman behind her. Of all the soldiers now watching. Then she saw Thomas. She hardly recognized him in his hat and uniform. And he was
watching her too, with his one good eye, the other still swollen shut. She had been unable to help him. She did not want to fail again. Not with so many people–and Thomas–watching. “I … I can’t.”

  “You can, Pistoleer. And,” the whisper added, “once you heal the corporal’s wound, you can heal your own hurts. The process is more tiring when done on yourself, and the results often less complete, but it is something to consider. Or perhaps you would rather heal the hurts of your traveling companion?”

  Rosalind felt her face grow warm and she bit her lip, but she stopped resisting. She remembered the corporal’s palm, open toward her–

  “Do not close your eyes,” the woman said.

  Rosalind opened her eyes again.

  “Fix the memory in your mind. Feel your own hand. Now …”

  The woman’s grip on her elbow loosened. Rosalind could feel the warmth inside her, pulsing with the beat of her heart. She reached forward with her left hand, fingers together. She hesitated before touching the wound. She could feel the wound, the damage, the pain, radiating, brushing against her fingertips. She did not want to touch the wound. Because it was wrong.

  A gentle nudge on her shoulder pushed her forward the last fraction of an inch. Her fingers touched the open, bleeding palm of Corporal Edwards and the warmth in her chest surged into the gun she held, the bracelet on her wrist, and out of her through her fingertips.

  “I’m so sorry!” she said, as the corporal’s face twisted in pain. “I’m so sorry!”

  But even as she watched, the wound closed, from within, the muscles and skin knitting themselves back together. The blood remained, but in less than two breaths only a thin white scar was still visible. Rosalind looked closer. How many thin white scars were there? How many times had the corporal stabbed her hand? Before she could be sure that there was more than the one scar, Corporal Edwards clenched her fist and unclenched.

  “Thank you, Pistoleer,” Corporal Edwards said, and saluted her.

  * * *

  Once the shock wore off, from the salute and the thanks and the healing and the self-inflicted wound, Rosalind sought Thomas’ eyes again. Most of the other soldiers had gone back to their earlier duties, but Thomas still looked at her. She could not read his expression.

  “Did you see that, Thomas?” she said. She rushed to him. Someone might have said, “Stay back, Pistoleer!” but Rosalind ignored them.

  When she reached Thomas, he held a pistol too, like hers, but with the hammer back. The gun, his expression, made her hesitate, then she forced herself to touch his face. He caught his breath and clenched his teeth, but he did not pull away. She became aware again of the gun in her right hand, and the bracelet on her arm, and–for the first time–the feel of Thomas’ face. Under her fingertips, the bruises disappeared, and the swelling around his left eye deflated. His face looked even younger now, and she pulled her hand back, suddenly shy.

  Thomas blinked both eyes, and for the first time he smiled at her. “Thank you, Rosalind,” he said.

  Rosalind’s heart leaped and she smiled back.

  “That should certainly improve my aim,” he said. “Stand back, I’m supposed to be shooting at that target.”

  He raised his arm level with his shoulder, parallel to the ground and sighted along the pistol barrel. Rosalind followed his aim and saw a wood and straw figure posed fifty yards away in front of a tall stack of baled hay.

  Voices shouted, and a hand grabbed Rosalind and pulled her back.

  “Don’t fire in the tent!”

  “Stand back, Pistoleer!”

  Thomas squeezed the trigger. The powder exploded and smoke poured out of the pistol. White-hot lightning arced from the muzzle of the pistol, ripped through the air and blasted the target dummy.

  The smell of burnt powder and the metallic odor Rosalind had caught from Thomas before seemed to hit her in the face and she coughed, eyes watering. When she could see again, half the target dummy burned, leaning against its now broken stand. The rest … was gone. Behind it, the bales of hay had been pushed backward. Some of bales smoked.

  “Bloody hell, Pistoleer!” a man was shouting at Thomas. “You do not discharge your weapon in a tent.”

  Thomas, his smile still on his freshly restored face, looked at the man but did not respond.

  The hand that had pulled Rosalind away from Thomas was still there, she realized, tugging on her arm. “Come along, Pistoleer. You’ve had your fun, you and your boyfriend. I hope you took the chance to tell him good-bye.”

  Corporal Edwards took the pistol from Rosalind and led her back to the table where the gray-haired woman sat.

  Still in a daze from what Thomas had done–and what she had done; the fingers of her left hand still tingled; she put them to her lips–she hardly heard the corporal. But one part did sink in. “Good-bye? We just got here. Sir.”

  “You will be leaving in the morning,” Corporal Edwards said, placing the pistol back on the table. “The 102nd trains at different camp.”

  “I’ll never see Thomas again?”

  The corporal just looked at her.

  “The 102nd are healers,” the woman behind the table said, pulling Rosalind’s attention to her. As she talked, her hands moved the pistol so it again pointed north, and arranged the knife beside it, perpendicular. “You have a gift, Pistoleer, but you have no idea of what you are capable, of what you could do with the proper–”

  “But I don’t want to leave–” Rosalind bit her lip, fearing the response from interrupting, then continued when the woman only gave her a patient look, not a reprimand. “He’s the only person I know here. Sir.”

  “The 101st is only interested in power,” the woman said. “The raw might of the universe unleashed to crush and destroy. Brute force, if you will.” She paused and smiled at Corporal Edwards. “No offense.” The corporal’s face showed amusement, but she only nodded. “The 102nd is about finesse, elegance. We seek to understand what is we do, and to build on that knowledge.”

  “If I can shoot that target,” Rosalind said, “or what’s left of it, can I stay?”

  The woman’s patience showed the first signs of wearing thin. “Healing is a rare talent, Pistoleer. It should not be wasted–”

  Rosalind stepped forward and picked up the pistol again. It became ice cold in her hand. The woman’s gray eyes locked on Rosalind’s, and she felt something stirring, building behind those eyes. She did not look away as she pulled back the hammer.

  She raised the gun as she turned around, nearly clubbing Corporal Edwards across the jaw as she did. The corporal dodged out of the way, shouting at her to put the gun down. Rosalind ignored her.

  Father had taken her shooting a few times, until she had showed an aptitude for firearms that he and Mum considered unladylike.

  She closed her left eye so she could aim with her right and looked down her arm and along the barrel, lining up the muzzle with the still-smoking remains of the target dummy. The painful cold built up inside her. She drew a breath and squeezed the trigger at the same time.

  The hammer slammed into place, the flint sparked, and there were shouts of surprise and fear and anger, but there was no explosion.

  The gun was not loaded. Corporal Edwards had told her that.

  Rosalind gasped as the cold bloomed inside her and wrapped itself around her heart and lungs. Her breath came out a heavy mist, and she felt beads of sweat freezing on her forehead.

  Then the cold shot out of her, through the gun, creating frost crystals along the barrel and running back over her hand and wrist as a thin line of fog roiled to the target dummy and engulfed it.

  The chill held her muscles rigid for a second longer, then it dissipated with the fog around the target dummy. Unlike the now-frozen target dummy, though, she had no wooden stake to hold her up, and she collapsed to her knees as if melting. Her right arm was numb from her fingertips to her elbow. She tried to drop the gun, but her hand had been frozen to the stock, her finger still squeezing the tri
gger.

  Corporal Edwards grabbed Rosalind’s shoulder to pull her back to her feet, but let go immediately. The corporal held her hand–the hand Rosalind had healed only minutes before–in front of her, looking at it in shock, her fingers leaving little streamers of fog in the air. The corporal’s mouth was moving, but Rosalind heard only a roaring in her ears.

  Past Corporal Edwards she could see the other soldiers, all of them moving slowly for two long heartbeats, Thomas in their midst, looking at her, smiling at her, just before movement and motion returned. Men and women rushed at her, impossibly fast. She tried to breathed, but it felt like a mountain pressed on her chest and she could only gasp.

  Another hand on her shoulder, but this one was warm and stayed in place, a gentle pressure. The warmth from that hand spread into her flesh and around her bones and organs. She gasped as air burned into her lungs again.

  She looked up and saw the gray-haired woman kneeling over her– When had she fallen? She could not remember, but she lay on her back now, looking up at the woman.

  The woman smiled a sad smile. “A pity, Pistoleer,” she said. “You could have been …” Her voice drifted off before she told Rosalind what could have been. She moved both her hands to Rosalind’s right hand, which still held the frozen pistol. “But I see you have made your choice.”

  Chapter 8

  Rose

  Comite River Cataracts

  1742 A.D.

  Rose felt arms holding her. She thought they were Major Haley’s arms, and she smiled, but when she looked up to see his face, she saw Ducoed laughing down at her. She tried to push him away, but he held on. His embrace became a constriction, squeezing her close, smashing her body against his. She could hardly breathe, as he laughed and squeezed harder. She woke with a gasp, left arm flinging off her blanket, her right hand gripping her pistol, Ducoed’s laughter fading into the roar of the waterfalls.